The Shore (39 page)

Finn regarded her for a long moment, and then nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe later. We’ve still got time.”

No, we don’t, Claire thought, and made her escape as the first tears spilled down her cheeks.

By the time she’d changed into her “uniform,” she’d gotten
control of herself. She banged on Jodi’s door, then banged again, louder. “What?” said Jodi, crossly.

“We have shopping to do,” she said.

“Go away,” said Jodi.

Claire looked down at her list. “Nope. Farmers market, grocery store, and I need your help. If you’re not downstairs in ten minutes, I’m coming up to get you.”

She left, ignoring the creative use of swear words she could hear on the other side of the door.

Jodi made it in fifteen, looking rumpled and cross and not at all speedy hyper. Claire thrust a travel mug at her, took the keys from her hands, and said, “You’re giving directions. I’m driving.”

“Who died and left you queen of the world,” Jodi grumbled.

“It’s too early for near-death auto experiences, thank you very much,” Claire said briskly.

“How did I get dawn patrol, anyway?”

“You’re working this afternoon, remember?” Claire said.

“I hate you,” said Jodi unemotionally, and followed Claire out to the car.

But coffee and morning air brought her back to life, and a few sessions of sharp bargaining in the farmers market made her human. They staggered to the car with an amazing array of fruits and vegetables and several melons that Jodi declared, with a professional air, were “perfect spikeables.”

Their haul from the grocery store filled up the rest of the car, and Claire commandeered Max and Poppy for unloading.

She consulted her list. “Max, you and Dean are the kegs. They’re paid for, and here’s what we ordered and a copy of the receipt. Don’t lose it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Max.

“Poppy . . .” Poppy held up her hand. “I know, I know. The booze. The bar. I have the list. And the receipt. You gave them to me yesterday, remember?”

“Just checking,” said Claire. “Don’t forget to . . .”

“Spike the melons,” said Jodi. “We won’t forget.”

“And ice when you pick up the beer . . .”

“On it,” said Max.

Claire looked at her watch. “I’ll be back after work. Start on the fruits and vegetables, and the ones you cut up, cover before you refrigerate. You—”

“Claire,” said Poppy firmly. “Go. I know how to handle fruits and vegetables.”

Which for some reason made Jodi crack up. Claire left Jodi laughing hysterically and Poppy shaking her head at her, and Bladed off to work, not at all sure that she was going to be able to pull off the kind of end-of-summer party she’d so carefully planned.

But as the sun began to set that evening and Claire flew through the last-minute details, she began to think she might succeed after all. Beer kegs on ice waited on the porch, where Dean and Max had lovingly placed them. Party tubs filled with ice and
drinks, some tubs designated non-alcoholic, the rest brimming with every kind of bottled goodie Claire could think of, were scattered across the deck. She’d even remembered garbage cans and had labeled them: cans and bottles only and trash.

As Poppy sliced the last of the fruits and vegetables, Claire, in the spirit of party irony, was making little sandwiches of cucumbers and cream cheese.

Linley wandered into the kitchen as Claire finished cutting the crusts off the last of the silly sandwiches.

“What’s this?” Linley demanded, peering down at the dainty-looking triangles.

“Try one,” Poppy advised.

Claire barked, “Max, napkins!” and had the satisfaction of actually being obeyed.

Power. She could get used to it. She could go all Martha Stewart in a heartbeat.

Except for the totally bogus jail thing Martha had gotten, of course . . .

“Cucumber sandwiches?” Linley chewed with an expression of incredulity.

“Good, huh?” said Max. “I’d have never believed it.”

He scooped one up, and Claire slapped his hand and said, “Hey! Wait till the par-tay.”

He grabbed another and crammed it into his mouth, ducking out of reach.

“Little sandwiches?” said Linley. “Finger sandwiches?”

“Strictly vegetarian,” Claire assured her. “No fingers, just cucumbers.”

Staring as Poppy settled a bowl of dip in a tray of fruit, Linley shook her head. “It’s just a party, Claire. Don’t you think you’ve gone, well, a little overboard?”

“Looks good to me,” said Dean.

“Who asked you?” Linley said.

“Ooh, a private conversation,” commented Dean.

“Did you put the plates out yet?” Claire asked him.

“As always, your wish is my command,” said Dean.

Claire handed a plate of vegetables and dip off to Poppy as she returned to the kitchen.

“Plates?” Linley shook her head. “Why not just something simple? Like, oh, I don’t know, napkins?”

“Aren’t you in charge of something?” Claire said. She was only half-listening to Linley. “Like, spiking the watermelons and putting them on ice?”

“Spiked, iced,” said Linley.

“Good for you,” Claire said, almost absently, running her finger down one of the lists she’d magnet-spackled to the refrigerator.

“I’m surprised you’ll allow spiked watermelons in the same house with finger sandwiches,” said Linley.

“My radically liberal upbringing,” said Claire. Forks? No, right, she’d decided against forks. The only weapons of food destruction being put out were toothpicks for the spiked melon. Everything else was strictly fingers. . . .

“Your banker-in-a-box family?” Linley said. “Hardly radical. Fashionable liberal, maybe. It is fashionable to be rich and liberal in Boston, right?”

Claire frowned. Clearly she needed to give Linley something to do.

The door banged open. “Ta-dah!” cried Jodi. “I’m here.”

“And we cheer,” said Dean, who, with Max’s help, had begun to unroll streamers across the rafters of the house.

“And I brought the strawberries,” Jodi went on.

“Strawberries?” said Linley. “For margaritas?”

“For chocolate-dipped strawberries,” Jodi corrected. “Except they’re all dipped. We did them at work. I made everybody at Banger’s help.”

Dean said, “What about the Vile Vickie?”

Jodi giggled. “Her sister is having a baby and she had to help.”

“Poor baby,” commented Dean.

“So since Vickie wasn’t there and things were slow, Banger said go ahead. And guess what? He might even try to stop by the party!”

“You invited Banger?” said Linley.

“Why not? Claire invited the guys at the Stacked—anyway, it was a slow day, so we got the guys in the kitchen to help. And they sort of threw in some other fruit, so a lot of stuff got dipped.”

“Jodi, that is excellent,” said Claire.

Jodi beamed. “Thanks,” she said. “And thanks to Mynor and Leslie and Allison and Emily and Tina and, let’s see, Malinda and Terri and—”

“Everyone at Banger’s,” interrupted Linley. “Well, since they’re all apparently going to be at the party, we’ll be sure and thank each and every one of them. Maybe Claire can write them all thank-you notes.”

The tone as much as the words at last got Jodi’s attention. It got everyone’s attention. Jodi frowned. “What’s your problem?” she asked.

“I don’t have a problem. But chocolate-dipped strawberries? Cucumber sandwiches? Party streamers, for god’s sake?” Linley gestured scornfully. “This party has gotten a little out of hand, don’t you think?”

“What? Since when have you ever thought that about any party?” Jodi said. She laughed. “This is me, Jodi—remember? I know you.”

“You know me? Maybe you once did, when we were friends,” said Linley.

“What?” Jodi sounded both startled and annoyed.

Ignoring her, Linley went on. “But whatever you think you know about me, this doesn’t look at all like my kind of party. It’s . . . I mean, Claire, sweetie, we put you in charge to make sure we had enough beer. And tequila. Not to . . . to make such a big deal out of it.”

“Unfair, Linley,” said Max.

Linley said, “I appreciate that you’ve worked so hard and tried to make it special, but really, Claire. And it’s nice that you like being so busy busy and have all these nice new friends to play with and that everybody is humoring you, but admit it, this is just ridiculous. And it’s not going to impress Finn, trust me.”

Claire gasped. Because it hurt. It actually physically hurt, hearing those words. It was as if Linley’s words were rocks hitting Claire.

Looking down to hide her shock, Claire noticed that the napkin she’d somehow started folding and refolding was now shredded paper, and noticed, too, that her hands were shaking. She threw the napkin away and put her hands flat on the counter.

I’ve tried to make it a good party, Claire thought numbly. I thought everyone else wanted it that way, too.

I thought they were my friends. And yes, she’d been showing off a little for Finn, even if he didn’t notice. . . .

She looked around at everyone now—Max, Dean, Poppy, Jodi. And Linley.

Linley was watching Claire like a cat at a mouse-hole.

No one else spoke. Did they agree with Linley? Did they all think she was being ridiculous? Were they just humoring her?

“Is that what you think?” Claire said slowly, to everyone as much as to Linley. She felt as if she might cry.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Linley said.

And then Dean said, his eyes bright and watchful, “Sounds
as if you’ve got a problem with what a great party Claire’s put together here, Linley.”

“A problem?” repeated Linley.

“Maybe you’re a little jealous,” he added conversationally.

Don’t, Claire thought automatically, and saw Jodi’s hands go out as if to stop the words. Even Poppy looked taken aback.

But it was too late.

“Me? Jealous? Of Claire? Claire?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said, smiling with deeply fake innocence. “Just a thought.”

Claire said, “I . . . you . . . we should . . .” At least they didn’t all think her party plans were stupid. She looked around. The party, she told herself. We have to finish putting it together. Inside, she wanted to cry. She wanted to curl up in a ball in the corner. She wanted never to have come to California, never to have met Linley.

But then she wouldn’t have met Finn. She wouldn’t have learned to surf.

Or to wait tables, she thought, and in spite of herself, smiled a little.

Linley saw the smile.

“Are you laughing at me?” she snapped.

And then, a new Claire thought, a dark, angry Claire thought: I’ll murder Linley later.

And put it on her mental list: Linley. Later. Murder.

Claire’s silence, the silence of the whole room, was too much
for Linley. Claire would think—later—that it was the silence of a whole summer exploding, a whole lifetime, maybe.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Claire Plimouth!”

And Claire heard herself say, in the old Claire’s voice, calm and unemotional, but using words only the new Claire would have used: “Why, Linley? Because you can dish it out, but you can’t take it?”

And then Linley was almost up in Claire’s face, shouting, “I have a list for you, Claire! You like lists, right? Here’s a list. One: party: overkill, way over the top. Two: I’m not jealous of you, not now, not ever, not possible. So not possible—”

“Linley!” said Max. He moved toward her as if to step between her words and everyone else.

Claire didn’t move. She stared at Linley, the Claire of thousands of boarding school days and thousands of more Plimouth family rules. Lists and lists of Plimouth family rules, now that she thought about it. All at war inside her with the Claire of the long shining days of this summer—the feel of the water beneath the board, things little and big, people new and amazing and not so different in so many ways after all, and yes Finn.

Finn.

And Claire said, politely, really, “Oh, get over it, Linley. We have a party starting and we just don’t have time for a tantrum.”

Eighteen

“Whoaaaa,” Dean breathed, stepping back.

Linley’s golden tan went maroon with rage. For one moment, Claire thought Linley was going to go for her.

Max must have, too. He put his hand on Linley’s arm, and when she tried to shake it off, he wrapped his fingers around her list. Claire realized that she was breathing heavily, as if she’d carved a ride on her biggest wave yet.

And maybe she was right.

“You . . . ,” Linley said in a low, furious voice and paused, her own breathing out of control. “You . . .”

She looked around and said, clearly and slowly, “You can all go to hell. Fuck each and every one of you. And especially you, Claire.”

“Linley,” said Max.

She jerked, but he held on. She swung with her free hand, and Max would have gotten not a slap but an eye full of fist if he hadn’t caught her other arm in time. She yanked that arm free,
but didn’t try to hit him again. Instead, she twisted around.

Jodi said, “Get a grip, will you?”

“Oh, that’s good. Me get a grip. I’m not the one that’s speeding her brains out night and day. Jodi the junkie, that’s what you are. Up your nose, in your mouth, popping it between your toes so no one will know—”

“I do not . . . I would never . . . I—”

“Can quit anytime. Hah!”

“You’ve got no right!” Jodi said furiously.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Did I hurt your feelings? But I’m just being your friend. Telling you the truth. Which is more than you’ve done with me!” Linley said.

“I’m not the one who went and lied about paying rent,” Jodie managed to choke out.

“No. No, you lied about fucking Poppy, that’s what you lied about,” Linley said.

Jodi went red, then white.

Now Poppy put her hand on Jodi’s arm. “That wasn’t yours to tell, Linley,” she said evenly. But Claire had the impression that Poppy was really angry.

“Ohh, Poppy, I’m scared,” Linley said. “For your information, Jodi’s my oldest friend. My best friend. You’d think she’d tell me something like that. Especially since it’s been going on all summer.”

“I was going to tell you,” Jodi said. She glanced at Claire.

Linley caught it, figured it out. “You’ve told Claire,” she said. “You told Claire, but you didn’t tell me.”