It Comes In Waves (11 page)

“I don't know,” Claire whispered, fixing her eyes on the door, trying to imagine who would answer. She was certain it wouldn't be Jill.

Or maybe she just hoped.

The door opened and Shep appeared. Behind him lay the house she'd stepped into a thousand times, the interior she could find her way around in in her sleep. What would it be like now?

The scent of lemon and saffron was dizzying when they came inside. Claire glanced around the entry; quick, safe looks.

She caught Lizzie watching her and gave her daughter a reassuring smile.

“Luke's making dinner,” Shep said, leading them down the hall. “I hope y'all are hungry.”

“Starving,” said Claire.

Lizzie trailing her, Claire followed Shep through the living room and into the kitchen, and there was Jill, standing in front of the table, hands clasped, her expression almost as warm and welcoming as it had been the first time they met across the booth at the Crab Trap.

Almost.

“Hi, Claire.”

Stopped on the threshold, Claire took in her old friend in the brief moments before Jill crossed to greet her. The women hugged, then stepped back, forcing a wider gap between them than they'd had at the start.

“It's great to see you again, Miss Claire,” Luke said. “You too, Lizzie. I hope y'all like paella.”

Tension filled the room like smoke.

Claire smiled, just glad for something to do.

“We love it,” she said.

M
ake yourself comfortable in the living room,” Shep said. “I'll open a bottle of wine. Is white okay?”

“White's great,” Claire said, feeling bad again for having arrived without a gift. Jill had retreated to the kitchen to keep an eye on the paella. Luke had poured Lizzie a Coke and told her that there were chips and salsa on the deck; they'd disappeared through the sliding doors soon after.

Now Claire sat alone in the living room, trying not to catalog all the memories hidden beneath the fresh décor as she looked around. Just as she'd always vowed, Jill had made the Glasshouse warm and cozy and wholly respectable. The transformation was remarkable. They'd replaced the missing floorboards by the door; they'd fixed the stretch of loose crown molding that had dangled precariously for so long. They'd even covered the gash beside the window where Foster had accidentally punctured the wall with the tip of his board.

They'd removed so much. And yet . . .

“Here you go.” Shep arrived with a glass of Chardonnay; Claire took it and downed a long, grateful sip.

He chose a seat across from her. “Jill'll be right in. Everything's mostly done; it just has to simmer some, I think.” He squinted. “Is that the right word,
simmer
? What do I know, right? We never were the cooks, were we?”

The sound of shuffled silverware sailed in from the kitchen: Jill setting the table. Shep tapped his fingers against his bottle of beer. It was like their last night together, Claire thought as she swallowed her wine. Neither one wanted to meet the other's eyes, steering their gazes to every other point around them, feigning deep interest in floorboards and rug patterns.

She took a second, longer sip. Where was Lizzie? Still on the deck? What could she and Luke be talking about?

“Looks a little different in here, doesn't it?” Shep asked, gesturing around them.

Not different enough, Claire wanted to say but didn't. It would take more than a fresh coat of paint and new furniture to make her forget her years in this house.

“We did a bunch of work on it when we moved in. It needed it. The backside was totally rotted out. Remember how the shower wall collapsed after that bad storm?”

She shook her head. “That must have been after I left.”

“Oh. Right.” Shep slugged his beer. “So . . . Tomorrow's the big day, huh?”

“I don't know how big it will be,” Claire said.

“Oh, come on. They flew you all the way over here, put you up at the Breeze. I wouldn't be surprised if they turn it into a documentary about just you.”

The song on the CD ended; in the brief quiet before another began, Lizzie's and Luke's voices sailed in from the deck. Claire looked toward the sound, grateful for its interruption.

“They're about the same age, aren't they?” Shep asked.

“Lizzie's fifteen.”

There was, of course, no need to specify Luke's age.

Claire took another sip.

“Sorry that took so long.” Jill came in and sat beside Shep, putting her hand on his knee. “Shep said they put you up at the Breeze?”

“I barely recognized it.”

“It's very different,” Jill said. “I've only been in the lobby once since they redid it.”

“Get you some more wine, Claire?” Shep asked.

Claire glanced down at her glass, startled to see she'd nearly drained it. No wonder she was feeling more relaxed. More would be good. “Sure, thanks.”

“I can get it,” Jill said.

“No, you relax,” Shep ordered gently, squeezing her hand. He rose and stepped around the couch for the kitchen. Claire waited until she heard the refrigerator door creak open before she said, “I want you to know I asked Shep to call you first about this. About me coming over tonight. I didn't want you to feel put on the spot.”

“Don't be silly. Of course we want you here. It would be so weird to think you were in Folly again and we didn't see each other, have our kids meet.” Jill recrossed her legs, folded and unfolded her hands. When had she stopped painting her nails? “Especially since we didn't see you at the funeral.”

The funeral. Claire looked reflexively for her glass, forgetting Shep had taken it. “I wanted to come,” she said. “I really did, but my daughter was sick and my husband—
ex
-husband—had this conference he was speaking at—”

“I understand. I do,” Jill said. “Thank you for your note.”

God, how Claire had labored over that one short letter. Moving between stationery and a card, afraid to write too little, afraid to write too much. In the end, she'd compromised on five sentences that she'd rewritten and reread a dozen times before finally sealing the envelope.

Jill took a short, quick sip of her wine. Claire had always felt like a lush in Jill's company. The disparity between their sipping styles had been something they'd laughed over in those early days. Now it made Claire feel badly about herself.

Jill looked around the room. “I always said I'd make it sweet, didn't I?”

“You did.” Claire let her eyes travel the space too. They'd burned through whole nights in this room, gossiping and complaining, crying and laughing. They'd shared dreams; they'd shared secrets. Now they sat across from each other like strangers trapped in a stalled train, desperate for someone to come in and relieve them of the impossible quiet.

“How are your parents?” Jill asked.

“My mom's fine; she's still in Charleston. My dad passed away.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“Are yours still in Folly?” Claire asked.

“No, they moved over to Kiawah.” Jill smiled. “Shep said you stopped by the shop. It's like a time capsule, isn't it? I'm sure you were surprised to see everything was still there.”

“Honestly, I was more surprised to find it for sale.”

“Really?” Jill looked surprised. “But you were there. You saw for yourself how badly the shop is showing its age.”

“Funny,” said Claire, “I thought it looked great. Aside from all the dust.”

“Oh.” Jill twisted her bracelet and shifted her gaze to the kitchen, searching the doorway. In the next moment, Shep returned with Claire's glass. Jill's face bloomed with relief.

Shep moved to take his seat, but Jill stood before he could.

“I think dinner's ready,” she announced. “We should eat.”

•   •   •

T
he paella arrived in a fragrant halo of steam: parsley, lemon, and saffron.

When they'd all been served, Claire took a good scoop, catching a royal red shrimp in her spoonful. “It's wonderful,” she said to Luke. “You're quite the cook.”

Luke shrugged, smiled. “I try.”

“You must do better than that if your mom lets you in her kitchen.” Claire glanced at Jill. “She never used to let anyone in her kitchen.”

Luke looked at his mother. Jill smiled thinly. “You always said you hated to cook, Claire.”

Shep thrust out his hand. “Luke, pass the bread, will you?”

He handed Shep the basket, but his gaze remained intent on Claire. “You must be superstoked to get back on a board.”

Lizzie's head snapped up, her expression stricken.

Claire smiled. “I'm afraid that's not part of the deal.”

“Really?” Luke's face fell. “I just figured you'd want to surf again. Being back here and all. At least a little bit.”

Did she? Claire wasn't even sure. In all the activity surrounding her trip, all the worrying about Lizzie, about returning and seeing Shep and Jill, Claire hadn't had time to consider the part of this return that had given her pleasure. Once surfing had been her release, her place of peace. Truthfully, right now she would have given anything for fifteen minutes in that sweet spot of calm, sitting on her board, legs dangling in the water, waiting for a wave, when nothing else mattered and nothing could touch her.

“Miss Claire, if it's not too much trouble,” said Luke, “I was hoping maybe you could put in a good word for Grams tomorrow and get the ESPN guys to film something at the shop. I know it would mean a lot to her.”

Claire stared at Luke. “They haven't interviewed Ivy yet?”

“Nope.” Luke speared a shrimp with his fork. “They never even contacted her.”

Claire blinked around the table, stunned.

“I don't see how someone could film a documentary on surfing in Folly and not include Ivy or In the Curl. It's outrageous.” Claire looked between Shep and Jill, waiting for their agreement, but all they did was exchange a short, wary look with each other. Surely they believed it was an unforgivable oversight too? “Maybe they saw the For Sale sign and assumed it was empty?”

“The sign had nothing to do with it,” said Shep. “The shop's not really on the public's radar anymore, Claire. Well . . .” He glanced at Jill before adding, “Except for the building inspector's.”

“There are some issues,” said Jill. “Things not up to code.”

“If it's just a matter of a few repairs, then make them,” said Claire.

Jill smiled tightly. “That's not really the point. No one was shopping there anymore. Why invest the money?”

“Because it's Ivy's home,” Claire said.

“Don't worry about Ivy.” Shep reached for Jill's hand and held it. “We found her a great apartment. They just built a new condo development on the other side of the bridge. She'll be very happy there.”

Ivy, happy living in a condominium? Shep and Jill didn't really believe that, did they?

“I still think it's shameful that no one invited her to be a part of this documentary,” Claire said. “But you can bet that I'll make sure they get to the shop to film it.
And
Ivy.”

Jill lifted the pan of paella. “More, anyone?”

Luke smiled gratefully at Claire. She smiled back.

•   •   •

T
he night air was cool and tangy on their ride back to the hotel. Claire lowered the windows and let the wind fill the interior and the quiet. The last two hours had been everything and nothing like what she'd expected. There'd been no uproars, no tears. But what had Claire expected? An apology? Of course not. But at least some acknowledgment that their reunion had arrived with rough edges that no amount of wine or paella would smooth over. Then there was the casual way Shep and Jill had spoken of moving Ivy to a condo. A condo! They might as well have reserved her a bed at Waveland Retirement Home and been done with it, Claire thought as she stared out at the road. And the way Jill had given her that placating smile as soon as Claire had challenged their plan, the smile that said—politely but firmly—You, Claire, don't have the foggiest idea what Ivy needs anymore.

Bull. Claire might have been away from Folly for almost two decades, but people didn't change. Ivy belonged in that shop. No matter what some building inspector said.

Claire glanced over at Lizzie, her irritation shifting focus. Her daughter had been sullen at dinner. She'd tolerated Lizzie's silent treatment at the outset of this trip, but enough was enough.

“You might have said more than five words tonight, you know. It's considered good manners to make conversation when someone invites you to their table.”

“Even if it's someone who stole your boyfriend?”

“What?” Claire looked over at Lizzie. “Who told you that?”

“Luke. He told me everything. He told me how you and his dad were together and how you were going to get married but then he left you for his mom after he got her pregnant.”

Claire gripped the wheel. “Luke said that? Those exact words?”

“I can't believe you went to her house and ate her food. Aren't you still mad at her?”

Claire raised her window several inches, chilled suddenly. “It was a long time ago, Zee.”

“Then why were you so touchy at dinner?”

“I wasn't touchy.” She frowned. “Why are you being so rude?”

Lizzie dropped her cheek against the window. “I just wish . . .”

Claire looked over at her daughter expectantly. “You wish what?”

“Never mind.”

“Damn it, don't do that, Zee. If you want to say something, say it.”

“Fine. You really want to know?”

God, did she? Claire stared at the road, unsure now. Still, she said, “Of course I do.”

“I just wish you'd let me live my life by myself for once. I wish you'd let me breathe.”

“What? I let you breathe.”

Lizzie closed her eyes and turned into the door.

Claire felt the gap between them grow again, an urgency to reach out and pull Lizzie close, to hold her and bury her nose into her daughter's soft hair the way she used to do when Lizzie was little and wanted a hug every minute, when she made Claire promise she would never, ever let go.

Why hadn't Claire demanded the same promise from Lizzie?

•   •   •

J
ill waited until Luke had tromped upstairs to bed before she walked out to the deck. Shep was nursing a beer and watching the fireflies that hovered above the grass. She dropped to the empty chair beside him and relaxed into the soft plastic weave.

All evening she'd clung to his side, catching his gaze and holding it like a guardrail. Not until Claire and her daughter had backed out of the driveway and slipped away down Ashley had Jill finally felt safe enough to be left on her own. It was over; she'd survived dinner and the relief was immediate, like someone who'd managed to steer a possible intruder off her doorstep without incident, or a driver who'd avoided a crash.

Then there was the guilt from the relief. What right had she to rush Claire and her daughter out of her house, to be glad to see them go?

“Hey.” Shep reached for her hand. “You okay?”

“I don't know.” Jill laced her fingers through his. “I can't decide how it went.”