It Comes In Waves (16 page)

Ivy set down a pair of mugs, the scent of clove rising with the tea's steam.

Her eyes twinkled with excitement. “So, tell me everything! Did ESPN wear you out with all their questions?”

Claire sighed, wishing she didn't have to dampen Ivy's enthusiasm with the truth. “There's not much to tell, I'm afraid,” she said, taking up a mug. “The director had a vision for me that was less than flattering.”

Ivy stared at her quizzically.

Claire smiled. “Let's just say if I wanted to feel old I could have turned on MTV and saved myself the air miles.”

“Punks,” Ivy spat. “I suppose Luke told you they didn't even have the courtesy to come to the shop?”

Claire nodded. “I tried my best to get them here. But you can guess how much influence I had.”

The pleated laugh lines around Ivy's eyes softened. “It can't be easy for you, honey. Being here. After all this time.”

“I was just thinking the same about you.”

Ivy shrugged and looked around the kitchen. “Ghosts aren't always bad, you know. I've come to love them, honestly. It's when they go away that I get scared. Besides . . .” She looked at Claire with glistening eyes. “I could never leave my grandson. My baby's baby. That boy's my whole world. He's my hope. My memories. My heart. I could no sooner leave him than leave my own damn body. Not that I haven't wanted to do that some days.”

Claire reached out and laid her hand over Ivy's, startled at the unfamiliar feeling of loose skin and bones so close to the surface. What had it been like for Ivy after Foster died, to stay in the same place where you'd raised your child and then buried him? Claire had left Folly over a betrayal, fled after a single night. What sort of cowardice was that?

Tears soaked her eyes. Claire lowered her face, shame and regret colliding with a force ten times harder than any wave that had smashed her body earlier in the night.

Claire whispered, “I'm so sorry I wasn't here for the service. For you. I wanted to be. Please know that—”

“Shh . . .” Ivy pressed her palm over Claire's hand. “You
were
there. In my heart, you've never left, Pepper.”

Claire shook her head, undeserving of absolution. “The way I took off that night . . . that I never came to see you, to say good-bye in person. To
explain
.”

“What was to explain?” Ivy asked, drawing closer to sweep back a loose strand of salt-thickened hair from Claire's lowered face. “Your whole life was torn into pieces. You were in agony.”

“It doesn't compare to what you lost.”

“It doesn't have to. Your anguish was everything to you. The worst pain you could imagine. Everyone's pain is their own, honey.”

Claire searched Ivy's wide-open face, her features weathered by sun and time, heartache and disappointment. If anyone deserved to judge, it was Ivy.

“After you left, I kept my ears open, hoping I'd hear something,” Ivy said. “I was sure the next time I saw you it would be on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
.”

Claire sighed. “Me too.”

“So, what happened?”

“I don't know, really. I went down to Florida for a few months, but I couldn't seem to get my groove right on their barrels. I entered a few heats and didn't even place.” Claire shrugged. “A few of the waitresses at the restaurant I worked at were moving out to Denver for the winter, so I thought, why not?”

Ivy smiled knowingly. “Not many waves in Colorado.”

Claire sipped her tea, unable to meet Ivy's gaze.

Ivy patted her hand. “You remember that heat in 'ninety?”

“You mean when I had strep?”

“Not just
any
case of strep,” Ivy corrected. “I believe the doctor at the clinic said it was the worst case he'd seen in thirty years of practicing medicine.” Ivy shook her head and laughed. “Boy, honey—when you did something, you did it all the way.”

Claire laughed too. “Foster begged me not to ride that day.”

“That was your first win,” Ivy said, gesturing to the busy wall beside them. “The first of many.”

Claire looked up at the spread of framed pictures, so many of her and Foster, of the old days. Her gaze slowed on one of her sandwiched between Foster and Shep after the '91 Classic. Later that night, Foster had surprised her with champagne on the beach and a tub of mint chocolate chip. They'd grown so drunk they ended up falling asleep on the sand and were woken by a pair of damp golden retrievers on their morning walk.

Claire smiled helplessly, swept up in the memory.

“Those were great times,” she said softly, her eyes still fixed on the photograph, the firmness of Foster's hand around her waist. He'd been so proud of her that day. He'd practically teared up when she'd come out of the water. “Is it true he'd stopped surfing?”

Ivy nodded. “He wouldn't admit it, but I know it was because of Jill. You saw her all those years. She never liked our way of life. You could count on one hand the times she came into the store when y'all lived here. I know she didn't want him being part of all this. He says it wasn't her idea to get him into real estate, but I never believed him.”

“But Luke surfs.”

“She tolerates that—what can she do? But I think that's only because she knows he's leaving for school—and that the shop's for sale.”

Claire frowned, reminded of the unfortunate fact. “Luke doesn't want you to sell it.”

“Most days I don't think that boy knows what he wants. But what boy does at his age?”

Foster,
Claire thought reflexively. Foster had wanted her at that age. Wanted her completely and with a confidence that could have parted waters.

She slid her fingers around her mug and lifted her tea to her lips. “Luke and Shep seem to get along well.” She took a careful sip. “It's strange, though. Seeing Jill and Shep together again.”

“I wasn't surprised he took her back,” said Ivy, lowering her chin to her upturned palm. “Shep had never moved on from Jill. Some people don't move on. But you did . . .” Ivy gave Claire's hand a questioning squeeze. “Didn't you?”

Had she? Claire dragged her eyes to the window, not sure what she hoped to see in the black glass.

“I think it hurt Foss terribly to see Shep alone all those years afterwards,” Ivy said. “He loved Shep. He wanted him to be happy. We all did.”

Just not like this,
Claire thought, knowing Ivy was thinking the same.
Not this way.

She set down her mug and looked at Ivy. “Are you really okay with selling this place?”

Ivy shrugged, sighed. “If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you're never ready to say good-bye.”

“So don't sell it. Luke said Jill and Shep are the ones pushing you to do it. If you're not ready, then tell them to back off.”

“Oh, that boy . . .” Ivy smiled fondly at the door to the shop where Luke had disappeared. “He means well, but he can't know all the layers. I wouldn't want him to.”

“He told me Jill lied to him about me leaving Foster.”

“She did.”

“And you went along with it,” Claire said, careful to keep the comment from sounding like an accusation.

Ivy didn't appear to take it that way. “Lies are such damnable things, Pepper. They start small, but the longer they live, the bigger and the heavier they grow. After a while the truth would have made us all look like fools. And you weren't here, honey. What was the harm in it?”

Luke's footsteps thundered up the stairs; Claire glanced at the clock above the sink. “I should go.”

“Don't be silly,” said Ivy. “You'll stay here tonight.”

“I can't. I have an early flight. I have to get back to the hotel and finish packing.”

“Then you'll change your flight and stay on a few more days. You'll take my room.”

“And where exactly will
you
sleep?”

“There's still a foldout in the office. I mean it. You could come and go as you please for as long as you like.”

Luke came into the kitchen and crossed to the fridge. His arrival brought with it the reminder of Lizzie, the terrible terms of their parting. Claire wished she were here now, wished she could hug her. The longing was agony.

“I wish you could have met my daughter,” Claire whispered. “I wish she could have met you. I wish she could have seen us together.”

Ivy took her hands. “There'll be another time.”

Claire glanced around the kitchen, reminded of all the things she'd hoped to squeeze into this visit, the years of heartache and joy that she'd foolishly thought she could share with Lizzie; that it might have been as simple as flipping the pages of a photo album.
Here's where I won my first surfing competition. Here's where I fell in love with Foster. Here's where I was happy. Here's where I belonged.
Suddenly the life that she'd left behind seemed so much more important than she'd remembered. And Lizzie had come and gone, and understood none of it. Claire had failed them both.

“I just wanted her to see this piece of me. How complete I was here. I don't think I realized how much I wanted it until we got here, and then before I knew it, before I could help her to see, she was gone.”

Ivy leaned closer. “Did you never tell her about your life here?”

Claire shook her head. “I meant to. I kept waiting for the right time, I guess. When she was older, when it might mean more to her. When she could be proud of me. I had all these reasons. It never occurred to me not to wait.”

“I know.” Ivy smiled, but Claire could see tears shine at the edges of her eyes. “We think we have all the time in the world,” she said, “but we don't.”

T
he night before Foster left her for Jill, Claire and he took a long shower together: something they rarely did. When you were in the water as much as they were, showering was utilitarian, equipment maintenance the same as any in surfing, no more erotic than hanging up your wet suit or storing your wax.

But that night, without warning, Foster had eased off his suit and stepped into the steam that Claire had built up as she scrubbed the salt and sand from her hair. When she opened her eyes, there he was, smiling down at her through the pelting mist. She turned and let him rake his long fingers through her soapy hair until the water had run clear around their feet. Then she watched him whittle down the silver of soap to a remarkable froth in his hands. The smell of grapefruit rose around them, ripe and sweet. When he laid his palms on her and began to work the lather down her body, she closed her eyes again.

They'd been on the water for most of the afternoon—a luxury they hadn't known in years. Now with them all in their midtwenties, work schedules and responsibilities didn't allow them the languishing surfing days they'd enjoyed in their teens. But that day, Shep, Foster and Claire had shared a mutual day off and spent it on their boards. Jill had come later, arriving with crab salad sandwiches and watermelon slices. Afterward, stretched out on the sand, nicely buzzed from beer and sun, Claire had stolen a quiet moment to drink them all in, and the significance of the day. She'd surfed well, nailing roundhouses and floaters with the same reckless passion she'd impressed Foster with years earlier.

The shower's stream felt heavenly: just enough pressure and heat. She slid against Foster, his body slick and warm.

“I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually nervous about tomorrow,” she admitted.

He snorted. “Hot Pepper Patton, nervous? You won it last year.
And
the year before that.”

She had; the proof still hung from the cluttered front of their fridge, a half page of newsprint faded from too many mornings in full Folly sun. Claire Patton, winner of the Folly Classic, second year in a row. Surely she'd go pro and join the circuit at last?

“Pretty soon I'll be Hot Pepper
King
,” she reminded him. He nodded; she lathered the pale tuft of hair above his belly button and asked, “Aren't
you
nervous? Even a little bit?”

“Actually . . . I was thinking I might pass this year.”

“Pass?” She laughed, the idea absurd. “What are you talking about?”

Foster shrugged. “I've competed almost as long as I've been eating solid foods, Pep. I just think it's time for a break, that's all.”

Was
that all? Claire stared up at him through the thinning steam. He looked tired, worried.

“Then I'll pass this year too,” she declared.

“No.” His voice was firm enough to startle her. “You can't miss one.”

“You said it yourself; it's time for a break.”

“For me,” he said. “Not you. This is who you are, babe. This is who you're meant to be.”

“I'm meant to be your wife, Foss. That's who I'm meant to be.”

Foster nodded, but his smile waned. “Promise me you'll ride tomorrow,” he said, then again, harder, “Promise me.”

“I promise,” she agreed, only because something in his eyes alarmed her too much not to. Then he grabbed her face between his soapy hands and kissed her, deeper and fiercer than he had in a long time, as if he were trying to bury something inside her mouth.

Looking back, when she finally could, Claire saw what he was doing, masked by all that steam and heat. The words of encouragement were a plea, loud and desperate, a warning that sooner than she could imagine it would all be gone, and this was her chance to hold on to one piece of herself.

But their love, their life, it was all one great big world, every part linked to every other part. There could be no separating her pieces from his.

Surely Foster had known that when he set her adrift?

Now as she sat in Charleston International at nine ten and stared out at the runway, Claire wished she'd been smarter that day, any of the days. Even one day of good sense might have helped.

Driving to the airport, passing Charleston, Claire had slunk down in her seat like a twelve-year-old afraid to be caught with her first cigarette. It would have been the crowning shot of this entire trip to be spotted by her mother on her way to the airport.

Why had Claire not told her mother she was in town? There had been reasonable excuses at the beginning of the trip, reasons that now didn't hold up.

She shifted carefully in the upholstered seat, the slightest movement causing the muscles across her back to cry out. The effect of the two ibuprofens she'd taken earlier was fading. She'd meant to take some before bed in the hope of staving off the inevitable pain she'd wake with, having stretched her poor body far beyond its reach the night before. It served her right, she thought, as she rubbed her neck.

You'll change your flight and stay on a few more days. There's still a foldout in the office. . . .

Stay on. The possibility wasn't so outrageous, was it?

She thought about her talk with Luke, the truth that it was Jill and Shep who'd forced Ivy to close the shop; then she thought of Ivy in her kitchen the night before. Her thin fingers shaking as she'd set down their tea. The woman had lost everything. Her only child, and now her thriving business—her
home
. Rage flushed anew. Claire had been pushed out of Folly once before, been made to leave before she was ready. She'd abandoned Ivy then, but she wouldn't this time. Claire could help, could be useful. Here, she could have a purpose. She could be wanted.
Needed.

Lizzie's accusation swam back, that Claire leaned on her too much, that she didn't have a life of her own. It wasn't true. And maybe staying on in Folly would be the best way of proving it.

Last night, sitting with Ivy, revisiting all the memories, Claire had forgotten how content she'd been here, how hopeful, how free.

If she stayed, she could make time to visit her mother.

She could tell Luke more about his father.

She could even get back on that board and show Gus Gallagher she could still carve harder than any girl he'd ever seen.

Consternation rose through her aching limbs. Claire rose with it.

The line at the ticket counter was a dozen passengers deep; she didn't feel like waiting. Instead she wheeled her luggage out into the corridor and looked down the crowded carpet for the exit signs.

You think you have all the time in the world.

But you don't.