It Comes In Waves (20 page)

J
ill shifted in her chair to loosen the denim seat of her skirt and watched Shep wander the perimeter of Lee Reynolds's small office in the back of Folly Realty, searching the listings on the papered walls.

The heavy smell of licorice hung in the air, a mix of cologne and stale cigarette smoke. Lee had quit for years. It seemed he'd taken it up again.

“I'm sure Lee would have called if there was any news,” said Jill.

Shep shrugged. “Never hurts to ask.”

Jill rubbed her arms, chilled, the room's familiar smell drawing her into memory.

Sixteen years earlier, she and Foster had sat in this same office, excited and terrified to sign off on their new home, a simple cottage Lee had found them several streets up from the water. The cottage where Foster had bought Luke his first bike and taught him to ride. The cottage she and Luke had come home alone to after Foster's funeral. The cottage she had sold to move in with Shep to the Glasshouse. The Glasshouse where Shep and Foster had lived when Claire had loved Foster and she had loved Shep.

Time seemed to race backward; she'd imagined every piece separate when it was all really one chain, each event linked to another.

The last time she'd sat in this office, it was spitting a warm rain after three weeks without a drop.

The last time she'd sat in this office, her hair fell to the middle of her back.

The last time she'd sat in this office, she was Foster's wife.

•   •   •

C
ontrary to Ivy's long-held belief, it was Lee Reynolds—and not Jill—who first suggested Foster become a Realtor. Three months after they'd bought their house, Jill had run into Lee in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot, loading bags of ice into his trunk. “He'd be a natural, you know,” Lee had said. “Your husband could sell a turtle the shell off its own back. Everyone loves him.”

It was true, and yet Jill had resisted sharing her conversation with Foster, knowing how devoted he was to his coworkers at the marina, knowing how much Ivy depended on him at the shop. Until two weeks later when Foster came home late from work, breathless with excitement, just as she was fixing Luke's dinner and theirs.

His eyes were huge, his skin flushed. “Babe, you'll never guess who I just had a drink with.”

Jill drained a can of peas. “Who?”

“Lee Reynolds. He wants to bring me on board at the agency. He said he'd mentioned it to you a while back.”

She pressed the soft peas into mush. “I didn't think you'd have any interest.”

“Are you kidding? I'd love to get into real estate.” Foster reached into the fridge for a beer, twisting off the top with his shirt. She waited while he swigged. From his high chair, Luke watched his father, tiny fingers reaching. Foster came around and planted a loud kiss on his son's curly head. “I'd be great at it. You know I would.”

“It's not that easy, Foss,” she said gently, handing him Luke's mashed peas and a baby spoon so she could finish fixing dinner. “There are exams, licenses—”

“Lee said he can fast-track all that. I'd work with him for a while, get a few sales under my belt, and then he'd make me an agent.” Foster pulled up a seat beside Luke's high chair, spooning a generous bite. Luke gummed the green puree, blowing emerald bubbles. “Come on, babe. What do you say?”

What
could
she say? Certainly not the truth: that the idea of him moving into a new career, one that would draw him away from the surf shop, one that would find him spending less time surrounded by all those memories of Claire and the world they'd blown apart with their love, thrilled her to bits? But it did. God forgive her, it did.

“Jill, I grew up not knowing my dad. And what I did know, I didn't like.” Foster paused to refill Luke's plastic spoon with peas. “I don't want Luke to think of me that way. To think I didn't care enough to do the right thing by him. That I didn't want to get serious about my life.”

“It's not the same,” she said. “Your father was gone. You're here.”

“I know, but I want to be more than just here.” Foster rose and came beside her at the stove, lowering his hands to her shoulders. Jill turned and fell against him.

“It's time, baby,” he whispered into her hair. “Time to let that life go. I don't want to be that guy who used to show up at the surf shop at four in the morning on a Sunday because he didn't know what else to do with himself. I want Luke to grow up eating dinner at a table, not on a beach, or on the bed of some dude's truck.”

Not yet convinced, she leaned back and looked up at him, searching his face. “But the shop . . .”

“It's not my dream anymore. I don't know if it ever really was.”

But all Jill could think about was Ivy, her reaction, her outrage. “Your mother will be devastated.”

“She'll be disappointed, sure, but she'll understand.”

Jill lowered her eyes, her heart racing with another fear, her
real
fear. “She'll think it was my idea. She'll blame me. Foss, she'll hate me.”

“She won't. She'll see it's what's best for Luke. For our family.”

Our family.
Tears pooled, blinding Jill as she stirred their soup and Foster returned to the table to be with Luke.

Her relief was so overwhelming she could barely breathe.

And that quickly, Foster shifted into a new role. The same wonderful man with a new focus. His trips to the shop grew less frequent, and shorter; his wet suit rarely dried on the railings, his board rarely stuck out of the back of their station wagon. And every night, heads on their pillows, before he clicked off the light and she had one last chance to look at the day's wear on his kind face, Jill searched his sky blue eyes for proof that he regretted his choice. Not just the new job, but her, Luke, all of it. And every night she would see only the calm of conviction, and every night she would sleep well and deeply. Grateful.

•   •   •

S
orry to keep y'all waiting.”

Lee Reynolds greeted Shep with a handshake and Jill with a kiss on the cheek, then took a seat at his desk. “Did Gwen offer you some coffee or iced tea?”

“We're good,” said Shep. “We were in town, so we thought we'd swing by and check in, see how it's going.”

“I appreciate that, but I think we're all set. I'll keep the listing on file, and when Ivy wants to put it back on the market, we'll just pick up where we left off.”

Jill blinked at Shep.

Shep darted forward. “I'm sorry, Lee—did we miss something?”

Lee looked between them, confusion pleating the edges of his eyes. “I assumed Ivy told y'all before she called me,” he said. “She's changed her mind. She wants to take the property off the market. She didn't tell you?”

“What?” Jill reached for the edge of the desk. “When?”

“Last night,” said Lee. “She said she's not ready. She thought she was, but she's not. Heck, I just figured she'd gone over it all with you first.”

Jill watched Shep suck in a long, hard breath, the kind he used to take in just before walking out into the water to surf on a blustery day.

•   •   •

I
t was Claire's idea; I guarantee it,” Shep said tightly as they marched out of the agency and down to the sidewalk. The morning clouds had finally thinned and now the sun burned hot. Jill squinted against it as she pulled open the passenger door to the van and climbed inside.

“We don't know that,” she said, but it was a hollow tempering. Shep was likely right, and even though she was determined not to let her emotions flare before knowing the whole story, Jill felt the swells of irritation bloom.

Shep pulled them into traffic. “You heard Claire at dinner. You were the one who pointed it out to
me
. She was obviously put out that we'd convinced Ivy to sell.”

Jill frowned out the window, trying to understand. “But Ivy's only just gotten back and Claire already left. When could they have talked about this? When could they have made this plan without us knowing?”

“Claire and Ivy probably got talking about the old days and Claire lit a fire under Ivy not to sell yet. I'd put money on it.”

She sighed. “We have to talk to Ivy.”

Shep had already steered them onto Ashley. He flashed her a knowing look. “Way ahead of you.”

•   •   •

T
hey'd gone through it all. Every box, every notebook, every album. They'd sorted through trophies and filed through newspaper clippings. They passed around photograph after photograph. Nearly two hours of tears, laughter, quiet wonder, loud cries of recollection. If there had been any doubt in Claire's mind that Ivy had it in her to keep In the Curl alive, there was no longer. Now, with the room's treasured memories consolidated into a half dozen boxes, the need to preserve the shop's history and worth was stronger than ever.

Claire pulled her phone from her pocket, startled to see the time. Was it really almost one? She plucked a Kleenex from the box Ivy had brought in for them earlier in the excavation and blew her pinked nose. She hadn't expected to cry so much. And she wasn't even sure all the tears had been for Foster. Many had been for Lizzie, and for all the ways Claire longed to make things good again. Now Claire wanted desperately to call her daughter and tell her that she wished Lizzie might have been in that room of boxes and ghosts and hope with all of them just now, that she could have seen the evidence of the fearless, independent woman her mother once was.

Claire texted a short message instead:
Thinking about you, Zee. Love you. Miss you. Mom.

An engine rumbled into the lot. Luke craned his neck to reach the window and announced, “It's Mom and Shep.”

Claire stood and wiped quickly at her eyes, her nose, panicked at the news. In all her impulsive excitement, she hadn't considered the possibility of seeing Shep and Jill again after their strained meal. They believed she was back in Colorado. Finding her here, learning that she planned to stay on, that she'd encouraged Ivy to keep the shop—what would they say?

“Ivy, maybe I should go,” she said. “Walk the beach, or something.”

“What for? You stay put. You're not some stranger. This was your home too, you know.”

Claire smiled, fortified, reaffirmed. Ivy and she had always spoken the same language. She glanced at Luke while they waited for Shep and Jill to climb the steps, curious how he would receive his mother and Shep after emptying the storage room, after their emotional purging.

Shep came inside first. “Claire?” He stared at her. “We thought you were leaving after the interview.”

“I was,” she said, meeting Jill's startled gaze behind his. “I changed my flight.”

“Oh.”

Claire watched Jill quickly turn her shock into a polite smile.

“Where's Lizzie?” Jill asked.

“She went home early,” Claire said. “She'll be with her dad for the next few weeks.”

Jill and Shep shared a quick look—a nervous look, Claire thought.

Shep's gaze drifted past them to the opened door of the storage room. “I see y'all've been busy.”

“It's Dad's stuff,” said Luke. “We finally went through it. And guess what? Grams decided not to sell the shop!”

Claire swore the air in the room cooled ten degrees.

“We know,” Shep said evenly. “We stopped by Lee's office.”

Claire looked at Ivy, feeling a prickle of guilt; Ivy hadn't told them yet?

“Miss Claire said she'd stay on longer and help us fix it up too,” Luke continued. “Isn't that awesome?”

Shep turned to Ivy. “Can we talk to you outside for a second?”

“We can talk right here,” said Ivy. “It's hot as hell outside.”

“We really wish you came to us first before going to Lee,” Jill said. “He's put a great deal of his time into this listing, Ivy.”

“I thought we agreed not to revisit this discussion,” Shep said.

“We're not revisiting it,” Ivy said firmly, stepping behind the counter and facing them, palms flattened challengingly on the divider's surface. “I've made my decision and we'll reopen as soon as possible.”

“You know what the building inspector said: You can't do that until you make the necessary updates,” Jill reminded her.

“That's what the three of us plan to do,” said Luke, joining Ivy on the other side of the counter and smiling at Claire. “Isn't that right, Miss Claire?”

Shep rubbed his temple. “Claire, I don't know if Ivy's explained to you the scope of what's required. It's not something y'all can fix in a couple of days. We're talking wiring. Roof repair. Fire safety systems. We're talking big stuff here.”

Claire shrugged, undaunted. “I'm sure between the three of us we can track down someone fair and competent to do the work.”

Jill spoke softly, but her strain slipped through. “Luke, baby, why don't you wait for us in the van? We'll be down in a second.”

“But I'm not ready to go.”

“Yeah, you are,” Shep said, his voice harsh. “Get in the van.”

Claire looked at Jill, sure she wouldn't let Shep tell her son what to do, but Jill made no motion to reverse his order and the look of betrayal on Luke's face broke Claire's heart.

Shep was angry; Claire could see it. Many times she'd watched him boil over at the Trap's bar after too many beers on a Friday night, red-faced and ready to pounce, until Foster would steer him outside and cool him down. The years might have drawn out the length of his fuse, but Claire suspected it was still every bit as quick to light.

“The boy wants to stay, let him stay,” Ivy said, moving her hands to her hips.

“Ivy, please,” said Jill. “Luke, sweetie, just do this for me.”