It Comes In Waves (3 page)

And the days she'd wished for that! Left the house with the door unlocked, just hoping someone might come in and take every last thing, might spare her the impossible chore of having to part with a piece, however small, of Foster.

Eventually she'd confronted it. On a bright and burning Saturday, three years after Foster had drowned, when Shep and Luke had gone to Kiawah, she sat down with her boxes as a defendant sits before a jury, ready to face the inquisition of memory. The trial was a grueling one, but she endured it, and in the end, what remained was a far smaller collection than she might have expected.

Luke had sulked, angry that she'd cast out so much without warning him. Shep had seemed relieved. Foster's mother, Ivy, had been—not surprisingly—furious, calling Jill selfish when she heard, leaving Jill in tears.

“Long, long day.”

Shep snapped off the light and climbed into bed, his skin still moist and warm from his shower. Jill curled into him and let the air settle around them. In the quiet, the strange news of ESPN's visit seemed to knock at the dark, pleading like a mewing cat to be let in.

Shep answered the call.

“It really
would
be something if Claire came back, wouldn't it?” he asked.

Jill shifted closer to him. Claire. After all these years.

“I'm not sure she'd want to see me if she did,” Jill said.

“It's been seventeen years, Jilly. I'm sure she's over it now.”

How could he be sure? It wasn't as if they'd kept in touch with Claire or knew anyone who had. After Foster's funeral, Ivy had received a letter from Claire explaining why Claire had been unable to make the service, that work and family obligations had kept her away, how sorry she was.

Jill reminded him, “She didn't come back for the funeral.”

“She told Ivy she couldn't.”

“Maybe.” Jill pressed her face against his chest. “Or maybe you never move on from that kind of betrayal.”

“I did.”

Under her cheek, Jill felt Shep's heartbeat hasten and her own heart fluttered too; his claim was not intended to hurt, but it did, if only for a moment.

She raised her head and tried to find his face in the watery dark.

“If she does come, you'll have to talk to Luke,” Shep said. “You'll have to tell him the truth.”

Jill turned onto her back and stared up at a thread of moonlight that had slipped through the edge of the blinds. It shivered across the ceiling like a kite string. “I'm not sure I can now,” she said. “He'll think I'm a terrible person.”

Shep rolled toward her. “Baby, he won't even care. I still don't understand why you lied to him in the first place.”

How many times had Jill asked herself the same question? Maybe because she'd spent so many years feeling guilty for betraying her best friend, or maybe it was all the years of enduring Ivy's subtle, and not-so-subtle, implications that Foster had only left Claire because Jill had stolen him away from his true love, not to mention convinced him to stop surfing.

Was it so wrong of her, Jill, to want her son to see her differently?

Remarkably, Ivy had played along with Jill's retelling of their shared past, never speaking to Luke of how his father and mother fell in love while his father was living with someone else—the same someone whose pictures still covered the walls of Ivy's shop and the apartment above it, not to mention the walls of her heart.

Jill frowned, suddenly nervous. Earlier that evening, when the possibility of Claire returning to Folly was just a glimmer of excitement in her son's beautiful blue eyes, she wasn't the least bit worried. Now dread crawled along her skin.

“Good night, baby.” Shep drew her against him and brushed her temple with his lips, putting the day and all of its strains to sleep.

Jill closed her eyes and rested her palm on his chest as if to draw out the even rhythm of his breathing and force her own heart to fall into the same beat, but her mind seemed frantically awake now.

Truthfully, she rarely thought about Claire anymore. Maybe sometimes, when she'd pass the Washout and see a woman carrying her board into the water, memory would rise, soft and warm, and take Jill back to those early days, the first time she and Claire met, regarding each other with palpable curiosity across a restaurant booth. In the months after the breakup, Jill had sent several letters to Claire, begging her forgiveness, for the chance to repair their friendship. Not a single one had garnered a response.

She'd missed Claire for a long, long time. Then life had stepped in and washed that longing away. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of heart.

For a while, Jill had wondered if Claire had missed her too, if she'd wished things might have been different. If Claire could forgive her. If she could ever forget.

It had been a long time since Jill had considered those possibilities.

Tonight, as the house drifted into slumber around her, wood and plaster settling under the soft, salty breath of the sea, she did again.

One week later

Y
ou know, Zee, you might actually have fun here.”

Despite Claire's suggestion, Lizzie's gaze remained fixed on the view from the passenger window of the rental car they'd picked up at the Charleston Airport, white earbuds poking out through the strands of her brown hair. She had her music device turned away; Claire couldn't be sure if it was on and her daughter couldn't hear her or if it was off and Lizzie was only faking deafness. It amazed Claire how someone could be so quiet for so long. In her own youth, Claire had tried endlessly to win the war of silence with her father, but muteness was never something she could sustain.

Lizzie, however, was a natural. Her daughter had remained silent from the moment Claire informed her of the plan to leave Golden for Folly Beach, and Lizzie had stayed silent for the six days afterward while school came to a close. All the while Claire had waited for Lizzie to inquire, to show interest in this secret life her mother was about to share with her. But car rides to and from school had been quiet, as had dinners. Not once had Lizzie asked what Claire had hoped her daughter would want to know: Why, oh, why, were they going to Folly Beach, and who had her mother been to make them go back?

But Lizzie hadn't asked. And now they were nearly there. A few minutes and they'd be crossing the bridge into Folly. And for the first time since she'd told Adam Williams she'd do the interview, Claire felt the itch of doubt prickle her arms and legs like chigger bites. She didn't dare start to scratch.

Lizzie tugged out her left earbud. “Are we going to see Grandma Maura while we're here?”

The question was unexpected. Claire looked over at Lizzie. “Do you
want
to see Grandma?”

“I guess. Don't you?”

Claire hesitated. What could she say? In all the planning, she'd not given any thought to whether or not she'd visit her mother and stepfather in nearby Charleston. There was enough potential drama to contend with seeing Folly again; a visit with her mother was more emotional baggage than she was prepared to carry. Claire hadn't even shared the news with her mother that she was coming to Folly. Now guilt danced down her neck.

“She'll be pissed if we don't call her,” Lizzie said.

“Mad,” corrected Claire. “She'll be mad.”

“No,” insisted Lizzie. “She'll be
pissed
.”

Claire sighed, surrendering. There were plenty of battles she would wage this trip. Underage drinking, skipped classes, plots to run away to Arizona. Bad language out of her daughter's mouth was not the hill on which she was going to die. And besides, they were finally talking. Claire would take it.

The last of the commercial strip thinned and the marshland spread out on both sides of the road, the soft tufts of pale green grass. Marsh fur, Claire used to call it, because it warmed her heart. Surely her daughter would perk up to see—to smell—the ocean.
The ocean!
Claire could count on one hand the times Lizzie had faced the sea. But it was clear from the first that Lizzie didn't feel the same pull to the surf that Claire had felt. Visiting California when Lizzie was five, Claire had watched, agog, as her daughter had stationed herself and a plastic shovel at the highest part of the beach, her daughter's big brown eyes shifting nervously to the waves, as if the surf's fingers might stretch far enough to pull her in. “Some kids never take to the water,” Nick had said. Claire hadn't agreed.

“Isn't it beautiful?” Claire tilted her head toward the window and pulled in a long breath. “And that smell . . .”

Lizzie scanned the view, frowning. “I thought we were going to the beach.”

“We are,” said Claire. “This is marsh. The beach is at the end.”

“The end of what?”

“The road.”

“Oh.” Lizzie threaded the loose earbud back through her hair.

They passed Larson's Fish Market. Claire smiled reflexively to see its familiar weathered-shingle siding, its sunbaked blue awning; she smiled again when the car thumped over the bridge at last.

Downtown Folly appeared before her and she steeled herself for her return. Would Center Street have changed in seventeen years or remain startlingly untouched? Claire wasn't sure which possibility she hoped for more.

“Whoa—”
Lizzie gasped. “What is
that
?”

The Sea Breeze loomed on the horizon, a salmon-stuccoed, six-storied gate to the beach beyond. It was a Folly institution, the shoreline's oldest and most expensive resort.

“That,” said Claire proudly, “is our hotel.”

“We're staying there?” Lizzie's expression verged on impressed, another tiny victory Claire would gobble up.

“Not too shabby, is it?” Claire asked as she pulled them into the valet parking lane.

The attendant helped them unpack the trunk and directed them to the front door.

“Do I get my own room?” Lizzie asked.

The question startled Claire, slowing her purposeful gait to the entrance. “Did you want your own room?”

“It doesn't matter,” Lizzie said, wheeling her luggage around Claire to push through the glass doors. Her own room? Claire had been indulging in fantasies of them staying up late in their matching complimentary bathrobes, ordering room service desserts and watching old movies; Lizzie had been imagining herself alone and free.

God, Claire was dim.

•   •   •

C
laire knew the Sea Breeze better than most, having worked there as a chambermaid with Jill to make extra money her second year in Folly, but when she stepped through the front doors, she might as well have been a first-time guest. The remodeled interior, colorful mosaic floors and frosted glass walls bathed in pastel lights, bore little resemblance to the hotel of her memory.

At the counter, Lizzie leaned against the tiled facade and let her backpack slide to the floor. “So, where is this ESPN guy anyway?”

Claire searched for her wallet. “I'm meeting him for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

A young woman approached them. “Checking in?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “Reservation for Patton.”

“One minute.” The clerk typed into her computer.

Claire glanced around as they waited. “I can't get over it.”

The woman looked up from her keyboard. “Excuse me, ma'am?”

“The lobby,” said Claire. “It's so different.”

“We had a big renovation a few years ago. So you've stayed with us before?”

“I used to work here, actually. A long time ago.”

“Oh. Fun.” The clerk smiled thinly, all business. “I'll still need to see some ID.”

•   •   •

I
t was a lovely room, Claire thought as she and Lizzie stepped inside it a few minutes later, larger than she remembered the rooms being, painted in shades of coral and cream, and cozy with plush bedding and upholstered chairs—or maybe it just seemed especially lovely because she wasn't tasked with cleaning it. All those overstuffed satin pillows seemed luxurious when you weren't the one who had to inspect and stack every one just so.

Lizzie dropped her bag on the closest bed and disappeared into the bathroom. Claire moved to the balcony slider and pulled it open, greeting the view of the beach that spread out before her. She stepped into the warm, wet air and leaned over the railing to scan the length of the shore.

“You should see our view, Zee,” Claire called over her shoulder. “It's incredible.”

She waited for a response, but none came. She leaned into the room and tried again. “Are you hungry? We could go get dinner.”

Still nothing, just the spitting of a faucet turned on high.

Claire returned to the view, tempering her disappointment. It had been a long day. With a good night's sleep, Lizzie might see this trip in a more favorable light. In the meantime, Claire would be grateful that they'd arrived.

But God, she was starving. They needed food. Hunger always made for cranky roommates.

Claire stepped back inside the room. “How about I go out and bring us back something? We could eat on the balcony.”

A muffled response came from the other side of the bathroom door. “Okay.”

Claire swept up her purse. “Any requests?”

“Anything's fine.”

“So I should get us a large order of fried worms and two broccoli shakes?”

It had been a standing joke in their house when Lizzie was little, always eliciting a squeal. Now Claire got only silence.

“Tough crowd,” she muttered as she opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

•   •   •

C
laire walked through the hotel's glass doors into the warm air of evening. The hot, misty scent of the sea blew at her anew, somehow stronger at this time of day, and with its charge came the flashes of memory she had been too distracted to take in when they arrived.

Stopped at the intersection of Ashley Avenue, the whole of Folly's small downtown visible from where she stood, she felt her nerves churning. Though there were only a few places that had survived the years of her absence, it didn't matter; her heart recognized everything. She saw the Crab Trap on the corner and smiled reflexively, the flavor of their crab bites suddenly filling her mouth, the seafood truffles she'd once eaten by the dozen. She'd given up that craving long ago; now it returned. If she ordered some and brought them back to the hotel, would the balls still be as moist, as sinfully rich as the very first time she slid one past her lips and crunched gently on the breaded crust? Maybe, maybe not. Like so many things here in Folly, she'd have to face the truth of time's wear and tear on them, the possibility of change, of disappointment, of deterioration.

Drawing in another deep breath of salt air, Claire crossed at the light and decided of all the reunions she might have to face tonight, this one she would make herself, seeing Folly as she'd first seen it.

Before Foster.

A time that, for all it mattered, didn't really count as living.

•   •   •

T
he sidewalks on both sides of Center Street were thick with summer traffic, locals and tourists looking for dinner or a drink, probably both. Claire passed the spot where a T-shirt and souvenir store had once resided and now housed a wine bar, the spicy scent of sandalwood incense and the lulling sounds of acoustic jazz wafting out the opened door. How badly she wanted to take a seat on one of the open umbrella tables and order a glass of wine—a drink she never would have ordered in her twenties. Margaritas had always been their drinks of choice then, tart and cold and slightly sweet, rims caked in salt (as if they'd needed more after a day out on the water!), enjoyed on the Masthead's deck or, if they were feeling decadent, at the bar at Pearl's. Claire scanned the other side of the street, trying to locate the sites of their youthful celebrations, but she couldn't find them.

Walking into the Crab Trap, however, was like stepping into a favorite pair of shoes. Everything felt familiar, comfortable. The rich, greasy smell of fried fish blew at her and Claire smiled as she took in a deep breath of it. She might have known nothing could change in here. The restaurant was a fixture in Folly, its nautical décor as precious as its menu. She walked to the register at the end of the restaurant's crowded bar and glanced down the length of the shellacked surface she'd cozied up to a hundred times over the years, taking a quick survey of the patrons but recognizing no one. She did the same with the young waiter who took her to-go order, trying to decide if he resembled anyone she might have known, but her study yielded nothing, only the reminder that seventeen years was a lifetime.

Her gaze traveled to the corkboard beside the register, to the dog-eared business cards of local vendors tacked to it, rental agencies and surf instructors, names she didn't recognize. She looked for one business in particular but didn't see it.

“You wouldn't happen to know if In the Curl is still open?” she asked.

“In the Curl . . .” The young man looked up from his order pad. “Is that the place out near the Washout?”

Claire nodded.

“I think it's for sale,” he said. “But if you're looking for the best surf shop in Folly, you can just head across the street. It's the only place anyone goes now.” He pointed his pen to the window, leveling it on a glass and turquoise building that had been a hardware store when Claire was here last. Jagged metal letters climbed the facade: FINS. A surfboard burst crudely out of the awning, the torn pieces of fabric flared out to resemble a wave.

Claire eyed the store skeptically, the reflexive burn of loyalty rising in her. Poor Ivy. All the years that In the Curl had ruled the beach, offering nothing but good products for real surfers, now Foster's mother had been put out of business by some generic superstore. Claire bet she knew exactly what kind of poser owned it too. All flash and no clue. Typical.

“That's too bad.”

“What is, ma'am?”

“That people would rather support a gimmicky chain than a genuine Folly institution like In the Curl.”

The young man looked at her blankly. “On that crab ball plate, did you want a small or large?”

Why had she wasted her breath? “Large,” she answered.

“Okay, cool.” The waiter tore off the order slip. “Should be just a few minutes.”

“Buy you a beer while you wait?”

Claire turned at the man's voice and locked gazes with her neighbor.

“Me?” she asked.

He smiled. “You.”

His eyes were a startling shade of gray, pewter: nearly blue but not quite. Claire hadn't noticed him during her first survey of the bar. Had he arrived while she'd ordered? His hair, reddish brown and wavy and overdue for a cut, was threaded with touches of gray at the temples. He wore a plain white T-shirt, jeans and a diver's watch. Though she didn't recognize him, there was something familiar about his appearance, something pure. He was old-school, the kind of surfer who would have been a loyal customer at Ivy's back in the day. She should have saved her tirade for him instead of her waiter.