It Comes In Waves (6 page)

T
he first moment Claire laid eyes on Foster King was just before noon on a July Saturday with the air still damp from a morning misting, and seconds after her father had nearly run him over.

They'd been in Folly Beach for only a few minutes, her father having rushed them through the small stretch of downtown shops and restaurants as if they were outrunning a tornado. In the backseat, Claire leaned in as close as she could to the window, determined to soak in the scenery Harp Patton was equally determined to deny her. Now as her father steered them down Ashley Avenue, she searched the view for the one stretch of beach she knew would be bare of homes but teeming with waves, and the surfers who would be riding them.

“The speed limit is thirty, Harp,” Claire's mother noted evenly.

“I'm aware of the damn speed limit, Maura. I'm also aware of the two pounds of potato salad in the trunk that's rapidly spoiling in this god-awful heat.”

Potato salad. Of all the sorry excuses her father could make for hurling them to their destination, ripening potato salad had to be the most pathetic. Claire wished for the sound of sirens to rush up behind them; for a policeman to force her father into the soft, sandy shoulder and keep them there, long enough to let Bibi Danvers's beloved store-bought potato salad bake rancid in the hot sun. It would serve her father right.

“Claire, Bibi tells me Warren will be there. Back from a trip to Bermuda. I'm sure he'll be anxious to share his adventures with you.”

Claire kept her gaze fixed on the view of the water and muttered, “Lucky me.”

“What was that?”

“When did you talk to Bibi?” her mother asked, turning her head sharply as if she'd been goosed.

“I told you,” said Harp. “This morning.”

“You said you spoke to
Pierce
this morning,” her mother corrected. “You said Bibi was out.”

“Pierce, Bibi. Lord, Maura—what difference does it make?” Harp shifted in his seat. “Claire, did you hear what I said about Warren?”

She met her father's fierce study in the rearview mirror. “I heard you.”

“Well, you might perk up a bit, young lady. It's great new—”

“Harp!”

Her father's eyes snapped back to the road just in time to see the throng of teenagers that had stepped out into the lane. “Shit!” He slammed on the brakes, sending Claire and her mother lurching forward.

A group of golden-skinned, shirtless teenage boys, surfboards at their sides like giant wings, stood in front of the car in a formidable line, all of them but one stretching out a middle finger in outrage. At the very end, the tallest of them and the only one who hadn't given the bird, shouted, “Slow down, old man!”

Red-faced, Harp raised the heel of his hand and slammed it down on the horn.

“Dad!” Claire cried.

“Harp, you
were
speeding,” Maura pointed out gently as the group delivered him one last round of scowls before resuming their path across the road.

“I was hardly speeding, Maura. They didn't look. Christ!”

Mortified, Claire sank back in her seat to watch the boys reach the other side of the road. When the young man on the end stopped to send her a huge smile with big teeth as white as his spiky blond hair and a single dimple stretching the length of his jaw, her skin nearly melted off her bones.

Claire pressed her palms against the window. She would have pressed her whole body if she could.
I'm sorry,
she mouthed as her father sent the car forward.

The young man waved at her, but it wasn't a good-bye wave. It was a beckoning “come with us” wave, an unmistakable invitation. Whatever he was offering, Claire wanted to throw open the door and accept it.

“Claire Louise, sit back,” her father ordered.

She did, slowly, meeting her mother's gaze in the side mirror.

“See that?” Harp Patton cut his glare to the rearview as he accelerated. “That's
exactly
why I warned Pierce and Bibi not to rent out here. Loafing little shits. You ever come home with one of those, Claire, and you don't bother coming home.”

“Oh, Harp,
really
.” Maura rolled her eyes to the window.

Claire twisted in her seat to catch one last look, but the road was empty, the surfer with the blinding smile and his chummy crew already disappeared down the dunes.

•   •   •

O
nly the Danverses could have brought them out to Folly Beach. For as long as Claire could remember, her father had always preferred the quieter coastlines of Kiawah or Isle of Palms for their beach vacations. But this summer he would make an exception.

Claire's father and Bibi Danvers had grown up together, graduated from the College of Charleston together, and always remained close even after marrying their respective high school sweethearts. Though the Danverses now lived in Raleigh, each summer they'd rent a house on the water. It wasn't for lack of money—Pierce Danvers could easily have afforded to buy any waterfront home he wished—but rather for lack of commitment. It was a well-known fact that Bibi Danvers bored easily. After she had tired of three summer homes in as many years, Pierce had decided to save himself the headache and rent.

As her father steered them into the driveway, Claire peered up at the taupe, three-story, flat-roofed house. Like most of the houses along the Carolina coast, it stood on wooden piers to protect against flooding. Tidy porches skirted the first and second floors. Off-white Bahama shutters angled up like drowsy eyelids.

“I'm surprised Bibi agreed to this,” her mother said dryly. “It's so plain-looking, so . . . understated.”

Claire's father had barely brought the car to a stop before the home's front door swung open and Bibi Danvers sailed out in a strapless sundress, long black hair teased and frothy. She rushed to the railing, waving down at them as if she were a giddy newlywed departing on a honeymoon cruise. Claire was certain she heard a quick puff of air leave her mother's throat as Maura Patton snapped open her compact and gave her makeup a final inspection, efficiently brushing her crisp blond bob with her fingers.

“Harp, darling, don't forget to bring in the pie too.”

But Claire's father was already out of the car and up the front steps with the speed of a boy rushing to Santa's lap.

Pierce Danvers, fully gray at forty-five, arrived beside his wife and pointed with his tumbler. “Look who decided to show after all!”

Determined to soak up her last seconds of freedom, Claire took her time emerging from the backseat and helped her mother empty the trunk of food. “This is a a ridiculous amount of potato salad for six people,” Claire groused. “Why did he have to buy so damn much?”

“Your language, Claire Louise.” Her mother reached for the pecan pie she'd made that morning, visibly wounded that her husband wanted to buy potato salad instead of letting her make her own. “But you know how Bibi loves the potato salad at the Blue Moon, Maura,” Claire had overheard her father insist the night before. “She has since we were kids!”

“Watch the cover on that monstrous tub,” her mother warned. “They sometimes forget to snap it on tightly all the way around.”

Claire didn't know why she'd bothered asking. She knew the answer to her own question; she just wanted to hear her mother to say it, to admit why her husband had taken them a half hour out of their way to secure too much potato salad, why he'd sped to get them here, as if the Danverses' house were a plane he might miss boarding. In the silent moments as they walked side by side before they mounted the steps, Claire watched her mother's lips shift until they settled on a tight smile, like someone making last-minute alterations to a ball dress, knowing she would have to wear it long into the night and wanting to be as comfortable in it as possible.

“Hello, Bibi,” Maura said.

“Maura!” Bibi leaned in to accept Claire's mother's measured kiss, quiet for only a second before she leaped back and cried, “Oh, y'all, I was frantic!”

“We were about to send out a search party,” Pierce said. “I'm not kidding!”

“He's not,” Bibi insisted, her lined brown eyes huge. “I had the phone in my hand ready to call the police. Didn't I, Warren?”

Eighteen-year-old Warren Danvers stepped out from the edge of the group and into the receiving line, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his snug khakis, bow tie askew.

“Warren!” Pierce snapped at his son like a hypnotist yanking someone out of a trance. “Be a gentleman and take the food, son.”

“Yes, sir.” Warren reached out, his dark eyes fixed firmly on Claire as he removed the potato salad from her hands.

“I assure you we were right on schedule when we left,” said Harp. “And we would have made it with time to spare if we hadn't suffered a run-in with some local
wildlife
.”

“How's that, now?” Pierce looked fiercely intrigued, but Bibi stepped between the two men before they could continue.

“Save it for later, Harpy,” she said, sliding her fingers around Claire's father's arm and steering him to the double doors. “We've got just the thing for weary travelers.”

•   •   •

S
ure I can't fix you something stronger than sweet tea, Maura?” Pierce asked from his post behind the wet bar.

“No, this is plenty strong, thank you.” Claire's mother gestured to the glass she'd been nursing since they took seats in the living room to wait for lunch to be served. It was a massive room, surrounded by windows on three sides. Too anxious to sit, Claire wandered the perimeter of it, feeling like a cricket in a lizard's cage as she tried to avoid Warren's repeated attempts at conversation. Each time she slowed at a picture frame or a row of books, she'd sense his advance and resume her pacing. Despite her efforts, he'd managed to trap her by the piano. The Coke he'd poured for himself was so swollen with stolen rum Claire was sure she'd lose consciousness each time he moved his glass.

Outside, the breeze tickled the porch swing into motion, its every short creak causing her mother's gaze to snap to the glass doors.

Pierce laughed. “Leave it to my wife to turn a quick show of the gardens into a grand tour.”

From across the room, Claire glared at her mother's profile, willing her to do something,
anything
, but sit there primly and calmly rewinding a napkin around her sweating glass as if it were far more pressing than the bald truth that her husband and Bibi Danvers had been gone for over a half hour to inspect a flower garden that could have been surveyed in less time than it took to swallow a pill.

“They've probably just got to talking to our neighbors,” Pierce said. “Nice young couple from Atlanta. Husband's in insurance. Not an ounce of fat on him, the lucky bastard. Runs the beach every morning like he's being chased by a swarm of bees.”

Claire stepped forward. “Maybe someone should go look for them.”

Warren snickered into his cup. Claire glared at him.

“Oh, no need for a search and rescue just yet.” Pierce sent Claire a wide grin as he squeezed a lime wedge over his fresh gin and tonic and dropped it in. “Remember, your father knows how to handle Miss Bibi when she gets like this. He'll catch a whiff of Lottie's Royal Red Alfredo and have my wife corralled before— Aha! What did I tell y'all? I can see them coming up the stairs now.”

In the next moment, the high sound of laughter arrived, cracking the awful quiet like a snapped branch, and Bibi Danvers blew through the door as if she'd narrowly escaped a tornado, Claire's father on her heels. The distinctively sweet smell of cigarette smoke floated in with them, creeping across the room like a fart.

Claire saw a pained flicker of recognition cross her mother's tight face.

“Pierce, I may have to take it all back,” Harp declared, marching to the wet bar and smacking his palm definitively on the polished wood. “Your wife has shown me the charms of this place.”

“Oh, that sea air!” Bibi flounced down beside Maura, throwing her head back and using both hands to tame her blown curls. “It's utterly delicious but
murder
on the hair.”

Maura rose. “Maybe I will take a glass of Chardonnay, Pierce.”

“Wonderful.” Pierce pulled a bottle from the minifridge. “Now, Harp, what was all this about a run-in with the locals this morning?”

“Surfers!” Claire's father cried. “The lot of them stepped right out into the road as if they owned it. Not a one even looked to see if a car was coming!”

“That's because it's the Washout,” Claire announced.

All eyes turned.

Her father squinted at her. “The
what
?”

“The Washout,” she repeated evenly. “It's where everyone surfs here.”

“Everyone, huh? And how would
you
know that, young lady?”

“Ooo, that's right!” Bibi spun around on the couch. “You're quite the surfer, aren't you, Claire?”

Harp groaned. “Don't encourage her, Beebs.”

“Why not?” Bibi flashed a mischievous grin in Claire's direction. “I think it's fabulous she gets on one of those things. Why should the boys have all the fun?”

“She doesn't
get on one of those things
,” Claire's father corrected, walking toward the couch and taking a seat beside their hostess. “She got on one
once
. Without my knowledge.”

It had been more than once. Many more, but Claire let the details of the previous summer's secret trips slip away.

“Oh, hush,” said Bibi, swatting Harp on the knee. “Now, don't you mind him, Claire. I think a girl should ride all the waves she can, as
often
as she can.”

Her father wagged a finger at her, close enough to Bibi's face that she lunged, pretending to bite it, then smiling the slow, velvety smile of a cat kneading its claws into a freshly fluffed comforter.