It Comes In Waves (7 page)

It was too much. Claire rushed for the door.

“Claire?” Her mother leaned forward. “Claire Louise, where are you going?”

“For some fresh air.” Her hand shook as she curved it around the doorknob, twisting it harder than necessary and pushing it open. More calls for her to come back followed her out onto the porch and down the steps but Claire didn't slow. The boardwalk stretched out in front of her like a ladder. She kept her eyes forward. She just needed to get to the water.

No matter how many times she took the length of weathered wood, her heart always opened, unzipped like a heavy jacket, letting cool air at hot skin. It was, she imagined, though she had yet to find out, like walking toward a lover, the prickling, dizzying anticipation of knowing what was to come and what wasn't. She kicked out of her sandals in two efficient strides and took off in a run down the last of the walkway.

The moment her bare feet landed on the sand, relief filled her. Sunbathers and swimmers dotted the shore, then farther down, the clumps of surfers, the telltale silhouettes of their boards upright. Had it occurred to her that she might see the same boys again—that she might see
him
? The same craving she'd known in the car hours earlier, instant and hot and whole, flared up inside her again. She walked down the beach toward the surfers like someone in a dream might, her steps decidedly purposeful but having no logical purpose at the same time. And just like in a dream, everything seemed to make perfect sense.

It was one of his friends who pointed his attention to where she stood. The two young men conferred briefly; then the blond began toward her.

It was only then, as he approached, that the dreamlike certainty of her thoughts crumbled and doubt flooded her. He'd beckoned her to join him that morning, but what if he hadn't really meant it?

Deciding it was too late to alter her course or pretend that she had any other reason in the universe to be there except for the implicit desire to see him, Claire crunched her bare toes firmly into the sand and waited for him to arrive.

When he did, he was already smiling. “I know you,” he said.

Claire smiled back. “I'm sorry about this morning.”

“No apologies needed. It wasn't your fault.”

“I know. I'm still sorry.”

“It's forgotten.” He thrust out his hand, slick with water just like the rest of him. “Foster King.”

She took his damp hand, amazed at the heat of his skin, amazed more at how tightly she wove her fingers inside his, as if she were hanging off the edge of a cliff and he'd come to lift her to safety.

“Claire,” she said. “I'm Claire.”

W
hile it seemed the universe around In the Curl had altered in every way, Ivy's salt-and-sunbaked cottage remained impossibly unchanged. Even the building's color—aquamarine with cantaloupe trim—endured.

“Where are we?” Lizzie asked as Claire steered them into the parking lot and turned off the car.

Home
was the answer that rose in Claire's throat, startling her. But no, she couldn't say that. She smiled and said instead, “Just someplace where I used to spend a lot of time.”

Lizzie said, “It looks closed.”

Was it? Claire squinted up at the shop. How to know? And if it was for sale, where was the sign? She scanned the lawn, then the parking lot, seeing only a van. Since Ivy had never believed in posting the shop's hours, there was no way to be sure until you laid your palm on the handle of the door and pulled.

“It's open,” Claire said firmly, climbing out and starting for the steps.

She told herself she wouldn't look through the glass. When her hand landed on the door and she tugged, it gave, with the same shudder and squeak it always had. Claire walked in.

Gus Gallagher was right. The interior hadn't changed. Every shelf, every display, every board was exactly where it had been when she left seventeen years earlier. The only thing unfamiliar was a curious staleness to the air, as if little had moved around within it for days. In her time, the shop was never this quiet. Not even after hours.

Lizzie came up behind her and whispered, “I told you they weren't open.”

“Can I help y'all?”

Claire turned to face the voice, meeting the smile of a teenage boy who might have been only a couple of years older than Lizzie. He glowed like someone dipped in gold leaf, every part of him touched by the sun.

“I'm sorry,” Claire said. “The door wasn't locked. Are you closed?”

“That's kind of a tricky question,” the young man said. “Technically, yeah, we're closed until further notice, but seeing as we haven't gotten around to moving out the inventory, I'd say if you've come looking to buy gear, we're open.”

Claire smiled. “No, I'm afraid my days of buying gear are over. I'm actually looking for Ivy King.”

“You just missed her. Grams went out of town for the night. Hey, are y'all here with the ESPN guys?”

Grams?

Claire stared at him, the heat of understanding washing over her. Why had it not occurred to her this young man would be Foster and Jill's child? Looking at him now, really seeing him—God, it was so obvious it practically hurt. She took a startled step to one side and knocked into Lizzie.

“Ow. That's my foot.”

“Sorry.” Claire reached for her daughter, to apologize or maybe just to steady herself. It was then that Claire saw them, lining the wall behind the register, each one slightly tilted, the glass streaked with dust. Photographs of her on her board, doing expert turns and cutbacks to change her direction on the wave. The very same pictures that had hung there the day she left Folly.

Oh, Ivy.

All these years later, Foster's mother had never taken them down.

Claire turned back to the young man, slowly, like someone trying not to look directly into a bright light.

“Hey . . .”
It seemed he'd had a revelation too. His eyes—good Lord,
Foster's blue eyes
—rounded and blinked, sliding from her to the wall and back again. “That's you, isn't it? You're Pepper Patton.”

“You can call me Claire.” She glanced to Lizzie. “And this is my daughter. Lizzie.”

“I'm Luke.” The young man lunged forward, hand outstretched to each of them, a tribal tattoo riding along the inside of his forearm, a chain of navy swirls. “This is so cool—I
knew
they'd ask you back!”

“Claire?”

The timbre of the man's voice was as familiar as the creak of the door that had preceded it. Claire spun to face both sounds, and there he stood, looking so unchanged, so like the last time they'd seen each other: that empty, endless night they'd shared a final beer on his porch, their eyes stuck to the silhouette of her stuffed hatchback, too afraid to look at each other or sink into tears all over again. She'd never seen the night sky so black.

Shep.

If not for the gentle lines beside his warm brown eyes, or the threads of gray tangled in his pale red hair, she might have believed he'd eluded time's crawl completely.

“Hey, Shep.”

“Claire,” he said again. “Wow. Look at you.”

He leaned in to hug her, his embrace quick, tentative. Unprepared, she was slow to hug him back and had barely lifted her arms over his shoulders before he retreated.

“See?” cried Luke. “Told you she'd be here!”

“We weren't sure you'd come,” Shep confessed.

“We?” Claire asked.

“Me and Jill.”

Her stomach flip-flopped. Of course. It stood to reason if he was still here in Folly, he probably saw Jill around town. Perhaps they'd run into each other in the past few days and discussed the news of ESPN's project. Surely Claire's name had come up.

“I wasn't sure if I would come at first, if I
should
,” Claire said, suddenly filled with guilt for not having called to let Shep know. She'd not even tried to reach out to him. She'd been so certain he'd have moved on, moved away. But here he still was.

“It's good to see you, Claire. You look . . .”

“Pale and ferociously out of shape,” she finished for him.

He searched her face and smiled. “I was going to say exactly the same.”

God love him, he had always been a miserable liar.

“I take it you've met . . .” Shep's hand and gaze swung to Luke, his voice slowing, the implication in the sudden silence an impossible one, but how else could it have gone?

“Yes,” Claire said, rescuing him. “And this”—she turned—“is my daughter, Lizzie.”

Shep waved to Lizzie; Lizzie offered him a short wave in return.

“So, where are y'all staying?” he asked.

“At the Breeze,” she said. “It's all the network's doing. I wouldn't have picked it.” Where
would
she have picked? The question hung there, foolish and unanswered. It wasn't as if she could have crashed at the Glasshouse, Foster and Shep's old place, or as if she could have stayed with Shep wherever he lived now. Surely he had someone in his life: a wife maybe, a girlfriend, children?

“How long are you in town for?” he asked.

“A few days.” Claire looked at Lizzie to bring her into their conversation but her daughter's eyes traveled the interior instead.

“You should come over for dinner tonight,” Luke exclaimed.

Claire saw the same wary look on Shep's face that she was sure flashed on her own. Go to Jill's house for dinner? She couldn't possibly.

But Luke was determined. “Come on,” he said, moving closer. “It would be the coolest thing ever. Y'all could talk about the old days. Tell me the crazy stuff y'all used to do with Dad.”

Claire looked briefly at Shep, then away.

”I'm sure those ESPN guys have something flashy already lined up for her tonight, Luke,” Shep said.

“Oh God, hardly.” Claire waved her hand dismissively. “It's not this big deal.”

“Sure it is,” Shep insisted. “Pepper Patton on ESPN. That's huge.”

“
Now
they want me, right?” she said, matching his measured smile. “Not then, when I actually looked
good
in a suit.”

Lizzie turned and pushed through the door, sending the bell at the top jingling madly. Claire watched her leave, feeling powerless again. She looked back at Shep, Luke's dinner invitation still hanging in the air between them like a ripe piece of fruit dangling from a branch, in danger of dropping to the ground and spoiling if someone didn't pluck it soon.

“Will you come?” Luke pressed.

“I don't know,” Claire said to Luke, letting the swollen fruit swing another moment. “Maybe you should call your mom first. Just to make sure.”

Shep nodded to Luke. “Why don't you finish up what you were doing and we'll figure it out on the ride back?”

The plan seemed acceptable to him. His smile remained bright and hopeful. “It's really great to meet you, Miss Claire, I mean, really great,” Luke said, moving for the back door.

“
Miss
Claire . . .” Claire shook her head, reminded of the favored regional address. “This is how I know I've been out of the South a long time.”

“It has been a long time,” Shep concurred.

Just the two of them now, she and Shep looked at each other. Despite his sturdy smile, there was no way to avoid the confession she needed to make.

“I'm sorry I wasn't here for the service, Shep. I wanted to come back, but everything got so complicated. There was work and my daughter was sick. . . .”

“I wanted to call you myself and let you know what happened,” he said. “I should have. I don't know why I didn't.”

The sound of steps above shifted their attention: Luke moving around Ivy's apartment. Claire could still visualize the space in her mind: the tiny kitchen under the eaves, the narrow bathroom with the peeling lemon yellow paint, the faded corduroy sofa with the foot that always came loose.

She smiled at the ceiling. “He's so sweet.”

“Luke's a good kid.”

“He looks so much like him. I almost couldn't breathe.” Claire hadn't meant the words to spill out so dramatically. She felt badly for them, foolish, but Shep persevered.

“Is your husband here too?”

“Lizzie's father's still in Colorado,” Claire said. “We're divorced.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Really.”

“Okay, I'm not.” Shep dug in his pockets, fingering change.

Claire paused to let a beat settle the air around them. “Luke's sweet to offer, but I don't know if it's such a good idea for me to see Jill tonight. I mean, it's been a long time.”

“Hey, I totally understand. I mean, if you're still . . . if it's still . . .”

“No, it's not that.”

“Then you should come,” he said gently. “I think Luke would be disappointed if you didn't.”

Claire searched his face, still leery. “It's not Luke I'm worried about.”

“Jill would want to see you too.”

“You seem so sure. You've stayed in touch with her, then?”

“Well—yeah.” Shep looked at her. “I thought you knew.”

Claire stared at him blankly.

“Jill and I got back together, Claire.”

He could have struck her and Claire wouldn't have felt any more startled.

“Wow.” She blinked. “When?”

“About a year after Foss died.” Shep studied her face. “You look so surprised.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I'm—I'm shocked, actually. I mean, after everything that happened . . .”

“Yeah, well.” He gave her a small smile. “Life's about moving on, right?”

Claire recalled the two of them on his stoop that final night, his profile in the porch light, his eyes watery and dull.

He'd taken her back.

After the months of lies, after everything she'd done to break his heart, Shep had taken Jill back.

Claire swallowed, suddenly dizzy.

Shep took a step toward her. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she said quickly. “I should check on Lizzie.” She moved to the door and pushed it open. Shep followed. They stopped at the front steps and looked out at the parking lot, at Claire's sedan, Lizzie slouched in the passenger seat, sunglasses down, head back.

Claire took in a deep breath, just glad to be outside again, out of the store, freed of the choke hold of memory. God, it had snuck up on her. She'd been unprepared to feel so strange in a place she'd once considered more home than her own home in Charleston. Or maybe it was the impossible news that Shep and Jill were intact again. There was something cosmically inconsistent about it.

No, that wasn't the word.

Unfair.

There was something cosmically
unfair
in it.

Never, not in a million years, would Claire have imagined . . .

She brushed back a loose piece of hair, wanting to shake off the thought. Who was she to begrudge them their reconciliation? Besides, there were bigger concerns. “I was hoping to see Ivy.”

“She should be back tomorrow. She's just gone to Edisto. She never stays more than a night. You remember Jerry, the shop's old shaper?”

The image of a rangy, ponytailed man hunched over an unfinished surfboard flashed through her thoughts. “Sure, I remember Jerry.”

“He has these panic attacks. She goes down there to calm him down.”

Ivy and her bevy of suitors. “I heard the shop was for sale,” Claire said, “but I don't see a sign.”

Shep turned to search the lawn, his eyes narrowing on the empty grass, and he sighed wearily. “No, it's definitely for sale.”

“So, how is she?”

“Jill?”

“Ivy.”

“The same, mostly,” said Shep. “Still doing her own thing, still making waves—even if she can't ride 'em anymore. Luke means everything to her. It's helped her having him here.”

Claire smiled. “Of course.”

“You and your daughter really should come for dinner tonight. Luke'll be crushed if you don't.”

Claire squinted out at the street, the invitation somehow harder to accept now knowing Shep and Jill were back together. It shouldn't have mattered. Not after all this time. So why did it?

“The best part,” said Shep, “is I won't even have to give you directions to our house. I bet you could still find it blindfolded.”

He smiled at her, no doubt waiting for her expression to shift with understanding.