It Comes In Waves (8 page)

Just when Claire was sure Shep couldn't have shocked her a second time.

“You won't believe it.” He beamed. “Jill and I bought the Glasshouse.”

W
hen Foster had led Claire down to the water to meet the same band of boys her father had nearly flattened earlier, her heart was in her throat. Would they shun her? Ridicule her? She needn't have worried; after Foster's glowing introduction, the young men smiled and waved agreeably. Then Foster ordered them all into the surf and asked Claire if she wanted to watch them ride for a few minutes. She had nearly burst but managed to contain her excitement with an understated nod and dropped down to the sand to watch. He wouldn't believe her—and why should he? Dressed in a stiff, floral sundress, Claire no more looked the part of a surfer than did the shorebirds that skittered around them.

Fifteen minutes later, when Foster came in to check on her, unable to hold it in any longer, she made her confession to him.

“Get the heck out!” he cried. “
You
surf?”

Claire lifted her chin. “I surf.”

“Show me,” he said.

“Now?”

“Why not now?”

“I don't have a suit,” she said.

“No problem. I'll get you one from my shop. Well, technically it's my
mom's
shop,” he added sheepishly. “It's where everybody hangs out. It's kind of like our extended family. It's just up the beach.”

Ten minutes later, Claire was stepping into a brightly painted cottage packed with customers. Music blared and voices rose to be heard above it. Claire followed Foster as he snaked through the crowds and the cluttered aisles of merchandise, pointing. Up ahead, a loud group of men in their twenties, most of them barefoot and shirtless, flocked around the counter.

“What's up there?” Claire asked.

Foster grinned at her over his shoulder. “My mom.”

Sure enough, when they got closer, Claire could see a woman with nearly waist-length kinky blond hair shining through the masses.

Foster shoved his way through the crowd. “Hey, y'all, break it up, break it up!”

Good-natured laughs ensued as the crew slid apart to let him in, taking turns slapping him on the back. The blond woman darted over the counter, arms out, and pulled Foster in for a long hug. When she released him, he turned and motioned for Claire to join them.

“Claire, this is my mom, Ivy. Mom, this is Claire. Claire says she can surf and I'm not letting her go back to her fancy house up the beach until she proves it.”

The two things Claire noticed when the woman reached out her hand in greeting were her beautiful cornflower blue eyes, the same shade as her son's, and the tattooed purple and navy vines dotted with richly colored poppy blossoms that ran down the arm she'd extended. “Atta girl! This world needs more of us women blowin' these know-it-all men out of the water. What kind of board do you use?”

Claire looked at Foster, stunned and thrilled at the question. While she knew there was a whole world of sizes and shapes, she'd only ever used one.

“A long board,” she answered.

Ivy nodded. “Foss, honey, ask Jerry to give her Mike's. Claire, look on the wall for a suit you like,” Ivy said, gesturing behind her. “Take your pick.”

Claire reached first for a simple navy one-piece, then stopped, seeing a bright red one behind it. Why not? A little color never hurt anyone. She changed in the stockroom, left her clothes in a tangled pile in the corner, and met Foster outside, where he waited with two boards.

“Wow.”
His face lit up. “You look totally hot. Like a little spicy red pepper.”

She'd ride like one too, Claire decided as they walked down the beach toward the waves. She'd ride as if her life depended on it and make his jaw drop.

At the water's edge, Foster steered them to where the breaks were best.

“Your mom is really cool,” Claire said as they walked into the water.

“She's the best. Everybody loves her.”

“So, where's your dad?”

“In Hawaii, last we heard.” His smile thinned, his eyes squinted harshly against the sun. “He's got this whole new family out there. Like, five kids. I don't hear from him, and I don't want to.” Foster turned to her, his smile back again. “You're gonna blow my mind, aren't you,
Pepper
?”

•   •   •

F
rom the minute she got up on her board, Claire did just that. Whether her talent was a product of luck or the swells or the sun or the thrill of being there with him, Claire didn't know and she didn't care. As soon as she cleared the white water and found herself in the lineup with the same boys who'd crossed in front of her father's car just hours earlier, her rhythm couldn't fail. Every set was hers and she carved better than she'd ever carved the summer before. She saw the boys eye her suspiciously while she sat on her board, bobbing in their company, the wary looks that said,
We think you're just a kook with a crush and ten bucks says you drop in on us the next break.

After her first wave, they just stared.

But there was only one pair of eyes she hoped to catch and hold.

“Holy crap!” Foster hollered as he paddled over to meet her between sets. “Where'd you learn to surf like that?”

“We spent a month with family and friends at Wrightsville Beach last summer,” Claire said. “I met a group of kids who taught me how to surf and I snuck off to ride with them every chance I got. My parents thought I was at the movies.”

“You got that good in a month? That's like some kind of prodigy thing, huh?”

“I guess I just took to it, that's all.”

“No kidding. Remind me not to compete against you in a heat.”

“I'm not that good,” she demurred.

“Yeah, you are,” he insisted. “Hey, didn't you see the way these guys shut up as soon as you got up on your board and carved the heck out of that first wave? I think Andy Bosworth pissed himself.”

Claire tilted her head to hide her blush.

“Are you hungry?” Foster asked. “We could get changed and grab a bite at the Crab Trap. Shep and Jill are probably there.”

Hungry? God, she was ravenous. By now her parents and the Danverses had surely cleaned their plates and were scouring the beach for signs of her. They might even have called the police—Claire wouldn't put it past her father.

Still, she answered, “Okay.”

“I hear you just put a half dozen boys to shame out there,” Ivy said when they'd returned to the shop. “And I
also
hear I'm to call you Pepper from here on out.”

Claire smiled at Foster, his eyes dancing down at her. Pepper. She liked that. “Thanks for letting me borrow everything, Mrs. King. I washed the suit and hung it up in the storeroom. If you tell me how much it costs, I'll send you the money as soon as I get home.”

“It's Ivy,” she said, “and don't you send a dime. Take it with you. It's yours now.”

“Take it,” Foster insisted. “You're coming back tomorrow to ride with me again, aren't you?”

Claire smiled, not wanting to break the spell of their magical ride, of this whole universe she'd stepped into barely an hour before.

Ivy turned to Foster. “You make sure she comes back, Fossie. I like her. I might just like her better than you.”

•   •   •

T
hey took a beat-up lime green sedan into town—“We call it the Pea Pod,” Foster explained. “It's kind of a communal car”—that smelled of ripe bananas and was filled with squares of board wax that slid across the dashboard every time they hit a bump. He zoomed them right past the Danverses' rented beach house (where Claire's father's Cadillac was still parked) and flew up Ashley. Barefoot, drunk on seawater and sun, her hand out the open window, hot air blowing their hair and voices around the car, Claire felt as carefree as one of the pelicans that flew overhead.

“Ever been here before?” Foster asked as he parked them in the Crab Trap's dirt lot.

Claire stuffed her feet into her sandals and looked up at the restaurant. “Never,” she said.

“Their crab bites will make you cry,” he promised.

She smiled. “Do they make
you
cry?”

“Every time.” He rushed around the front of the car and opened her side before she could. If only her father had been there to see what a gentleman he was. Loafing little shits, huh?

Foster led them through the front door and into the heady scent of fried seafood. Canopies of fishing nets hung from the ceiling; Jimmy Buffett sang through the speakers, barely audible over the din of customers and clinking silverware. Claire felt sure she'd be swallowed up; then Foster's hand slid around hers and squeezed.

“Shep said he'd be here.” Foster stretched to scan past the bar to the restaurant beyond. “Wait, I see him.” He led them to the very last booth, where his redheaded friend sat in front of a plate of fried oysters and clams. Seeing them approach, Shep greeted them with a smile.

Claire thought he was one of the most handsome boys she'd ever seen. Movie-star handsome.

Foster offered her the bench and slid in after her.

“I saw you ride earlier,” Shep said to Claire. “You killed it.”

Foster nudged Claire gently with his shoulder. “Told you,” he said, picking out a fried oyster and plunging it into a pile of tartar sauce. A waitress arrived and took their order for two Cokes and two fried flounder sandwiches.

“You'll love 'em,” Foster assured Claire, scooping up another oyster. “Hey, did Jill come?”

“She just went up to get us more napkins,” said Shep. “You know how she is about napkins.” He gestured behind them. “Here she comes.”

There had been only a handful of times in Claire's life when she was disappointed in her lack of exotic beauty, when she wished she'd been blessed with long legs and perfect skin. With her shiny, pumpkin blond hair, her thin nose and full lips, Jill Weber was the sort of beautiful that made being good on a board seem totally worthless.

She slipped in beside Shep and smiled at Claire as she set down a pile of napkins between them.

This time, Shep made the introductions. “Jill, this is Claire.”

“Nice to meet you, Claire.” Claire had been so sure the girl would be aloof, disapproving, the way remarkably pretty girls tended to be toward other girls, especially around their equally remarkably good-looking boyfriends. But Jill's face was warm and open.

The waitress returned with their drinks.

“Claire is an amazing surfer,” said Foster. “We just met today. She's from Charleston, but I'm going to convince her to move to Folly next summer so I can get her to compete in the Classic with me and Shep.”

“Dude, that reminds me—I saw Biff by the bar,” Shep said to Foster. “Maybe we should go talk to him about the house?”

“Let's do it,” Foster agreed, giving Claire a quick squeeze on her shoulder and sliding out. “Be right back, Pepper.”

“In case you're wondering,” Jill said when the boys had gone, “Biff organizes all the surfing competitions on this part of the coast. Foster thinks he walks on water. Biff and Foster's mom were together for a while.”

“I met Ivy,” Claire said. “She seems really cool.”

Jill grinned. “I'll bet she
loved
you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you're a real surfer. The first time Ivy met me and I told her I didn't like to surf, I swear she looked at me like I'd sprouted a third eye.”

Claire laughed. “I could see that.”

“So why does he call you Pepper?”

“Apparently because I wore a red suit today.” She shrugged. “It doesn't make a whole lot of sense.”

“I think it's sweet,” said Jill. Claire did, too. She liked the name, but even more, she liked that Foster had given her one.

“You
should
spend next summer here,” Jill said. “We'd have a lot of fun, all of us.”

Claire twisted her straw. “I can't. I'm supposed to go abroad for an immersion program. That's when you go live in another country to learn the language.”

“I know what it is,” Jill said, though far more politely than Claire suspected she deserved.

“Right.” Claire smiled contritely. “Sorry.”

“That's too bad you already have plans. Summers here are a blast. And next summer I'll be trying to find my own place, so I'll need a roommate.”

“What about asking Shep?”

“Are you kidding?” Jill looked at Claire over her Coke. “My parents would never let us live together. Not until we're engaged. Besides, he and Foster are hoping to get this little beach house Biff rents out. That's why they went up to the bar to find him. They're pretty excited about it, and frankly, that's fine by me. My mom moved right in with my dad and she never had her own place. I like the idea of having my own place first. Don't you?”

“I never assumed I wouldn't,” said Claire. “I'm not even sure I want to get married.”

“You say that now . . .” Jill slid her gaze pointedly behind Claire to the bar where Shep and Foster had disappeared to find Biff.

Claire sipped her soda. How to tell this girl, this complete stranger, that if she, Jill, spent five minutes with Claire's parents she wouldn't want to get married either? Claire would bet Jill's parents were loving and tender, the sort who really
were
fun and freethinking, and didn't just pretend at cocktail parties for the sake of their friends or to annoy the snot out of each other.

“So, what about it?” said Jill. “Want to be roommates?”

Claire smiled. “I don't know.”

“I'm a great cook.”

“I'm not.”

“See,” said Jill. “It's perfect! I've had my eye on this little café table set that would be adorable on a deck. And these strings of star-shaped lights we could hang along the railing. And candles. I'm crazy about candles. Especially the scented ones. . . .”