The Shore Page 20

  “I’m sure,” Avery said.

  Lucas scowled thoughtfully and studied her. Avery began to feel anxious and uncomfortable. He didn’t look that happy to see her. Had she made a huge mistake?

  “If you’re wondering how I found you, I went to your father’s office. Listen, Lucas, if I’ve made a mistake. If I shouldn’t be here, I—”

  Lucas lifted a finger and pressed it to his lips. “Shush.”

  “Huh?” She scowled.

  He gestured around. “It’s a library, remember?”

  Avery felt a wave of cold dread sweep over her. Was she making a scene? Lucas swung his legs off the table and leaned toward her. “You’re at Princeton now, Avery,” he whispered somberly. “It’s a very important place. A serious place. A place for great learning.”

  He kept leaning toward her, forcing her to lie back on the couch.

  “A place of great minds,” he continued, only now she saw the slightest grin on his lips and sparkle in his eye. “You have to be on your best behavior. Because this is serious.”

  By now, she was lying on her back on the couch and he was pressing down on her. “And I’m seriously glad you’re here,” he whispered. “Because you’re the best and it’s great to see you again.”

  And then he kissed her. Right there in the middle of the library.

  Seriously.

  LB (Laguna Beach)

  For all the good people who work at John Jermain Memorial Library and Westhampton Free Library—you know who you are

  And for Lauren—artist, surfer, friend

  One

  “Headbanging sex,” said Linley Cattrel, thrusting open the door of the dorm room.

  Without looking up, Claire Plimouth used the old standard: “Not tonight, I have a headache.”

  “Again?” said Linley.

  “Always,” said Claire. “It’s how I’ve maintained my purity.” She turned the page of her Intro Psych notes.

  Leaning over the desk where Claire was working, Linley splayed her hand across the page. Her golden hair swept forward in a perfect curve across her sun-golden cheeks. Somehow she managed to smell like a good day at the beach, Claire noticed not for the first time, even though they were a continent away from Linley’s California home.

  I probably smell like libraries and books and long, cold New England winters, thought Claire. Not sexy.

  Not that she knew what sexy smelled like. Or sex, for that matter. Aloud, she said, “Philosophy exam tomorrow?”

  “I act, therefore I am,” said Linley. “Descartes.”

  “I’m not quite sure that’s how it goes.”

  “Can’t study anymore. Besides, our first year of college is over. We should be partying. Hooking up. Sucking . . .”

  “Suck off,” said Claire. “I’m studying. It’s not over until the final bell rings.”

  “Suck-up. That’s what you are!” said Linley.

  “I fail to see how studying for my last final of my last class of my first year of college is sucking up,” said Claire. “I like to think of it as the intelligent choice. The way you think of, say, condoms. Or tequila as opposed to gin . . . although I don’t entirely agree with that. . . .”

  “That’s because you’re from New England,” retorted Linley.

  “Home of the WASP drink by which you are embalmed alive.”

  “Don’t have martini envy on me now,” said Claire. “Go away and play.”

  “These are extremely worthy parties! One’s been going on for at least two days. They need reinforcements.”

  “Well, may the reinforcements be with you, Luke Skywalker. But I’m not one of them. Now Go. Away.” Claire held her notebook up to block Linley from her sight. She’d been seduced into acts of reckless abandon by Linley too often. Not tonight.

  “You know, you will die of stubbornness if you’re not careful. Stubbornness killed the cat.” Linley flopped down on her bed and flung her arms wide.

  “Curiosity killed the cat, I’m not a cat, and no one has ever died of stubbornness.” Claire was trying not to laugh now.

  “Headbanging sex,” said Linley again.

  “Where? The party?” asked Claire.

  “No. The house. The summer . . . the beach . . . this summer . . .” Linley’s voice trailed away dreamily.

  Was she imagining having headbanging sex on the beach? Claire wondered. Could a person have headbanging sex on the beach?

  Linley cut across the room to her. “The head-banging sex is contemplated for both of us, on another coast, for the summer. Said summer to also include parties; jobs that are not internships, career builders, or network opportunities; and, oh yes, a house on the beach. Laguna Beach, to be exact.”

  “Beach house? What beach house?” Claire said. She snapped her notebook shut.

  Linley grinned. “Uncle Martin came through. He got a stunt gig last minute on a shoot in New Zealand. And when his favorite niece called all sad about her summer plans—i.e., none—he told her—me—that I could have his beach house for the summer.”

  “Merde,” said Claire.

  “Merde non,” said Linley. “It’s big, it’s old, it’s funky, and it’s free, except we have to pay the utilities and make sure it’s all nice and tidy when he gets back.” She thought for a moment and added, “That’s why I’m appointing you house manager.”

  The Pacific Ocean. Claire had never seen the Pacific. She’d spent her whole life in New England boarding schools, and now a small New England college, making her grades good and her parents proud. Well, making good grades, anyway. Parental pride might be stretching it. When Claire brought home perfect marks, her parents took it in stride. Good grades was just part of what a Plimouth did, like living in Lexington, Mass.

  A summer job in her father’s Boston bank was also what a Plimouth did. Her sister, Melanie, the investment banker had started that way. So had her brother, Jim, the corporate lawyer. And that was where her mother had met her father, her mother also being “in banking.” Claire sometimes wondered if they had a marriage or a corporate merger.

  “I can’t,” said Claire.

  Linley jumped to her feet. She put her hands on her hips and somehow made herself look taller.

  Towering and glowering now, Linley said, “I’m actually considering murder at this moment.” Then she leaned forward and swatted Claire on the back of her head with the palm of her hand.

  “OW! What was that for? Did your mother teach you nothing? Hitting is wrong. Bad Linley.” Claire leaned back in case Linley decided on a repeat.

  “It’s a dope slap,” said Linley. “I learned about it from listening to public radio.”

  “You? Public radio? I doubt that,” Claire scoffed, still keeping a safe distance.

  “Car Talk,” said Linley. “It’s good for bonding with my dad. But that’s beside the point. The point is, what are you, a Woman or a WASP? After I go to all this trouble to set up a perfect summer, this is what you say?” Linley pitched her voice into whine key. “I can’t. Oooh, I’m afraid. Oh no, no, no, no.”

  Amused and annoyed, Claire said, “Linley, you don’t under—”

  “No,” said Linley. “No words unless they start with ‘yes.’”

  “But—”

  “No. . .”

  “My father has—”

  “No.”

  “The bank—”

  “No. . .”

  “Linley!”

  “NO!”

  They glared at each other. Claire looked away first. She thought of the cold, respectable corridors of the bank. One day, she would go into one of those vaults just as her sister and brother had, and never come out. But did she have to start now? Right this minute?

  This summer?

  Did people in banks have headbanging sex?

  Not her father. Not her mother. She shuddered at the thought. Best not to think of that at all.

  “California,” said Claire, almost dreamily.

  Linley smiled triumphantly.

  Then Clair
e remembered where California was.

  She looked up at Linley, her eyes tragic.

  “What?” said Linley. “Claire, what’s wrong?”

  “I hate flying,” said Claire. “I did it once. That was enough.”

  The two girls stared at each other.

  “Some suggest,” Linley said slowly, “that fear of flying is actually fear of sexual pleasure.”

  “It’s not all about sex. In this case, it’s about being in a silver tube with stupid wings that don’t even have feathers being driven by someone who maybe is having a bad day and might not see that mountain or, say, the other plane headed—”

  “Stop,” said Linley. She considered a moment, then brightened. “Okay, drugs. No problem.”

  “I don’t do—”

  “One little pill. Trust me. Now, what word are we looking for here?”

  Claire looked at Linley. Linley the beautiful, Linley the spoiled, Linley the most fun person Claire had ever known. Life was never dull when Linley was around—dull, as in a summer spent in a bank under her father’s eyes.

  Claire looked at Linley, into eyes she thought might actually be the color of the Pacific Ocean. She took a deep breath.

  What could it hurt, to spend a summer in California? She’d find a way to convince the ’rents.

  “One word,” Linley prompted.

  “Yes,” Claire answered.

  “You’ll like Jodi.” Linley had been talking ever since the plane had taxied into takeoff.

  So far, Claire had neither shared the contents of her mostly empty stomach with the rest of the passengers nor passed out. In fact, she was pretty sure she’d loosened her grip on the seat arms. Fractionally.

  “I’ve told you about Jodi, remember? We were the Two all through high school.” Linley held up two fingers and waggled them to demonstrate.

  The plane leveled out. The fasten seat belt sign blinked off.

  A flight attendant appeared and looked at Linley. Linley looked at her two fingers and grinned. “Vodka and cranberry, rocks,” she said.

  Suddenly, absurdly, Claire felt like giggling. She raised one hand and fluttered her fingers. “Me, too,” she sang. It seemed like a very good idea. The ground was leaving the plane so very, very fast. No, wait—it was the plane leaving the ground.

  “I’ll need to see some I.D.,” said the flight attendant.

  “I’m twenty-two,” said Linley, smiling her gazillionwatt smile. “And no one ever believes me.” She flipped open her wallet, and the attendant glanced at the fake I.D. and nodded.

  “But my friend isn’t,” Linley went on. “She’s only twenty. She’ll have cranberry juice and soda.”

  “What?” said Claire, trying to feel indignant. “I have I.D. I. . .”

  Ignoring Claire, the attendant smiled and handed the wallet back to Linley. “Coming right up,” the attendant said.

  The guy in the aisle seat said to the attendant, “Scotch, rocks, and let me take care of their drinks.”

  “Thanks,” said Linley.

  “I want a real drink, too,” said Claire.

  “No, you don’t,” said Linley. She lowered her voice. “Not with what you’re flying on, you don’t. That little pill is plenty all by itself.”

  Claire giggled again. She couldn’t help it.

  “First time you’ve ever flown?” the guy said to Claire. But he only glanced at her. He was really talking to Linley.

  “No,” said Claire.

  “She had a terrible experience as a child,” Linley said.

  “What?” Claire sputtered.

  “Are you from California?” Linley asked him.

  He laughed. He had those white square teeth that Claire had always thought weren’t real outside of photo ops. “I wish,” he said.

  The flight attendant returned. He was good-looking, Claire noticed. Maybe it was the uniform. She wondered if Linley had noticed too.

  “Massachusetts,” said Claire. “I’m from. . . .”

  The guy said to Linley, “I’m a graduate student. Headed for a summer internship in San Diego.”

  “Nice,” said Linley. She leaned closer, sliding a finger down his arm, her voice dropping.

  To be a part of this conversation, Claire thought crossly, I’d have to sit in Linley’s lap.

  But then suddenly, she didn’t mind. Peering out the window, she discovered that the earth had gone missing. Below were only clouds. Ahead, the sun was setting. Pretty. Look at me, I’m flying into a postcard, she thought.

  She yawned.

  Beside her the voices dropped to a murmur.

  She was on her way to California. She, Claire Plimouth. All because of Linley.

  Linley was a pain. Linley was insane. Linley was the kind of roommate Claire had avoided all her years in the best boarding schools of New England.

  It hadn’t been hard, avoiding those girls. They’d barely even known she’d existed.

  But she was good with that. She figured someday she’d own the company that they—or their husbands—would work for.

  When Linley had burst into her dorm room that first day of college the previous fall, Claire had winced. Black clothes and pink shoes—what was that?

  It was, as it turned out, two of Linley’s favorite colors. She’d looked at Claire in her khaki and navy and said, “Wow, your eyes are the most amazing color. They’re, like, golden!”

  “Brown,” Claire had corrected. “Light brown.”

  “No, golden,” Linley had corrected back.

  And somehow, they’d become friends. Not all at once. Claire had tried to keep her distance. But Linley didn’t seem to notice. She’d made Claire join her on what Linley called her “party rounds.” She’d dragged Claire shopping and talked her into “colors, for god’s sake.”

  And then made Claire wear the fuzzy cropped sweater Linley said was “Caribbean blue” to a party. Had included Claire in nighttime pizza attacks.

  She had a sudden memory of a weekend in Vermont. The snow had been perfect powder. Linley, in electric pink and several other colors unknown in nature, had stared down at the snowboard strapped to her feet. She’d looked up at Claire. “What the hell,” she’d said, and taken off.

  She hadn’t made it. But she almost had. Claire had boarded down to check on her and found her laughing at the bottom of the hill.

  “You okay?”

  “Oh, better,” Linley said. “That was amazing. Awesome. The absolute second best thing in the universe.”

  “The second best?” said Claire. “And the first?”

  She’d expected Linley to say “sex,” but Linley had surprised her. “Surfing,” she’d said. “And I can tell by the way you board that you’re going to love surfing too.”

  “Right,” said Claire, thinking, Like I’m ever going to get anywhere near a surfboard.

  “You’ll see,” Linley had promised, scrambling to her feet. “Now, teach me how to get down that hill.”

  She’d asked Claire to show her—not some cute guy, not some instructor. That, Claire thought, was the day they’d become real friends, because she’d realized she had something to offer Linley in exchange for the excitement and color—literally—that Linley brought to life.

  That night, hanging out in the ski lodge, they’d swapped snow and surf wipeout stories. Claire described learning to ski from her mother, who had, as far as Claire could tell, never fallen off her skis.

  “Didn’t you just want to push her?” Linley had said, and Claire, shocked, had said, “No!” and then, bursting out into laughter, “Yes!”

  Linley had talked, a little bit, about growing up in San Francisco and going with friends to the beach and then discovering surfing. Had laughed at how her parents had tried to make her “respectable” and then finally given in and let her buy her first surfboard.

  Many nights of many drinks and talks and pizzas and old movies had cemented their friendship, but that had been the beginning, the real beginning.

  And now Claire was on her
way to California, where, Linley had promised, she was going to learn to surf.

  Friends, thought Claire. That’s a good thing.

  First friends, then a boyfriend. How hard could that be? And then she’d no longer be . . .

  Nope. She wouldn’t think about that now.

  From somewhere, she’d acquired a blanket. She hitched it up over her shoulders and settled back in her seat. Sleep, she thought. That’s a good thing, too. And when I wake up, I’ll be in California.

  As she fell asleep, she vaguely heard the guy asking for another round of drinks.

  When Claire woke up, she wasn’t in California. She was in the dark.

  Not total darkness, but the hushed darkness of a plane where people were sleeping.

  Claire squinted at her watch. Two hours had passed. She felt peculiar.

  Her drink was gone, her drink tray folded away. But next to her, Linley’s drink sat half-full on the tray. Linley had disappeared.

  Claire reached out and took a sip of watery, slightly warm cranberry and vodka.

  Her whole stomach did a flip.

  Barf bag or bathroom, Claire thought frantically, and staggered to her feet. Barely noticing the startled faces peering up from books held in tiny pools of light, or eyes turned toward her from the personal movie screens, Claire lurched down the aisle, one hand over her mouth, the other grabbing at anything she passed for balance.

  A woman emerging from a row of seats took one look and jumped back.

  Claire grabbed the bathroom door and fumbled it open. She barely got it closed behind her before she lost it.

  She didn’t know how long she was sick, but when she was finally able to bathe her face and rinse her mouth, the face she met in the mirror had gone all-American hag. The French braid had started to unravel, and wisps of dark hair stuck damply to her forehead and neck. Sleep marks hashed one cheek.

  The only solution was to go back to her seat and pull the blanket over her head. Lurking in the toilet was not helping, anyway. Resolutely, Claire opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

  She came face-to-face with Linley.

  “Claire?” said Linley. Her face was as flushed as Claire’s was pale. And she had what Claire would have called bed head hair at any other time.