The Shore Read online

  “This, ah, I’m getting a ride home with . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  “Finn,” the possible ax murderer with the nice dog, said. “Everybody calls me Finn.”

  “Right,” said Joseph, without interest, and went back to his puzzle.

  Great, thought Claire. When they came to question Joseph about her missing body and the stranger she’d left the Stacked with, he’d probably give the word for 8 across, 9 letters, meaning “unconscious in winter.”

  Barrel looked up at her and gave her canine grin, and she thought, Well, if I do make it home, I’ve brought another guy to the house.

  Only this one is not for Linley.

  • • •

  But Linley didn’t seem that interested in Finn. She was just getting up, and her face above the coffee mug had that dark, thwarted look of an unsuccessful night and a painful morning after.

  “Men,” she declared bitterly as Claire came back downstairs after giving Finn and Barrel a choice of the last two rooms.

  A mental review told Claire that she could have been referring to Max, who had joined the house quietly and then seemed to absent himself from it. Although he had only been there a few days, he’d seldom been around when Linley was.

  Or possibly Dean, except that Dean had seemed more than willing to enter into whatever Linley had suggested, which for once had made Linley less interested.

  Settling on what she hoped was a neutral topic, Claire said, “Where’s Jodi? Does she work tonight?”

  “No. Party. Oh yeah, the house is invited.” Linley flicked at a piece of notebook paper lying on the counter.

  Claire picked it up to read the time and directions. “You going?”

  “Working,” said Linley.

  “You could probably switch with somebody,” Claire suggested.

  “You have to choose your parties,” Linley said cryptically. “Jodi’s over at the loft, or gallery or whatever, helping.” Linley raised a finger to a nostril and pretended to snort.

  “Poppy’s having a party?” Claire said, linking gallery with art with Poppy.

  “Friend of Poppy’s. An artist. Naturally.” Linley’s tone expressed her opinion of artists.

  “You don’t like Poppy?” Claire said, surprised.

  Linley shrugged. “I don’t know Poppy, do I? I just met her when you did. She’ll make the rent, and that’s what matters.”

  “You really don’t like her,” Claire said.

  “Whatever,” Linley said, sounding annoyed.

  “What about Dean?”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t like Dean,” Linley pointed out.

  “What do we know about him? He works at Banger’s, he’s a friend of Poppy’s, and he moved out of his apartment just like that when he heard about this share.”

  “He liked the way we looked. He liked the setup. Big deal,” said Linley.

  “He’s sketchy,” said Claire.

  “Makes him interesting, don’t you think?”

  Exasperated, Claire said, “Fine. Maybe I’ll see if Finn wants to go to this thing. You think that’d be cool?”

  Cool? An hour in Finn’s company and she was talking like him.

  If Linley noticed the Claire conversational aberration, she didn’t let on. “Sure,” she said. “Max is going. Your boy Dean’s probably already there.”

  “Oh,” said Claire. Definite bitterness factor in Linley’s voice.

  “Max hasn’t even come to Banger’s to say hi,” Linley went on. “Not that I care.”

  “Well, he does live with you. In the house, I mean.”

  Linley gave her a look. Then she stood up, went over to the cabinet, extracted a bottle of vodka and a bottle of Kahlúa, and returned to doctor her coffee.

  “Better,” she said, after generously dosing her cup.

  “Yuk,” said Claire. The first time she’d ever gotten drunk had involved old school White Russians, and she’d never been the same around Kahlúa since.

  Linley, who knew the story, said with the first hint of humor that day, “Weak.”

  “I prefer to think of it as developing more sophisticated tastes,” retorted Claire.

  That got her the Linley Look again.

  “I thought Max was an ex,” said Claire. “So what difference does it make that he hasn’t come to see you?”

  In answer, Linley picked up her cup and marched across the room and out through the French doors onto the deck. Claire followed. The afternoon sun had begun to cast long shadows with the promise of another fabulous sunset. Below on the sand two joggers sped enthusiastically by, both wearing headphones and both talking, either to each other or singing in time with whatever they were playing inside their heads.

  “Maybe I’ll take up jogging,” said Linley, settling into a deck chair. “I could lose a few pounds.”

  “Ha, and can you say eating disorder?” Claire shot back. She sat down on the edge of the hammock and began to rock gently. “Max?” she prompted.

  “I’m so over him,” said Linley crossly.

  Claire waited.

  And waited.

  Finally Linley added, “Well, I am. It’s just that . . . the whole age thing isn’t that big a deal, but—”

  Claire said, “Stop. Story: beginning, middle, end. Unless you’re planning on becoming a writer for The New Yorker.”

  “Okay, then. It was like this. High school. He’s two years older, so my parents for once get involved and make ‘he’s too old for you’ sounds, and I ignore them, naturally . . .”

  “Naturally,” said Claire, who’d never ignored her parents in her life.

  “And we start dating. My parents back off and hope that when he graduates, it’ll be ‘nice knowing you.’”

  She stopped and sipped her fuel-injected coffee.

  “Which of course it’s going to be, no worries. Because I’ve got to have a social life, right? And he’s going to be gone and I don’t want to be the little college commuter girlfriend doing the long-slow breakup with e-mails and phone calls, right?”

  “Got it,” said Claire.

  “So I’m going for the great final summer romance. Sex on the beach, surfing, maybe a camping trip . . . and right in the middle of the summer he says he’s bagging college and going to travel. See the world. Figure some things out.”

  Was that a catch in Linley’s voice? Claire stared at her. But Linley’s face was turned away, studying the progress of yet another jogger, this one pushing a baby jogger that appeared to have snow tires—or was it sand tires—on it. Possibly, Claire thought, it had four-wheel drive. In California, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “And then he’s gone, just like that,” Linley concluded.

  “No explanation?” Claire said. “I mean, apart from ‘see the world’?”

  “Nada. I asked him, was it someone else, was it me . . . and he said he’d always love me, it wasn’t me it was him, and—”

  “Bye-bye,” finished Claire. “Standard exit line.” You didn’t have to be widely experienced to know that kiss-off from the guys’ breakup manual.

  “And I just didn’t think Max was that kind of guy.” Linley’s face hardened. “I was young.”

  “Did you have anything on the side?” Claire asked. She knew Linley.

  “Well . . .”

  “Linley?”

  “Well, he was leaving, after all. I mean, I’d done the whole faithful girlfriend bit and all of that for a whole year, but life goes on, you know.”

  “So you’d started seeing someone else. Did Max know?”

  “No!” Linley frowned. “No, I’m positive he didn’t. He would’ve told me. I’m sure of it.”

  “Did you, you know, stay in touch?”

  “A few e-mails, and an actual postcard once, from a place in Asia somewhere that I don’t think was wired at the time. That was it. I just kinda stopped answering, you know? I mean, what was the point?”

  Claire took a deep breath and asked one final question. “Did you think h
e was back now? I mean, in your life like before?”

  “No! I mean, it’s been years . . . okay, maybe not that many years. . . . But I have moved on. It’s just that . . . well, he’s not even interested,” Linley blurted out.

  And that was the whole point. Linley didn’t like it when people—guys—weren’t interested.

  Still, Claire thought it was something more. Was Linley telling her the whole truth?

  Had Max been telling Linley the whole truth?

  Not a guy who liked to talk, she’d noticed. But hot, hot, hot, as the old song said. She couldn’t blame Linley for not being able to forget.

  Hot.

  Seven

  It was a gallery in a loft.

  And Finn, after a text message from Jodi assuring Claire that “well-behaved dogs were okay,” had agreed he’d like to come along.

  “Cool,” he’d said.

  It was for Finn she was wearing her most abbreviated sundress. It was black—not exactly a California basic, but she’d pulled a bright, oversize T-shirt on top and knotted it on one corner. It was a little five minutes ago, but it would do.

  Waitressing had given her a new appreciation of shoes without heels, and she’d gone with sequined flip-flops she’d swiped from Linley’s room.

  Finn, on the other hand, looked almost preppy in cutoff khakis and a faded oversize workshirt. He’d pulled his sun-gold hair back with a leather tie that had a bead on each end. She liked the look, at least on him.

  “Good,” he said when he saw her, and she decided it was a compliment.

  “Darling,” said Poppy, when she saw Claire, and then her eyes crinkled in amusement. “And . . . ?”

  Claire suddenly realized that Poppy didn’t know about Finn. “Our newest share,” she said. “Finn, this is Poppy, who also lives at our house.”

  “Very cool,” said Finn, taking Poppy’s hand. He gave it a friendly shake and released it. “And this is Barrel.”

  “Ah, yes. The well-behaved dog and another share. I hope Barrel likes parties.”

  “Barrel’s happy anywhere there’s food and me,” said Finn simply.

  “Good dog. Would that all our significant others were so easy. Although I’d prefer the priorities reversed,” said Poppy. She gestured. “Meet Miwako—she’s one of the gallery’s artists. The food is somewhere over there, with drink nearby. As for the rest of the recreational enhancements, you’re on your own.”

  Finn caught Claire’s hand and led the way to the food. Having made sure that Barrel wouldn’t starve, he heaped a second plate and offered some to Claire.

  “Thanks,” said Claire, taking a slice of California roll.

  “I never say no to free food,” Finn explained.

  Claire pushed away the thought that this was why he had come to the party.

  He cleaned the plate as thoroughly as Barrel and set it down. He surveyed the room. “Let’s dance,” he said, adding, “Barrel, stay” as he caught her hand again to lead her into the fray.

  She danced until she saw Jodi across the room, deep in conversation with Max, and half-danced over to introduce Finn to most of the rest of the house.

  “One big happy family,” Max observed. “Drink?”

  “Beer,” said Finn. “I’ll get it. Anyone else?” He took orders, told Barrel, who’d somehow appeared at his side, to “Stay,” and made his way back to the bar.

  Barrel sat down and looked at them expectantly.

  “Good dog,” said Jodi, bending to scratch Barrel between the shoulders. He showed his approval by flattening his ears and lolling out his tongue.

  “You like dogs, I hope?” Claire asked Max.

  “Sure,” said Max. “And I can tell Barrel is a nice one. It’ll be a better house with a dog in it.”

  Jodi had squatted down to go nose-to-nose with Barrel. Claire didn’t need to ask her if she liked dogs.

  “I grew up with bad dogs,” Max went on. “Or, really, spoiled. Their idea of a good time was to chew the legs off furniture.” He grinned. “Of course, I’ve been there myself.”

  Claire laughed, and told him about the Labs.

  “Raised by Labs, huh? How are you at fetch?”

  “Depends on what you throw,” said Claire.

  Max looked at her then, and laughed. “You’re a surprise,” he said.

  Taking the drink that Finn had scored for her, Claire took a sip, trying to look demure, yet surprising. Whatever that meant.

  “Oh, yo,” said Finn suddenly. “It’s Curly Dave. And Jean and Lenore. I haven’t seen them in, like, forever. C’mon, Barrel. Let’s say hi.” He was off across the room with Barrel in tow.

  Jodi stood, and beamed. “I like that dog,” she said.

  “Down girl, I think he’s taken,” Max said.

  Jodi froze, her smile slipping, and Max, his own drink halfway to his lips, stopped. He and Jodi stared at each other.

  Or had Claire imagined it? It was only for a second, and then Jodi said, “As soon as I have my own place, I’m getting a dog.” She took a deep breath and added, “Dogs are faithful and love you always.”

  “Most of them,” observed Max. He paused for a beat, and said, “But Claire grew up with Labs that were yours for the right T-bone.”

  Another pause, and Jodi laughed and Max gave a lopsided grin, and Claire said, “Oh, they were much cheaper than that,” and then Jodi waved at someone and the three-way was absorbed into the party again.

  But Claire didn’t forget it.

  And she wondered if it all seemed as obvious to anyone else as it seemed to her.

  Finn didn’t kiss her goodnight. He had also given Max and Dean a ride home, leaving Poppy and Jodi and half a dozen artistes deep in wine and local art scene conversation amid the litter of the party. Dean, it seemed, was not an artist after all.

  Claire had not yet found out exactly what he was.

  She’d turned from watching Finn and Barrel go up the stairs to the second floor to find Dean watching her. He’d smiled and winked and given her an almost fatherly pat on the shoulder—if her father had been the type. “Patience,” he murmured, and let his fingers trail off her shoulder and down her arm as he headed off to his room.

  Okay, not the fatherly type of pat after all.

  That had left Max—Max, restless, pulling a beer from the fridge. “I’m going to walk on the beach for a little while,” he said. “Want to come?”

  “Sure,” Claire. She thought a moment and said, “Linley’ll be home soon. Want to wait for her?”

  “No,” said Max, still peering into the refrigerator. “Beer? Drink?”

  “A bottle of water,” Claire said. “Anything that’s in there.”

  Beyond the light on the deck, at the bottom of the sand, the night was soft and dark. Far down the beach Claire spotted the blaze of a dying bonfire.

  They strolled in silence wrapped in the sound of the surf and the sounds of parties still coming from the bars and houses up beyond the dunes.

  “You surf?” Claire asked, after a while.

  “Sort of. It’s never been my thing.”

  “So I guess it wasn’t surfing that brought you and Linley together.”

  “Me and Linley,” he said thoughtfully. “No, not surfing.”

  “Hot sex, then,” Claire suggested, and stopped in horror. She hadn’t had that much to drink. Had she?

  Max laughed. “Well, you do know Linley,” he said. “But it wasn’t just that. It was that, plus . . . oh, I don’t know, many things. Many fine things.”

  Much more carefully, Claire said, “She told me a little about it, but not too much. And I’m being nosy. I’m sorry.”

  “No. No big deal. It is, after all, history.”

  “Not so much, I think,” Claire said.

  “Maybe not,” he said, and lapsed into silence.

  Guys, thought Claire. Getting them to talk was like pulling teeth. Not that she’d ever pulled teeth, exactly, but then, she’d never really gotten guys to talk to her either.
<
br />   But then it really wasn’t any of her business.

  After another long, wind-and-water-filled silence, Max said, “Linley and I have some unfinished business. And I’ve got some decisions to make. About my life. And what I’m deciding is not going to make anybody happy. My father and mother—well, they have barely spoken in years, I don’t think they have even seen each other since they split up . . . but if I do what I think I’m going to do, it’ll be the one thing they agree on.”

  “Mmm,” said Claire. Now that Max was talking, he wasn’t making much sense.

  “I was over in India.” He stopped. He looked out at the ocean. “This is such a cliché.”

  “India,” Claire prompted.

  “I met this rinpoche. This teacher. Studied with him.”

  “Oh,” said Claire.

  She waited. But Max had apparently used all of his words for the moment.

  Still, she got the distinct impression that he wasn’t looking to get back together with Linley. This was not going to make Linley happy.

  Claire shuffled through the sand, her thoughts running ahead. She lost track of time and hardly noticed that they’d returned to the steps leading up to the deck and the house.

  Max put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “You’re a peaceful girl, Claire,” he said.

  “Yes, well, that’s always been my problem,” she said.

  He gave a snort. “Not a problem,” he said and, releasing her, gave her a little push up the stairs ahead of him.

  Linley was sitting on the sofa, her feet on the table, a joint in her hand. “Welcome back,” she said. “Did you have a good time?”

  The glitter in her eyes warned Claire that any answer would be wrong—especially saying “No dope in the house.”

  “Hey, Linley,” she said.

  “How was the party? Or do I need to ask?” She took a deep drag and held it.

  Claire reached over, took the joint, and inhaled. She never smoked—and almost choked, but managed to hold it in. Saved from answering, she thought.

  Exhaling along with Linley, Claire said, “Gotta go to work in the morning. See you in a few.”

  “Stay,” said Linley. “What difference does it make?”

  Claire didn’t answer. She’d decided on being a coward and living to see another day. She retreated toward the stairs.