The Shore Read online

  “Claire!” said Linley.

  “I’ve gotta get some sleep too,” said Max.

  “Why? You don’t have to go to work,” said Linley.

  “Don’t I?” His voice sounded teasing and affectionate.

  “Max,” Linley said, the brittle note gone. She sounded different from anything Linley had ever heard. “Max, don’t go.”

  Claire almost ran to her room, and closed the door firmly behind her.

  Eight

  Sitting and looking out at the ocean, Linley tried not to cry. She never cried. Crying was for people who didn’t get what they wanted, and she always got what she wanted.

  She was a very determined person.

  You might as well be. You could lose everything in an instant. And die in the next instant. So you might as well get what you wanted as soon as you wanted it, or you might not get it at all. . . .

  Damn him, she thought. Why had he come back? Why couldn’t he just stay far, far away, in Rangoon or Bhutan or wherever he’d been?

  Who needed Max on this side of the planet? Who needed Max in her world?

  Her world. Her perfect summer.

  It was not going as she’d planned.

  She dug her fingers into the arm of the chair and thought cigarettes. On that thought she was up and down the hall and in her uncle’s study. He was an ex-smoker who still smoked cigarettes now and then.

  “Never give anything up completely,” he said, “or you’ll never be able to give it up at all.”

  Amazing, her uncle. Since he’d quit smoking when she was ten, she’d seen him have maybe three or four cigarettes, usually at family parties.

  She found them in the freezer in the bar refrigerator behind the desk in his study and took the whole pack. All natural cigarettes. She smiled grimly. It figured. Did that mean you’d get organic lung cancer?

  She was just coming out of the study when she heard Jodi and Poppy come in.

  She stopped and slid back into the shadows, leaving the door almost closed. She didn’t want the company. Not now.

  Especially not Poppy’s company. Poppy saw too much. And not like Dean. Dean was some kind of scam artist, Linley thought. She’d picked that up pretty much instantly. She’d voted him in just to twitch Claire. It was fun to do that, like watching her squirm over the whole paying-no-rent secret.

  But Poppy was solid. Smart. And she really looked at people, really listened to them. It made Linley . . . nervous.

  And, of course, Jodi thought Poppy was some kind of art goddess. Jodi began entirely too many sentences these days with the words, “Poppy says . . .”

  “Well,” said Jodi, her voice bright with a little too much of everything. “That was fun.”

  “It was,” agreed Poppy. “Very successful party.”

  “Successful and fun are not the same,” said Jodi.

  “True,” said Poppy. She was walking around the room, turning off lights, until the only one left was over the bar.

  Jodi yawned hugely. “It’s funny,” she said. “I missed it like crazy, partying with Linley all this past year. We’ve been best friends forever.” She paused, as if thinking that over. “But Linley went to school in Boston, and I had to stay here.”

  “Did it change things much?”

  The clink of ice in a glass. Linley remained rooted in the shadows. Eavesdropping.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. Anyway, I wish she would have come to the party tonight, but she didn’t. Maybe because of Max . . .”

  “Or me,” said Poppy.

  “You?” said Jodi, sounding surprised.

  “Linley doesn’t really like me, you know.”

  “Sure she does,” said Jodi. “She can be sort of brusque, but she’s great.”

  “I’m not arguing that.”

  Linley peered out and saw Poppy settling herself on one of the bar chairs, vivid in the half-light. The long purple dress she wore should have warred with the burning auburn of her hair, but it didn’t. Glints of gold flashed from her earlobes and wrists, and she had gold sandals on her feet.

  Showstopping, Linley conceded grudgingly. And of course Poppy had figured out that Linley didn’t like her. Damn her, too.

  Jodi was pacing around the room like a caged animal.

  Poppy went on: “Linley is great. She can be great and still not like me.” Amusement deepened her voice. “Liking me is not a requirement for greatness.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” said Jodi. “Anyway, it was the best party. Thanks, Poppy.” Jodi turned to face the vivid figure at the bar.

  Poppy finished her drink and stood up. She crossed the room to where Jodi stood by the stairs, her own short hair a halo of white gold. “Don’t thank me,” she said. “You belonged. That’s all there is to it.” With that, Poppy put one hand on each shoulder and leaned forward and kissed Jodi lightly on the lips, a feather touch of a kiss, once and then again.

  Then she walked past her and went gracefully, unhurriedly, up the stairs. At the top she looked down at the still figure, standing now with one hand clutching the stair railing as if for support, and said, “Don’t stay up too late, Jodi. Don’t forget you have work tomorrow.”

  “I . . . know,” whispered Jodi.

  After Poppy’s door had closed, Jodi stayed frozen for a long moment. Then she shook her head a little, like someone breaking the surface of a wave and flinging the water from their eyes. She went up the stairs behind Poppy in a quick rush, and Linley, listening intently, heard Jodi’s door close.

  Linley went back into the study to her uncle’s big leather chair by the window, tapped out a cigarette, and lit it. She took a long, practiced drag and exhaled theatrically. She smoked for a long time, staring out at the night until the thin edge of dawn began to separate sea from sky.

  She hated surprises. Surprises implied lack of control.

  And she’d just been caught by surprise. No, Max’s return had been the first surprise. That, now this.

  Maybe that was why Max’s exit had stuck with her. Another surprise.

  In her way, she’d probably loved him. But Linley knew love didn’t last.

  The important thing was to be the one who said good-bye. Leave just a little before it was time to go. Leave behind the hint of unfinished business.

  She’d planned a different ending with Max—her terms, her rules.

  But Max had gotten there first.

  She hadn’t expected it and she’d never understood it.

  Damn him.

  Guys were so easy. You didn’t even have to like them as long as they got the job done. And they would do anything as long as you promised them a blow job. Linley’s mouth curled in the dark. As if, she thought. Guys never reciprocated, so why waste the time?

  If they complained, she moved on. Simple. Satisfying.

  Max. Jodi. Poppy.

  Thoughts whirled in her brain.

  At last she stubbed out a final cigarette and stood up. “Fuck it,” she said.

  She’d leave it all alone until the time was right. Jodi would come to her for advice. Max would return, and she’d finish what he’d started.

  And then she’d see what happened with a little truth or dare.

  Claire looked up from the kitchen counter at the view from the beach house without seeing the spectacular scenery. She looked back down at her coffee and the crossword puzzle from the Times. She’d never been big on crosswords until she’d started watching Joseph whip through them at the Stacked. She couldn’t figure out how he did it. He wrote in ink and he never seemed to make a mistake. Good with words, he’d said. He hadn’t been kidding.

  She was still working on the one from the previous Sunday.

  Damn Joseph. Not that she didn’t like him. He’d turned out to be a decent boss, just as Dean had predicted. And aside from the other perks of the job, she’d met Finn, who . . .

  “Hi.”

  “Hey! Jodi! You’re up early.”

  Claire had barely seen Jodi or Linley for the past few days.
Everyone seemed to be pinballing through the house as if they were all on their way to cram for a final in . . . what? Having fun? Having sex?

  Were the two things the same, exactly?

  “. . . a job,” Jodi was saying.

  “A job,” Claire repeated obediently. Rewind. Replay. Beep. “But you already have a job.”

  “I need another one, and the Vile Vickie says she can’t give me any more shifts at Banger’s.” Jodi sounded tired. She looked tired.

  “You look tired,” Claire said. “How are you going to do another job? When do you plan on surfing? Or, more importantly, sleeping?”

  “Surf first, sleep later. Gotta make the rent, right?” retorted Jodi automatically. She was fiddling with the spaceship/cappuccino maker on the counter. For a girl who could fix anything else in the house, Jodi wasn’t very handy in the kitchen.

  Not that Claire could motor around the kitchen any better. But then, she stuck with basic coffee making.

  “Just don’t blow us up,” she said aloud. The rent, she thought, and had a moment’s pang. She was still keeping the fact that Linley and she were not paying into the rent a secret. And it made her feel guilty.

  Why couldn’t Linley just tell people? And what did she need the money for, anyway?

  “What we make after we pay the bills is ours,” Linley had said. “We earned it.”

  But how had Linley earned it? By being her uncle’s niece?

  “The rent’s not that much, Jodi,” Claire said defensively. Which was true. It wasn’t like she and Linley were slumlords making a killing.

  “Summer and winter. As in, I’m never going home again.” Jodi gave something on the machine a thump. “Wait . . . wait . . . I’ve almost got it figured out here.”

  “In your dreams,” said Poppy, coming through the doors from the deck.

  Jodi and Claire both jumped. Claire said, “I didn’t know you were out there.”

  “I went for an early walk on the beach,” Poppy said. “It’s going to be another luscious day.”

  Luscious, thought Claire. I guess that means the sun is shining and the surf is good.

  Jodi stood motionless, one hand clutching a lever on the espresso maker.

  Had she broken something? Claire wondered.

  Poppy said, “Jodi, let me do that.”

  “It’s all yours,” said Jodi, moving quickly out of the way.

  “I thought you preferred tea,” said Poppy.

  Poppy was right, Claire realized. She flashed on Jodi slam-dunking three different kinds of tea into the shopping cart that very first day.

  “Serious caffeine needed,” Jodi said. Going around the counter, she commandeered a bar stool. “Can you make me a double shot?”

  With graceful efficiency, Poppy pulled a double shot and slid it across the counter. Taking it, Jodi stirred in what looked like a tablespoon of sugar before tossing back the whole thing as if she were doing a shooter. She made a face as she slammed down the espresso cup.

  “It’s not medicine, you know,” observed Poppy.

  “Whatever works,” Jodi said. “Gotta go.” She rummaged in the cupboard, and said unemotionally, “The next person who takes my Clif Bars without replacing them is dead meat,” and in hyper speed she yanked the last one from a twelve-pack, crumpled the empty box in the recycling bin, and headed for the door. “Later,” she said, and was gone.

  Possibly, there was a whoosh of air as she left.

  Poppy raised her eyebrows.

  “Job search,” Claire offered.

  “Oh. Coffee?” asked Poppy, motioning toward the machine.

  “Sure, if you’re making,” said Claire. “Cappuccino, if I have a choice. Chin in hand, she watched Poppy make two cappuccinos. She liked watching Poppy work. She did everything with quiet efficiency, a quality Claire admired.

  At first she’d been nonplussed by Poppy’s air of detachment and faint amusement, but now that she’d gotten used to it, Claire didn’t mind. In a house of seven people, Poppy was the ideal roommate. She was low-key, self-sufficient, undemanding—and she cleaned up after herself.

  “Jodi has a job at Banger’s,” said Poppy, sitting down across the table from Claire.

  “She wants two,” said Claire. “So she won’t have to live at home next year.”

  “I left home when I was sixteen,” said Poppy.

  “Did you?” Claire couldn’t imagine doing that.

  My mother, she thought wryly, would have killed me. “Why?”

  “Things happen,” Poppy said with a shrug. She smiled, but for once she didn’t look amused. “My family—my father, in particular—strongly encouraged me to leave. ‘Get the hell out of my house’ were his exact words.”

  “It . . . ah, must have been some fight,” Claire said.

  “He strongly objected to my lifestyle,” Poppy told her. “Which I couldn’t change. My father believed I could—like putting on a different dress. But it just didn’t work that way.”

  “He didn’t want you to be an artist?” Claire asked.

  “Something like that.” Poppy smiled, and this time it was genuine. “And I just had to be me.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “But it worked out. My mother brought him in line. She’s my biggest fan, these days. And my dad, he’s getting pretty cool in his cranky old age.” She laughed. “They don’t live too far from here. I see them two or three times a month now.”

  “I wish I was really good at something, believed in something like that—like your art,” Claire surprised herself by saying. “But I’m not sure I have a talent for anything.”

  “It takes longer for some people than others. You’ll figure it out. And I’d be willing to bet you won’t make as many stupid choices as some of us have.”

  “Really?” Claire felt pleased.

  “Yep,” said Poppy. She stood up. “I have to go open the gallery.”

  “And where would the Stacked be without me?” Claire said. “It’s a tough life.”

  “But a good one,” Poppy said unexpectedly.

  “Yes,” said Claire. “Yes, it is.” She grinned. “So far.”

  Nine

  “There’s no such word,” Claire insisted.

  “Stands to reason if it’s in the puzzle, it’s a word,” Joseph said.

  “But what does it mean?” she said.

  “What the clue says,” he said.

  “‘A state of excitement’ is ‘alt’?” Claire shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s not a word,” said Joseph.

  Coming up to where Joseph and Claire were bent over the puzzle, Jan cleared her throat. “I think this one is yours, Claire.”

  Claire glanced up to look at the customer who had just come in. “Oh!” she said, and felt her face flush. He wasn’t hers, but she was working on it. She walked over, trying to look cool, and said, “Hi, Finn. Hi, Barrel.”

  She actually hadn’t seen Finn in a couple of days. She was struggling to avoid being obvious, to not lurk around the house waiting for him. He might keep her in alt, but she wasn’t going to show it.

  Finn smiled, his eyes crinkling.

  “Lunch? We still have some good stuff left,” Claire said, motioning toward the specials board.

  “No, thanks, not today. Barrel and I got comp’ed for lunch at the hotel,” said Finn. “Another satisfied customer. I mean, patron. That’s what the hotel calls its guests.” He made a goofy face.

  Instantly Claire was jealous. “Well, I’m glad you give satisfaction,” she said, closing her notepad with a snap. Good grief, listen to me, she thought.

  But Finn remained oblivious to nuance. “Yeah, me too. This little dude, he might be a good surfer, if he could just stay in California. Or someplace with some surf.”

  “A . . . little dude . . . took you to lunch?”

  “Yeah, on his daddy’s expense account. It was funny.” Finn nodded. “Stepped right up and ordered, added in the tip, signed the check. I think his dad�
�s some kind of CEO, or something. Come to think of it, maybe the little dude is headed more in that direction.”

  “Maybe he could do both,” suggested Claire.

  “Maybe,” said Finn, considering. Then he shook his head. “No, you’ve got to do one or the other. Nothing halfway about the ride.” He made a surfing motion with his hand.

  “I guess not,” said Claire.

  “Anyway, I stopped by to see if you wanted a lift home,” he said.

  “Sure,” said Claire.

  “By way of a little break I know.” He made the surfing motion again with his hand to elaborate. “It’s not much. Nice little waves. Thought you’d like a lesson.”

  “Sure!” said Claire instantly, then tried to slow down. “But I don’t have any . . . I don’t have my bathing suit with me and I’ve never actually surfed before.”

  “No,” he said. “But you can swim. I’ve seen you at the house. I bet you could borrow a shorty from Jodi or Linley, right?”

  “Sure,” Claire said, and thought, a four-letter word meaning yes, overused by people named Claire. “I mean, yes of course I can. Wait here while I close out.”

  Claire found the house completely empty and had a momentary vision of going back down to the van where Finn waited and saying, “Why don’t you come up to my room?”

  Then, before she could stop it, her imagination threw in the obscene gesture Linley liked to use—pushing the index finger of one hand back and forth in the circle made by the index finger and thumb of the other hand.

  She snorted, knocked on Linley’s door just in case, and went in. Linley’s room was as usual almost obsessively neat. It didn’t take Claire long to confirm as she passed the bedside table that Linley still preferred condoms in every color, relied on a variety of birth control, and was reading erotica in French (or pretending to).

  Rifling through the closet and doing a quick check of the attached bathroom with Jacuzzi (Linley had naturally claimed the master suite as her own), she discovered that the wet suit was nowhere to be found. Claire did find a stash of old photographs in a drawer that she’d yanked open randomly, looking for what? Clues that said, “X marks the spot where the wet suit is hidden”?