It Comes In Waves (13 page)

Claire was feeling better already.

When her cell chimed, she pulled it from her bag, sure it would be Lizzie looking for her, but her ex-husband's name flashed on the screen instead.

“Nick, this really isn't a good time.”

“Claire, I just got a furious call from Lizzie. Colin's been expelled. Did you report him to the school?”

“What?” Claire stopped, letting her bag slide down her arm to the sand. “No,” she insisted. “Of course not.”

“Well, Lizzie is sure you did. Colin's
claiming
you did.”

“Nick, I am telling you, I never said a word.”

“All I know is that Lizzie is hysterical and she wants to come home. I've booked a flight out of Charleston for her this afternoon.”

“You what?” Claire stared out at the line of trailers. “But she's here with me until tomorrow. Our flight leaves in the morning. We're coming back together!”

“Believe me, Claire; you want Lizzie on the plane today. She's devastated about this. She thinks you lied to her. She's out-of–her-mind angry.”

Angry? Was this a joke? “Nick, she can't leave today. You have to change it back.”

“Claire, calm down. It's just one day. Lizzie wanted to leave an hour ago, but I told her she needed to wait for you to get back to the hotel before she le—”

Claire ended the call, hiked her bag over her shoulder, and rushed up the beach barefoot, her shoes clutched in one hand. She tore out of the parking lot and sped down Ashley. Surely she could make Lizzie see this wasn't true, that Colin was lying, that she hadn't broken her promise. Oh God, why did it have to be now? After they'd made such progress that morning! Finally, they were connecting, joking, enjoying each other, just the way Claire had hoped they would on this trip—the way they
used
to—and now this?

When she flew through the front doors of the hotel, she slowed to see Lizzie sitting stiffly in one of the lobby's plump love seats, her luggage beside her.

Claire's heart sank. “Zee.”

Lizzie shot to her feet, grabbed the handle of her bag, yanked it into position, and wheeled it around Claire, heading for the sliding front doors. “I promised Dad I'd wait for you, so I did. Now I'm going.”

“Zee, I don't know what Colin told you, but I never reported him.”

“I don't want to talk about it, Mom. I just want to go home, okay?”

At the doors, Claire reached for Lizzie's elbow to slow her.

Lizzie spun, her eyes filling with tears. “Why did you have to report him?”

“Baby, it wasn't me.”

“He says it was.”

“That's the proof right there! The school would never disclose their source.”

“That's what you were counting on, isn't it?” Lizzie resumed her march, giving the glass a shove with her hip before leading them both out into the hot midday air. Her luggage bounced over the pavers, unbearably loud.

Claire caught up to her. “Zee, it's just one more day. You said you wanted to know more about who I was here, so let me show you. We have all afternoon.”

Lizzie dragged her wrist across her wet eyes and sniffed. Her shoulders sagged. “Why couldn't you have been happy for me?”

“Baby, all I want is for you to be happy,” said Claire. “It's all I've ever wanted. I just don't understand why you think it has to be him or me.”

“Because it does.”

“Why?”

“Because you suffocate me!”

Claire reared back as if her daughter had screamed the words. “I
suffocate
you?”

“You have no friends. You have no one. Just me.”

“That's not—”

“Do you have any idea how stressful that is?” Lizzie cried. “To think that I have to be my mother's best friend? Well, I can't be your whole world. I can't!”

Claire watched, frozen, as Lizzie yanked the handle of the taxi's backseat door, tossed her luggage inside, and slid in beside it. Claire held on to the door after Lizzie pulled it closed, her legs barely keeping her upright, and stared back into her daughter's eyes through the open window, but Lizzie's expression remained unforgiving. “I'll call you when I get to Dad's,” she said, turning away.

Claire felt sure her bones crumbled under her skin, that if she let go of the cab's door she would slide to the sidewalk. She watched the taxi as it thumped over the curb and continued down Center Street. Any minute, the brake lights would shine and Lizzie would rush out and run back to her, realizing her mistake, and they'd go inside together.

Any minute.

But the car never slowed.

Claire waited until it slipped over the bridge and out of sight before she finally turned and walked slowly back through the hotel doors.

Alone.

F
rom the time she was a little girl, Jill had always believed that love, like luck, came into a person's life in a variety of forms. Some loves arrived in an instant; others crept in gently, surprisingly. Those loves took their time, attaching themselves around your heart so that by the time you realized they were there, the roots of their devotion had grown too deep and too entwined to be plucked out. She had grown up believing the first kind was the sort of love to be afraid of, the violent attractions, like the one she had for Shep, an immediate love based on lust and admiration of physical beauty, which wasn't really love at all.

Her love for Foster was the slow, creeping kind. Sometimes she likened it to a commute; how a person can take the same road to and from a job every day, for years, and then one day an accident causes traffic to stop and for the first time the driver sees a remarkable house or a flowering bush she has never noticed before because she was too busy driving—but that house, that bush had been there, that remarkable, the entire time.

For Jill, the accident that stopped her car—though she wouldn't recognize it as such for months and months to come—was a romantic dinner she'd made for Shep, only to have Foster step in as her date instead.

They'd had hard weeks, all of them, and Jill knew Shep's grind had been particularly rough. Tourist season had started in earnest, and the housekeeping business that Shep had recently joined was working overtime to meet the demands of the busy rental market. Jill knew it was just a temporary job, something to tide Shep over until the marina could afford to bring him back on, but the schedule had been grueling. Tonight she was going to surprise him with a decadent meal: she-crab soup, seafood pasta with a Creole butter sauce, and for dessert, his favorite, lemon icebox pie. She'd read up on the best wine to pair with their meal, the best dressing for their salad. With a day off from work, she'd holed herself in the apartment cooking and setting an immaculate table. When five o'clock arrived and Shep had yet to show, Jill didn't worry. Five turned to five thirty, and then to six. No Shep. Had something happened? Then, at six fifteen, footsteps on the stairs and a hearty knock. Taking a second to light the candles and snap on the stereo, Jill rushed to the door only to find Foster and his huge smile there instead.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I told Pep I'd swing by and pick her up a sweater. She wants to go to the bonfire tonight.”

“Oh.” Jill searched the stairwell behind him, sure Shep would be on his heels, but no one followed. She stepped back to let him inside. “Shep isn't with you?”

“No, he's with Larry catching some good waves. They were headed down to the Washout when I drove past—Oh crap.” Foster stopped, seeing the spread on the table. He looked back at Jill, his eyes soft with sympathy. “He didn't call you?”

She shook her head. “I guess this makes me a surf widow, huh?”

“Man, I'm sorry.” He smiled tenderly. “It smells great.”

“Have you eaten? We could call Claire,” Jill offered. “There's plenty.”

“Claire's giving lessons until seven. Do you think it could wait?” But Jill could see Foster knew the answer before the question had come out of his mouth.

“I'd hate for it all to go to waste,” she said.

She watched his eyes scan the table, then the apartment around them.

When he looked back at her, his eyes flashed with anticipation. “Give me a second.”

He disappeared into Claire's room and closed the door. While he was gone, Jill opened the bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. Did they have any beer in the house? She searched the fridge but couldn't find one. What would he drink? She was still trying to think of something when Foster returned in a fresh-looking blue T-shirt. He'd even dragged a brush through his hair.

“Claire washed one of my shirts by mistake,” he explained. “Lucky break, huh?”

Jill smiled, touched. “You didn't have to change.”

“Sure I did. A meal this beautiful deserves a nice shirt. Not that a T-shirt is a nice shirt, but at least it's clean. Besides . . .” Foster gestured to her outfit. “You look too nice to have to stare across a table at a bum.”

“Stop. You're not a bum. You look very handsome.”

And he did, Jill decided as they took their seats. More handsome than she might have admitted. Although Foster didn't possess Shep's striking good looks (how many men did?), there was something undeniably appealing about his face. Maybe it was his oversized smile, which wasn't of course a bad thing; having a smile too big, too warm, too genuine. Or maybe it was his singular dimple, scaled to suit his large grin.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't have any beer.”

“I'll take some wine.”

She got him a glass and he suggested a toast.

“You and Claire still like this place?” he asked as she served the soup.

“Better yet, we still like each other. I think any place is fine so long as you like your roommate.”

“She likes you, too.”

Jill knew he was only being polite, that he didn't care what she thought of the woman he loved. Why should he?

Foster took a spoonful of the creamy bisque and moaned with approval. “Man, who needs to know how to surf when you can cook like
this
?”

Jill laughed. “We all have things we're good at.”

“No wonder Shep never wants to eat out. I could get used to this, Foster said, raising his wine before taking a healthy sip, candle flames flickering in the reflection of the glass.

Jill had never seen him drink wine. It suited him. She enjoyed the way he held it, not sure why it struck her as anything to see him cradle the bowl in his palm as he drank, the easy way he tipped the glass to his lips.

Jill stirred her soup, trying to catch the flakes of crabmeat. “You should probably call Claire so she doesn't worry.”

“She's not worried. The bonfire doesn't start for hours. Anyway, I'm sure she and my mom ordered in a pizza at the shop.”

“They get along well, don't they, Claire and your mom?”

“You know, sometimes I think Pep's just with me because of her.”

Jill eyed him over her spoon. “You don't really think that?”

He grinned. “I'm kidding. But I wouldn't blame her. Pepper's mom is seriously uptight. Have you met her?”

Jill nodded but didn't elaborate. It felt unkind, traitorous somehow, to speak of Claire's relationship with her parents when Claire wasn't there.

“You and your folks get along?” Foster asked.

“They're pretty normal as far as parents go,” Jill said. “I know I'm lucky.”

“You are. I love my mom like crazy, but some days I used to wish I could come home from school like the rest of my friends and find my mom waiting there for me with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.”

“She wasn't?”

He shook his head. “My mom was always out on the water. I never had this growing up.”

Jill frowned. “What do you mean?”

“This,”
he said again, gesturing to their meal. “Dinner at a table. Food that didn't come out of a to-go box. All these little touches. Candles and real napkins, salt and pepper in shakers.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “It's nice.”

She had never really looked at his eyes before. They were beautiful. A whitish blue that on anyone else would seem cold. But there was warmth in his. Heat.

They finished their soup and filled their plates with pasta.

Foster poured more wine. “You know, I think this is the first time we've ever had a real conversation, you and me.”

It was true, Jill thought. She'd been with Shep for years now and yet she and Foster had spent hardly any time alone. Not surprising, of course.

“I know you think I'm too straight for him,” Jill said.

“I don't.”

She smiled knowingly.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Foster confessed.

“I know he wishes I liked to surf more than I do.”

“He doesn't say that. He shouldn't,” Foster added. “He's lucky to have you.”

They looked at each other, their gazes holding a beat longer than necessary, long enough that Jill lowered her eyes to the bowl of pasta and offered him more. He declined.

“Maybe I
should
go,” he said, pushing out his chair.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” Jill said.

“I'm the one who should be thanking you. At least let me help you clear everything before I go,” Foster offered, sweeping up his plate.

Jill took it from him. “Go. I don't want you to be late to meet Claire. She'll be missing you.”

“You can come with us, you know. It's going to be a full moon.”

“I think I want to stay in tonight.”

When he'd gone, Jill cleaned the table, put away the leftovers, and dressed for bed. If there had been even the slightest tear in the smooth coating of her heart, she didn't feel it then. It was one dinner, one night, one conversation with one friend. She brushed her teeth as she always did, folded her clothes, and why not? Nothing had changed.

But the next morning, when she found Claire in the kitchen having coffee, Jill had hesitated—just the span of a breath—before she'd explained her evening, and why Foster had been so satisfied and full when he came to pick up Claire at the shop. Jill had paused without knowing why. And when Claire had laughed about it and assured Jill that Foster had arrived giddy from the meal, Jill felt a pang of guilt, large enough that she wasn't angry at Shep when he came to apologize for not calling.
She hadn't known it then, and she wouldn't know it for many more years, but the seed of her and Foster's love had been planted that night. Tiny and fragile, and she never intending to water it, it shouldn't have had a chance to grow. But it did.

The next time she and Foster saw each other, they shared the smile of a remembered exchange, two people who'd imagined they had nothing in common but their partners. An unexpected connection. And it was nice.

It would be another few years yet before she would feel the squeeze of those roots, and by then, it was like the sculptor of Mount Rushmore deciding to move Thomas Jefferson halfway through his carving. The stones had been set; it should have been too late to change their positions.

•   •   •

N
ow, staring out the bedroom window, watching the driveway for the van to arrive and bring Shep and Luke home from the filming, Jill felt as if someone had unzipped her heart and let those memories and those moments—both heavenly and hellish—spill out.

She wondered how the interview had gone, whether or not Ivy had made it back in time, what Claire had said on-camera about those raw and tender years. Turning from her useless vigil, Jill tried to lose the flood of questions in a fresh pile of laundry, but her gaze kept drifting to her dresser, the tickle of temptation rising along her skin like gooseflesh.

It made sense that she should want to see the letter. Ever since Claire had arrived—
no, tell the truth:
Ever since the rumor of her arrival had entered their house—Jill was tempted to unearth the letter, maybe even finally open it. Now she walked slowly to her bureau, pulled the drawer out, dug through the careful layers of scarves and slips she kept stacked in the very back corner, and there it was, tucked between a velvet wrap and a camisole, as if it were just another article of clothing.

When the envelope had arrived in the mail, nearly three weeks after Foster had drowned, it came in a plastic bag. Its journey—according to the U.S. Postal Service's form letter, which was also included in the bag—had been grueling and ultimately fruitless, resulting in tears and rips and accordion pleats in one corner. The damning stamp of Undeliverable/No Longer at Address had been wet at some point, maybe from rain, causing the
No
and the
L
to bleed. Jill knew all this because she had scrutinized every inch of its exterior—it was the contents inside that she had yet to view.

It would have been an easy investigation. The end of the envelope flap had risen with wear, then a little more with age; not enough to break the seal, just enough to tease the possibility. A few times—three, to be exact—Jill had pulled the shade off the lamp in the bedroom and raised the letter to the naked bulb, thinking that if she could only pick out a few blurry words, it might be enough. But the envelope was always too thick, or maybe she just feared looking too long. As she held it now, the paper seemed like tissue, in danger of wilting under her fingers. A part of her thought that today was the perfect day to finally tear it open—when Claire's arrival had already opened every other part of her past, why not rupture this final seal too?

As Jill did every time she held the letter, she weighed the possibilities of its contents. Had Foster sent it to Claire in apology, or had he sent it in remorse? Had he told Claire he'd made a terrible mistake, or had he shared with her the certainty of his decision? Affirmations or doubts? The answer was inside, and uncovering it would have been as quick as a bee sting—one tear, one tug—and in the ten years that Jill had possessed it, she'd yet to reveal its truth. She'd buried Foster believing he had married her, had
loved
her, without regret. Then this letter had arrived.

The rumble of tires sailed in through the screens; Shep and Luke were home.

Jill tucked the envelope back under her scarves and slips. Not knowing was penance, she told herself as she shut the drawer.

Not knowing was still better.