It Comes In Waves (18 page)

S
he needed a new dress.

Something summery, breezy. Undeniably sensual. Gus Gallagher had only seen her in various stages of disarray—sweaty, salty, frumpy—so let him see her sexy. All around her on Center Street, women strolled in filmy sundresses and rhinestone-dotted sandals. Racks of the same strappy dresses lined storefronts, swinging in the breeze like curtains. All Claire had to do was pick a print.

Sailing down Ashley an hour later, the colorful nest of batiked silk shuddering gently in the bike's wicker basket, Claire couldn't remember the last time she'd been this excited over a new dress, the chance to style her hair into something other than a utilitarian knot, to smooth gloss over her lips, to dab fragrance on her skin.

A real-live, honest-to-God
date
.

•   •   •

I
t was Jill who pointed out the simple fact: For as long as Foster and Claire had been living in Folly that first summer, which by that point was two months, Foster had never taken Claire out on a proper date.

The revelation had come when they were all sharing a bucket of crab legs on the Glasshouse deck, their fingers and lips sticky with butter.

Claire had waved the point off and taken a swig from Foster's beer. “It's okay,” she said. “Really.”

“No, it's not,” Jill insisted, pointing a corncob for emphasis. “Foster King, you need to take Claire out on a real date.”

Foster had agreed.

A few days later, INXS on the stereo and a moist breeze sailing through the screens, Jill was in Claire's room helping her get ready for dinner at Folly's fanciest restaurant, Pearl's.

“Now,” said Jill, “since it's an official date, you need to wear a real dress and makeup.”

A real dress? Claire hardly knew what that meant anymore. When she wasn't in her red swimsuit, she was in shorts or one of Foster's oversized T-shirts
waiting
to get into her suit, so her wardrobe didn't offer much in the way of dresses, real or otherwise. Jill happily let Claire pick from her closet: a too-short spandex dress that crept up every time she breathed. She tugged at the hem incessantly, sure she revealed less skin in her swimsuit.

Hair and makeup was next. The two friends went into the bathroom. Jill searched the crowded vanity surface. “Where do you keep your makeup?”

Claire shrugged. “I don't.”

Jill stared at her. “You don't have
any
? Not even lip gloss?”

“You make it sound like I don't have a toothbrush, for God's sake.”

“Well, it's kind of close! Never mind. You can borrow some of mine.”

Claire sat down on the toilet and watched as Jill tested shadow colors on the back of her hand. “Don't go crazy now,” Claire said. “I don't even know if Foster likes makeup.”

“Trust me,
every
guy likes makeup,” Jill said, deciding on a soft plum. “And every guy definitely loves lipstick. It's like a big shiny you-know-what on your face.”

Claire couldn't resist. “A big shiny
what
?”

“You know what,” said Jill, blushing now. “Close your eyes.”

“Hmm. I'm not sure I do,” Claire teased. “Maybe if you used the real word . . .”

Jill made a face at her. “I am
not
saying that word!”

Claire tried to stifle a laugh.

“Sit still,” Jill fussed. “You'll make me smudge.”

A few minutes later, Claire turned to face her reflection while Jill made a soft twist with Claire's hair and pinned it high, loosening a few tendrils to soften the look.

“You were right,” said Claire. “This feels different.”

“It should,” said Jill.

“I think the only time Foss has ever seen me in a dress was when we met.”

“Then this will knock his socks off.”

Claire smiled at Jill's reflection. “When I first got here I worried you'd hate me.”

At the confession, Jill's head snapped up. She stared at Claire in the mirror.

“Okay, maybe
hate
's a strong word,” Claire corrected, seeing Jill's reaction. “Maybe more like mistrust. That you'd think I was spoiled or a know-it-all just because I wasn't from here.”

Jill teased, “Oh, but you
are
a know-it-all.”

Claire snatched a bottle of hair spray off the sink and reached back, pretending to spray it. Jill laughed.

“A lot of girls would, you know,” said Claire, setting the bottle back down.

“Then we're even,” said Jill. “Because I worried that you would think you were too good and too smart to live with a girl from the beach. So there.”

Claire smiled. Even. So they were.

“Ta-da!” Done, Jill stepped back and admired Claire's reflection. “What do you think?”

“I look fake.”

“You look beautiful.”

Not convinced, Claire turned her head from side to side, studying herself. Maybe she did like the way her eyes popped, the way the lipstick made her bottom lip look especially full.

“You really think so?”

“Believe me.” Jill grinned. “Foster's gonna flip.”

•   •   •

I
t was only when Claire climbed the steps to the shop and saw Ivy's cloud of gray hair through the window that she realized she would have to tell Foster's mother she had a date. With Gus Gallagher. Not that she had to tell Ivy right away, or make a big deal out of it. After all, it
was
just a date. Just dinner. Maybe in a few hours, Claire could mention it casually, soften the blow over a cup of tea or a walk on the beach.

Claire needn't have worried. As soon as Ivy saw the dress in her hands, a knowing smile spread across her lined face. She looked at Claire and said, “You've got a date.”

“Because I bought a new dress?”

“Because you're glowing like a giddy teenager,” Ivy said. “So who's the lucky guy?”

Claire smiled. “Gus Gallagher.”

“Good for you. Good for
him
.”

“I don't know about that.” Claire came beside Ivy and set down her dress, spreading out the fabric thoughtfully on the counter, her fingers grazing the remnants of stickers that had decorated the surface over the years, now faded and peeling away. “It's been a long time since I've been out on a date. God only knows how everything works nowadays.”

“I'm guessing the same way everything worked back then,” Ivy teased.

Claire laughed. “You know what I mean. The
rules
.”

“Well, if you're looking for advice, don't ask me,” said Ivy. “I never could keep all that crap straight. To kiss him or not kiss him, to let him take you to bed or pretend you hate his guts. It wore me out, all those damn do's and don'ts. I always said: you like him, then like him. The heck with rules.”

Claire searched Ivy's warm eyes, the impossibility of the situation hard to ignore. “This is strange, isn't it?” she asked. “Me being here. Going out on a date.”

Ivy scoffed. “What's strange to me is that you've gone
without
one so damn long.”

For the rest of the afternoon they remained in the shop, reminiscing and planning as they wandered the aisles, then later as they wandered the beach, following the surf as far as they could.

When they returned to the shop, Gus was waiting for them on the porch in a fitted gray T-shirt and khakis. Claire waved, longing rushing to the surface of her skin.

God, she was in such trouble.

“Hi.” He smiled down at them as they approached. “I'm a little early.”

Claire glanced over at Ivy, seeing the warm glow of approval in Foster's mother's eyes.

“Give me fifteen minutes,” Claire told him.

•   •   •

S
he was done in ten. Wearing her new dress, her wet hair swept up in a messy twist, peach oil dabbed on her throat and wrists, Claire hugged Ivy good night, grabbed her purse, and followed Gus Gallagher out to his truck.

Inside, she turned to watch him start the engine, allowing the flutters of excitement to rise in her again to be near him, alone with him.

He yanked on the gearshift and looked over at her. “You smell great.”

She watched him as he steered them out onto the road, thinking as he picked up speed and the air blew harder through the cab that the last time he'd had her in that seat, she told him she wouldn't sleep with him.

Had he known even then she couldn't be held to that vow?

He must have, she decided. Because he was driving them away from town, not toward it.

“I thought we were going out for dinner?” she asked.

“We are. It's this little place up the road,” he said with a grin. “The views are out of this world.”

She smiled knowingly. “I'll bet.”

•   •   •

M
argot was waiting for them in the entry, the black Lab's tail furiously sweeping the floor as Gus led them inside. He'd cleaned up, Claire noticed as he steered her through the kitchen to the deck door and slid open the glass. An unobstructed view of the shore greeted her. The deck was as cluttered as the home's interior, but with the sea as its backdrop, the mess was downright charming. A tiki bar had been built at one end, the bamboo posts rough and weathered, the frond roof equally sunbaked. Three bar stools hugged a crescent-shaped counter; Claire took one at Gus's urging and settled in to watch him work.

“What's your poison?”

She leaned her chin on her palm. “What do you recommend?”

“The house margarita. No contest.”

Claire eyed the bottle of tequila already in his hand, reminded of all the times she and Jill had concocted their version of the sweet-and-sour drink at their apartment. It had been a Friday night ritual, a shared drink to purge the week's highs and lows before meeting up with their boyfriends. Jill had never liked hers with salt; Claire always had. Now she could almost taste the prickly crystals sticking to her bottom lip.

“Maybe just one,” she said.

Gus reached down for a pair of tumblers and wiped the rims with a lime wedge. He upended the glasses into a saucer of salt and gave each one a hard twist. “This recipe comes from a guy I surfed with in Puerto Rico. Johnnie Randolph, but everyone called him Curly. Big wave rider. Craziest guy you ever met . . .”

He talked easily while he made their drinks, his movements automatic, never slowing, mixing and conversing in one seamless motion.

Claire smiled. “You were a bartender, weren't you?”

“I don't think there's a surfer who hasn't either waited tables or tended bar,” he said, capping the cocktail shaker and giving the stainless steel cylinder several hard shakes. “I take it you didn't pursue a career in the food industry?”

She laughed. “No,” she said. “I'm a high school teacher now.”

“That's a far cry from wave riding.”

“It was my ex-husband's idea. He was a professor—
is
a professor—and he thought it would be a good thing. I suppose it made as much sense as anything. I'd taught surfing for years and loved it.”

Gus emptied the shaker into their glasses and set one in front of her. “Your ex must have been pretty impressed when he found out what a superstar surfer you were.”

“The only things that impress my ex-husband are good core samples and overly endowed graduate students.” She looked up at Gus. “That wasn't very nice of me, was it?”

He offered her an absolving smile. “No one's nice all the time.”

“It's just that I hate being that wife,” she admitted. “The one that got dumped for the younger woman. I hate being a cliché.”

“So don't be one,” he said matter-of-factly.

His eyes held hers as he took a quick swig of his drink.

Claire felt weightless, soft; desirable for the first time in so long.

“I never expected this, you know,” she whispered.

Gus leaned in. “Now, see, that's what I love about living here. Some months, you think you won't have a single good wave. Then out of nowhere you get this surprise swell and suddenly you're riding big breaks you never saw coming.” He raised his glass to hers. “To surprise swells.”

“To surprise swells,” she repeated, meeting his toast.

He grinned. “And to carving the hell out of 'em.”

•   •   •

G
us banished Claire to the deck while he cooked dinner. As she sat, the air warm and feathering, the beach seemed both near and far, the deck separated from the sand by a rolling stretch of dune grass. Claire could pick out faint voices of swimmers and combers on the wind, the gentle sweep and roar of the Washout's surf farther down the sand. She had always loved the way the beach quieted at the end of the day. Everything slowed, like the steady rhythm of a body sliding into sleep. Even the waves seemed to yawn.

“Okay, hot stuff,” Gus ordered from the doorway. “Close 'em.”

She sat straighter and obliged, catching the faint scent of toasted bread just before he gave her approval to open her eyes.

When she did, she blinked down at a sad pair of triangles swimming in a wreath of potato chips. “Grilled cheese?”

“With tomato,” he said proudly, taking his seat. “The tomato really makes the sandwich. Gives it that extra something.”

“You promised me dinner out, Gallagher.”

He gestured to the deck. “We
are
out.”

Clever.
She gave him a playful scowl. “God, you're such a liar.”

“I thought I was being creative.”

“I was thinking more like
cheap
.”

He chuckled. “I didn't lie about the view, though.”

“No, you didn't.” Claire looked at him across the table, appreciation flooding her. “Thank you,” she said.

He nodded to her plate. “You might want to try it first.”