It Comes In Waves (23 page)

Luke smiled sadly. “I keep thinking about yesterday. How good it was we did that, huh? It's kinda like fate. Like we knew we were running out of time. You think?”

“Maybe so,” she said.

“You coming up? My mom's probably not back in the room yet.”

Speaking of mothers . . . have you seen yours yet?

Ivy's reminder flickered through her thoughts. Claire had put the visit off long enough.

“Tell Ivy I'll call her later, okay?” she said to Luke, giving his hand a quick squeeze before she reached for the door. “And tell her I love her.”

W
hen Foster walked Claire down to the beach that final night, the moon had been resplendent: a flawless ivory, untouched, untouchable. He'd stopped them at the edge of the surf and she could see when he turned that he was fighting back tears. For one splendid moment, Claire believed it was because love had overwhelmed him. Then he spoke, and it was as if someone had pried apart her ribs and reached in.

“People change, Pepper. Even when they don't mean to . . .”

That night, and for many nights afterward, Claire would wonder: Had there been other clues over the years, other warning lights that Claire had ignored, hinting that Foster was slipping away from her? It was the shock and confusion of biting into a shiny apple and finding the inside browned. Had the rot been there the whole time? Had it all been a lie? The day Foster had introduced Claire to Jill at the Crab Trap, had he loved Jill Weber even then? When he said he wanted a girl who could surf, a girl who could share his dream of running In the Curl, was that a lie too?

Shep had spilled the second awful truth when Claire fled to his house later that night—the Creamsicle orange cottage he'd shared, until a few hours before, with Jill. They'd sat outside on the porch swing, too stunned and spent to do much pushing, because neither one had wanted to go inside. Shep had said he wasn't sure he could ever go inside the house again. But then they'd emptied their beers and he'd gone back in for more.

He'd brought out the cold pizza they'd never eaten, but Claire couldn't stomach a slice. Just the smell of the caramelized onions, so luscious a few hours earlier when they were hot and sweet and promising a night of laughter and friends, now sickened her.

“A—
baby
?” Claire had nearly choked on the word.

“Foss didn't tell you?”

Claire had bent at the waist, worried she'd throw up. Shep rubbed her back; she rubbed his. They embraced; they broke apart. Dancers whose dates had abandoned them during the final song. He'd offered her the couch for the night, implored her to stay, to keep talking, but she declined, promising him she wouldn't go farther than Charleston, that she'd be back in a day or two to find a new place. For a few hours she'd believed she could still live in Folly, still live near them. Shep wasn't sure that he could.

“Will you go to your folks'?” he asked.

“Eventually,” Claire said.

She'd wanted a night to collect herself before exposing the fullness of her failure to her parents, especially her father, to let the swollen crescents above and below her eyes from crying go down, so she drove to a hotel and lay awake watching television and emptying a tub of pimento cheese, her car in the parking lot two floors below, stuffed with everything she could pack.

It would be hard going back to her parents. But what else could she do? Ivy would gladly take her in—but how could she? Foster would need her more, and as his mother, Ivy would have to side with him. Claire didn't have enough money to rent a place on her own. Her salary from giving lessons had been barely enough to cover her expenses, minimal as they were. Foster had encouraged her to get other work, but she'd refused, knowing Ivy depended on her too much, knowing nowhere would be as much fun as the shop. Now here she was, broke. In every possible way. The last seven years of her life had been beaded on a thin thread, meant to last forever; until that night, she'd never had to question the strength of the clasp.

The next morning, she'd pulled in to her childhood home and taken the stairs to the front door. She knocked and waited, watching the peephole pane for signs of life beyond it. Movement and sound: her mother's heels clicking across the polished wood. Then her mother in view, slowing only a moment when she saw who had arrived. Her steps hastened. When she opened the door, her face seemed pale, her eyes startled.

“Hi, Mom.”

Her mother glanced past her to the driveway. “You drove?”

Claire smiled weakly. “I left.”

•   •   •

H
er mother had their housekeeper fix Claire a sandwich, even though Claire had informed her mother that she hadn't had an appetite for days. They waited in the sunroom, her mother boasting at the health of her prized orchids. Nearly ten minutes inside the house, her father still hadn't appeared.

“Is he here?” Claire asked.

Her mother pointed to the ceiling. “You know he can't hear a thing in his study.”

A lie. Claire knew her father's delayed entrance had nothing to do with ignorance of her arrival. She'd expected this strategy from him.

“Wait here,” said her mother. “I'll let him know.”

The housekeeper stepped in with her lunch and handed it to Claire. Tuna fish dripped down the side of a sesame seed roll, runny from too much mayonnaise. Her stomach turned; she set the plate down on a side table.

Claire knew exactly what would happen next. Her father, wishing to prove himself the victor in this ages-old war, would continue to make her wait. Maybe even up to an hour. Time enough that she might understand the weight of his grudge and the cost of her return. She'd endure it. She didn't care anymore. She just wanted a real bed tonight, a quiet place to gather her thoughts and a clean pillow to cry on.

But her mother's face was strained when she returned.

“He says . . .” Her mother sat down carefully. “He says unless you are willing to come upstairs and apologize that I'm to pack up your meal and send you out with it.”

“Apologize?” Claire stared at her. “For what?”

“Just do it, sweetheart. Just do it so we can get on with settling you back in and putting all this behind you.”

Claire glared past her mother to the stairs that led to her father's study. She'd expected some resistance, a dash of crow sprinkled on her food, which she'd already decided she would swallow. But this was unimaginable to her. Her own father.

She'd suffered enough humiliation these past few hours; she had reached her fill.

Claire gripped her bag with both hands and squeezed as she rose to keep from crying. She wouldn't allow him a tear. “Thanks for the sandwich, Mom.”

“Claire, please.” Her mother followed after her to the door. “Just do this one little thing.”

This one little thing? Was that what her mother thought this was? Had she considered her father's affairs little things too?

No wonder she'd never left him.

At the door, her mother's eyes filled. “Do you need money?”

“No,” Claire lied. “I've got plenty.”

“Let me have Adele wrap up more food. She can pack you as much as you need.”

“I don't want it,” said Claire. “Please thank her.”

“Come back tomorrow. Promise. Let me talk to him. Come back tomorrow and we'll all sit down together and work this out, all right? Promise?”

Claire nodded, but only to comfort her mother.

She wouldn't come back the next day, or the next. Her father would never alter the terms of his contract, and Claire wouldn't see him again for another two years, and only then at his funeral.

•   •   •

T
oday the azaleas looked parched. Claire stood on the wide cement steps and considered the bush's muted purple and red petals as she waited at the front door of her mother's home. It was a handsome building, so much more modern than the house Claire had grown up in. After her mother remarried, she'd craved something fresh, something new. “Like all brides do,” Maura had gushed after the ceremony. “Some want new silver. I wanted a new house.”

And so she had gotten one, and on the Battery, no less—one of the most desirable locations in all of Charleston, and she'd promptly filled it with new furniture. When Claire had finally come for a visit, the only thing she'd recognized in the entire house was a cast-iron doorstop in the parlor. She hadn't known whether to be pleased or unsettled.

The front door shuddered, signaling its impending sweep.

“Claire?” Her mother wore a puzzled expression as she leaned out.

“Hi, Mom.”

“This is . . .” Maura blinked. “Good grief, this is really such a surprise.”

“I know.”

“What on earth are you
wearing
?”

Claire met her mother's bewildered eyes. “It's a long story.”

Maura peered past her to the street. “Is Lizzie . . . ?”

“No,” said Claire. “She was here, but then she had to go home. I've been in Folly for an ESPN documentary. Like I said . . .” Claire smiled wearily. “It's a long story.”

“Well, come in, come in.”

Claire followed her mother through the kitchen to the parlor. A woman Claire's own age stood at the counter preparing a roast as they passed. The tangy smell of freshly cut rosemary tickled the air. Her stomach clenched with hunger.

“Where's Pierce?” Claire asked, looking around

“Playing golf, where else?” her mother answered. “He'll be home any minute. You will stay for dinner, won't you? Better yet, stay the night. I'll have Dottie make up the guest room for you.”

Stay the night? Claire considered all the excuses she could make for why she should decline her mother's offer, but they all seemed to pale against the hard fact that her accommodations—the shop's apartment—were now gone. She could stay with Gus—
Gus
! In all the chaos of the morning, she'd lost touch with him. He'd dropped her off at the shop and been directed away from the scene by police before they could reconnect. She'd call him now. Let him know she was all right. Let him know other things—like how much she wished he were here to sweep her into the curl of his smile, his laugh, his bed.

Her mother stared at her, waiting.

“Dinner sounds great,” Claire consented.

“Why don't you go on up and help yourself to a shower while I let Dottie know? Laura left a few things here from their last visit. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you used them while you're here.”

“Great,” Claire said, moving to the stairs, knowing there was little use in pointing out that Warren's wife was easily three sizes smaller than Claire.

•   •   •

D
espite Claire's earlier comment to Jill, getting out of her rash guard and surf shorts and into real clothes felt wonderful—even if it was one of Laura's obscenely expensive boutique dresses that, much to Claire's delight, didn't fit nearly as snugly as she'd feared.

She pulled her phone from her purse and saw three missed messages from Gus.

He picked up right away, the noise of the shop in the background. “Where are you?”

“In Charleston,” Claire said, looking around the room. “At my mother's.”

“How's Ivy? I've been asking around, but no one seems to have a straight answer.”

“She's fine. Well . . .” Claire sat on the bed. “She's as fine as can be expected. The doctor's keeping her at the hospital overnight for observation.”

“What about you?”

“He said I could leave whenever I wanted to.”

“Very funny.” But his chuckle seemed halfhearted and she regretted making the joke. “Seriously . . . are you okay?”

Claire ran her hand along the edge of the footboard. “I'm worried, Gus. What's Ivy going to do now? God, hasn't she lost enough?”

“Ivy's tough. She'll get through this.”

“How do you know?”

“I don't; I'm just stupidly optimistic.” She could hear the smile return to his voice. “You should try it sometime.”

She liked that she could envision his surroundings in her mind: the busyness of the store floor, the excitement of the customers rushing to pay for their gear.

She looked at the door. “I feel like I'm twelve and everyone's waiting for me to start dinner.”

“Then go,” he said. “Call me when you're back, okay?”

“It won't be until tomorrow.”

“I think I can wait.”

“You
think
?”

“Go eat, will you? Before I come over there with a bowl of mac and cheese and feed you myself.”

•   •   •

P
ierce Danvers waited for her at the bottom of the stairs.

“Claire, darlin'!”

He took both of her hands and dipped down to kiss her cheek, his breath smelling faintly of gin. Claire obliged him the kiss and the squeezing of hands. Done, he straightened and took her in. While his gray hair had thinned and his hard jaw softened with age, his teasing eyes hadn't changed. Even now he looked at her with the same bemusement, the same curiosity he'd delivered when she was a teenager and he was trying his best to match her with his son, Warren. His marriage to her mother in the wake of their respective spouses' parting—Harp dying suddenly of a heart attack, Bibi leaving in divorce—had shocked no one, except Claire. Far away in Colorado, Claire hadn't been privy to any of the courtship, though from what she learned at the wedding, there had hardly been one to know about. According to the other guests, Maura had sought to comfort Pierce in the wake of Bibi's demands for a separation. Pierce had been touched; her mother, apparently, had been relentless. A year later, they were married. Claire had wondered: Had her mother taken some kind of vengeful pleasure in marrying Bibi's husband? Had it been the ultimate act of retribution? An eye for an eye? A lover for a lover?

Maura emerged from the kitchen, holding a glass of white wine.

“That looks lovely on you, Claire. You always looked so good in floral prints.”

They ate in the dining room, overlooking the courtyard. The strong sunlight of day had paled to a creamy pink, making the lawn look like a blanket of velvet beyond the room's tall windows.

Pierce squinted at Claire as he worked to soften a bite of meat. “ESPN, you say?”

Claire nodded. “It wasn't as big of a deal as I'd hoped.”