The Shore (31 page)

Claire decided that as long as no ash hit the food and no one complained, she wasn't going to think about it. Once, when Fry leaned forward with an order and a particularly gnarly silver cylinder of ash, Claire's and Jan's eyes met.

They both smiled and shrugged. Old pros at work.

He came in at the end of the first week. He strolled in
through the open doors with a medium-size red and white dog that had a tail like a raccoon following on his heels and sat down at the counter.

Given the cigarette situation in the back, Claire figured Joseph wasn't going to say anything about the dog. So instead of saying, “No Dogs by Order of the Health Department except on that rickety stretch of boards we call the deck,” she'd asked instead, “What's your dog's name?”

He'd glanced over and smiled, not at her, but at the dog. “Barrel,” he said. “His name is Barrel.”

The dog waved his tail gently in acknowledgment.

“He's beautiful,” she said sincerely. She liked dogs. Her family always had a pile of Labradors lying around, snoring and farting and waiting to go swimming and play fetch or clean plates. She loved them all, and mourned the ones that had died . . . thought of them often still.

A secret sentimental weakness, she told herself.

“Yes, he is,” the guy said simply. He looked at her then, with a slight smile that was easy and without hidden meanings. She smiled back and took his order and later saw that one of the two sandwiches was being handed down on the coffee saucer to Barrel.

Barrel was much more polite than the Labs. He waited until the plate was on the floor before inhaling the sandwich.

On the next order, she made a detour through the cooler and swiped a piece of cheese and passed it over to the guy. “For Barrel,” she said, and went to pour coffee.

He was still there when her shift ended and she began totaling out her day's checks. Joseph was working the daily paper's crossword puzzle at the end of the bar, and Jan, who was pulling a double shift, was just sitting on a stool, staring out at the passing crowd on the boardwalk.

“From around here?” asked Claire, and laughed inwardly because she sounded like a local.

He shrugged. “I give surfing lessons over at the Belle Azure,” he said, referring to one of the upmarket mega hotels farther down the beach.

“Room and board?” she asked, and would later remember that.

“Freelance,” he said. He grinned. “I'm good at it.” He seemed to find this funny, and added, “My mom always wanted me to be a teacher.”

“As a matter of fact,” he went on, “Barrel and I are looking for a place for the summer. Living in the van now, but no way is that a long-term plan. But with a dog, y'know . . .” His voice trailed off.

And Claire the careful, Claire the cautious, said, for no other reason than she liked Barrel, “We have a room. We have a house.”

“That'd be cool,” he said. “Far from here?”

“A short skate away,” Claire said, and it was true. She'd hiked a few blocks to the boardwalk with her in-line skates on her shoulder and cruised on down to work that day.

“Well, I can give you wheels home when you're through,” he offered.

Claire punched one more button on the register, then wound the receipt around the checks. She stuck that in one of Joseph's many drawers behind the counter. She hung up her apron and retrieved her pack from a cabinet and said, “I'm through for the day.”

“Cool enough,” he said, and she followed what could have been an ax murderer, for all she knew, out into the sun and into his van.

Only as she left the Stacked did she even think about caution. “Joseph,” she said.

Joseph glanced up.

“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 he 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.”