The Shore (26 page)

“Hi, Linley,” Claire said, trying to sound normal.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Linley hastily pulled shut the bathroom door.

She frowned and peered at Claire. “Did you just get sick?”

“No,” said Claire. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” said Linley. She clamped her hand on Claire’s arm. “If that’s fine, I don’t want to see you on a bad day. I’m walking you to your seat.”

“I’m fine,” Claire insisted, but she was too whipped to argue and she let Linley steer her back down the aisle. She kept her eyes lowered, trying not to look like I-just-barfed girl to the whole plane.

They reached their seats, and Claire half-fell into hers.

“I’ll be right back,” said Linley. A moment later she sat down by Claire and pulled the blanket around Claire’s shoulders. Then the guy in the seat next to Linley was there, handing Linley a plastic glass.

“Thanks,” Linley said to him, then to Claire, “Drink this.”

“Not thirsty,” Claire croaked.

“Seltzer,” said Linley soothingly. “That’s all. It’ll settle your stomach. And take this with it.”

“But—”

“Claire,” said Linley. “Do it. Or else.”

Or else what? thought Claire. “Drug pimp,” she said to Linley.

“Whatever,” said Linley, and practically shoved the pill down Claire’s throat. “Now, count to a hundred,” she ordered Claire.

“Bossy drug pimp,” muttered Claire.

“One hundred, ninety nine . . . ,” Linley said.

“Ninety eight, ninety-seven . . . ,” said Claire.

“How bad is she?” the guy whispered.

“Shhh!” ordered Linley. To Claire, she said, “Keep counting.”

Claire kept counting. But she was losing track. Whatever Linley had given her was pulling her under. Fast.

She saw the guy reach down and pull something out of his pocket. He leaned into Linley and said softly into her ear, “You forgot something.”

Seventy-three, seventy-two . . . Even in the semidarkness of the cabin, Claire recognized the scrap of silk underwear. California pink, she thought. Linley’s.

Seventy-one, seventy . . . Claire saw Linley glance at her watch, then smile up at her new friend. “Keep them,” Linley said. “Maybe I’ll get them back later.”

He laughed. She laughed.

Sixty-nine, Claire thought, and passed out.

Two

He stood, watching the house. He’d been there before, when he was younger. Much, much younger.

Okay, maybe not that much younger.

It had been a party house. A girlfriend-at-the-beach house. A “getting sex right” house.

Practice had made perfect. Or at least, that’s what he’d thought at the time.

She hadn’t.

Long time ago. Maybe not in ordinary time, but in his time. She’d been his whole world, although he’d tried to be cool about it. Had he failed? Is that why he felt the way he did now?

Not that he’d been totally faithful. But she couldn’t have known. Not about that.

His whole world. Well, he’d seen a lot more of the world since then.

But he wouldn’t mind seeing her again. Seeing her. And maybe more.

• • •

She woke up in California with the mother of all hangovers.

The morning light was fierce.

The smell was either delicious or disgusting. Or both.

Coffee and salt air.

Claire sat up cautiously. The room did not swoop or swim. Her stomach remained in place. Let that be a lesson to you, she told herself. Never take unknown substances and fly. With or without an airplane.

Possibly, she would live. Maybe she’d even drink some coffee. If she could walk that far.

She could. Claire pulled on shorts beneath the T-shirt she’d slept in; ignored the luggage dumped, and apparently Dumpster-dived, on the chair and floor of one corner of the room; located the bathroom across the hall; and then began to follow her nose. The long hall took her to a flight of stairs, which led to another short hall that opened into an enormous room that was the whole front—or was it the rear?—of the house. The room was so big, it had a kitchen across the back; a wall of windows and glass French doors across the front, opening onto a deck that looked out over major sand and sea real estate; a stone fireplace on another wall; and plenty of room to walk around in between.

Two people sat at the counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the space. One of them was Linley.

“She lives,” said Linley.

“Not yet,” said Claire and headed for the coffeemaker, something with dials and steamer attachments and who knew
what else—a sort of color-coordinated working monument to coffee enthroned on the granite kitchen countertop. And there was coffee in a gleaming carafe. Claire tried not to lunge for it, went heavy on the sugar and milk, then turned around.

There was Linley, all safe and familiar and not looking at all like a girl who’d spent a plane trip having sex in an airplane toilet. And who’d probably partied most of what was left of the night after she’d gotten to California.

And Jodi. Claire barely remembered meeting Jodi at the airport.

She remembered more about how Jodi looked from one of the photos Lindsey had stuck to her dorm room wall.

Today, however, Jodi looked like a small dandelion on acid. Claire hadn’t noticed it on the cramped trip from the airport in the battered Subaru. She’d barely been conscious then.

But she couldn’t help noticing now. Jodi’s hair seemed to explode in bleached-white tips from her head. She had faint golden freckles across her cheeks. Her eyes were almost turquoise and were startlingly framed by pale, spiky lashes.

Little and takes no prisoners, she remembered Linley saying about Jodi. An amazing artist. An unfortunate only child. Why unfortunate? Claire had asked. Well, her mother who had made a bad second marriage. The stepfather from hell . . .

Come to think of it, Linley had told her . . . what else had Linley told her?

Linley interrupted Claire’s thoughts by pushing back the
barstool next to her own with a practiced motion. “Have a muffin,” she said, indicating the bag on the counter.

“Not now,” Claire said. “My stomach has a headache. What are you wearing, Lin? Is that a wet suit?”

“A shorty,” Linley explained. “A short wet suit.”

“You should rinse it off,” Jodi said. “It’s gross just to sit around in it.”

“We went surfing,” Linley explained. “I was trying to sleep and I heard a burglar crashing around in the kitchen. . . .”

“You knew it was me,” said Jodi. “You came downstairs dragging your wet suit with you as if it were a dead dog.”

“I’ve never dragged a dead dog. I wouldn’t know . . . so I thought, well, Claire’s gonna be sleeping it off all day, so I’ll catch some waves.”

“Surfing,” said Claire, finally getting it. “You’ve been surfing? Weren’t you up all night partying?”

“Sure,” said Jodi. “You don’t surf?”

“New England,” said Claire. “Specifically, Lexington, Massachusetts—and not the Cape or the Island, though I summer there.”

“She’s got some good moves, however,” Linley put in. She paused. “On a snowboard.”

Jodi studied Claire. “Balance. If you’ve got balance, you could learn, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Claire agreed noncommittally. She drank coffee, looked out at the blinding sun. Definitely not New England. She
said, “Okay, now that you’ve got your surfing out of the way for the day. . .”

“For the morning,” Linley corrected.

“We should get started on roommates. And jobs.”

Jodi raised pale eyebrows.

“Where’s the computer? I can make flyers to put up,” Claire went on.

“Flyers?” Jodi said.

“For roommates,” Claire said.

“Ah, no,” said Jodi. “No flyers.”

Claire frowned at Jodi. “But . . .”

“We have an excellent house by the beach. And we’re not charging outrageous rent. We’ll have our choice of roomies. No worries,” said Jodi.

Linley said, “Claire, as the official house manager and rent collector, I applaud your, ah, diligence.”

“Oh, yeah, and the rent . . . ,” Claire began.

She stopped at the warning look Linley gave her. Linley had insisted that they collect rent from everyone except Linley and Claire. And that it be a secret. Linley didn’t want anyone to know that she wasn’t paying rent.

“Why not?” Claire had asked. “It’s no big deal, really, is it? After all, it’s your uncle’s house, so that makes it your house, technically.”

“No,” Linley had said firmly.

“What about Jodi? I mean, shouldn’t she be in on the deal too . . .”

“No. Just you and me. Our secret. Okay?”

Mystified, Claire had given up. She still didn’t get it. But she was willing to go along. Linley’s house. Linley’s rules—at least in rent.

“Today,” Linley went on, “we’re just going to take it easy. Relax. Go to the beach. Have a few drinks. Score a little of . . . whatever. And, oh yeah, go to the beach.”

“Don’t you want to rest?” asked Claire.

“Sure I do. On the beach. In the sun. Get rid of the library tan.” Linley stood up. “Okay, we need to stock up on some basics—and then let’s hit the sand.”

“I’ll drive,” said Jodi.

“A grocery list?” Claire said. “Don’t we need a . . . ?”

But her two roommates were out the door.

Basics, Claire discovered—or maybe she should have known—meant wine, beer, liquor; it also included mixers, a strange collection of organic frozen dinners, a potato field of chips, more coffee, and cases of diet soda.

If it hadn’t been for the diet soda and the organic factor, Claire would have sworn they were shopping for a fraternity.

She began to fling vegetables into the grocery cart, but Linley stopped her. “We can get that stuff at the farmers markets,” she said.

But she allowed Claire to add milk and even a few boxes of cereal. “For late night munchies,” Linley conceded, although Claire had been planning to use them for breakfast.

Jodi topped the cart with a large assortment of energy bars and three varieties of organic tea and headed for the checkout.

So much for grocery lists, thought Claire. Why am I surprised? I’ve been roommates with Linley for nine months.

As house manager, she was going to have her work cut out for her. But today clearly wasn’t the day.

Claire was still considering the options—should she volunteer to shop? Cook? Suggest a common fund for basic items, of which she would be in charge?—on the way home when Jodi wrenched the wheel of the car, did a U-turn across a double yellow and in front of an oncoming vehicle of the suburban assault type, and canted the car into a marginally legal parking space.

“Gandhi on a surfboard, Jodi,” said Linley, almost shaken into emotion.

Claire knew her mouth was open, but she couldn’t make sound come out. She was pretty sure she was trying to say something about surviving a cross-country flight only to die in an illegal U-turn. She’d noticed earlier that Jodi was a fast driver, but this . . .

Still moving fast, Jodi was all ready out of the car and headed for a tiny table outside a tiny coffee bar.

At the table a woman looked up from the bowl-size coffee cup she was cradling and smiled languidly.

“Jodi,” said the woman. She spoke in a low voice, but it carried clearly.

“Nice driving,” said the guy sitting next to her.

They were an eye-candy couple, especially on the guy side. He leaned back in the chair, studying them, blue eyed and blond and looking good. And looking as if he knew it.

“Poppy,” Jodi said, with a glance and a grin for the guy. “I’m glad I saw you. This is great, running into you like this. Linley, Claire, this is Poppy. She was the teaching assistant in my art workshop this past year. I was just thinking about you, Poppy.”

“Almost as good as being talked about,” said Poppy. Her own hair was dark red and, Claire thought, amazing. It hung loosely, blowing in the faint breeze, stunning against her pale moon-gold skin. Her eyes were cat-colored green, and her lips were vivid red to match the scarlet slip dress she wore and which, Claire thought, might be all she was wearing—unless you counted the worn leather slides that looked as if they’d been made from the braids of whips.

She wasn’t even wearing jewelry, Claire realized. And it made her look incredibly . . . naked. In a good way.

Good grief, thought Claire, what am I, some kind of pervert?

Did guys see Poppy as naked?

I am a pervert, thought Claire. A WASP virgin . . . pervert.

“Claire? Helloooo?” Jodi had turned, and Claire realized that everyone was looking at her. She hit rewind and said, “Oh! Right. Nice to meet you, Poppy, and, ah . . .”

“Dean,” he supplied. “The pleasure is all mine.”

At the word “pleasure,” Claire lowered her eyes. And made eye-crotch contact.

Package? Unit? Basket? What was the word Linley favored?

She looked up again and met Dean’s eyes. “All mine,” he repeated, and Claire felt herself turn red, or possibly purple.

And then she heard the words “. . . roommate? And I thought of you.”

Poppy said, “Did you?”

“It’s just for the summer, but it’ll give you time to look around for something more permanent,” Jodi said. “Poppy and her roommate weren’t such a great match,” she told Linley and Claire. “So Poppy’s looking for a new apartment.”

“Let’s just say she needs her space. And I need mine. Stat.” Poppy paused, then said thoughtfully, “A summer share. Why not? It could be entertaining.”

“What?” said Claire. “What?”

“I told you we’d find roommates, no problemo,” said Jodi.

“Do all of you come with the house?” asked Dean.

“And in the house,” said Linley. She smiled sweetly.

Claire took a step back. Jesus, Linley, she thought.

“I could use a cheaper place to hang for the summer. Sublet my place, crash at yours, save a little money,” said Dean.

“Really?” said Jodi.

Claire opened her mouth to say, wait a minute, we don’t even know this guy.

But Poppy said, “Dean is an old friend. I’ll vouch for him. He’ll pay what he owes on time.”

“And maybe with a little interest,” said Dean.

He looked not at Linley, or at Jodi, but at Claire.

“Uh, well,” Claire said.