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  But other times Sara had been my savior. Once as I was building an elaborate sandcastle, a bunch of older boys came over and destroyed it. Sara raced over and chased them away, yelling that they were “little shits who deserved to rot in hell.” Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the way to talk to eight-year-old boys, but it was the gesture that counted. Or the time I had been assigned to play an elf in the Kendall’s Watch Elementary School Holiday Pageant; I was so freaked out that Sara marched me into the principal’s office, pointed to my quaking little-kid body, and said, “See? See what you’re doing to her? I will sue your ass if you make her appear in your silly show.” Again, not the most polite way to get things done, but thanks to Sara I got to hand out programs instead.

  Myra got off the couch. “Don’t stress about Sara now. You’ll figure something out. I’m going to bed. And I think you should, too. Sleep on it.” Myra seized my arms and pulled me off the couch. I was all limbs and loose joints without muscles. I hadn’t realized how tired I was. I let Myra drag me down the hall and up the stairs to her room. The air mattress was already inflated, with sheets and blankets arranged; Myra had even turned the covers down and placed a stuffed bunny on the pillow.

  “You are the hostess with the mostest.” I hugged her, then lay down on my perfect guest bed. “Have I mentioned that if you move to Paris, I’ll kill you?” I mumbled.

  “Numerous times. But, please don’t. Like they say in ‘Bye-Bye-Birdie,’ I’ve got a lot of living to do.”

  “Yeah, yeah…” I didn’t even take my dress off. Sleep came on like a Mack truck. No worries—at least till morning.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I left Myra’s at 6 a.m. in a foggy, groggy stupor, fueled by jitters of excitement and panic. I was meeting Chris for an early morning surf session that could be disastrous or blissful, now that I knew who he was, now that we had kissed. I had to find out for sure what the deal was with Inga Ward.

  When I got to Secretspot, I found him on the beach, waxing his board in neat little circles. The muscles in his back undulated like sheaths of wheat and I could’ve stood there for hours, just staring at him from behind.

  “Hey, Belly Flop.” He turned and saw me staring, mouth agape. “You okay?”

  Closing my mouth, I said weakly, “I’m fine. You?”

  He looked at me with a sparkle in his eye and that snaggle-toothed smile. “I’m just hunky dory.”

  “I’ve always wondered,” I said, too loudly. “What or who is ‘hunky dory’ anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Is it like a buff boat, or a chick named Dory who’s built like a dude?”

  I laughed, but it was forced. My anxiety was starting to get the best of me. I have to ask him about Inga, I thought.

  He stood up and I almost fainted. I hadn’t yet been on land with a basically naked Chris. In the water, moving around was one thing; dressed up for a dinner date was another. This was something else entirely. He walked over to me and grasped my shoulders gently. “You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

  “Something like that,” I gasped.

  “Well, then…” His arms slipped down my arms and made their way around my waist. Oh my god. He’s gonna kiss me again.

  I pushed away from him and blurted, “Are you still with her?”

  He looked confused. “With who?”

  “Inga Ward.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “No one. Besides, why would it matter who?”

  A dark cloud passed over his face. “Listen,” he said, as he grasped my shoulders a bit too tightly. “Inga and I are history. You have to believe me. We haven’t been together for six months.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “I believe you. So chill with the Iron Man routine, please.”

  Chris looked at his hands and instantly softened his grip. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “No, not really,” I said.

  “Sometimes I get a bit carried away.” His hands stroked my arms, then pulled me into a hug, warm and welcoming. “But I’m working on it.”

  “I’m kinda nervous,” I murmured into the center of his smooth, warm, and wicked hard chest.

  “Me too,” he said.

  I popped my head up to look at him. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Scared shitless.”

  “Good,” I said. “That makes me feel better.”

  I tucked my head down into the warmth of his chest, and let my arms find their way around his waist. Chris smelled like almonds and seaweed. We stood there for a moment longer, my shivers melting, our breathing in sync. “Let’s just surf,” he said. And so we did.

  We paddled out side by side, which was totally strange for me—I had never paddled out, on purpose, companionably, with anyone before. The waves were sizable, but breaking unpredictably across the front of our boards like a choppy meringue.

  “Is that as fast as you can go?” he grinned. “I mean, really. You are the lamest paddler I’ve ever met.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said, pouring on some extra steam. “I’ll race you through this slop to the outside.”

  “You’re on,” he panted.

  “I’ll bet you don’t make it,” I called over my shoulder as I sped forward. “You’ll be lucky not to have one of these rogue suckers crash on your beautiful head.”

  I made it with yards to spare.

  Chris, arriving next to me a moment later, moaned, “Ouch! My lungs are about to explode.”

  I mussed his curly head—my first spontaneous gesture of affection. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, right,” he chuckled. “You’re a paddling hell-raiser.”

  Chris took the first wave and rode it like a wild man genius. Not many surfers could’ve done what he did on such an unforgiving mess of a wave. I waited for the third wave of the set, hoping it wouldn’t be quite so testy a beast. I managed to stay on and carve a few times before my wave decided to wall up and spit me out.

  The following hour of surfing was the most fun I had ever had in the water, which had me wondering about all my years of self-imposed exile. Despite this twinge of regret, I still couldn’t imagine surfing with anyone other than Chris.

  There were a series of not-quite-as-fabulous-as-expected waves,not-being-in-exactly-the-right-spot-but-okay-you-made-it-so-stop-whining waves, time-to-bail waves, and a bunch of should-I-shouldn’t-I-oops-too-late waves. One wave threw me for a major loop. I took off on it, feeling all cocky and cool, but before I knew it the sucker walled up, closed out, and sent me careening over the falls. I tumbled like a lost sock in a dryer, but fortunately my churn-fest only lasted a few seconds, and I emerged with both head and board attached and intact.

  Chris had his own share of close calls and dork moves, and I think in the end, we laughed more than we surfed. I wished that it didn’t ever have to end, but I had to get to work.

  “I gotta go,” I sighed. “The next one is my ride in.”

  Chris paddled up next to me and jumped off his board.

  “What are you doing—” I started but couldn’t finish because he came up and tipped me over.

  “Now I’m the one who’s cold,” he said, sculling water next to me.

  What happened next would’ve been beyond my comprehension twenty-four hours before—we made out in the ocean; above and below the waves. When we finally came up for air, Chris said one word: “Wow.”

  “I hope that was okay?” I garbled.

  “Are you joking? That was more than okay.” He leaned in for more. This time his hands traveled. Nothing too advanced. No private parts explored. But I wasn’t sure I was ready for where this would take us next.

  I had to get going before I did something I regretted. “Bye.” Climbing back on my board, I started paddling away.

  “Wait! When am I gonna see you again?” Chris called.

  “When do you want to see me again?
” I hollered back.

  “As soon as possible?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Where?”

  I wasn’t sure how much public exposure I could tolerate. Brinestellar’s had been quite a challenge. And even though being alone with him might lead to places I wasn’t sure I was quite ready to go, it still felt like the safer option. “Here. We can hang on the beach. I have to stay at work till nine. How about nine-thirty?”

  He smiled. “That sounds perfect. And you—you’re perfect, too.”

  Oh my god, I thought. He really likes me. “Look who’s talking. Right back at ya.” I gave him a thumbs-up and instantly regretted the nerdy gesture. Inga Ward probably would’ve done something sexier— at the very least, blown him a kiss.

  Chapter Twenty

  As a little kid, I loved going grocery shopping with my grandmother. Buying food with Gramma was like being on a slow but fun train ride. I got to sit in the kiddie seat up front as she strolled up and down the aisles, examining prices and asking my opinion.

  “What do you think, Anna Marie? Should we get the Green Giant peas or the Shop-rite brand?”

  The answer was obvious. “The Giant, of course!”

  Food was much more fun when it had a fictional buddy smiling at you from the label, so my choices had more to do with the character than the price. The Giant, the Chicken of the Sea Mermaid, Uncle Ben, Aunt Jemima, Little Debbie. Even if it was going to cost her more, Gramma always got me what I wanted.

  Shopping with Sara, on the other hand, was inevitably a harried, last-minute ordeal. She could never plan ahead so we were always buying for that day, or maybe the next. She’d grab a handbasket and expect me to scurry along behind as she pulled things off the shelves without checking prices.

  One afternoon, when I was about four, Gramma and I had been wheeling a cart full of supplies through the parking lot to the station wagon, when I saw Matt, the guy my mother had been dating that summer. I had liked Matt. He’d stuck around longer than some of the others; he’d even helped me learn to surf, holding my board steady as he pushed me onto super small waves, cheering when I stood up with my legs wide and my arms out like propellers.

  “Hey Gramma,” I’d cried. “There’s Matt!”

  Matt was emerging from behind the dumpster, zipping up his jeans, a woman behind him buttoning her blouse. I waved and called, while Gramma yanked me out of my seat and plopped me in the back seat of the station wagon.

  “That’s enough now, Anna Marie. You hush up, you hear?” She’d belted me in, scrambling to get the last bag of groceries out of the cart before shoving it away from the car. Then, gunning the engine, she tore out of the parking lot as if she were an ambulance driver.

  When Sara came to pick me up later that day, Gramma told me to stay upstairs while she delivered the bad news to Sara. Hugging Woof Woof to my chest, I listened at the door.

  “It probably wasn’t him,” Sara had said defensively. “Your eyes aren’t great, Ma. And Anna’s just a kid.”

  “Oh, it was him all right. They’d been, been…having relations!”

  “Gimme a break. You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Fornicating!” Gramma cried.

  “Fornicating? What century are you from? Don’t be silly, Ma.”

  “I’m not being silly,” Gramma huffed. “And I know more than you give me credit for, young lady.”

  “I’m sure he’s got an explanation.” Sara’s voice got high-pitched and trembly, which meant she would either break out in sobs or start yelling. Hugging Woof Woof tighter, I wasn’t sure which alternative would be worse.

  “Don’t kid yourself, Sara,” Gramma warned. She had only ever used that particular tone of voice with me when I was about to do something dangerous or stupid, like trying to roller skate down the stairs, or stick my finger in a fan to see if I could stop it. I’d never heard her use that tone of voice with Sara.

  The front door slammed and I could hear Sara’s Jeep speed away.

  Now here I was, twelve years later, with a Slimy Rusty situation that was a Dumpster Matt redux. The only difference was that Gramma didn’t need to be the bearer of bad news, which was a minor blessing, as I don’t know if my frail little grandmother could handle the fallout. The onerous task of telling my poor unsuspecting mother that she’d been betrayed again was mine. Whether I could survive the Sara storm that would follow was another question.

  “This is a large. Do you have it in a medium?”

  I smiled tightly at the woman as she brandished a Kendall’s Watch tee shirt in my face, but I really wanted to punch her. She was a bully and had shoved her way to the front of the queue. Pushy bitch, I thought. But I managed to say, “I’m sorry. That’s the last one.”

  Pushy Bitch rolled her eyes, as if I had insulted her, dumped the shirt on top of the counter and walked away. Darn, I thought. We needed that sale. It took every ounce of retail cool I had to bite my tongue when I really wanted to scream curses at her. This was the fifth time that day that I had been tested by rude or stupid customers. And it wasn’t even noon.

  My mother, of course, was MIA. I had left Chris and Secretspot to open the shop at nine forty-five, expecting Sara to arrive by ten. Now, she was two hours late. She hadn’t answered the home line, and voicemail picked up immediately when I tried her cell.

  As flaky as my mother could be, she never, ever bailed on the shop. Had she found out about Rusty’s blonde? Gone down to Easton and made a scene? Found them in Rusty’s hideaway, going at it on 500 thread count sheets, then wandered off in a drunken, heartbroken stupor to who knew where? Managing a busy morning at The Shell Shop on my own was challenge enough, but imagining my mother dead in a ditch somewhere made me want to jump out of my skin. I considered calling my grandparents, but they would only panic and call Joe Logan, Chief of Police, and Gramma’s second cousin. Joe and his half-baked police squad usually had nothing better to do than write parking tickets or break up bar fights. I imagined them—all excited by the prospect of an actual missing person—driving with sirens blasting, interrogating every person and pet dog within a ten-mile radius.

  At quarter past twelve, I was helping an indecisive woman choose from a variety of equally unflattering sun hats when Sara waltzed in, smiling and laughing, easy breezy. And who should waltz in right beside her? Rusty slime-bucket, two-timing, how-dare-you-show-your-face Meyers.

  “Hey babe,” Sara said as she gave the shop a quick once over. “Looks like the troops have been through. Busy morning?” She bent down to pick up a discarded sarong.

  I was speechless. Both Sara and Rusty looked squeaky clean, like they had just stepped out of the shower—wild sex clean-up, no doubt. I shot an evil dart glare right between Rusty’s bushy eyebrows. I wanted to shout, “Where’s your blonde friend?” but I restrained myself. No scenes in the shop—bad for business. Instead, I turned to Sara: “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded.

  “Didn’t you see the note?” she asked.

  “What note?”

  Sara pulled a piece of paper from where it had been tacked, to the left of the light switch. “This note.” She read it out loud: “‘I’m going down to Easton for brunch. I’ll be back by noon.’”

  I imagined her and Rusty sitting at some overpriced restaurant sipping mimosas and playing post-coital footsie under the table. “I never look at the light switch when I open the shop. I always just reach sideways and flick it on.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to know that?” Sara asked, defensively.

  “You could have called.”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  Rusty cleared his throat and said, “Hey, guys. What’s done is done. No worries, right?”

  Sara smiled at Rusty and patted his arm. “No worries.” She turned to me and her smile took on a saccharine sheen. “Right, Anna?”

  “Whatever.” I turne
d to re-fold a stack of perfectly folded beach towels.

  “Anna,” said Sara. “You look beat. Why don’t you grab some lunch?”

  “Hey, my treat,” offered Rusty. “Whatever you want, it’s on me.”

  Rusty was quickly becoming the sixth person I wanted to punch that morning. “No thanks. I’m not hungry,” I said tightly.

  “Well, maybe some other time,” Rusty said brightly. “Nice to see you anyway, Anna. Maybe I’ll get to watch you in the water sometime soon. Sounds like the surf’s gonna pick up in the next few days. At least that’s what your mom tells me.”

  Fold, fold, re-fold. That was all he got from me.

  I heard a bit of whispering and shuffling, then, “See you, Sare.” Sare, not Sara. One syllable. Shortened. Rusty’s special pet name for my mother. The Shell Bell jingled as he yanked the door closed. Sare walked past me to the storeroom without saying a word, nasty or otherwise. I wondered what the hell they had whispered about.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The post-lunch crowd began to descend at 1 p.m. The shop filled with whiny kids drawn to the most breakable and expensive Shellys. I wanted to tell everyone to go back to their hotel rooms, turn on their AC’s and take nice, long family naps. I was fried and starving, and felt now that it had been stupid not to have taken Sara’s offer of a lunch break. Now a break was impossible because Shellys, towels, and sweatshirts were flying off the shelves. We were raking it in—it seemed like people couldn’t buy enough. With Sara manning the over-active cash register, I had to pick up discarded sunglasses, re-fold towels, re-stack flip-flops in size order and, most importantly, catch kid-handled Shellys before they crashed to the floor.