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  The young couple looked at me as if I was bonkers. But they bought the Shelly chalet, so maybe my bit of cray-cray hadn’t screwed things up. At least not yet.

  Chapter Nine

  The shop was super busy the whole day, so luckily there wasn’t much opportunity for Sara to rag on me. I did manage to tell her about the low inventory of tee shirts, which she did manage to thank me for; but only after she had phoned our new tee shirt manufacturer and sweet-talked the guy into a rush job—three hundred smalls to extra-larges by Wednesday at no extra cost, free shipping, and a guaranteed discount on our next order. It was obvious, however, that she was pissed at me. I hadn’t lived up to her expectations once again. She didn’t need to say anything; I knew I had disappointed her just by the way she breathed.

  I was pissed, too, though. At least if I knew for sure she was the force behind the Surfing Siren video I could rage against her for something real and substantial. Now she got to play her usual role—the non-supportive mother with her own agenda who made no attempt to help me out of what I saw as a bind, because she saw it as an opportunity.

  We kept the shop open every night until 9 p.m. during the summer months, the prime-time for after-dinner tourist shopping. But on Thursdays we closed early because rain or shine, surf or no surf, we were expected at my grandparents’ house by quarter past six for dinner. I could tell by Sara’s expression as she cashed out the register that it had been a less than stellar day. We closed up and walked to the car in silence. Sara backed out of the parking space like a drag racer leaving the pit, barely giving me time to close the passenger seat door, and swerving inches from a young boy eating a giant ice cream cone. The boy, seven-years-old tops, mouthed the word “asshole” as we pulled away.

  “Jesus, Sara!” I cried. “Just because we had a sucky sales day, you don’t have to take it out on innocent little kids.”

  “That’s not what’s bothering me.”

  “So you’re upset because of me,” I said.

  “Upset? Me upset?” Sara punched on the radio, and another gangsta grunted about life in the fast lane. Give me back Brad Paisley any day. “Upset is not the word for what I am.”

  “So what is the word?”

  “Totally disappointed. Ashamed. Humiliated.” She turned left, out of the center of Kendall’s, then veered on to Toilsome Lane, a winding road which weaved uphill through pitch pines and shade trees.

  “That’s four words.”

  “Stop it,” Sara snapped, glaring at me. The speed limit was thirty—perfectly appropriate for a twisty road in a residential neighborhood; Sara was doing at least fifty. “Why are you always so smart-mouthed to me, but you can barely utter a word, polite or otherwise, to anyone else?”

  Because I am genetically predisposed to shyness, and since it obviously didn’t come from you, it must’ve come from the guy you had unprotected sex with seventeen years ago, when you were barely older than I am now—is what I wanted to say. But I kept my smart mouth shut. Enough damage had been done for now.

  Over the years, when Sara was out, I had scrutinized the photo of my father, looking for clues, hoping I would see something that indicated some kind of social discomfort—was his broad smile a bit too forced? Did he wear that hat and sunglasses to hide from people? Would I ever know?

  “Is this about Rusty?” I finally asked. “’Cause I wasn’t all nicey-nicey?”

  “Oh gimme a break, Anna. I don’t need your approval for who I date.” Sara swerved around a curve, brushing the side of the Jeep along the Bennigans’ recently planted privet. Sara and I had lived with my grandparents on Toilsome Lane until I was five years old and I knew this road like the back of my hand. I knew everyone who lived in every house, every tree, broken roof, beat-up car, and new pool on Toilsome. I could close my eyes and predict the cracks and bumps in the pavement, know how and when my stomach would lurch when we crested the hills. “This is about your disappearing act at Early’s, and your sudden recovery from the mystery ailment.”

  “I was sick. Really.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “So it’s about the Stella scout.”

  “Um, yeah, duh.”

  “I don’t understand what the big deal is,” I offered, staring out the window at the blur of green rushing by. “It’s a free country. The scout is allowed to watch anyone he wants out there. But it doesn’t mean that I have stick around to be stared at.”

  “Well, that’s big of you,” Sara said sarcastically, as she drove up the gravel driveway to a small colonial that I knew better than my own shabby two-bedroom home. I had often returned to my grandparents’ house while Sara was off on surf trips, or romantic getaways. Other times I had been fobbed off on them when Sara wanted to hole up alone at home—recovering from yet another broken heart and unable to deal with the demands of motherhood. I thanked every celestial being in the universe on a daily basis for my grandparents.

  As Sara pulled to a stop behind Grandpa’s pickup, I leapt out of the car and hurried inside. Despite being pissed at me, Sara would never let her parents see the tension between us. Since taking over The Shell Shop, Sara had been trying to prove to them that despite her party-girl rep she had her shit together, that she was both a competent businesswoman and a civil, upstanding citizen.

  I swept breathlessly through the door, relieved to have escaped Sara’s immediate wrath. Grandpa, cemented to his recliner-throne, was watching TV and didn’t bother to turn around. No pleasantries with Grandpa; even compliments were delivered as if they were bad news. While heart surgery had saved his life, Grandpa had to avoid stress so he spent most of his time in front of the TV or barking orders at my downtrodden saint of a grandmother.

  Sara slammed the door behind me.

  “How much did you take in today?” Grandpa shouted.

  “Enough.” Sara glared at the back of Grandpa’s balding head. Grandpa was tough on Sara; he’d snarl his opinions under his breath, rarely acknowledging her success with the store. You didn’t have to be a shrink to wonder if Sara’s tendency to look for love in all the wrong places might have something to do with dear old Dad.

  I planted a kiss on Grandpa’s forehead before plopping down on the adjacent couch. Grandpa loved me in his surly

  old geezer way—I got hugs and kisses while most everyone else got barks and orders. I adored Grandpa’s smell. He smelled of sweat, and something deep and musky, like old tree bark after a rainstorm. Today he smelled different—off and sour. He looked pale, and his skin felt clammy.

  “You feeling all right?” I asked.

  “As well as can be expected,” he grumbled. “Stuck in this goddamn chair for most of the goddamn day.”

  He was supposed to take it easy, however, his doctors had encouraged him to get regular exercise. His retired friends invited him to take beach walks, play golf, and “boogey down” in

  aqua-aerobics at the community pool. Grandpa stubbornly chose his chair—outings of the cultural or physical kind were all a big waste of time as far as Tom Dugan was concerned.

  “You look pale,” I commented.

  “I’m fine,” Grandpa barked. “I’m just trying to concentrate on my TV show, if you haven’t noticed.” He squinted at the TV, refusing to wear the glasses that had been prescribed for him.

  “What are you watching?” I asked.

  “These dumb-ass scientists in Peru are digging around in those ruins. Whaddya call them, Macchu Peanuts or something? Looking for some goddamn necklace belonging to some big Injun who-ha. Everyone getting all excited, getting their knickers in a twist. Waste of time, if you ask me.”

  Archaeologists in hard hats, with lanterns, picks, and shovels climbed over rocks and slid through tunnels while a low-voiced narrator droned on and on.

  “How was the surf today?” Grandpa asked.

  I started in surprise. Grandpa never asked me about
surfing. It wasn’t even a commercial break. “Since when are you interested in surfing?”

  Grandpa shrugged, his large, knobby hands resting on his Santa-sized belly. “Some of the guys mentioned something.”

  “Some of the guys mentioned something? What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  “Danny said that Jimmy said something about some talent scout coming to watch you surf.”

  I groaned. Danny Flannigan—Jimmy Flannigan’s grandfather—was one of my grandfather’s hardware homies; they sat together outside Lundy’s Hardware Haven every afternoon with all the other retired geezers, former contractors, fishermen, and firemen, grumbling about the tourists, the world, the weather. Now, it seemed, they also grumbled about me.

  “Since when is anything one of the Flannigans has to say worth the lint off my butt?” I demanded.

  Grandpa grinned. Talking tough and nasty was one of our bonding rituals. “Yeah,” he replied. “Those Flannigans are all pieces of—”

  “Tom Dugan! Watch your mouth!” Gramma scolded from behind his chair. While Grandpa had gotten larger and softer with age, Gramma had withered like a prune. Years of smoking and lack of exercise had made her bones weak and brittle. Whenever she bent over to kiss me or stooped to sweep stray bits of dust from her spotless floors, I was scared that she might never get upright again. I worried that one day I might find Gramma in a jumble on the kitchen linoleum and Grandpa slumped over in his chair.

  “Hi, Gramma.” I rose to give her a careful hug as she kissed my cheeks. Her lips were dry and scratchy and she smelled of Salems and sweet liqueur. While cooking, Gramma would swig peach schnapps straight from the bottle; at the dinner table, with company, she would sip it with carefully puckered lips from a crystal glass. She rarely drank anywhere else, but when she was home it was another boozy story.

  “Hello, Anna Marie.” Gramma was the only person on the planet who called me by my first and middle names. I think it sounded more ladylike and proper to her. Growing up, I had always been considered a tomboy, which from Gramma’s perspective meant unmarriageable and, possibly, a lesbian. Unmarriageable? Maybe. But I knew I wasn’t gay.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked.

  “She’s helping me in the kitchen.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. My mother never lifted a finger to help when we came over for dinner, yet Gramma always covered for her.

  “You need anything, Tom?” asked Gramma, placing a hand on his forehead as if checking for a fever. So something was wrong with Grandpa—I wasn’t imagining things.

  He pulled his head away. “Nah, I’m fine. Just starved. When’s dinner already?”

  “Soon, dear, very soon.” Gramma, weaving her way back to the kitchen, shot me a wink. “I made your favorite dessert, Anna Marie—peach pie.”

  “Yum. Thanks, Gramma.” Peach pie. Gramma’s obvious cover for the peachy smell of her favorite drink.

  Once Gramma was safely out of earshot, Grandpa leaned forward, staring right at me. “So, is it true?” he demanded.

  “Is what true?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass,” he muttered. “You know damn well I’m talking about this surf thing.”

  I shrugged. “It’s not such a big deal, Grandpa. I wouldn’t get your knickers in a twist over it.”

  “I don’t know,” Grandpa shrugged. “You can make a pretty penny on these pro tours. You get to travel all over the world. Go to Tahiti, and Bali, and places like that.”

  “So?”

  “So?” he cried. “Are you kidding me? Let me tell you, for a fat, old guy like me, stuck on a La-Z-Boy chair for the rest of my goddamn life with aching joints and a bum ticker, watching shows about those places; well, for me it would be the chance of a lifetime to actually go for real.”

  “I’m gonna go help Gramma.”

  “I’m not finished talking, missy—” Grandpa growled.

  “Well, I am,” I growled over my shoulder as I stormed toward the kitchen. Gramma was struggling to lift a sizzling bird out of the oven, while my mother leaned against the counter, thumbing through a Woman’s Day magazine. God knows, Gramma would never ask Princess Sara for help. Sara was, after all, Gramma’s “miracle.” Gramma had been over forty and had given up on ever having children when she became pregnant with Sara. Perhaps Gramma always let Sara off the hook because Grandpa never did. Whatever the case, Gramma let Sara get away with murder.

  “Lemme get that.” Grabbing a crochet pot holder, I raced toward her—envisioning the fall of chicken, roasting pan, Gramma and all, sprawled out in a mess upon the kitchen floor.

  “Thank you, Anna Marie,” Gramma smiled as I steadied the pan. “You’re a dear.”

  “Gramma, what’s up with Grandpa?” I asked as I rested the chicken on the counter. “He doesn’t look so good.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. He woke up this morning short of breath and with the most terrible cough; but he won’t let me near him with a thermometer.”

  “Probably just a cold,” Sara added, without looking up from her magazine. “Something’s going around. He probably caught it by sharing a bottle of bourbon with his buddies down in front of Lundy’s.”

  “Oh Sara,” Gramma sighed. “You know your father barely ever drinks—much less in the daytime, sitting on a sidewalk bench. That’s illegal.”

  Sara, with an exaggerated sigh, tossed the magazine on the counter and looked pointedly at me. “I seem to be making mistake after mistake these days. I’ll be out back. Give a holler when dinner’s ready.” She was already dialing her phone as the back screen door whacked shut behind her.

  Gramma returned to dinner prep without further comment. For the next fifteen minutes I was her little helper. No surf talk at all, just breezy chitchat about other people—so-and-so’s such-and-such doing this-and-that for who-knows-why. It was a big relief after the grilling I had been through with Grandpa.

  After the food was set out, Sara and Grandpa joined us at the dining table. We passed platters of dried-out chicken, overcooked and over-buttered string beans, and perfect mashed potatoes. With filled plates, we cut and chewed. There was little conversation, which was fine by me—I was biding my time waiting for pie and a speedy exit home.

  After dinner, however, Gramma raised her tiny crystal glass of schnapps high. “Let’s drink a toast to Anna Marie,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “From what I hear, you’re going to be on TV.”

  “Excuse me?” Suddenly my appetite—even for peach pie—was gone.

  “Your mother told me in the kitchen that you’re going to become a professional surfer.”

  I glared across the table at my mother who was studying the crust of her pie like it was the most fascinating dessert on the planet.

  “I told her I wasn’t sure how I felt about it all,” Gramma continued. “You know how I worry about both of you out there in the ocean. The men are big and strong, but you and your mother are just little wisps—”

  “Ma,” Sara groaned. “Enough already. Anna and I can take care of ourselves out there, believe me. Maybe if you came and watched us once or twice you would understand.”

  “Oh Sara,” Gramma sighed. “You know I can’t tolerate the sun. And the sand is just too difficult for me to maneuver

  with my arthritis. But I am concerned about Anna Marie skipping college. I had always hoped a Dugan would go to college.” Gramma shot a glance at my non-college-attending, pie-studying mother. “But I suppose being a professional

  surfer would be much more fun. You might meet movie stars.”

  “Can we change the subject?” I muttered. “It’s not a done deal. Besides, there are other things in life besides surfing.”

  But my grandparents wouldn’t let it go: “You’ll get to be on TV, Anna,” said Grandpa. “I could watch you instead of a bunch of woodchucks building a dam in
Oregon, or those CNN talking heads telling me the country’s going to hell in a hand basket.”

  “And best of all, your mom says some of the girls even get to model.” Gramma took a sip of schnapps and sighed. “I must admit, all that sounds every bit as exciting as college.”

  “Enough,” I cried. The knot in my stomach had returned, along with the sweaty pits.

  “Why do I bother telling you anything, Ma?” Sara snapped. “I told you she would freak if you brought this up. You can’t keep your mouth shut for a minute.”

  “Don’t you talk to your mother that way, or I’ll…” Grandpa sputtered, his eyes bulging and his cheeks on fire.

  “Stop it! All of you!” I shoved back my chair. With my head pounding, heart racing, and blood beginning to boil, I shouted. “Do I actually have a say in my own life?” I stormed out the back door, and fumed my way a mile down Toilsome to where the road dead-ended at the bay beach. The parking lot was empty, as I had hoped it would be—bay beaches weren’t as popular as ocean beaches for night-time bonfires, drunken hook-ups, and family marshmallow roasting. Infuriated, I kicked off my flip-flops and stomped onto the sand. It was dark out, overcast and starless, so I stumbled along until I got to a spot that, for no good reason, seemed like the spot to sink into.

  Everything was still, except for the dull lapping of tiny bay swells—depressing and weak little wavelets, which suited me fine. A jet-setting, surfing fashion model? Completely and totally not me, I thought. But what was ‘me’? It was like being asked to run for President of the United States when I was the one who sank lower in her chair when student government volunteers were needed. Even Myra’s rational idea—‘do the surf thing now, and use the money for college later’—seemed impossible. Just the thought of surfing in front of a crowd, knowing there were judges, cameras, and God knows who and what else, made me feel like throwing up, fainting, and only reviving sufficiently to then crawl away and die.