The Surfer Solution

by Cathy Yardley

  She sighed. She did know that. She was treating this like a client project. But right now, like it or not, Sean Gilroy was one of the most important people in her life. She’d already had two mini-attacks in the past three days, and she hadn’t been back to the surf shop since her last conversation with him. She didn’t have a lot of time to learn this whole relaxation crap, she thought crabbily, and this little apartment-hunt diversion wasn’t helping.

  Having said that, she didn’t want him living in a demilitarized zone, either, she realized. “Gary, what else is on my schedule? I want to check a couple of these out, if I can.”

  “No time,” he said. “Look.”

  She groaned. A few keystrokes, and her color-coded daily schedule popped up. “Oy. Are there only that many hours in a day?” She groaned, putting her head on the desk. “And do I really need to sleep?”

  “Well, I suppose it might be fun to watch you hallucinate,” Gary said dryly. “Oh. You can cross off one block, though. Your parents canceled their monthly dinner.”

  She felt a little pang, ignored it. “No surprise there. At least I’ll see them at Christmas.” She paused. “That’s still on, right?”

  “Your mom’s secretary seemed to think so.” Gary sounded like he understood, though, and cleared his throat. “Oh, she did point out that there’s some friend of the family that you might want to see instead, though.”

  “No can do. The presentation, and this, er, other project, have to take precedence,” Allison said decisively. Then, curious, she asked, “Which friend?”

  “Somebody named...let’s see. Mrs. Tilson? Does that sound right?”

  “Oh,” she said, quailing. “Aunt Claire.”

  “She’s your aunt?”

  “My godmother,” Allison said, picturing the stern woman in her mind. Aunt Claire’s husband, Herbert, had died a year and a half ago, and consequently, she’d stopped going to the board functions she had once worked on with Allison’s mother. Aunt Claire always remembered Allison’s birthday, Allison noted, and had showed up to her graduation. Still, she ought to understand that Allison was busy.

  Allison gnawed her lower lip thoughtfully. She did have a tittle block of time, with her parents’ dinner canceled, she thought with a tinge of guilt. And Aunt Claire did live pretty close to her. Just a few blocks away from her, and the beach...

  Suddenly, tike a bolt of lightning, a brainstorm struck.

  “Gary,” she said, calling up her phone book on her computer, “you are a genius.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said with his usual understated humor. “Although what I did this time eludes me.”

  “Just pull those numbers for the dog-food products for me, would you? I’ve got a phone call to make.” She felt positively gleeful. She waited until Gary shut the door to her office, and she dialed Aunt Claire’s number.

  “Yes?” Aunt Claire sounded as brisk and unbending as ever, but also just a touch tentative, which made Allison feel sad that she hadn’t spent more time checking on her. Her guilt ratcheted up a notch.

  “It’s Allison, Aunt Claire,” she said, keeping her own voice cheerful.

  “Allison,” she said, and the surprise in her voice only made Allison feel worse. “I thought you’d be working.”

  “I am, but I thought I’d call,” Allison said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you.”

  “I’m not some invalid that needs checking up on,” Aunt Claire said, every syllable so crisp it crackled.

  “Well, it would still be nice to visit,” Allison responded with a smile. “I’ve just been, well, pretty busy...”

  “You’ve been busy your whole life, dear. Runs in your family,” Aunt Claire answered. “But if you have time to drop by for tea this weekend, well, that might be nice.”

  Allison glanced at the papers strewn across her desk in mountainous piles. “I’ll, er, certainly try.”

  “Wonderful.” A pause. “So. Why don’t you tell me why you really called, Allison?”

  Allison cleared her throat, feeling like a heel. “There was something.” She took a deep breath. “You wouldn’t still happen to have that one-bedroom apartment, would you? Over the garage?”

  “Why yes,” Aunt Claire said, sounding surprised. “Although nobody’s used it since I hired that cleaning service instead of having a maid live in. It’s rather small though. I thought you still had that nice town house.”

  “I do,” Allison said. ‘The thing is...well, I have a favor to ask you. I have this friend who needs to find a place to live as soon as possible.”

  “Really?” Now Aunt Claire sounded more than surprised. She sounded flabbergasted. “I hadn’t envisioned becoming a landlady, Allison. Would this be temporary?”

  “Uh...well, I suppose it could be.” She hadn’t really thought that far. Sean would need some kind of stability, but maybe moving to Aunt Claire’s would at least buy him some time. It would definitely buy her six weeks of uninterrupted surf lessons, which would hopefully take the edge off of her panic attacks. So the arrangement might not be optimum for him or Aunt Claire. But it would work for the short term, she justified.

  She’d worry about the long term after the Kibble Tidbits presentation.

  “And who is this person, Allison?”

  Allison thought about Sean, and immediately blushed. How to explain without going into the whole saga? “He’s, well.. .he’s a teacher.”

  “What does he teach?”

  “Well, ah...” Allison winced, then bit the bullet. “He surfs. He’s my surf instructor.”

  “Your surf instructor,” Aunt Claire repeated slowly. With her shocked intonation, she might as well have said your gigolo.

  “I know. I don’t believe it, either.” Not that he was her gigolo, she thought.

  A quick mental flash of his smile and the way he filled out his shirt and jeans came to mind, unbidden.

  Of course, if he were, she bet that she’d definitely have a vigorous form of stress relief...

  “I see.” Another long pause. Then, in a soft voice, “Is he attractive, then?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You know,” Aunt Claire said. “Cute.”

  “Auntie Claire!”

  “For goodness’ sakes, Allison, I’m not asking if I’m going to have eye candy living over my garage,” she scoffed. “I’m just wondering if this surf instructor of yours is attractive, that’s all.”

  Eye candy. Her seventy-plus-year-old godmother had just referred to Sean as potential eye candy. This conversation was taking on a freak-out factor that Allison really hadn’t anticipated.

  “Is he... hmm.” Allison briefly considered lying, but Aunt Claire would be seeing him soon enough, if all went well. “He’s not ugly,” she downplayed.

  “Very cute, then.”

  Was it her imagination, or did Aunt Claire sound approving? Maybe Gary was onto something. Maybe her recent lack of sleep was encouraging hallucinations.

  “All right, Allison. Why don’t you bring the young man by, so I can meet him. Then I’ll make up my mind.”

  Allison suppressed a groan, thinking of her jam-packed schedule. When would she have time to bring Sean by? “Would it be okay if I just sent him over?”

  “I’m not ordering a pizza, dear,” Aunt Claire reproved. “This is your favor, remember?”

  Welcome to the rock and the hard place, Allison thought, and sighed. “Okay, Aunt Claire. I’ll bring him by tonight. Around six-thirty or so.”

  “That’ll be fine. Goodbye, dear.”

  Allison hung up, growling to herself. She’d had no idea that this relaxation business would be so damn stressful. She didn’t know how people managed it at all.

       

  SEAN WAS WAITING in front of Tubes at six-forty. Oz had gone home for the day at four o’clock, so at least he wasn’t witness to this. Sean still couldn’t quite believe it when Allison told him she’d stop by to show him where his new apartment might be. She’d also told him to dress
up, because he’d need to talk to the owner. She hadn’t been explicit, but he got the feeling that his performance was going to determine whether or not he got the place.

  He was therefore waiting, patiently, as dressed up as he managed to get, in an ironed gray oxford shirt and khakis. He still wore his suede skate sneakers, however. A guy had to draw the line somewhere.

  He saw Allison’s silver-blue Jag humming down the street before she pulled up to the curb with a flourish. Everything the woman did had an element of flourish, he noticed. He leaned over to the window, glancing in. She was also wearing a muted blue suit, one that seemed to make her large brown eyes even darker.

  “Do you mind if I drive?” she asked, and her voice sounded quick, almost manic. “I’m sorry that I’m running late, and this’ll be easier than having you follow me.”

  He shot a quick look at his old pickup truck. Yeah, it would be faster than him following this honey of a Jag. He opened the door, climbing in. Then he did a double take. “Did you know that your clothes match your car?”

  “What?” She glanced down, then laughed a little nervously. “I didn’t even notice.”

  He didn’t know what possessed him to mention it. Maybe because she, like the car, was so unbelievably luxe looking.

  And way out of your price range, buddy boy, so don’t get any ideas.

  He shook his head. “So. Where are you taking me?”

  “A very old friend of the family has a mother-in-law unit a few blocks from here,” Allison said in that quick-breathless-rush voice that he was starting to guess meant she was kind of nervous. “Just a few minutes added to your commute, really, and I think you could stay out of each other’s way easily enough, and I don’t know if it’s going to be temporary or what, I mean, it’ll be something to discuss with her, and...oh. She may seem a little straitlaced, maybe a bit brusque at first, but you’d have to get to know her. Not that you’ll need to necessarily, as her tenant. I mean, you just need to overlook anything that she says that might seem a little… stern. During the interview. Not that it’s really like an interview...”

  He watched as her pale face turned flush. She was staring at the road like she was driving the Indy 500.

  He sighed, then reached over, covering her right hand with his left one.

  She flinched. “Whoa! Hey, what—”

  “Just relax,” he said, keeping the amusement out of his voice, and trying to project a sense of calm. “You’re going to strip your mental gears if you keep revving up that way.”

  To his surprise, her eyes flashed and she yanked her hand away.

  “Don’t ever, ever tell me to relax,” she growled.

  He tilted his head, staring at her. “Why not?”

  She took a deep breath, and rolled down her window. Her blond hair was up in its usual ponytail, but the wind whipped tendrils out from confinement. “Because,” she said with a huff, “if people like me could relax, we’d just do it. I mean, it’s not like we’re just sitting there freaking out because relaxation hadn’t occurred to us.” She glared at him. “Really, what are you thinking when you tell someone that? Do you expect us to just sit back and say, God, what a brilliant idea! Why didn’t I think of that before? I should just relax!"

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed, earning him an even frostier glare. “Duly noted. Don’t tell you to relax.”

  She pulled up to a huge old Victorian house, similar to Gabe and Charlotte’s, except bigger. With a fenced-in yard yet. Which meant that this was big money.

  He got out of the car, feeling a little apprehensive. Allison, in her roundabout and adrenaline-laced manner, had been trying to warn him about the lady. Someone old and crotchety, no doubt. And from the looks of this house, a society type.

  She was all of that, and then some, when she opened the door. She was a tiny, birdlike woman, shorter than even Allison’s five-foot frame. Still, she had a steely gaze and looked up at him like a white-haired drill sergeant. “You’d be the...surf instructor, then,” she announced.

  Allison was looking up at the sky like she was praying, and Sean felt his discomfort level inch up a touch. “Yes,” he said. “And you’d be Allison’s old friend.”

  “Her godmother,” the little woman corrected, offering her hand. He shook it gently—for all her tough demeanor, the woman looked as fragile as sugar glass. He and Allison followed her to one of those stuffy parlors, the type with hard furniture that had clawed cherrywood feet. Ugh. Still, the view out the window, the rolling wave of the Pacific, was very, very promising.

  “So, Mr. Surf Instructor. Allison said I was her old friend."

  “Please,” he said, hiding a grin. “Call me Sean.”

  “Your full name?” She sat in a high-back chair and barked the question out like a grand inquisitor.

  “Gilroy. Sean Gilroy.” And I’ll take a Corona, shaken, not stirred.

  He felt the faint bubbles of nerves in his system, and leaned back against the concrete-stuffed chintz couch. Gabe had often commented that Sean was the quietest of the Hoodlums.

  Unless he was nervous.

  “Then,” Gabe always said, “you’re funnier than hell, Sean.”

  Don’t be nervous, you putz, Sean counseled himself. Somehow, he doubted this woman would share Gabe’s sense of humor.

  He glanced over at Allison, who was mangling the strap of her purse. He didn’t even think she realized it. He winked at her, and she frowned at him.

  “Relax,” he mouthed to her. To his satisfaction, she did the eye-flash thing at him, a third-degree glare. He just grinned, feeling more chuckles forming.

  Ooh, this was not going to be pretty if it wasn’t wound up quickly.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.” He turned back to the older woman, trying desperately to get back to business.

  “Mrs. Tilson,” she offered. “So, Mr. Gilroy. You expect me to just let you rent out a part of my home, do you?”

  His eyebrows rose, and he sneaked a peek at Allison.

  “Aunt Claire, this is really more of a favor to me than to Sean...” Allison interrupted.

  “Yes, and I’ve been wondering about that,” Mrs. Tilson said, keeping her attention on him. “Did you know that in the entire time I’ve known Allison, she’s never once asked me for a favor? You must be an extraordinary sort of person, Mr. Gilroy.”

  Sean bit his lip as his mind provided a few inappropriate multiple-choice answers to the rhetorical question the pissed- off old woman had peppered him with.

  Yeah, well, Allison’s never met a guy who could go all night like a lumberjack before was one of his favorites. He forced himself not to speak the thought aloud.

  “Just lucky, I guess,” he said instead, with a slow grin. Mrs. Tilson straightened her back to the point where he thought he heard it crack. Of course, with these frickin’ hard chairs, he guessed that happened often.

  Don’t say it.

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Gilroy,” Mrs. Tilson said sharply. “You may be very good looking, and all of that. But I’m old. And I’m not talking doddering, amusing, purple-wearing old. I mean that I’m old-fashioned. Strict. And at eighty-four, I must warn you that I feel absolutely no compunction anymore about being polite with someone I know nothing about. My family says that I have become ruthlessly honest.”

  He nodded. “I’ll drink to that.” In fact, he’d love to.

  “The fact of the matter is, if I let you rent the garage apartment, then I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Allison is my favorite goddaughter, and as competent as she believes she is, I’m not letting anyone take advantage of her. Is that quite clear?”

  He knew in that moment that the little switch that usually prevented him from saying whatever was on his mind temporarily shorted out. “Well, I think I’d like to take this opportunity to say that there’s absolutely nothing going on between myself and your goddaughter but surf lessons. Not that she’s not a hottie, I mean an absolute babe. Especially if she could just relax for a min
ute, you know?”

  Allison’s eyes went round, and her face went scarlet.

  “But the bottom line is, it’s strictly business. And I’ve got to warn you: I’m not some brainless sex slave that Allison’s trying to squirrel away in your mother-in-law unit.”

  Mrs. Tilson, if at all possible, sat up straighter. Then she made a weird sound.

  Oh, God. I think I’ve killed her.

  “Auntie Claire...” Allison said, leaning forward.

  Suddenly, the old woman let out a wheezy laugh. Sean felt his heart start beating again.

  “As I’ve said, I’m eighty-four and no longer care what people think,” Mrs. Tilson said around a series of dry chuckles. “What, exactly, is your excuse?”

  “I’m told I have a cute ass,” he said. “Apparently, it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  Allison choked.

  “Well, Mr. Gilroy, I’ll rent you the apartment, for the price Allison asked,” she said, and Sean felt a flood of relief. He didn’t even realize just how tense he’d become. “When will you move in?”

  He forced himself to focus, feeling a little dazed. “I’ve been packing for the past few weeks. I could be in by this weekend, if you’re okay with that.”

  “That sounds reasonable. Let me get you the keys,” Mrs. Tilson said, and got up slowly, walking with purpose out of the room.

  “I. Cannot. Believe. This.” Allison stared at him. “You have a cute ass?”

  “Right back atcha,” he said, then grimaced. “Did I mention that I joke when I’m nervous?”

  “A fact you could’ve mentioned before we got here!” she hissed.

  The larger picture suddenly clarified in his mind. “I’ve got a place to live,” he marveled. “A perfect place. I owe you big time, Allison.”

  She blinked, as if that fact had only just occurred to her, as well. “Don’t mention it,” she said, her tone of voice nonplussed. Then she cleared her throat, turning businesslike again. “Besides, it was for a good cause.”