Beach House Reunion

by Mary Alice Monroe

  She licked her lips and tucked a wayward lock behind her ear. “I’d love a water, but all I see are beers and soda.”

  “They’re all hiding in the bottom. Hold on.” He bent at the waist and plunged his hand into the ice. She noticed that his arms were deeply tanned and muscled, and the edge of a tattoo peeked out from under his shirtsleeve. She tried to make out what it was as he rummaged through the ice, but glanced away when he straightened again, a dripping bottle in his hand. He grabbed a paper napkin and wiped off the water, then unscrewed the cap and handed the bottle to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Nicely done.”

  “Comes from years of waiting tables.”

  Holding his gaze, she brought the bottle to her lips and took a long sip, feeling the cool water slide down her throat. His face was finely chiseled, his dark-red hair long without being shaggy. And his eyes . . . their intensity was smoldering. Smiling inwardly, she thought, Let the games begin.

  She tilted her head and asked, “Do you surf a lot?”

  “Every day the waves are there. I was surprised how good the waves were this week, considering the forecast. I guess that storm out in the Atlantic had more of a bump than I anticipated.” As he brought a beer bottle to his lips he asked, “And you?”

  “Obviously I’m not a surfer. Yet. I was trying out a board my aunt just gave me. I’ve always wanted to surf. I’m on the turtle team, and I walk this stretch of beach every morning and see the surfers out there and wish I could join them.”

  “You’re a turtle lady?”

  She didn’t miss the tease in his eyes.

  “I am indeed,” she replied, and allowed him his laugh. “They’ve been my passion since I was a little girl. My aunt Cara taught me everything I know.”

  His expression shifted into surprise. “You’re Cara Rutledge’s niece?”

  She put out her hand. “Linnea Rutledge.”

  Caught in the game, he smiled and reached out to take her hand. “John Peterson. Nice to meet you.”

  “I thought as much.”

  His expression changed. “Wait . . . I’ve met you before.”

  She looked at him doubtfully.

  He pointed at her playfully. “It was at the Fourth of July party at Lovie’s house. Years ago.” He laughed. “You had those long pigtails with enormous red-white-and-blue ribbons.”

  Linnea drew herself up. “It was the Fourth of July.”

  They smiled at each other, taking each other’s measure.

  “I’m sorry to say I don’t remember you.”

  John put his hand over his heart. “I’m wounded.”

  “I was eight years old.”

  His smile turned devilish. “You aren’t eight anymore.”

  Linnea was enjoying the flirtation. She sipped her water. “Nope.”

  “And you live next door.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Actually, I live in Charleston. I’m babysitting Hope for the summer.” Then, realizing that sounded a bit lame, she added, “I just graduated from USC, and it’s my final summer on the beach before I join the nine-to-five work world.”

  “Good move. Then we’ll be neighbors,” he said, obviously pleased with the notion.

  “Word on the street is that you’re moving in here.”

  He looked chagrined. “I’m not moving back in with my mother,” he explained, then added, “Not exactly. I’m working on something right now and needed a place to crash.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “A computer program. Top secret. Can’t divulge. I wouldn’t want to have to kill you.”

  “Very funny. How long will you stay on the island?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say. It depends on how long the project takes. I’d like to be back in San Francisco by September.”

  “I wish I knew where I’d be in September.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m job-hunting.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Something in environmental science.”

  “That’s a hot career in California right now.”

  “So I hear.”

  “You should look out there. San Francisco, especially. Everyone is environmentally conscious, and there are a lot of new startups. In fact, I know of a company that—”

  “There you are!”

  Linnea swung her head around to see Cara standing at the top of the stairs. Her face was slightly flushed from the exertion and her cheeks had a lovely glow from the wine.

  Cara walked closer, her arm out in greeting. “I see you’ve met John,” she said in a knowing tone.

  I’m not going to blush, Linnea told herself. “Yes. Just. It seems he remembers me from Lovie’s party years ago.”

  “Really?” Cara cast her gaze on John. “You and your brother ran out of there so fast I’m surprised you remember meeting anyone.”

  “Bad manners. Forgive my teenage hormones,” he said.

  “All’s forgiven because you’ve made your mother very happy by visiting her. All of us are happy to see you again.”

  Linnea smiled stiffly and sent Cara warning flashes with her eyes.

  “Well, I’ve just come to say good-bye,” said Cara. “Hope will be up at dawn.”

  John and Linnea watched Cara disappear down the stairs. In the garden below, Flo and Emmi were bringing in the last of the dishes. There was an awkward silence.

  So much for my plans to leave early, Linnea thought. “I’d better go.”

  John held out his hand. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Linnea looked at him for a moment, then set down her water bottle and grabbed hold of his strong, tanned hand. They walked down the stairs to the gate, a short distance that seemed to take forever in her mind.

  “Well, good night,” she said, opening the gate.

  John put his hand on the gate, stilling it. “You said you wanted to learn to surf?”

  Linnea’s insides jumped. She leaned back to look at his face. His eyes seemed to reflect the moonlight. “Oh, yes.”

  “The surf’s supposed to be decent tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  Linnea turned and walked back to the beach house, thinking that was the best pickup line she’d ever heard.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Linnea awoke to a high-pitched ding. It took a minute for her brain to fight its way through the fog before she clumsily grabbed her phone. Blinking her dry eyes, she read the text.

  I’m here. Come on out.

  She gasped and glanced at the time. It was seven on the dot.

  She leaped from the bed, wide awake at the prospect of her first surf lesson. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to set the alarm. She stumbled in her haste to slip into her bikini and put on the rash guard; not to waste time, she slipped her thin cotton sleep shirt over her like a cover-up. As she hurried from the room, she stuck her feet in flip-flops and grabbed an elastic from the dresser top. Running down the hall, she hand-combed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail. Hope was still sleeping, and, judging from the silence in the master bedroom, so was Cara.

  She flung open the kitchen door, expecting to see John. But no one was there. Linnea stepped outside and looked around. The air held that lovely early-morning freshness that would dissipate as the sun rose higher. Across the driveway, she saw John in his swimsuit and a pale-blue and black rash guard, already working at fastening the two surfboards to the back of his white Ford pickup. It was an oldie but goodie, covered in dents, spots of rust, and bumper stickers, prominent among them a Tom Petty decal across the rear window. She walked over to Emmi’s driveway.

  “Good morning!” she called out.

  “Morning,” he called back, not turning his head as he worked the straps.

  “We aren’t going to surf right out here?” she asked, wondering why he was loading his truck.

  He finished tightening the straps and faced her, slapping dirt from his hands. “No, only the best for your first lesson. We’re lucky
there are some decent waves today. Beginner’s luck. This is Isle of Palms, after all. Not California. The waves here are slim pickings.”

  She scratched her head lazily, waking up more. “Do I have time to make some coffee?”

  “Nope. We need to catch the waves.” He paused and took a moment to really look at her, from head to toe, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “You look like a little girl, all scruffy and no makeup.”

  That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. She felt a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t have time to primp.”

  “I like it,” he said. “You look like Gidget. You’re probably too young to know that movie.”

  Linnea smiled, delighted at the analogy. “I’ve always loved that movie. I’m kinda shocked you know it.”

  “My mom . . .” he said with a slanted smile. “I liked the surf scenes.”

  “I don’t remember how I first watched it. I was probably just trolling channels on a lazy summer day, but I fell in love with the movie. I wanted to be Gidget. She wasn’t trying to catch a boy. She wanted to learn how to surf and be accepted as one of the gang.”

  “Well, Gidget, you’re going to learn now. Let’s go.”

  “Wait! My beach bag. I need to get a towel and suntan lotion.”

  “I’ve got lots. Hop in.”

  He seemed determined to get to the waves, and who was she to argue? She hurried to the passenger side of the truck and climbed in. The inside was as well-worn as the outside. The seats were torn, and the floor was coated with a thick layer of sand. He tossed her a bottle of water.

  “Thanks,” she said, twisting the cap. She was quiet as they drove north along Palm Boulevard. In the shadowy light, she admired John’s strong, straight nose, high cheekbones, and pale reddish-brown lashes. He didn’t have his mother’s wide mouth. His lips were actually rather thin and surrounded this morning by dark auburn stubble that she found sexy. Seeing his bed head, she didn’t feel badly for not brushing her hair. She smiled and looked out the windshield. And why bother? They were going to get wet in a few minutes anyway.

  There wasn’t much traffic on Palm until they made the S curve. Traffic slowed as a line of cars with surfboards strapped to their roofs searched for parking spots on the green grass that lined the road. It seemed everyone knew one another. Surfers gave one another knowing nods and waves, some stalling traffic to share a few words. No one seemed to mind. She watched, fascinated. She’d had no idea that there would be this many people here. In college, everyone was sleeping in at this hour. There was a whole other world she hadn’t known existed during the dawn song.

  John found a spot at Thirty-First Avenue and parallel-parked on the grass with dexterity. Large houses formed a wall between the street and the ocean beyond, blocking the view. She could hear it, though, and was eager to get out.

  “All right, li’l lady,” John said, turning off the engine. He met her gaze and smiled encouragingly. “Let’s do this.” Reaching across the seat, he dug into a bag at her feet and pulled out a tube of suntan lotion. He tossed it to her. “Don’t be skimpy.”

  Linnea was grateful. Going out on the ocean without high-SPF lotion would’ve been a disaster for her fair skin. John looked in the rearview mirror and applied a thick white cream on his nose, cheekbones, and collarbones. When he was done, he handed her the stick.

  “Seriously?” she said, scrunching up her nose. “That looks like war paint.”

  “I don’t mess around. The sun’s rays are for real out there.”

  Linnea looked at the SPF dubiously. Determined to be a good student, she moved closer to him to look in the rearview. They were touching shoulders, and she was aware he was watching her as she delicately dabbed the white lotion on her nose and cheeks. She screwed the top back on the stick and handed it to him. He studied her face critically.

  “May I?”

  She nodded.

  He leaned close and gently applied a thick stripe of zinc down her nose and along her cheekbones, then playfully dabbed at her chin. When he tucked his finger in the collar of her shirt, he paused to look into her eyes, checking if it was okay for him to proceed. She felt the air thicken between them and nodded.

  John gently stroked a line of lotion on one collarbone, then the other. Even though it was an innocent, straightforward gesture, it felt enormously intimate. Linnea felt her neurons inflame as the roller moved along her skin. Finished, he looked again into her eyes, so close she could feel his breath on her lips. She saw desire swimming in those pools of green and knew her own eyes reflected that emotion.

  “That’s better,” he said, releasing her shirt and leaning back.

  She breathed again in the cooler air.

  John tossed the lotion into the bag and said, “Would you mind taking that?”

  She was happy to have a job to do.

  They got out of the truck, and John tucked the keys under the front driver’s-side tire. Around them other cars were jostling for spots while still others whizzed by. She heard car doors slam and greetings shouted as men and women, all carrying surfboards, headed to the beach. John knew the routine. He moved swiftly and efficiently, removing the straps from the boards and carrying each one from the bed of the truck to the grass.

  “Where’s the bag?” he called, arm extended.

  Linnea hurried over with it. He reached in and pulled out what looked like a bar of white soap.

  “First lesson,” he said, holding up the bar. “This is surf wax. And these,” he said, dropping to his knees, “are called longboards.”

  Indeed they were. Each board had to be nine feet long. John waved her closer.

  “You take this surf wax,” he said, moving over the boards, “and spread a layer of it on the board to create a good grip for your feet. That’s so you don’t slip off while riding the wave. You rub it on, like so.”

  She watched his shoulders move and his tanned muscles flex.

  “You want to make sure there are no slick spots.” He leaned back on his haunches and scanned his board. Satisfied, he pointed to her white and blue board. “All right,” he said. “Have you named your board yet?”

  “Named it? No. It was Brett’s board.”

  “It’s yours now. You develop a kind of bond with your board. At least, I do. If you love the sport, you’ll spend a lot of time on it. You and the board will go through a lot together.”

  Linnea stared at the board, searching her brain for the right name. “It’s a boy board, of course,” she said, thinking that it came from Brett. “And it’s big. . . .”

  “How about Big Blue?”

  She smiled. “I like it. Big Blue it is.”

  “Treat him well, and he’ll give you the ride of your life.” He handed her the wax. “Do the honors.”

  She grabbed the bar of wax and shifted to her knees. The dry crabgrass mingled with tiny bits of gravel that dug into her tender skin. But she wasn’t going to complain. She began rubbing the bar in even strokes across Big Blue, pushing hard to get a good spread. At last she straightened and looked at him for approval.

  “Good job,” he told her.

  She felt inordinately pleased.

  “Okay, then.” John rose effortlessly and stuck out his hand to help her to her feet. Then he picked up his board, and tucked it under his arm as though it were a feather.

  Linnea looked at Big Blue, remembering how clumsy she’d been with it before. He waited. Determined, she bent to pick it up. She struggled, and it was hardly graceful but she somehow managed. The board was heavy, but what made it unwieldy was its length.

  John watched her with a grin on his face.

  Her temper sparked. “You’ve got long arms,” she told him crossly. She teetered but finally managed to get a solid grip. When she turned to face him, the back of the longboard smacked into the side of his truck.

  She gasped and looked at John, grimacing. “Sorry!”

  He laughed, setting his board down. “I don’t think one more bang will make a difference on that ol
d truck.” He took her surfboard in his arms.

  “Okay,” he said in a calm voice, and looked squarely at her. “The secret with surfing is to always be centered. On the board, when you’re in the water. On land when you’re carrying the board. And always”—he gently tapped her forehead with his fingertip—“in your head.”

  She listened, nodding in understanding.

  “If it’s difficult to carry the board under your arm—because it is a big board and you aren’t so big,” he said with a smile, “then you can carry it over your head. Like this.” He lifted her board with enviable ease and lowered it to rest on his head.

  She was not convinced.

  “Now you try.”

  Linnea was game. She centered herself, took a deep breath, then hoisted the board up with a grunt. John helped her this first time to rest it on the top of her head. To her surprise, it didn’t feel too heavy, and once she got the weight centered, she felt in control.

  “Hey, I can do this,” she called out, pleased with herself.

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I’m sure. But let’s go! I’m not that strong.”

  John gave her a thumbs-up. “Okay, Gidget. It’s not too far.”

  Trailing John down the road toward the beach, Linnea concentrated on keeping the giant board balanced on her head. Still she couldn’t help but notice his muscular body. As they crossed Palm Boulevard, she noticed the passing drivers enviously watching the surfers. Usually she was the one sitting behind the wheel. She was the surfer now, and the thought made the surfboard suddenly feel a bit lighter.

  The narrow beach path was tough going while balancing the nine-foot board on her head. She kept her gaze straight ahead, carefully moving one foot past the other, praying she didn’t step on a sandspur and end up in a heap in the sand. Linnea’s arms were shaking by the time she felt the first salt-tinged gust of ocean air. She laid her board on the sand with a heavy sigh of relief. She looked over to see John standing with his hands on his hips, looking out over the water. Turning, he waved her over to his side and slid his arm around her shoulders.

  “See that cluster of surfers out there?”

  She nodded, feeling a thrill at knowing she’d soon be out there with them.