“There’s a reason why these houses cost so much, love. See that one over there? It sold last summer for forty million. There’s one down there that sold for twenty million the other year. The new owner tore it down and put up an even bigger one.”
“You couldn’t give me one of those houses,” says Larry. “You know what the upkeep is on one of those things? Salt damage, dune erosion, hurricanes, taxes? Only an asshole with more money than brains would buy one.”
“That’s why I bought one well inland, old boy. I’m an asshole with money and brains,” Clive adds with a wink.
Jodie walks up. “Do we have to stay? My hair is getting ruined.”
Clive has taken off his shirt. His torso is as tanned as his face, the muscles lean. He is a fitness enthusiast, one who practices yoga every day, goes to the gym regularly, pops vitamins. Claire can see the other women admiring him, envying her. She knows that body, has felt it, tasted it. But she has never seen it outside the bedroom. In the sunlight. She looks away, conscious of her desire. Her own arms are pale. She has never been able to get tan the way Clive can. She freckles instead.
“Oh, don’t worry about your hair, darling,” Clive says. “The windswept look is very fashionable out here.”
“You’re a riot, Clive. I just had it done and it wasn’t cheap.” A light wind gusts and blows off her hat. “Shit! Larry!”
She glares at her husband, who goes scurrying after the hat.
“What did I tell you?” she says when he returns. It is all his fault. He is the man. He should have been protecting her. Larry grimaces and says, “Clive, can you drive us back to the house? Jodie really doesn’t want to stay.” Jodie stands a few feet behind him, victorious, her arms crossed against her torso.
Irina, who has been lying on a towel, says, “I want to go too. I am getting all sand everywhere.”
“All right,” says Clive, throwing up his hands in mock defeat. “Sorry, love. Day at the beach cut short.”
Claire hesitates. “Can I stay?”
“Sorry?”
“I’d like to stay. It’s just so beautiful, and I haven’t seen the beach in so long. Do you mind? I could take a taxi back if it’s too much trouble. I just really want to go for a walk and a swim.”
“Water’s bloody cold for swimming,” says Clive, looking at his watch and then toward the parking lot, where his other guests are now waiting. “Look, I didn’t plan on spending the day playing chauffeur, but I could come back for you in half an hour or so, after I’ve dropped off this lot. That do?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He is surprised, she can tell. It has probably been a long time since a woman failed to go along with his plans. In his world that sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen. It’s a black mark against her. She can tell he is already thinking who he should invite out next weekend. The others are almost back to the parking lot. He turns and follows them, lugging the cooler and the chairs. She feels lighter now.
With a sigh, she looks down the beach and removes her shirt and shorts until she is standing only in her bikini. The sun and wind feel good on her exposed skin. Although it is crowded here, she can see that farther down it thins out. That is where she wants to be, and she starts walking. The sand crunches pleasantly between her toes. The afternoon sun warm against her face. A wave bigger than the others crashes to her left, sending foaming surf rolling up over her feet. Involuntarily she lets out a little shriek and leaps aside. She had forgotten how cold the water could be, but after a few moments she becomes used to it.
When she was a child, her family would go to the beach every summer. The water was always cold there too. Maybe even colder. They would rent an old, thin-walled house on the Cape, near Wellfleet, for a week. There would be lobsters and sailing and sand in the sheets, her father playing tennis with his old wooden racket and a smell of mildew that saturated the whole house that always made her think of summer. That had been a long time ago, before her parents’ divorce.
She passes several surfers bobbing like seals in the small waves and watches them for a while. One of them starts paddling and gets up unsteadily as the wave begins to crest. He manages to stay upright for a few seconds before falling. A pretty girl with long sun-bleached hair claps her hands and whistles. Claire thinks it would be wonderful to know how to surf. If only there was time. She thinks she’d be good at it. She is a good skier and used to dance in high school, so she knows her balance is good and her legs are strong.
Crossing over a seaweed-covered stone jetty that juts out into the ocean, she comes to a stretch of beach that is almost completely deserted. Up ahead in the distance is another jetty, and beyond that what looks like a large lagoon. There are signs posted on hurricane fencing that warn against disturbing a breed of bird called piping plover. Imposing mansions occupy the dunes behind her, but for the moment she feels as though she has the beach all to herself.
The sun is strong and she decides to cool off by going swimming. It is too cold to wade in. She waits for a moment at the water’s edge, timing the waves, gathering her courage. Seeing her chance, she runs in, lifting her legs awkwardly out of the foaming water, and dives into a breaker. The cold shocks her, but she kicks hard and comes out beyond the swells. As she treads water, tasting the salt on her lips, her body feels strong and clean. She starts swimming a breaststroke, but the current is stronger and pushes her back, and she realizes she isn’t making much headway. For a moment, she is anxious, concerned that she might not be able to get back to shore. Knowing that to fight the current would be to risk exhaustion, she swims parallel to the shore until she has escaped it. When she no longer feels its pull, she bodysurfs back to the beach, stumbling wearily out of the water.
“You should be careful out there.”
She turns to see a man of about forty standing beside her. He is good-looking and well-built, with sandy hair slowly turning gray. There is something recognizable about him. It is a face she has seen before.
“There’s a powerful riptide there,” he says. “I was watching you when you went in, in case you got into trouble. But you looked like you could take care of yourself.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t so sure for a moment.” She takes a deep breath and realizes her fear has passed. She smiles at him. He is an attractive man. “I didn’t realize this was a full-service beach. Are you lifeguards salaried or do you work on commission?”
He laughs. “We work strictly for tips.”
“Well, that’s too bad. As you can see I’m not carrying any money.”
“You’d be amazed how many times we lifeguards hear that. Maybe I should go into a more lucrative line of work.”
“Well, you could start a line of bikinis that come with pockets.”
“That’s a great idea. I’ll bring it up at the next lifeguard convention.”
“You should. I hate to think of all those starving lifeguards, saving all those people for nothing. It just doesn’t seem fair.”
“Well, we don’t do it for the money but for the glory—and for the gratitude, of course.”
“In that case, thanks again for almost saving me.”
He makes a little bow. “It was almost my pleasure. Well, so long. Stay out of riptides.”
He walks down the beach in the direction of the lagoon. She watches him get smaller and sees him join a group of people by some canoes. A chill runs through her. She shivers, wishing she had brought a towel. She has to head back anyway. It is getting late. Clive will be waiting.
THAT NIGHT THEY ARE IN THE KITCHEN, READY TO GO OUT. “Where are we going?” Claire asks. She is wearing a simple white dress, low cut over her small breasts. Jodie appears serene. She has forgiven Clive.
“There’s