“I think so. Maybe.” I fight a sudden attack of nervousness at the thought. “What about you?’
Her expression grows thoughtful as she stares up at her much smaller surfboard perched atop the other two. “Michael brought my board,” she says, chewing on her lip, “but… I don’t know.”
“Why not?” I think of how she’s talked about surfing, of how much I can tell she loves it. But she doesn’t answer, only shrugs and walks toward the truck, shoulders slumped forward.
It’s hard to get a fix on her this morning—one minute she seems aflutter with excitement and now she’s suddenly subdued. I follow after her. “Andrea, did you know we’re sharing a room?” She climbs up inside the cab of her father’s truck. “Marti and Dave’s kids are sleeping on the pullout sofa and you’re with me.”
Her face brightens. “No, Michael hadn’t told me that.”
“We can make it like a slumber party,” I say.
“Cool.” She bobs her head enthusiastically. “And tell stories each night!”
“That sounds like fun,” I agree.
“Rebecca?” Her expression grows serious again. “I’m not sure I want to go surfing.”
“That’s okay, sweetheart.” I brush an errant lock of auburn hair out of her eyes. “You don’t have to perform for anybody.”
“No?” She searches my face.
“This trip is going to be fun. But you don’t have to work at that. Okay?” She nods, chewing on her lip as I slide in beside her. “We girls will stick together,” I promise.
Michael slips behind the wheel, grinning like a kid. “Everybody ready?”
In his eyes, I see expectation. That over the course of the next three days our relationship will deepen; that his daughter will heal; that we’ll all make new memories together. That some of our innocence might be restored.
As we pull down Mona’s driveway, I realize his warm eyes mirror everything I’m feeling inside about the next few days.
***
“Okay, suit up! It’s totally going off out there. Double overhead!” Casey shouts as he slams the door to the beach house behind him. While Marti and I were buying groceries for the next few days, he drove down to the point to scout the current wave conditions.
Malibu is a decent place for a beginner like me to get their toes wet. Although there’s always a crowd, in Michael’s words, “it’s a pretty mellow wave in Malibu.”
“Double overhead,” Michael snorts, winking at me playfully from where he sits at the kitchen bar watching a Dodgers game. “You are so full of it, man.”
Casey ignores him, turning to me. “You still game, Rebecca?” The wind has kicked up since our arrival, and it’s become grayer, overcast. It’s slightly chilly, and I know that even in July, the Pacific won’t be overly warm.
“Sure.” I give a resolute nod, my stomach tightening with nervousness.
Casey seems to read my mood. “We’re not going to start you way out, Rebecca. You’ll be on the small waves. Close up on shore.”
Michael swivels his barstool, glancing out through the living room windows at the wide expanse of ocean. “It’s getting a little choppy out there, Case. Sure it’s okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ll stick to the shore break and just kind of practice getting the feel of the board.”
Michael laughs. “Yeah, man, I notice you’re a lot nicer about her first time than you were on me.”
“Maybe that’s ’cause she’s a lot nicer than you.”
“Sure, Porter, whatever,” Michael chuckles, rising from his seat. “Let me see if Andrea wants to come.” He walks down the hall toward the bedroom his daughter and I will share for the next few days.
Casey turns to me. “Rebecca, there’s nothing to be intimidated about, you know.”
Marti enters the kitchen tailed by her oldest daughter, Olivia. “Sure there is,” she announces with a laugh. “Sharks and locals, in no particular territorial order.”
Olivia makes a face; she’s about Andrea’s age and has a head full of black curls just like her mother. Her damp flip-flops squeak on the tiled floor like squeegees on a windshield.
“Great. Sounds like so much fun.” I twirl my finger in the air for emphasis. “Woo freaking hoo.”
Michael enters the kitchen, his expression troubled. “Andie won’t come,” he announces under his breath—loud enough for the group of us in the kitchen to hear, but not so loud as to be overheard by his daughter. He glances back toward the bedroom. “She’s just watching TV. Says she doesn’t want to surf.”
“What do you think the problem is?” Marti asks.
“She’s never fun anymore,” Olivia whines, but Marti shushes her.
Remembering our conversation in the driveway, I wonder again what Andrea’s hesitation must be. We all huddle close, like an offensive football team around the quarterback.
Michael answers, “I think surfing’s too…familiar.” Too Alex. We all know that’s what he meant.