Beach Girls by Luanne Rice Page B

in that house.”
    “I'm getting ready to go out,” he said, forcing a laugh, wanting to defuse the call, get her off the line.
    “You'd better be. I'm making you my number one project,” she said. “I am going to get you to have fun by the end of the summer. As a matter of fact, I'm calling because I have some documents. Now, I
could
fax them to you—that
is
an option. But I was thinking, wouldn't it be much more fun if I drove them down? Say, tonight?”
    “Francesca, that's too far to come,” he began, looking at his watch again. Three minutes till the call . . .
    “Oh, you're hopeless! Is it your daughter? Come on, Jack—that beach must be loaded with babysitters. Find a nice kid who needs the money, and take the night off!”
    “Look, Francesca,” Jack said. “That won't work for tonight. Fax the papers, if you don't mind—okay? I have to run now.”
    She was silent. He knew he'd sounded rude. But the time was ticking by—and wasn't it better for her to get the message now rather than later? She said, “Yes, sure, have fun,” and hung up the phone. Jack's heart was in a vise. The pain was great—in his body, and in his soul. He thought of how Emma had told him to pray. The memory made him shudder. He was like a dead man these days—somehow the imminent phone call was a form of redemption. He sat there in a cold sweat, waiting for the ring.
    He bowed his head. He needed respite, a break from his universe. He closed his eyes—and what he saw surprised him.
    Stevie Moore. She had looked like he felt: a ghost stuck in this life. What had she been doing, just half-dressed on a bright morning? Those streaks on her cheeks were tears. He knew. He was an expert on tears.
    He'd been struck by her firm handshake and warm smile. Also by her size: she was small. About five-three, very slight. Her robe had been about four sizes too big for her, the sash tied tight. She had sleek, chin-length black hair and bangs that parted over wide, violet eyes. Her skin was pale and flawless. Except for those tear marks.
    He pictured her cupping that pathetic little lost bird in her hands. What chance did it have? No mother, no father. At least Nell had
him
. . . . He shook his head. What good was he, anyway? He held tight to the vision of Stevie holding that bird. Holding on, holding on . . .
    The phone rang. It jangled, making him jump. His pulse leapt, and he felt his heart crashing.
This had to work. . . .
    “Hello,” he said. “Jack Kilvert . . .”
     
    NELL AND PEGGY
won the relay race. They beat all the girls
and
all the boys. They looked like teammates in their navy blue bathing suits—as if they had planned it that morning, as if they were already best friends.
    Peggy had bright red hair and lots of freckles, and she wore a cool sunhat to keep the sun off her face except for when she went swimming. She kept hold of Nell's hand practically the whole time—they even did the floating contest, on their backs in the calm bay, holding hands.
    “It's like having a sister!” Nell said when the contests were over and the whole rec class took a rest break on their towels.
    “
Better,
I'm telling you,” Peggy said. “My sister Annie's a teenager, and she can't be bothered with me! All she wants to do is hang out with her boyfriend. My mother always says about her best friend, Tara, ‘You can't choose your family, but you can choose your friends.'”
    Nell felt her shoulders collapse a little. “I'd choose my family, just the way it was,” she said.
    “Well, me too,” Peggy said. “But best friends are second best. A
close
second best—you should see my mom and Tara. They do everything together.”
    “My mom had friends like that,” Nell said. “They grew up here, at Hubbard's Point. That's why my dad and I came here. Because there were so many happy times.”
    “You and your dad?” Peggy asked, blinking slowly; the unasked question:
what about your mom?
    “Yes,” Nell said, her shoulders caving in a little