by Nikki Godwin
Chapter Seven
The Crescent Cove Bakery overkills the crescent moon theme, but their cheese biscuits make up for it. Linzi’s pink CSI notebook rests on the table next to her frosted donut. She scribbles our shopping list for the morning onto a blank page: sunglasses, sunscreen, bikinis, more flip flops, and beach towels. Then she slides a pack of tourist brochures she swiped from the hotel across the table to me.
I flip through them, ignoring the shopping attractions and repeated ads for Strickland’s Boating. “Hey, here we go, Crescent Cove history,” I say, flattening the brochure on the table.
I keep my voice low as I read the contents to Linzi, from how Crescent Cove was a small town with little tourist activity and only known for its old carnival (which is now shut down and the grounds are believed to be haunted) until present day – surf town and home of recent surf star Colby Taylor.
“Finally, the good part,” Linzi says. She bites into her donut and attempts to tell me with a full mouth to “read on.”
“He’s the first surfer to be sponsored by Drenaline Surf,” I say.
I turn to the back of the brochure and see him posed in front of the local surf shop holding a blue and orange surfboard. My own adrenaline pumps up and surges through me like a monster wave crashing against the shore. I fold the brochure and stick it in my purse. I can’t read on. The thought of someone leaving my world and chasing after something as awesome as being a big name surfer makes me long for an escape even more than I already do. I literally feel my bones aching for that freedom.
I take a deep breath and break off a piece of cheese biscuit. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?” I ask, trying to focus on anything but surfing.
“Shop for necessities, more research on the surfer, then party with his friends?” Linzi wiggles her eyebrows as she says ‘friends.’ It’s not hard to figure out where her mind is.
“Reed and Alston,” I say, trying to wrap my mind around what will happen tonight, what I’ll say, how I’ll get a step closer to the reason I’m even here in Crescent Cove Bakery eating cheese biscuits.
“Oh, Alston!” Linzi exclaims, clasping her hands over her heart and falling back against the booth. “Beautiful, beautiful Alston.”
My instincts want to warn her not to get too close because we’re not going to be here forever, not to mention his player reputation. But my mind decides against it because she’s way too excited and infatuated. She might as well have some fun while she’s out here trying to help me uncover sunken treasure and buried secrets.
“Let’s go, Juliet,” I say. “Time to shop.”
Linzi suggests we start on the other end of The Strip and work our way back up to Strickland’s Boating. The vendor booths are clones of the next, the same beach wear and T-shirts with a random fresh fruit shack wedged in the middle. We avoid the mob of little kids begging their parents to buy them inflatable water toys and floats. Linzi manages to dodge a huge inflated dolphin without even dropping a shopping bag.
Even with the surf craze and Colby Taylor billboard, the heavy surf culture of Crescent Cove doesn’t become a reality until we stop at the entrance of Drenaline Surf. An aqua wave projects from the roof, hanging over the top of the store.
“That’s insane,” I say, pointing up at the frozen wave. It glistens like the ocean in the sunlight.
“So is the surfboard. This place is amazing,” Linzi says.
A silver surfboard with the Drenaline Surf logo is centered under the wave, the body of the surfboard painted like that of a shark, complete with a black eyeball and jagged white teeth. I can’t move from the arched entranceway. This store is the closest I’ve come to seeing his life, seeing what he disappeared for – what he died for. My stomach flips and flops like a washed up fish as Linzi tugs my arm and pulls me through the doorway.
The inside is the same ocean blue color as the outside of the building, and the walls are decorated with huge black and white photos of sharks, just like the one in Strickland’s Boating. The main showroom is well organized by item – surf gear, surf accessories, sunglasses and clothing, beach towels, souvenirs, and jewelry racks ranging from expensive shell necklaces to cheap rubber bracelets. There’s an entire corner dedicated to shark tooth necklaces and all else shark-related, which makes sense given the shark decor. Shouldn’t sharks and surfers be mortal enemies?
Linzi’s attention must be shark-focused too because she’s looking at the necklaces before I can say anything. A poster-sized photo of a Great White hangs above us, demanding my attention. The pictures all have one thing in common – the silver logo for Jake McAllister Photography.
“For a surf shop, you’d think they’d have surfboards,” Linzi says, turning from the shark teeth to me.
I glance around and spot a side room – packed with surfboards. “That’s because they have a separate room for them,” I say.
The surfboard room is a freaking goldmine, and I don’t know how long I can linger in here without drawing attention to myself and being kicked out. Linzi oohs and ahhs over the incredible surfboard designs while I try to absorb the wall of snapshots that have been taped over the paint. My eyes land on a picture of a guy showing a gash in his arm. Another one sporting bruises. Nice little battle scars are mixed in with beach parties and surf gangs. The photos paint the perfect picture of the gritty, realistic side of surf life. A yellow street sign that reads “Surfer Crossing” is nailed to the top corner of the room. And then him – Colby Taylor – wedged right into the mosaic of surf life snapshots.
I do the quick shoplifter glance-around, rip the picture from the wall, and cram it into my purse. Then I spin around on my heel and pretend to be interested in a white surfboard decorated with painted pink and orange hibiscus flowers. Linzi is still wearing her starry-eyed shopper face when a girl bounces into the room and asks if we need any help.
“We’re just looking,” Linzi says.
The girl’s bouncy smile sinks on her face with that typical “No, leave me alone” shopper statement. My intentions for recovering the moment are strictly to get out of here so I can examine Exhibit Stolen Photo.
“Actually, we need a few things,” I say. “Can you lead me in the direction of sunscreen, sunglasses, and flip flops?”
Operation Recovery of Bouncy Smile is complete. She introduces herself as Kristin and leads me back into the main showroom. She could walk this store and give a sales pitch in her sleep.
“Summer vacation?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “We didn’t come as prepared as we thought we were. This place is amazing, the surf culture and all. I could stay here forever.”
She laughs and nods along. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I’ve worked here since the grand opening. I don’t surf or anything, but my boyfriend does. So surfing is my life too, if that makes any sense.”
I focus on the rack of flip flops to keep myself from saying that I totally understand because I’ve only been here a matter of days, and my life is surfing now too. I want to feel the sand and taste the waves and smell the surfboard wax. I want to inhale surf life every time I breathe in the west coast ocean air. I could open my own framing shop right here on the beach and rescue driftwood from the shoreline. I could make my forever here.
By the time we leave Drenaline Surf an hour later with too many flip flops, multiple bikinis, and the free rubber bracelets Kristin threw in as a thank you, the stolen photo is about to burn a hole in my purse. I wait until we’re secure in the secrecy of my car to pull out my loot.
“Look what I found on the wall in there,” I say, holding the photo in front of the radio’s buttons.
The background of the picture is too dark to make out where it was taken. It could be anywhere from a nightclub to a night on the beach. Everything behind him is black. He’s holding his hand out toward the camera with that thumb and pinky universal surf gesture – the shaka, Linzi informs me from her surf research – and he’s sitting next to
another blonde. The other guy is holding a beer bottle.
“All of his friends are really cute. Have you noticed that?” Linzi asks. “I bet he’s the party boy.”
I study the guy’s face and burn it into my memory so I’ll recognize him if I see him at the party tonight. Any ounce of dread I felt about this VIP thing leaves my body and washes away to the bottom of the ocean for the mermaids to lock away in the treasure chests they’ve hauled away from shipwrecks.
“That would make sense. I mean, if Colby only hangs out with these four guys, he’s gotta be one of them,” I say. “Party boy fits him.”
Operation Party Boy is my mission for the night.
