The Surfer Solution

by Cathy Yardley

  He started laughing, and her heart clenched. She focused on the anger, tamping down any potential anxiety. “Listen, you’re not the only surf shop in town, you know,” she said.

  “Then by all means, go to another store,” he said with elaborate graciousness. “But before you go running off, can I at least ask you why you need to learn to surf in a month and a half?”

  She bit her lip, uncomfortable.

  “I mean, is it a hazing thing?” he continued. “Bar bet? Did you claim to be a championship surfer on a resume?”

  “I don’t see how it’s relevant,” she said stiffly.

  “You’ve got to admit, it sounds sort of strange,” he said, crossing his arms, mirroring her posture. “Let’s see. You’re wearing an expensive suit. Bright color, a little flashy. I’m betting something like marketing. Maybe advertising.” He put his hand on his chin, a surf-bum Sherlock Holmes. “So I’m guessing you’re trying to learn to surf to impress a client. Maybe you just got a new surfboard account or a new wet suit account or you’re just trying to hawk soda to extreme sports fanatics. One way or another, though, I’m guessing you’re doing this for work.”

  She winced. She should’ve said bar bet when she’d had the chance.

  “You’re right,” she said tightly. “I’m in advertising. And this is for work.” In a manner of speaking, anyway. And she’d rather be dragged naked over hot coals than admit why she was really doing it.

  He grinned, smug.

  “You’re the Columbo of the surf world,” she said. “Congratulations. Can I get surf lessons and equipment here or what?”

  “A woman who gets right to the point. Ordinarily, I like that,” he said, his smile sliding off his face. “Still, in this particular case, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  She stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Excuse me?”

  “You know, you could get just as much information out of a few good surf magazines and a few books. I can recommend several. And maybe you could watch some videos. We sell a lot of great surf videos,” he offered. And damn him, he wasn’t making fun of her. His voice sounded like he actually wanted to help her.

  “Read?” she repeated, dazed. “Watch videos?”

  How was she supposed to get a hobby by watching videos?

  “I really have to insist,” she said, enunciating very slowly. She hated herself like this—she knew she was getting pushy, acting like her mother, or worse, her father. “I appreciate your suggestions, but what I really need is to buy some equipment and get out in the water.”

  Now he stood a little straighter, and his arms were still crossed. He looked stubborn. “Well, I have to insist that you’re in the wrong store, then, sweetie.”

  “Are you kidding me with this?” She didn’t mean to yell.. .it just sort of happened. She blamed the nascent panic attack.

  He took a step closer, and she was momentarily sidetracked by the smell of his cologne...and the heat coming off of him. The guy was like a very sexy furnace.

  “I’m not going to let somebody who’s got absolutely no experience and no real interest in the sport get out on a surfboard and muck around in the water,” he said, and his voice was sharper than his laid-back image suggested. “It’s not just fun and games out there. People who aren’t serious, who aren’t careful, can get seriously hurt. Or die. So no, lady, I’m not going to just let you buy a surfboard and give you some instructions and send you out there, just so you can try to impress your boss or whoever.”

  “It’s just business,”she protested. “Isn’t that what you do? Sell stuff?”

  “That’s not,” he said, his deep voice low and stern, “how I do business.”

  She was floored. “Fine,” she said shakily, responding to both his refusal and his proximity. “Just...just fine.”

  She was halfway out the door, when she turned. “What’s your name?”

  His eyes were low-lidded, his arms still crossed. “Sean,” he said, his voice smooth as a lime margarita. “Sean Gilroy.”

  “Well, Sean Gilroy,” she said, ignoring the shiver that his voice seemed to stupidly induce, “I was about to drop over a grand in this store. I figure, a surfboard, a spring suit, a winter suit, a couple of videos, a surfboard, some bathing suits...sunscreen, for pity’s sake. You name it, I would’ve bought it. And I hate to say it, but it doesn’t look like you guys could afford to lose the business. So thank you for your stunning display of moral conscience, Mr. Gilroy.”

  He leaned back, smiling at her, even though his bright gaze snapped with fire. “Don’t mention it.”

  “Wasn’t planning to.”

  She stormed out to her car, slamming the door shut behind her. She was gratified to find that she wasn’t shaking, that she was breathing deeply. She was also starting to have a headache. Still, that was infinitely preferable to a panic attack.

  Of course, she realized, she also had no hobby.

  So they were the best surf shop in the South Bay? Fine, she consoled herself, surfing wasn’t the only hobby out there. She sure as hell wasn’t going to grovel and convince some surfer-dude to help her. The panic attacks themselves were humiliating enough. She wasn’t going to debase herself further and compound the problem.

  She would’ve loved surfing, she thought, starting up her Jaguar. But she’d find something else. Basket weaving. Tap dancing. Anything.

  She would get her hobby. And Mr. Gorgeous Sean Gilroy would see just how fine she did without him.

       

  AT SIX O’CLOCK, Sean was closing up the surf shop and looking forward to hitting the waves, when Oz walked into the store, after taking a two-hour “coffee run.” He’d been out of the store more and more lately—and when he was there, he seemed unhappy. Sean wondered what was going on there. Maybe the restlessness that he himself felt was just something that was going around. One of Oz’s old girlfriends fancied herself a bit of an astrologer—maybe there was something in retrograde or something, that was affecting everyone. Or maybe, like the song said, there was a bad moon rising.

  It would certainly explain a lot, anyway.

  Oz looked grumpy. “What was all the ruckus about earlier, just before I left?” he asked without preamble.

  There had only been a couple of customers in between Oz’s leaving and now. “Which.. .oh.” He grinned as the only memorable moment of the day flooded him. “You mean her.”

  The word "her" was rich with emphasis. Sean could still picture her, as though she’d just left a second ago.

  “Yeah, her,” Oz said with less enthusiasm. “The little girl.”

  “With the big voice,” Sean said, chuckling. With her silvery-blond hair and her petite frame, she looked like some kind of manic pixie… a fairy gone to war. He would’ve said adorable, except for the Godzilla-size attitude. She was beautiful, though, he had to give her that. “She wanted to learn how to surf in a month and a half. Can you believe it?”

  “So?” Oz frowned at him. “What’s the problem?”

  Sean shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t even know how well she can swim,” Sean said.

  “You could’ve asked.”

  Yeah, he could’ve, Sean thought, but Oz’s persistence threw him a little. Oz unhappy was one thing. This was different. Normally, Oz was as laid-back as Sean himself— that’s how Sean had learned it. Oz hadn’t even freaked out when Sean’s mother, and his then girlfriend, had bailed out, leaving the man with two young teens on his doorstep. So, seeing Oz getting worried was a little unnerving.

  “I wouldn’t want to be responsible,” Sean said quietly. “You know we’ve never been just a store that pushes stuff on people. There are some basic safety issues here. She was so gung ho...she could’ve hurt somebody. She could get hurt, herself.”

  “Still,” Oz said. Sean didn’t like the way Oz seemed to brush his concerns aside. “You could’ve sold her some stuff, then directed her to the Y or something.”

  Sean’s eyes widened. “I s
uppose I could have,” Sean said, feeling a bit like a car salesman. “I guess it didn’t occur to me.”

  What’s worse, it didn’t occur to Sean that it would occur to Oz.

  Oz had the grace to redden, at least, though it was hard to notice—his skin was the leathery brown of someone who had been hard-core tanning without sunscreen for well over thirty years. “The shop hasn’t been doing so well lately, Sean,” Oz said slowly. “We could’ve used the money, is all I’m saying.” Sean sighed. So here it was. The heart of the problem. “It was different, when you started working here,” Oz continued. “Hell, even when you were sixteen, I knew I could just leave the shop in your hands and go surfing whenever, no problem. We made money no matter what we did. Now...all these posh stores cropping up all over the place. The bait shop got replaced by some high-toned shoe store, and don’t even get me started on the Starbucks.”

  Sean smiled. “Yeah, I know. Still, Tubes is an institution. It’s winter, so it’s slow,” he said, trying to cheer the older man up. “You know, I’ve been thinking about stuff we could do. To maybe turn things around.”

  Sean cleared his throat, thinking how best to approach the subject. It was one he’d sort of hedged around for the past... oh, ten years. But Oz really hadn’t cared before—as long as the was making enough money to cover rent and pay for his surfboards, he was content.

  Maybe he’d listen now.

  “I don’t know,” Oz said, hesitant. But at least he hadn’t tuned out.

  Sean felt a little of his restlessness ebb as he started to talk about his plan. “For one thing, we might want to spruce the place up, you know? I mean, you own the building, right? We could repaint, maybe. And maybe get a new sign.” He grinned, picturing the changes in his mind. “And then, promotion. Charlotte has a number of graphic jobs lined up, still she could work on the logo, and we could get a Web site... Ryan would be happy to help with that. It could really make a difference.”

  For a second, Oz perked up a little, but just as quickly, he slumped into a chair. “It sounds like a lot of work,” he protested.

  “You wouldn’t have to worry about it,” Sean said quickly. “Remember? You felt that way about the books that time we were audited.”

  “Don’t even remind me,” Oz said with a shudder.

  “I’ll handle it, is my point. Just leave it up to me.”

  For a second, just a second, he thought Oz was going to agree with him. But his heart sank a little as Oz shook his head.

  “The thing is, you’re going to be busy, Sean,” Oz said, his voice sad.

  “Busy?” Sean laughed. “Are you kidding? It’s the dead season. And it’s not like I’ve got a raging social life.” He stopped laughing as he realized how true that statement was.

  “Well, the thing is...I’m glad you brought up the part about the building, Sean.”

  Now Sean felt the slightest tickle of apprehension brush along his spine. “What about the building?”

  “The thing is...’’And Oz hemmed for a second, looking at the floor. “I’ve been thinking of renovating the apartment upstairs. You know it was just sort of jerry-rigged, never was a proper place.”

  “It works fine for me,” Sean said, shrugging. It was sort of bare bones, but he’d made some improvements himself, and the view of the ocean was well worth it.

  “I was thinking of building it out, making it a little nicer.” Sean stared at him, still not putting it together.

  “Jeez, do I have to spell it out?” Oz said, looking anguished. “Kid, I need you to move out.”

  Sean blinked. Of all the ways for this conversation to go, this wasn’t what he was expecting at all. “Is it a matter of... I mean, I guess I could pay you more, if that’s what you need,” he said, mentally doing some calculations. Of course, he wasn’t paying much because Oz wasn’t paying him that much, but it sounded as if Oz was in trouble. He could make some changes, if necessary. For the good of the shop, if nothing else. And he did still feel like he owed Oz.

  Oz sighed. “It’s not that. I’m just...I need to reevaluate a lot of things right now.” To his credit, Oz did sound apologetic. “I just think that it’s time to make some changes. Some improvements.”

  “So why don’t you...”

  He was about to ask make the improvements to the shop first, but realized that it was the wrong time. Oz was squirming like he was sitting on a bed of nails. Now was not the time to pressure the older man.

  “Okay,” Sean said instead. “How long do I have to find a new place?”

  It took Oz a long moment to respond. “Thirty days,” he said in a low voice.

  Sean frowned. “That’s it?” After sixteen years living there?

  “My lawyer says that’s the best plan,” Oz replied, shocking Sean even more. There was a lawyer involved? Oz stood up, looking agitated. “I’m sorry, Sean,” he added. He sounded like he really was.

  Sean shook his head, still reeling with disbelief as Oz disappeared into his haven in the back room. Sean went about the routine of shutting the store with all the precision and automation of a robot, even as he heard Oz puttering around in the office.

  Sean knew what he needed: to get out to the waves. Ever since he was a kid, he knew it was the one place on earth where, no matter what, he could feel better.

  Suddenly, a dark thought hit him. He stalked to the back office, knocking on the door frame and watching Oz’s startled expression. “Does this mean,” he asked somberly, “that you’re selling the shop, too?”

  Oz cleared his throat, shuffling a bunch of catalogs that were strewn across the beat-up desk. “I haven’t made any decisions, Sean,” he said.

  “How about your lawyer, then?” Sean said.

  Oz frowned. “Listen, this is hard on me, too. I love this surf shop, and I know how much it means to you.”

  Sean doubted that. He crossed his arms.

  Oz sighed. “If the store were doing more business, maybe it’d be different. I don’t know how to turn that around. If we made more money, I wouldn’t have to make the decision,” he said, and his voice was pleading. “It’s a tough economy, Sean.”

  Sean saw the earnest expression on Oz’s face, and let out a deep breath. “Sorry,” Sean said. “I know it’s tough.”

  “You have no idea. Owning a business isn’t as much fun as it used to be, and I’m not a young man anymore,” he said, and his voice was filled with apology. “I’m just lucky I’ve had you working for me all these years.”

  Sean nodded, feeling embarrassed by the compliment. “I’ve locked up,” he said. “I’m going out.”

  “Good night, Sean.”

  Sean waved, and headed upstairs, to get his gear. He didn’t know what else to say. He felt overwhelmed. He’d talk to the rest of the Hoodlums, he thought as he took off his clothes and pulled on his wet suit. They’d help out, but he didn’t want to rely on his rich friends any more than he already did. Gabe would give him a job in a shot. So would any of the rest of them, if they could.

  The thing was, he loved the surf shop. He loved living over it. There could be a really nice two-bedroom apartment above it, and they could make all kinds of—

  He stopped himself. No. He wasn’t going to think about it. The waves. Just focus on the waves.

  But instead of the usual calming waves, he found himself thinking of something else entirely. The petite blonde. The pixzilla. She certainly wasn’t about to let anybody stop her, he thought, with the first grin he’d had since Oz dropped the bomb on him. He bet that if she was handed news like this, she’d probably rush out and have eighteen different solutions before dinnertime.

  If a woman that was five-foot-nothing could storm out like a Valkyrie, hell-bent on getting exactly what she wanted and nothing less, then a grown, six-foot guy could probably find another apartment in thirty days. In the meantime, he was going to surf.

  He was still smiling as he got his surfboard, feeling better. If he didn’t watch it, he’d get completely torqued.. .and str
ess was a killer. That was the one thing about the pixie he didn’t envy.

       

  “ALL RIGHT. Today, we’re going to make a small pot.”

  Allison ignored the slimy feel of wet clay beneath her hands and sneaked surreptitious glances at the other students. She looked just like them—each of them in jeans and a smock, each of them sitting at the electric potter’s wheel at the community college.

  The thing is, she wasn’t like them. She was more determined, for one thing. For another thing, this was the fourth “hobby” she’d tried in a week, and she was starting to get a little desperate. Watercolor had been mind-numbing and disappointing. Everyone else had managed to make at least somewhat recognizable flowers, while her paper had somehow turned into a muddy-brown Rorschach test. Then she’d tried belly dancing, which was dismal. She considered herself limber, but the teacher (the suspiciously named “Zoyana, mistress of the dance” even though she asked that all checks be made out to “Millie Blumberg”) had told Allison that she was way too wooden to really enjoy the dancing and that she needed to learn to relax before she’d ever learn to belly dance. She’d gotten a refund right then and there, something that “Zoyana” seemed more than happy to offer. She needed a hobby that created relaxation. She didn’t need the stress of learning to relax, just so she could do something else, for God’s sake!

  She didn’t even want to think about the cooking class. Although she had to say that flambé seemed a little advanced for anybody, and for a beginner, the instructor might have rethought starting with creme brulee. Handing out blowtorches was probably not the best way to start off.

  So here she was, with squishy clay and an increasing sense of foreboding.

  At weird points, she’d think of Sean Gilroy. She doubted she’d ever forget his name now. She was torn between laughing at the spectacle she’d made of herself, and getting angry all over again at the way he’d judged her. And, if she were honest with herself, the way he’d pegged her. Of course, maybe a lot of advertising people...well, no. She couldn’t honestly think that a ton of advertising people wandered into the dingy shop.