Read Online The Almost Wives Club: Kate by Nancy Warren - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Warren
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chin and the happy thought that someone with cancer would get her hair. Her whole body felt lighter without the weight of all that hair. Plus, she had bangs. She hadn’t had bangs since she was a kid. Maybe if she could figure out where she’d first gone wrong, she could catch up with herself and get her life back on track.
The surf was picking up. An itch she’d barely been aware of grew strong enough that she strolled into a surf shop. “I want to rent a board and a wet suit,” she told the sleepy looking man behind the cash desk.
He cast a glance out of the long windows that overlooked the ocean. “You want a lesson?”
“No.”
“Surf’s coming up. You know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
He pushed a form at her. “Rental’s $75 a day. Wet suit’s an extra $25.”
She pulled out cash.
“I’ll need some ID.”
She gave him her driver’s license and then grabbed the wet suit he pulled out for her, headed to the small changing room at the back of the store, and squeezed into it. The familiar tightness, the way the suit resisted her, all that was so familiar. When she zipped up the back she felt a lightness she hadn’t felt in days.
She hadn’t surfed in a few years, but she hadn’t forgotten how.
She grabbed the board, tucked it under her arm and headed for the beach. The breeze tossed her newly short hair, the waves called to her, come and ride me, see if I don’t toss you. The pelicans skimmed the waves. She tethered the board to her ankle and headed in. Her bare feet hit the water and she noticed a rush of coolness, then she was striding into the surf, the board bouncing along beside her like a rambunctious puppy.
She pushed out, lay out on the board and began to paddle. When the first wave crashed over her head she laughed aloud. Soon, she’d passed the tideline and was out in the relative calm, waiting. Surfing was timing and balance. She waited, watching for her chance, and then instinct kicked in. She jumped to a crouch, felt the surge beneath her, and stood. It was like riding a wild horse she sometimes thought, bareback, standing up on bare feet. The first wild horse tossed her to the dirt. Shaking her head and climbing back onto her board, she headed out again.
Who had time to obsess about a broken engagement, a faithless fiancé, an untrustworthy mother and a job loss when all her attention and focus needed to be on the board, the wave, the moment.
Another wave came hulking toward her, daring her to try and ride it.
She took the dare.
Jumped to her feet. The wave tried to upend her but she danced up and back, like a fencer, feeling all the instinct to ride, all the years of surfing rise up out of her feet into every muscle as she balanced, danced, and rode.
She flew.
For hours she surfed wave after wave until her arms were so tired they were a couple of overcooked noodles and all her muscles felt the unaccustomed pull and strain of the workout.
Her short hair was plastered to her head as she emerged from the waves and hauled the—now much heavier—surfboard back to Surf’s Up. She set the surfboard against the rack outside and walked inside. The same man was behind the counter and she asked him for the bag of clothes he’d stashed for her behind the counter.
He passed the bag to her and said, “Come talk to me when you’re dressed.”
She couldn’t imagine what he thought she’d done. But she rolled and squeezed the wet suit off and dressed swiftly in her jeans and T-shirt and flip-flops, and, blinking against the salt-sting in her eyes, returned to the front counter.
“Was watching you out there,” the guy said. “You’re good.”
Okay, so he wasn’t going to claim she’d somehow damaged his board or wet suit. That was a relief. “Thanks.”
“You ever teach anybody to surf?”
“My younger cousins. Years ago. Why?”
“I need a female instructor. It’s a casual position, I call you when someone requests a female.”
“Who requests a female?”
The surf was picking up. An itch she’d barely been aware of grew strong enough that she strolled into a surf shop. “I want to rent a board and a wet suit,” she told the sleepy looking man behind the cash desk.
He cast a glance out of the long windows that overlooked the ocean. “You want a lesson?”
“No.”
“Surf’s coming up. You know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
He pushed a form at her. “Rental’s $75 a day. Wet suit’s an extra $25.”
She pulled out cash.
“I’ll need some ID.”
She gave him her driver’s license and then grabbed the wet suit he pulled out for her, headed to the small changing room at the back of the store, and squeezed into it. The familiar tightness, the way the suit resisted her, all that was so familiar. When she zipped up the back she felt a lightness she hadn’t felt in days.
She hadn’t surfed in a few years, but she hadn’t forgotten how.
She grabbed the board, tucked it under her arm and headed for the beach. The breeze tossed her newly short hair, the waves called to her, come and ride me, see if I don’t toss you. The pelicans skimmed the waves. She tethered the board to her ankle and headed in. Her bare feet hit the water and she noticed a rush of coolness, then she was striding into the surf, the board bouncing along beside her like a rambunctious puppy.
She pushed out, lay out on the board and began to paddle. When the first wave crashed over her head she laughed aloud. Soon, she’d passed the tideline and was out in the relative calm, waiting. Surfing was timing and balance. She waited, watching for her chance, and then instinct kicked in. She jumped to a crouch, felt the surge beneath her, and stood. It was like riding a wild horse she sometimes thought, bareback, standing up on bare feet. The first wild horse tossed her to the dirt. Shaking her head and climbing back onto her board, she headed out again.
Who had time to obsess about a broken engagement, a faithless fiancé, an untrustworthy mother and a job loss when all her attention and focus needed to be on the board, the wave, the moment.
Another wave came hulking toward her, daring her to try and ride it.
She took the dare.
Jumped to her feet. The wave tried to upend her but she danced up and back, like a fencer, feeling all the instinct to ride, all the years of surfing rise up out of her feet into every muscle as she balanced, danced, and rode.
She flew.
For hours she surfed wave after wave until her arms were so tired they were a couple of overcooked noodles and all her muscles felt the unaccustomed pull and strain of the workout.
Her short hair was plastered to her head as she emerged from the waves and hauled the—now much heavier—surfboard back to Surf’s Up. She set the surfboard against the rack outside and walked inside. The same man was behind the counter and she asked him for the bag of clothes he’d stashed for her behind the counter.
He passed the bag to her and said, “Come talk to me when you’re dressed.”
She couldn’t imagine what he thought she’d done. But she rolled and squeezed the wet suit off and dressed swiftly in her jeans and T-shirt and flip-flops, and, blinking against the salt-sting in her eyes, returned to the front counter.
“Was watching you out there,” the guy said. “You’re good.”
Okay, so he wasn’t going to claim she’d somehow damaged his board or wet suit. That was a relief. “Thanks.”
“You ever teach anybody to surf?”
“My younger cousins. Years ago. Why?”
“I need a female instructor. It’s a casual position, I call you when someone requests a female.”
“Who requests a female?”
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