Beneath Breaking Waves

By Juliet Vane

In 1956, "good girls" don't surf. Annie, apparently, isn't a good girl.

After the death of their parents, sixteen-year-old Annie finds herself thrust into the guardianship of her brother, Ted. He was her only ally during their unhappy childhood, and she followed him everywhere, including into the waves.

Now, however, Ted can't forgive Annie for the role she played in their parents' deaths. Annie finds herself in a boarding home in California while he goes off to surf in Hawaii. When Annie finally gets an invitation to visit Ted, she has only the span of Christmas break to convince him to let her stay—and surfing the big waves of the North Shore just might be the key to softening his heart.

But if Annie fails to win Ted over, she'll be shipped back to California, losing the only family she has left.
 

Beneath Breaking Waves is perfect for readers who love the ocean, stories of redemption, and atmospheric tales that transport them back in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Juliet Vane
• Release date: Nov 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393245308

Book preview

1

May, 1956

Two weeks after our parents’ funeral, my brother stood with me on a stranger’s porch. My belongings waited at the curb in a borrowed truck. My brother’s things were already on their way to Hawaii.

How long? I asked, blinking.

Only for a couple months, Ted said.

And then I can come out there, too?

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Yes. Just, stop crying, all right?

I’m not crying. I leaned against a door frame that was not my door frame, looked at a house that was not my house, and wished I could hug this brother who suddenly was not my brother.

My brother looked at me when he spoke to me.

My brother hugged me when I cried.

My brother would never leave me behind.

Look, you’re going to be fine, he said. Fiver went steady with a girl who lived in this boarding house, and he said it’s a decent place. He gestured at the wide porch that looked as if it was swept daily, at the chairs that looked as if they’d always been empty.

Fiver? I stepped forward. What does Fiver know about decent places? He lives in a shack on the beach.

I’m doing the right thing for you. I gotta get out of here, but you’re a kid. You should be in school.

I’m your sister. I should be with you. I couldn’t look at him when I said it—if I looked at him, I’d see he wasn’t looking at me. Instead I stared through the window to the beige lace curtains. They moved slightly, as if someone was standing just behind them, watching us.

Just let me get things set up first, he said.

We’re all we have left, Ted.

His fist slammed into the porch beam. And whose fault is that?

I reached toward him, but he flinched, then turned abruptly and strode back to the truck. So that was it, I thought. He’d leave without a farewell. I reached out and gripped the porch beam, feeling like I couldn’t stand up anymore.

But then he came back with my second trunk of clothes and my record player. His eyes were red-rimmed, like he was trying to hold back tears, and I wanted to tell him I was sorry again. Actually, I wanted a hug, a promise, something that would tell me I’d see him soon and that he wasn’t any happier about this separation than I was.

Instead, I walked to the truck and grabbed a milk crate of LPs. Perry Como looked up at me from the cover of one, a moony expression on his face.

We brought my things inside. Miss Parson stood close to the door, ready to scrutinize my clothes—my pressed dungarees, my saddle shoes. The left shoe had the tiniest scuff on the heel, and I was sure she saw it. Her eyes were watery, not like the ocean, but more like a pond, growing old and stagnant. She smelled like baby powder, and it made my nose itch.

The small table in the hall gleamed as if it had been freshly dusted. But I didn’t think this house had ever seen a speck of dust. Dust was probably too afraid to enter.

After Ted put the last of my things in the tiny room I’d call my own for—weeks? months?—I followed him back out to the porch.

So I’ll just finish out the school year. Two more months, right?

Ted rubbed a hand through his too-long, beach-bum hair. Christ, I don’t know. It’s not like I have an itinerary or something.

Of course you don’t, I wanted to say. You’re not the one who’s getting left behind.

He stood one step below, one foot already on the walkway leading to the curb.

I hugged my arms around my waist. I need some kind of answer. You’re leaving me here on my own.

For a half-beat, or maybe a sixteenth note, he looked like he might finally show the sorrow I knew must be waiting beneath the surface. Then he shook his head, pushing it away, pulling up a counter-melody. You’ve got plenty of people. Dizzy. Miss Parson, now. Fiver said he’d take you surfing. And you’ve got Keith, don’t you, Annie?

He said it in that cutting way, as if he didn’t know I hadn’t spoken to Keith in weeks. As if the only phone call hadn’t been from the attorney to make the appointment telling us about the trust, and how Ted was in control of my half of the funds until I turned eighteen.

Because Ted was so responsible, taking his half of the money and going to Hawaii. To surf.

Then again, I didn’t care how responsible people thought he was. I just wished he were taking me with him. This anger he kept slicing me with, this wasn’t him, and I knew it was temporary. If he’d just let me go with him, I could help him get through it.

Ted, I didn’t mean for any of this—

"Course you didn’t. These things just happen, don’t they?"

My own words, thrown back at me. These things just happen—I’d said them after he asked me what I’d been doing with Keith that night.

Well, Ted continued, so long.

I wanted to reach out and make him hug me. I wanted him to tell me it was going to be okay, to tell me none of this was my fault. Instead I hugged my arms closer so they pressed into the buttons on my plaid shirt. I pressed hard enough for the buttons to leave marks. Little round imprints.

I turned around and went inside, unable to watch him pull away from the curb in the old Chevy he’d borrowed from Fiver.

I thought about a lot of things after he said, so long, and drove away. I thought about how we used to sit on our boards, facing the line where sky met sea, waiting for waves and blinded by the sun sparking against the water.

I thought about how he’d protect me back then, telling the other guys to stop their teasing because he always knew when I’d had enough.

I thought about how it made sense he’d move to Hawaii, because every time we needed sanctuary, even before the surfing, we’d go to the ocean.

I thought about how he’d left me on the front step of that quiet, decent house on that quiet, tree-lined street. No ocean in sight.

Weeks later, in the boarding house, the telephone rang in the hallway. I ignored it. It wasn’t for me. Other than Fiver, I hadn’t spoken to anyone close to my age in months.

The telephone rang again. Miss Parson’s other boarders, two college girls, were at the movies. The old woman never answered the telephone. I slouched to it and lifted the receiver.

The operator’s voice was polished, her vowels full of professionalism. She asked for Annie Vales. Honolulu is calling.

I leaned against the wall in relief. Finally, Ted was sending for me, making good on his promise.

Hello, Ted? I said.

These telephone charges are unbelievable.

How are you, how are the waves, are you surfing?

The waves are great.

How are you doing?

Just fine. This was dumb. I can’t talk, it’s too expensive. I’ll be in touch soon.

Wait—when am I moving out there? Why’d you even call, then?

He’d already hung up.

School started again. Israel invaded Egypt. One of the teachers returned from his forced suspension after being accused of being a communist, but the other teachers wouldn’t speak with him. Earlier in the year, Emmett Till’s murderers had confessed in a magazine. I continued to watch the headlines, waiting for justice to be served.

It wasn’t.

The letter came in November. From Mrs. Theodore Vales, not Ted—inviting me to fly out to meet this sister-in-law I didn’t even know existed.

I packed my clothes and surfboard for a move to the Hawaiian Territories.

2

December 13

The roar of the plane’s engine is deafening. I grip my arm rests, not trusting the wings to keep us flying. People can float in water. I’ve never seen people float in air.

I’m itchy in my starched skirt, sweater set, new shoes. My allowance from the trust has been enough to buy clothes as I need them, but until I had somewhere to go, I didn’t much care about style.

Now, though, I’m on an airplane for the first time. I need to dress well. Proper traveling clothes to show I’m reformed.

It’s the middle of December. I didn’t even finish the semester at school, and I have no regrets leaving anything or anyone behind in California.

But when the plane touches ground, my heart ticks quickly, the metronome starting in allegro, moving to presto, and I focus on the scenery outside the plane window. The view is similar to California’s coast: the sun shining postcard perfect behind palm trees, waves in the distance, silent and beckoning.

The airplane engine dies down to a goodbye, or maybe a hello. Aloha means both.

I’m not in the United States, I’m in the Hawaiian Territories, and I can smell the difference when they open the door. Plumeria. Mom’s favorite flower. Sometimes, Dad would bring them to her in a short-stemmed bouquet.

The air’s heavier here, wet. Humid. I wonder if I should be swimming off the plane instead of walking.

Two boys my age rush down the boarding stairs. Surfers, I guess, from their tanned skin, broad shoulders. The scent of salt and sunshine clings to them like cologne. They hoist surfboards from the cargo hold, and then pause, staring.

Whose is that?

Smallest board I ever saw.

I wait at the bottom of the stairs, hoping they’ll walk away. But they don’t, intent on finding the board’s owner.

Me.

They laugh over a joke about dwarf surfers, and I can wait no longer. That’s mine. I shove past them, drag my board from the compartment. Do I look like a dwarf to you?

The boys recover quickly and introduce themselves. They offer me a ride and I say no, of course, because I don’t want Ted to see them with me. But they follow close behind, into the airport where Ted is waiting. When they see his face, his mouth a grim, thin line, they scram.

Who were those bozos? Ted asks in the car.

The radio plays loud, aggressive. Ted grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. He jams the clutch, shifts low for a steep hill.

Just some boys from the airplane. Surfers.

I stare out the window. Farmland—pineapple, sugarcane—rushes past, the shadows lengthening in the late afternoon.

You didn’t waste time, did you? His voice sounds resigned.

I turn to him then. His hair, brown like mine, is mussed, his eyes rimmed in red. He was drinking last night, probably trying to forget I was coming.

What do you mean, waste time? I ask. Why doesn’t he tell me what’s really going on? Why doesn’t he tell me that he’s mad and we can shout at each other until we’re crying for our lost parents?

Already trying to catch a boy, he says. Using your board to do it.

Funny, I say, my voice bitter. Mom thinks— I stop, a breath plugging my throat. Mom thought. She thought my surfboard had the opposite effect on boys. They wouldn’t be attracted to a girl who surfed.

Mom wanted me to be just like her: beach décor.

Elvis Presley croons from the radio and Ted jabs the dial, ignoring my half-started sentence. I hate that pretty boy.

I don’t have a response, so I watch the crops. The lines they make are like sheet music staffs stretching into green, green mountains. I imagine notes dropping into the staffs, creating a musical score. The score of what, I wonder. A soundtrack for a surfing film? A suspenseful Alfred Hitchcock picture?

Tell me about your place, I say softly. Tell me about Olive.

Olive. I can still remember opening the letter, gasping. Ted married. He had a wedding, and I wasn’t invited. He didn’t even tell me about her. I wonder if that was why he’d called. I wonder if he’d been about to say something, but couldn’t.

Ted’s one to talk about not wasting time. He met Olive and married her in less than five months.

She’s great. One side of his mouth lifts up in an almost-grin. There’s the Ted I remember. She’s beautiful. She’s the most honest, loyal person I’ve ever met.

I can’t wait to meet her. The words thud out of my mouth without real meaning. It’s true, she invited me out here. But I already feel like I’m not welcome.

He flashes a look at me, one I can’t interpret. I need you to help her out around the house. Help her cook, help her with the garden, which she loves. You’re going to stay busy. This isn’t going to be like home where you ran wild. You’re not going to be going off with boys all the time.

I nod, biting back my defense.

He continues, And keep out of my way.

Keep out of your way? I can’t hold the words back anymore. Why am I even here? Olive’s letter said you wanted me to come.

It did, huh? He laughs, but I don’t join in. It’s a bitter, angry laughter. He’s wrapping himself in it, not inviting me to share.

One hour feels like two in the quiet shell of Ted’s car, but we finally pull up to a house that sits like an afterthought in the middle of a field lined with rows of brilliant green plants. Their broad leaves are larger than my hands. What is this plant? I ask.

Taro, Ted says.

Do you farm it?

He shakes his head. No, we just rent the farmhouse.

Without looking at me, Ted unloads my board, stores it with his boards under paint-peeled eaves. There’s a small vegetable garden extending out from the side of the house, with even rows and sprouts of cabbage and squash, and a few other plants I don’t know. The house’s siding is crooked in places, the paint faded. One of the slats beneath a window frame is missing. Shabby as the house is, though, it looks content in the fading afternoon.

He takes me inside, shows me a cot in the living room. Spare room’s not ready, he says. You’ll sleep here.

I hide my luggage under the cot. Our home in San Clemente could have swallowed this house, but Ted sold our home and all the furniture, including my piano. It was his right as my guardian, the lawyer said. I wasn’t fit to argue, anyway—I’d just lost my parents, and it felt like I was losing Ted as well. Ted blamed me. Blames me, I remind myself.

Looking around the tiny living room, I’m thinking that with all that money plus his half of the trust fund, Ted should have a nicer house. He should have a room, just for me. He said I’d come out here when he got settled, and I thought he meant I’d move in with him. That we’d be a family again. But this is feeling less like a move and more like an unwelcome visit.

Should I have gotten a round-trip ticket? I’m too mad to mask the bitterness in my voice.

He looks confused and stares somewhere past my shoulder. I’m, uh, I’m glad you’re here. We’ll see how it goes.

A short girl comes out of the kitchen, clapping her hands. Her dark hair is pulled into a knot at the back of her head, and white teeth look bright against her light brown skin. Her hands are clean, but there’s dirt beneath her fingernails.

Annie, I’m Olive. I’m so glad to meet you! Her large smile eases a bit of the knot of anxiety I’ve been holding in my stomach.

So this is the reason Ted forgot all about me in California. I shake her hand. Pleased to meet you— but she pulls me into her strong shoulders for a hug.

I nearly sob. No one has hugged me since the funeral. That the hug had to come from a girl who is practically a stranger hardly seems fair, but I can’t deny it feels good.

We pull apart. I’ve always wanted a sister, she says.

Me, too. My smile feels stretched tight across my teeth like it doesn’t belong, but I mean it.

Ted takes three strides toward the door. Work.

I thought we’d all have dinner together, Olive says.

Gotta go. Ted kisses her cheek, but she looks peeved.

He continues toward the door, then stops in front of me.

What’s this? he asks. Crooking his little finger, he lifts my necklace away from my skin.

It was Mom’s, I say, grabbing it back.

I know. His eyebrows angle downward for a second and his gaze is locked on the little pearl. He opens his mouth like he’ll say something, but then he drops the pendant and thunders out the door.

Olive must notice the stunned look on my face because she says, Here, come with me to the kitchen.

I hesitate. Are you sure? I don’t want to be in the way. Her mark is everywhere in this house, from the tiny homey touches of a doily on the end table by the sofa, to a wedding photograph near the television. Her and Ted.

Annie, she says, her brown eyes wide with sincerity, I asked you here. I want you here.

Nodding, I follow her into the kitchen, a tiny room off of the living room. It looks like it was added after the house was built because it sticks off the side. The window over the sink faces rows of taro ending in a tree line. The other window, situated above a table only big enough for two, has a similar view. From here it looks like Hawaii is nothing but green plants and blue sky.

Olive scoops something from a pot on the stove and puts in it a bowl. Here, she says, handing me the bowl. Take this and go for a walk. Acquaint yourself with the beach.

I glance into the bowl and see a light purple gruel. Oh, no thanks. I don’t want to be any trouble.

I can tell you’re hungry, she says, smiling. Trust me, it’s good.

What is it?

Poi. Mashed taro. It’s fresh. My grandmother made it like this for me when I needed comfort. You look like you can use it.

She points me out the back door of the kitchen, down two wooden steps, and then I’m in the taro field. Just walk through the field and you’ll get to the beach.

I need a spoon, I say, looking at the purple goop in my bowl.

You’re supposed to use your fingers.

I don’t want to try the poi in front of Olive—it looks terrible. So I wave my thanks and start walking down a narrow path between rows of plants. When I’m certain I’m far enough from the house, I dip two fingers into the bowl and bring the poi to my lips. It’s thick, and sweet, and I’m not sure I like it. It doesn’t taste like comfort. But the solid bowl in my hand, and the fact that Olive gave it to me—there’s comfort in that.

Although the lowering sun makes my shadow long, the air is still warm. I walk, scooping poi into my mouth as I go. I start getting used to its pasty texture, maybe because my empty stomach demands it.

Taro leaves brush against my skirt, reminding me of the strangeness of this place, so far from the suburban neighborhood where we lived before. Have I made the right decision, coming here? I could stay at Miss Parson’s until graduation, a year and a half from now. Maybe I could get a job as a secretary or a recorder. I could learn shorthand.

Mom’s and Dad’s faces are very clear in my mind sometimes. Approving faces, when I played Bach or Mozart for their friends—Mom’s mouth turned up in a proud smile, Dad’s chin thrust out while he polished his spectacles and listened. But their faces easily turned disapproving if I practiced too early in the morning, or when I played the same two measures over and over again, trying to get them perfect. I can’t imagine what their faces would look like at this decision.

Hearing the ocean before I see it, I hike past some trees and shrubs, maybe used as windbreaks for the taro crops, and down a short bluff.

There. Gentle waves, rolling up to crash into lava rocks. A poor surf spot, but the waves still take my breath, make me feel lighter than sea foam, as if I could float away, leaving my troubles on the beach.

Nobody here knows about what happened with Keith or my parents. Nobody except Ted needs to know that my foolish behavior got them killed. This new beach is a new start, a new life. This piece of the ocean will wash away the past with a hush.

The little sand there is amongst the