Stephanie Tyler - Coming Undone

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For my daughter Lily,

who is my very favorite surfer girl and

who has more courage than anyone I know.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

“I STARTED WITH, I THINK it’s sexy when we cuddle.”

At her best friend’s words, Carly tried hard not to laugh into the phone’s receiver, but she was unsuccessful. Cuddling was not sexy. Cuddling was for dogs and cats; it wasn’t appropriate fantasy material. Not the erotic kind, anyway, which is what Samantha had attempted to write for her boyfriend.

Carly sat back in her chair and tried to compose herself. After a minute, she managed to choke out, “Sam, I don’t think cuddling’s going to get Joe all hot and bothered. Telling him that you want to cuddle after he strips off your clothes slowly, gets you spread-eagled on the bed and has his way with you thoroughly might get him revved up. But you’d have to be more explicit. You could start with something like, I want to feel your tongue tracing a path down my neck, while your hand reaches between my…”

“Ha. I’m surprised you remember what a man’s touching you is like.”

“Why are we friends again?” Sam’s easy laughter made Carly smile into the phone.

“Because I’m here to remind that you need to get back to your wild ways. Mainly so I can live vicariously through you,” Sam said.

“It’s time for you to get a little wild. Let yourself go and try again. Joe will love it.”

The inspiration for her friend’s truly awful creation was an article in Total Woman Magazine, written by Candy

Valentine, titled: “Take Him Over The Falls: Revealing Your Most Erotic Fantasy To Your Man.”

Sam had lent her the magazine last week, and Carly had had a good chuckle over the title of the piece, an old surfing term that literally meant losing control. Apparently, the article had started some kind of erotic fantasy-writing craze, and her best friend had decided to jump on the bandwagon.

The article had given Carly food for thought. Lots and lots of thought.

“I’m not good at this kind of stuff,” Sam said.

“You’re confusing sexual fantasy with romance. They’re very different animals, according to Candy. You’ve got to forget the cozy-up by the fire routine and think about turning up the heat from the inside instead,” Carly explained.

“Obviously it’s something I’m not accomplishing in real life or on paper.”

The hurt in her friend’s voice was clear. Carly knew that Samantha and her boyfriend of a few months had hit a snag in the bedroom department.

Personally, Carly thought Joe was less than deserving of her friend, but she had to admit Samantha was slightly puritanical in her views on sex. If Carly could get her to loosen up, maybe she’d see that there was more to life than Joe.

Of course, this was coming from someone who hadn’t had a date in months, let alone anything close to a relationship, and she didn’t plan on changing that status anytime soon. “Maybe the problem’s not you, Sam.”

“Maybe, but I’m willing to give this a shot. Hey, are you ready for your parents’ visit?”

“Yes, and a root canal without Novocain.”

“More wedding talk, right? And you still don’t have a date.”

“Don’t remind me.” Carly pinched the bridge of her nose at the thought of how not well the visit was about to go. “And I have got an article due for the magazine, and the charity event’s coming up—”

“I’ll make you a deal. If you start the fantasy for me, I’ll help you with the event,” Samantha offered.

“Fine. I’ll start it, but you’ll have to finish it.” Carly knew she could use the help to plan her part of the charity event. And she’d known she was going to help Sam fix her writing from the second she’d heard that woeful attempt. “Let me get myself into fantasy mode and I’ll e-mail it to you in a while.”

“My computer’s down. Fax it instead. And don’t let your parents see it.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” She could imagine what her mother would say if she caught her eldest daughter writing erotic fantasies.

Women, especially women who were born into society, as her mother often termed it, weren’t supposed to have fantasies. Women with Carly’s social standing were to marry well, have children, work for various charities and generally do all things ladylike.

She had no problem with the charities per se, especially since her family had a legacy of service to the community, beginning with her great-grandmother and continuing into the present, thanks to her mother’s pageant work. Except the event her mother had volunteered Carly for truly inspired mixed feelings, ones she was trying hard not to think about, yet couldn’t seem to escape.

“Go write,” Sam said.

“Will do. I’ll also fax the lists I need you to go over.” She rooted around her desk for the list of names, all the people who’d RSVP’d that they’d attend the event and contribute, as well, and the master list of invitees. She’d set up an office in the guest bedroom of the old house she’d bought a few months earlier. The magazine gig, which she’d deemed her transitional career, was freelance and allowed her to work from the comfort of her home.

“Hey, did you go down to the water today?” Sam asked quietly.

There was no judgment in her friend’s tone, but Carly still felt her back go up for a moment.

She’s only trying to help you.

“No. I didn’t get a chance to,” she lied. Bitter disappointment surged through her at the fact that she had indeed tried. She’d threaded her toes through the sand at the top of the dunes, stared at the crashing waves a mile or so beyond and had been unable to walk any farther toward them. Breathing the calming ocean air hadn’t helped much, either, and she’d admitted defeat and headed back toward the house before she had the chance to panic. When she’d returned to her place, she’d closed the windows in her office so she couldn’t hear the ocean.

Maybe buying a house on the beach hadn’t been the smartest move after all. It had seemed right when she’d retired, or been forced into retirement, depending on how you looked at it, from professional surfing nearly ten months earlier. She’d sold her surfing school in Hawaii and moved to the Northern Florida Coast, settling near Daytona, a two-hour drive from Vero Beach, where she’d grown up. At twenty-five, she’d been nearing the end of her career, and the younger, faster women were snapping at her heels. She’d had a good run, and an even greater scare in that last tournament, never mind the accident that capped her career.