The Surf Guru Read Online Free PDF

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    The light turned green and Kacy drove, not wanting to interrupt them. After she’d gone a few blocks, though, thunder cracked and rain poured from the sky, beating insane drumrolls on the car and sheeting over the windshield. She turned off Guadalupe and doubled back to find her daughter, to get her home safe and dry. She made three circuits, rolling slowly along as she watched for April and Skillet through the passenger-side window, ignoring the honks behind her. But the two kids were gone, as if they’d melted away like spun sugar in the downpour.
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    One night, Kacy dreamed about Dinaburg. They were together in her kitchen, cooking by candlelight. A bottle of champagne appeared in his hands, he popped it open, and they each drank a glass. They used the rest of the bottle to make a champagne reduction. Dinaburg held her by the hips as she stirred the hot mixture on the stove. Then, suddenly, she was supine on the butcher-block island in the middle of the kitchen, and he was frosting her naked body with champagne buttercream. He started at her feet and worked his way up, over her legs and hips and breasts, and then covered her entire face, and then all she could see was a smooth sheet of yellow-white. When she felt him bite off her big toe and understood that she was made of cake, she found she didn’t mind being eaten, not really. Not until she felt bites on both her feet at the same time and heard an old woman hack out a snicker. Then she knew Rona Silverman was there with him, in Kacy’s own kitchen, and they were laughing together as they ate her up. She awoke in the bed alone.
    Roger was in the kitchen, making coffee. The circles under his eyes were even darker than usual. “You’re not going to have any teeth left,” he told her. “You sounded like a goddamn blender last night.” He snapped the lid onto his plastic travel mug and walked out the door with his shirt poking through his open zipper. She let him go.
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    Kacy returned home from a Texas Businesswomen’s Club luncheon hosted by the governor’s wife—for which she’d baked a raspberry gâteau with a sweet mascarpone icing that had seventy-five female executives moaning in caloric ecstasy (and made with a splash of good old Austin municipal water, thank you very much)—and she found a message on her business line from Dinaburg. “Calling to talk cake with you,” he said. He left his home number. She immediately memorized it.
    Her mind raced happily with the possible reasons his deal with Rona Silverman had fallen through. Had he come to his senses, remembered the sweet, smooth glide of the Four Chocolate Delight across his tongue? Or maybe Rona Silverman had died. Kacy imagined a photo of the old crone in her stupid pince-nez on the New York Times obituary page.
    â€œHello, Joel,” she said when he picked up. “It’s Kacy.”
    â€œSuch a quick response,” he said. “Ever the professional. How are you?”
    She told him about the governor’s mansion and about the gâteau. She told him how busy she’d been lately, spending ten hours a day in the kitchen just to fill orders and even more time experimenting with crème fraîche infusions and searching for even better-tasting butters and flours and vanillas and rums. She was, she said, doing the best work of her life. She stopped herself, realizing she should let him talk. She wanted to sound casual. She asked him how his azaleas were.
    â€œDoing fine,” he said. “The neighbor’s dog dropped dead. The guy thinks I poisoned it, which, for the record, I didn’t. But I called about business.”
    â€œI can do the wedding,” Kacy said. “I’ve kept the date open, just in case.”
    â€œNo, no, no, Kacy. Like I told you, we’re already committed.”
    She was confused. She would have said something, but she was afraid she’d