Claire surreptitiously chewed on a hangnail she had picked loose during the ceviche course. She imagined throwing back a cocktail and dancing herself into a blinding haze, but her back remained firmly glued to the wooden chair, and her hot meter registered a bland two or three at best.
“Listen, after a certain point, you have to accept that there’s really nothing left you can say or do. But if it’s any consolation, you do get to a place of détente with your partner.” Richard ordered a round of mojitos. “And with yourself.”
“I think it’s different for a woman. I’m sure you never worried about starting over at forty-three. Or being a single parent and rebooting a dormant career.”
“Is that why you’ve hung in for so long?”
Claire shrugged. “Maybe. I just wasn’t unhappy enough to get out. Christ,” she said, restating the still strange truth, “I didn’t even know I was unhappy. And, yes, it’s all very daunting.”
“Depends how you look at it.” He leaned in over the table with the fiery enthusiasm of the recently transformed. “Instead of living in some kind of netherworld, what about the chance to really squeeze the marrow out of life?”
“I suppose . . .”
“And maybe even test drive some new cars along the way?”
“Are you talking about dating now?”
His expression shifted to a goofy grin.
“The idea of dating is about as appealing as that colonoscopy. Never mind the odds that I’d make a huge mess of it.” She cut a piece of steak, but left it on her plate. “This whole thing has left my soul with a unsettling case of ADD.”
Richard stood and took her hand. “Smitty, your soul’s in need of a little smack. It’s time to go blow off some serious . . . whatever it is you’ve got going on in your head.”
The driving beat of the trombones and timbales combined with Richard’s grip to leave her with little choice. Which made her almost happy. She took a quick gulp of courage with her free hand and followed him toward the dance floor. The two couples already there moved seamlessly through turns and pretzels and sexy body rolls, while Claire did her best not to trip over Richard’s feet. They hadn’t exactly taught merengue in cotillion, but she was grateful for the ingrained lesson of following a lead. She let her hips and shoulders sync to the music and fudged her way through two songs, as promised. When the band broke for beers, she led him back to their table.
“Well, that was fun for a few minutes,” she said, wiping the dampness from her temples and leaning back into the chair. She tapped her feet under the table, feeling the exhilaration of the adrenaline rush begin to recede. “Did I hurt you?”
“Not too badly. Fortunately the shoes are bulletproof.”
“God, I’m sorry. But you can’t say I didn’t warn you. I just had no idea you were such a Renaissance man.”
“I took a few lessons. But you’ve got some moves, too, when you let go.”
Her body prickled for an instant at those haunting words, but she smiled at his very genuine attempt to reengage her in something outside her present reality. “I guess that was just the shot of Cholula I needed. So, muchas gracias, señor.”
They walked out to the parking lot making plans to get together soon, possibly in San Francisco when she visited Cora. Richard spun her to the music that had started up again inside, and they laughed as the starlit night and distant sirens swirled around them. On the downbeat he pulled her body toward him and tilted her chin up.
Claire’s feelings of temporary abandon and pleasure vanished. “No,” she yelped, quickly disengaging. “I don’t want to risk our friendship with some haphazard . . . thing. I’m a wreck right now, and you’re too important to me.”
Richard stared into her eyes for a long moment, reading her with a sad but accepting expression. “Well, that was a very thoughtful delay of game,” he finally said. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to complicate things. Rewind?”
As she looked back into the generous sparkle of this man who had given her so much, she thought of the fantasies he’d inspired, and she worked hard to reconjugate their relationship in her mind. But circumstances were circumstances, and she knew that arm’s length really was all she was equipped to handle. She reached her hand across the darkness to him. “As long as we can agree on the rules.”
He paused. “BFFs?”
CHAPTER 42
With Michael on business in San Diego—scraping the barrel, Claire hoped, for some sort of salvation—Claire and Andi accompanied Nicholas to his first day at East. Nicky pulsed with nervous excitement as they walked into the counseling office at seven a.m., where Mr. Doyle had miraculously assembled the school psychologist, the school nurse, and most of Nick’s new teachers for a brief introduction. Claire’s nerves were more maternal in nature. It was like the first day of preschool, except that she had the bittersweet sense that she was witnessing the last gasps of her son’s youth.
While Andi got everyone up to speed on Nick’s background and laid the groundwork for the academic accommodations and individualized plan he’d need in place, Nick responded to their various questions with dogged thoughtfulness. With his backpack on his shoulders, he entered notes into his phone and appeared battle-ready and confident. And when it came time for him to go to his first class, Claire took her cue to let him find his own way. “I’ve got it, Mom,” he said as they were swallowed into a sea of rushing students outside the office.
Claire had made plans to meet Jackie and Carolyn at Gail’s house later that morning for breakfast. She arrived before the others, and while she’d learned to expect the unusual when she visited her pal—be it the chance arrival of a minor Scandinavian royal for tea, or a well-defined male model posing nude in the sunroom for a sketch in charcoal—finding Gail standing in the vestibule, rather than of one the uniformed staff, with a cigarette in her mouth was Claire’s surprise du jour. They kissed hello, and Claire took in Gail’s cheetah-print Cavalli jeans, her wet hair pulled back into a ponytail, and her lack of makeup, and tried to imagine just what, exactly, was going on at the Harrold household on this day. Harry Winston, Gail’s new white powder-puff bichon, circled her bare feet, stopping intermittently to lick and bark at the sparkle of Gail’s tiny diamond toe ring.
“Okay, I give up.” Claire raised her hands in mock exasperation. “Why are you standing here, and when did you start smoking?”
“Ugh, come with me.” Gail took Claire’s wrist, stepped over the frenetic activity at her ankles, and led her into the kitchen. She spoke in a throaty voice as they walked. “I’m practicing being alone. I gave everyone the day off. Everyone. I’ve been cleaning out my closets, I’ve deep-conditioned my hair, and I’m in the process of reorganizing my files. And if I smoke, I don’t eat.” She sat down on one of the cushioned bar chairs at the center island and took a long drag on the cigarette. Then she dropped it into the sink.
“So, how’s that working out for you?”
They stared at each other for a second until Gail burst out into raspy hoots. “It sucks. This house is too big to rattle around in alone. And I’m just not good at it. I don’t know what I was thinking, except that I was worrying that I was turning into my mother.”
“They can certainly do a number, can’t they?”
“Bloody Mary?” she asked, already making herself one.
“I can’t. I’m picking Nick up after school and taking him to the shelter to drop some things off.”
“First day back to school—very exciting!”
“I know. I was anxious, but he seemed perfectly fine walking into a strange new environment and playing catch-up. The kid amazes me every day.”
“Hon, it’ll be his turf, his place to make whatever mark he wants to. I think this will be a huge boost for him.”
“Your mouth to God’s ears.”
“And I’m glad to see that the mother-son shelter trip lives on.”
“Well, it’s good to keep up the familiar routines. I had Nicky grab some outgrown clothes a
nd old games at the house, and I put together a bag of food. And we’ll make our delivery.”
“That’s lovely. I always write checks, honey. But most of the time it’s just better to do.” Gail walked over to the enormous butler’s pantry. “So, how ’bout I put together another bag of food for you to take with you?”
“That would be delightful.”
“And I’ve got a bunch of clothes I could give you as well.”
Gail disappeared into the pantry, and Claire’s thoughts drifted to the night before and Richard’s knowing eyes, to Michael’s dark secrets, and to the idea that she’d be living the discount version of Gail’s lonely life all too soon. The dog began licking her shoe, and Claire picked him up and placed him in her lap. “So, talk to me, Harry Winston,” she said into his pink-rimmed eyes. “What’s it like being unattached and clueless?” He licked her neck and hopped down just as Gail emerged from the pantry with a collection of food. Claire got up and scanned the contents of the bag. “Adriatic fig spread, imported caper berries, and jalapeño jam.” She looked up at Gail. “What? No water crackers or crostini? No tapenade?”
Gail curled her nose and pillowy lips into a crinkle. “I guess those weren’t ideal choices. I’m a little off my game at the moment.”
Claire went into the enormous venetian-plastered pantry to search for some more suitable items. A second later she returned empty-handed. “Is there no can of soup or tuna fish in this godforsaken kitchen?”
“You know Eric. He makes everything from scratch, and I’m pretty much helpless without him, aren’t I?”
“Um, I thought we were having breakfast here,” she said, noticing the barren glass breakfast-room table.
“Shit. I completely forgot to pick up the quiche.” Gail pulled her hair out of the ponytail and let it fall into her eyes. “I broke up with the Hedge Funder last night, and I gave Austin his walking papers again this morning, and then I got so caught up in my purging exercise that I—”
“No worries. I’ll just put on the coffee, and we can have the fig spread on some toast.”
“God, I’m Zsa Zsa Gabor two-point-oh,” Gail sighed, dramatically draping her legs over the armrests of the bar chair.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Claire said, pouring some Italian roast into the Gaggia, “I can raise your pair of breakups with an embezzled pension fund and a leveraged house and portfolio. To the tune of well over five million. Plus a mountain of other potential debt.” There was no point in holding back facts anymore. What she needed was a plan architect and field marshals.
Jackie and Carolyn walked into the kitchen.
“Okay, I fold,” Gail replied wide-eyed. “You win.”
Looking into her friends’ flabbergasted faces, Claire decided to take them on the full Tour de Desperation, stopping at the more scenic points for them to vent. And the more she told, the more incredible it sounded to her that she had been so oblivious to Michael’s activities. “I knew there was something he’d been holding back all this time. I just never registered the significance of certain . . . signs. But there you have it,” she said, glancing at the over-mature rose in the bud vase by the sink, “my hopeless mess in all its glory. Not only is the marriage bankrupt, we just might be, too.”
Jackie came around the center island and sat down next to her. “This situation is not hopeless, and you are not helpless.”
Claire shot her a muted stink eye. “Um, no matter how I slice it, we all lose. If I go to Jack with all the evidence, Michael will likely be facing some pretty serious consequences, which won’t be good for Nicky. And if I go to Michael first, his chances of quickly securing the cash won’t be any less bleak, never mind that he’ll probably want to kill me on the spot. Which, again, is bad for all of us.”
Gail swung her feet to the floor with barely disguised irritation. “My dear, sweet friend. Do you need a Miracle Ear or what?” she growled into her face. “Michael has been playing three-card monte with your life. There’s a PRICE for that, father of your child or not.”
Jackie nodded. “He’s going to have to pay this bill one way or another.”
“And that,” Carolyn added in a voice delicious with possibility, “could be your angle.”
Claire cocked her head, uncertain about what, precisely, this Machiavellian observation meant.
Carolyn poured a dollop of milk into her espresso. “You could hit him with some serious leverage of your own, Claire, and make whatever demands you want.”
“I like what I’m hearing,” Gail said, leaning in. “Go on.”
Carolyn fixed a deadly serious gaze on Claire. “How dirty do you want to play?”
CHAPTER 43
“Wish me luck, Mother.”
“Just keep thinking about your future, dear, and everything on that checklist of yours.”
Claire eyed the notes she’d taken from her last conversations with Richard and Gail, arranging them in her memory in specific order. “It’s a little unnerving, to say the least,” she said, rolling her shoulders. The scent of Chanel and bananas hung heavily in the apartment air, and she fought a serious case of stage fright.
“Hold your ground, and you will be brilliant. I know you will. Tell me about Nicky’s week before you go. I’m so proud of him, I can’t stand it.”
The distraction wasn’t unwelcome, and Claire happily recounted their trip to the shelter, where Nick had spent several hours doing art projects with the kids in the therapeutic preschool program, as well as the reports she’d gotten from Nicholas and Andi about his return to school. Nick was integrating into his classes well and socializing with kids, which had the very noticeable effect of improving his moods. Being with new peers in the “real world,” especially kids who had no preconceived notions of him, Claire realized, was doing more to boost his confidence and outlook than fifty successful swats at a balloon. The routine and structure of his new schedule seemed to provide a sense of comfort as well, while the adjustment to entering nearly every facet of his life into his phone and planners, along with the other adaptive skills he was learning to employ, challenged him. He had missed handing in several assignments on time and still had difficulty shifting from one task to another. Which was to be expected, according to Andi. But he loved his drawing class, and overall was displaying an unceasing desire to thrive.
“Dear, that’s so wonderful. Maybe Nicky can apply to college.”
“We’re taking things slowly, Mother. But I suspect that may be a possibility at some point—just not in the traditional way his father expects.”
“What do you mean?”
“Possibly art school.” The notion seemed logical and reassuring to Claire. But she would sit back and let Nick drive that bus, if that was the route he chose. And Michael would have to ride along.
“Well, who do you know at the top schools? Maybe we should start making—”
The eagerness in Cora’s voice would have been endearing if it weren’t so historically lethal. “Mother, how ’bout we just let things unfold naturally for once. Hmm?” Claire looked out the living room window toward her old house and downtown, scanning the area just between the two.
There was silence, followed by a brief and remarkably un-phlegmy cough. “I’ll just button my tongue for now. But,” she said, not missing a beat, “I have to ask how the house hunting is going. That’s not overstepping, is it?”
“No, and I think I’ve found the perfect option. Jean showed me a darling cottage in North Country Club that’s been completely renovated, with the original woodwork and moldings. It’s close to school, and I wouldn’t have to do a thing except paint Nick’s room, which is currently pink. It’s got great light and a nice alcove for a studio.” Claire picked up the property brochure from the pile on her dining table and stuck it in the folder in her purse.
“That sounds lovely, dear.”
“It is, and it’s going to go fast if I don’t move on it.” She put on some lipstick in the hallway mirror and tucked another item
into the folder. “So send some serious positive thoughts.”
The sun was preparing to set as Claire pulled into the driveway. She had just under an hour before Andi would drop Nicholas off at the house after their tutoring session. There was no time to waffle or stew any further, so she marched straight to the front portico, unlocked the door with the new key Michael had finally given her, and moved deliberately through the house, taking in the antiques and oriental rugs, all those pieces she’d lovingly selected and arranged over the years. But the happy memories of their origins had been so marred by the truth that her home appeared to her now as merely a collection of “stuff,” devoid of any sentimentality or meaning. She closed her eyes and pictured the cottage she’d returned to three times that week, pictured Nick there with her. And she visualized the bullet points on her checklist one last time, before proceeding down the hall.
Shielding her unease behind her best poker face, Claire cleared her throat from the doorway of the study and studied her husband. An odd sensation struck her when their eyes met—odd that he was her husband, and even odder that he wouldn’t be for much longer. His haggard face told her that he was still not sleeping. And that the San Diego trip had been less than successful. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought he’d been on some kind of bender.
“What are you doing here?” he asked with undisguised frustration.
So much for any attempt at casual bonhomie, she thought. “I’ll get to the point.” Claire approached the desk, took a CD case from her folder, and placed it just out of his reach. She paused for a second, noticing the text message that lit up the inside of her shoulder bag. Go tell him how it’s gonna be, Smitty. You can do this! Adrenaline flooded her chest. “I know who you are,” she said in a strong, even voice, belying her emotions. “And I know what you’ve been doing.” She glared at his face, containing eighteen years of misplaced trust and politeness with a firm stance.
Michael’s cheek twitched, and Claire watched his irritation turn to nervousness under her scrutiny.
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