Claire hesitates.
She should really be getting back home. She has laundry to fold, and dinner to get started. She’d been planning to give the bathroom a good scrub. The front flower beds are in a state, and she really needs to get them in order so she can start her spring planting.
But Jacqueline’s house looks so inviting. It’s just the two of them this time, no rowdy partygoers or irate husbands, and Claire so enjoyed their last brief conversation. Jacqueline is an enigma, and Claire has only caught glimpses of her over the last week through the kitchen window as Jacqueline gets into her car and jets off for the day. Claire wants to know more.
She steps inside, and Jacqueline closes the door behind them.
The house looks quite different when it’s not littered with empty beer cans. Jacqueline has cleaned up so well that there’s no indication there was a party here at all. The air smells warm and spiced, like a scented candle Claire can’t identify.
“If you’re looking to get your dish back, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” Jacqueline says, leading Claire towards a breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen. “I’ve been practically living off your casserole, and I haven’t gotten around to washing it yet.”
“Really? You liked it?” Claire says, twisting her fingers together.
Jacqueline breezes past the nook towards one of the cupboards. She seems to have made a lot of headway in unpacking—the shelf hosts a truly startling array of liquors next to the glasses. Taking up a large piece of counterspace is, staggeringly, a brand-new Amana microwave. Claire has seencommercials, but she’s never seen one in person. She can’t even begin to imagine how much it cost.
“It was delicious. Though I can’t cook to save my life, so maybe my opinion counts for very little,” Jacqueline says.
“I’m sure that isn’t true,” Claire says quickly. “You can just keep the dish if you’d like. I have three.”
“Three?” Jacqueline remarks, leaning her hip against the counter. “You must make a lot of casseroles.”
“Pete usually gets me kitchen things from the department store for Christmas. He doesn’t know what I already have, so he just grabs something off the shelf,” Claire says, chuckling lightly. “It’s been casserole dishes the last three years in a row.”
Jacqueline doesn’t join in on the laughter. She looks at Claire with some concern, actually, with her hand suspended halfway to the cupboard.
Claire has joked about this same thing with Martha countless times. Walter isn’t terribly observant either—Martha has a closet full of scarves she never intends on wearing after a decade of Christmases with him. Claire has never had a second thought about it before, and it makes her suddenly self-conscious.
“Right,” Jacqueline says, shaking her head a little. Her expression clears. “What can I get you to drink? Coffee, tea, wine, beer? I have some liquor left from the party if you need a pick-me-up.”
“Tea is fine,” Claire says, smoothing her hair nervously. She went with a different look today, a knot at the base of her neck with the top slicked down with hairspray instead of her usual more voluminous coif. It’s a bit more modern. Pete looked at her strangely this morning, but Claire had told him it was because she was going to be working on the garden. Foolishly, she hopes that Jacqueline will notice.
Jacqueline turns the stove knob underneath a shiny kettle. “Are you sure? I can put a nip of whiskey in it.”
“I don’t actually drink very much,” Claire admits. “It makes me act senseless, and Pete—well, I don’t want to embarrass him. He says I get too loud.”
Jacqueline pauses again. Her brow furrows.
Claire has the wild, unsettling impulse to press her fingertip against the divot it creates in her forehead.
“There’s nobody to embarrass here, Claire.”
Claire’s face feels hot, though she’s not entirely sure why. Her stomach is in knots. A silence stretches out between them that makes her want to run for the door. Instead, she tangles her fingers in her pearls.
Jacqueline smiles softly. She grabs two mugs and a box of teabags, setting them on the table. “Tea it is.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire blurts, already wishing she hadn’t said anything at all.
Jacqueline opens one drawer, and then another—in a third, she finally finds the spoon she’s looking for, holding it up victoriously. “Sorry for what?”
The pearls roll under Claire’s fingertips. She presses them hard against her breastbone. “I realize that I can be terribly awkward to talk to. Martha sometimes tells me that I say the oddest things.”
The kettle is boiling—it must have been hot already. Jacqueline pours water into Claire’s mug, and it slowly turns dark pink as the tea steeps. It must be some kind of herbal blend. “Who’s Martha?”
“From across the road,” Claire says, nodding in the direction of the house. She stirs some sugar into her mug. “Martha and Walter? They were at the party.”
“Ah,” Jacqueline says, just as Claire is blowing on the hot tea to take her first careful sip. It’s a delicious and fruity blend. “The one with the stick up her ass.”
Claire snorts into her mug, spraying tea across the table. She manages not to inhale it, but it spills over the sides of the cup as Jacqueline smiles again.
