“It’s not near as interesting as your life,” Claire says, taking another overly large gulp of tea. “You must do a lot of travelling.”
“My family is from Greece, but they all live here in the U.S. now,” Jacqueline shrugs. “I’ve only been a few times.”
“Oh, no, I meant that—I can’t imagine there are too many job opportunities for photography around here,” Claire corrects quickly. The tidbit about her background is new, and Claire tucks it away. She’s never met anyone Greek before.
“Ah. Yes, I used to do more travelling. I’m trying to slow down.” Jacqueline chuckles to herself, but there’s no joy in this laugh—it’s almost bitter. “Life became a bit of a whirlwind for a while. Now I only take gigs I can drive to.”
“Is that why you moved here?”
Jacqueline hums noncommittally. “One of the reasons.”
The subject changes swiftly after that. The conversation turns to easier things, and by the time Claire gets home she finds she needs to sprint through the chores she ignored during those two lovely hours just to get dinner on the table in time.
She doesn’t tell Pete about her excursion.
Pete complains about work over his chicken Kiev, only stopping to tune into the evening news. Claire settles in to mend some socks while he talks over the anchor’s coverage about NASA, but it’s harder than usual to focus her attention. Her gaze keeps sliding from her stitches to the window, watching the way Jacqueline’s pool lights cast blue-white ripples across the side of her house.
Chapter 6
Claire doesn’t mean to snoop. She’s not one of the neighborhood ladies that watches the movement of every family like a hawk, craning through her windows and over fences like Martha does. Claire prefers to keep to herself.
But Jacqueline’s front door is so visible from the kitchen window, and Claire is only human.
Jacqueline backs her Mustang out of the driveway a few times in the following week with her long hair tucked under a driving kerchief, often with a passenger seat full of camera equipment. Claire never sees another car in the driveway, so no friends or family visiting—just Jacqueline.
Claire would like nothing more than to pop over for another visit herself, but she can only spare the time during the weekdays when Pete isn’t home, and she has no idea if Jacqueline would welcome it. They had such a nice time together during their last brief visit, didn’t they? Claire had thought it was nice, at least. The nicest afternoon she’s had in ages.
But does Jacqueline feel the same?
She’s mulling over this conundrum while throwing together some biscuits on a drizzly Friday when she scoops a measuring cup into the flour tin to find that it’s nearly empty.
She must have used the last of it to make Jacqueline’s muffins last week. Normally she’d go straight to Martha for this sort of thing, but an idea strikes now that she can’t ignore.
“Claire,” Jacqueline says warmly as she opens her front door, leaning on the frame as if she has all the time in the world. She’s in a striped skirt and shirt combination this morning, loose and comfortable, with her dark hair pulled up into a knot andlittle wisps falling on either side of her face. “This is becoming a regular occurrence, I see. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’m afraid I’ve run out of flour,” Claire says, holding out the empty measuring cup like a shield from under her umbrella. “I was hoping I could borrow a bit?”
A crease forms between Jacqueline’s brows. “You know, I don’t think I have any flour in the house. I’m not much of a baker. Or a cook.”
“Oh,” Claire says, deflating like an old balloon. “That’s…quite all right.” She finds herself at a loss for what to say next, but Jacqueline is the one to keep the conversation going.
“In fact, I tried to make scrambled eggs this morning, and I burnt them so badly that I might just throw out the whole pan,” Jacqueline says. The fact that she’s not closing the door in Claire’s face is encouraging enough that Claire doesn’t excuse herself and go home right away, like she probably should. She clings tighter to her umbrella.
“Oh, don’t throw it out,” Claire says, waving the suggestion off. “All you need is a bit of baking soda.”
“Clearly I’m also not much of a cleaner,” Jacqueline says, chuckling. Claire can now see that she does indeed have a few streaks of black on her shirt. “Can baking soda really fix it?”
“I’d be happy to show you,” Claire says.
Jacqueline doesn’t answer right away. She looks confused, as if Claire’s offer doesn’t make sense to her; after a moment her expression clears, and once again Claire can’t guess at her thoughts.
“That’d be quite a magic trick,” Jacqueline says, standing aside and ushering Claire in. “I’d love to see it.”
The house is much the same as it was last time, still smelling like that warm and comforting scent—cinnamon, maybe, or sandalwood. She must ask Jacqueline where she gets her candles from. Claire folds her umbrella, and while Jacquelinehangs it for her on a hook near the door, she gets a better look at the newest décor. The furniture is much the same, but the walls are no longer bare. The living room is now lined with framed photographs, and Claire’s curiosity burns as they pass the doorway and head instead towards the kitchen.
“Tell me,” Jacqueline says, reaching the stove and holding up a frying pan crusted with blackened egg remains, “is it a hopeless case?”
Claire can’t hold in her gasp. She takes the pan from Jacqueline, holding it upside down over the sink and shaking it a bit—none of the gunk even budges. “GoodLord—what happened?”
