Jacqueline laughs, leaning against the counter. “I got a phone call, and turned my back. Though I’m not sure they would have been any good even if I hadn’t been distracted. Like I said, I’m lousy in the kitchen.”
A phone call. It’s hard not to wonder who has the privilege of speaking to Jacqueline so easily, to just ring her up on a Friday morning like it’s nothing. Claire isn’t sure she’d be brave enough to do that even if she did have Jacqueline’s phone number.
“Oh, I must have done that a hundred times,” Claire says. “My mother has a habit of calling at the most inopportune moments.”
“If it had been my mother on the phone, it would have been a much shorter conversation,” Jacqueline says. Her smile is small, almost nonexistent, but her eyes have crinkled at the corners.
Claire fills the pan with water, setting it on the stovetop to simmer. “Oh? Is she not a conversationalist?”
“I haven’t spoken to most of my family in some time. I left home quite young,” Jacqueline says.
“How young?”
“Fifteen.”
Claire almost knocks the pan clear off the stove. She grabs the handle, moving it back into place as it starts to bubble. “Fifteen?What kind of mother would let her daughter move out by herself when she’s only a teenager?”
“It’s…complicated,” Jacqueline says, rather vaguely. She’s looking not at Claire, now, but somewhere to her right. Her jaw is tense.
Realization stabs at Claire’s stomach.
“Not that I mean to meddle,” she says, hurriedly shutting off the stovetop before the pan boils over. “For Pete’s sake, you asked me to fix your frying pan and here I am prying into your life! I’m so sorry, Jacqueline.” Claire only notices that her hands are unsteady when Jacqueline hands her an open box of baking soda, and she scatters some onto the countertop by accident. “Oh—darn.”
Jacqueline wipes up the spilled powder quickly with her hands, brushing them off over the sink. “It’s all right. I just don’t like to talk about my family much, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have,” Claire stammers, her fingers itching to grab at her pearls, “it was in poor taste. It wasn’t my right to—”
“Claire,” Jacqueline says clearly, putting a hand on Claire’s wrist, “it’s all right.”
Jacqueline’s hand moves away almost as quickly as it came, but even those few precious seconds bring a calming effect like Claire has never felt. No talking-to from her mother, no number of pep talks from Martha, no amount of stern reminders from Pete that she’s working herself up, have ever calmed her so effectively as Jacqueline’s hand gently clasping her wrist.
Claire’s shoulders unclench. She sets the baking soda down, taking a deep breath through a chest that’s only just starting to relax. Her incessant worries—that Jacqueline would have no interest in seeing her, that Claire had somehow made up their whole last pleasant meeting in her head—finally melt away.
“All right,” Claire says.
While the pan soaks, Jacqueline makes some tea. The time passes just as pleasantly as it did the last time Claire was here, and by the time she’s scrubbing the pan and showing Jacqueline the way the blackened eggs simply slide off the surface, she’s quite forgotten why she ever thought popping over for another visit would be a bad idea.
“You’re a miracle worker,” Jacqueline says, drying the salvaged pan with a tea towel that looks completely unused. “Look at that. What would I have done if you hadn’t stopped by?”
“Why don’t I give you my telephone number?” Claire blurts, before she can lose her nerve. “In case you have another cleaning emergency. Or if you need a cup of sugar, or—or some milk.” She hopes dearly that Jacqueline will reach out for more than just inadequate groceries, but it’s as good an excuse as any, isn’t it?
“That’s very thoughtful,” Jacqueline says, after a pause. “I should offer you mine as well, shouldn’t I?”
“If you’d like,” Claire says, eagerly.
“Let me grab a pencil from my office.”
While Jacqueline strides towards the hallway, Claire’s attention wanders to the arched doorway into the living room. She can see the framed photographs even better from this angle, and she takes two quick steps towards the nearest one.
“Did you take all of these?” Claire says, squinting at the composition. It’s like a scene from a dream—a fuzzy city skyline at night with two figures in the foreground, dark shapes outlined by warm light. They have no distinguishable features, but they’re intertwined like lovers. She can recognize the Golden Gate Bridge, blurred in the background.
“I know it’s a bit gauche to decorate with your own work, but I’ve never claimed to be classy,” Jacqueline calls from the direction of the office. The hallway door is propped open, and Claire can hear her rustling through desk drawers.
Each of the photographs is unique. Some are cityscapes, and others are clearly from professional studio shoots. Some look candid. Claire’s interest is drawn most to the ones with human subjects as the central point. They’re all taken from afar rather than close-up, and often the features of the subject are obscured in some way. An artful angle or shadow. A length of sheer fabric. A contrast of color. There’s a sadness to the way they’re framed. They’re distant and untouchable. It’s been a long time since Claire considered herself an artist, but they tug at something in her that she can’t explain.
“They’re beautiful, Jacqueline,” Claire says quietly. She’s come upon a small grouping of pictures all taken at what appears to be various parties. Jacqueline has managed to capture quite a lot despite imperfect lighting and a haze of smoke. The people in them are in various states of revelry, reminding Claire starkly of the ruckus in the pool last weekend.
Claire is all set to move on when her eye catches on one frame in particular.
