In the center of the party photos is a shot of a woman wearing what Claire can only describe asmenswear. She’s broad-shouldered and short-haired, not a coiffed and teased pixie cut but shorn close to her scalp at the sides, more like something you’d see on a military man. She’s sprawled comfortably on a large couch with her legs wide apart, in tight pants and a golf shirt with an ascot tied into the collar.
Claire might have thought she was a particularly handsome man from afar, were it not for the obvious swells under the shirt. A certain softness to the face. She’s caught in motion, a beer bottle hanging from her fingers and a cigarette between her lips. A gorgeous long-haired woman is leaning against her arm, smiling coquettishly and lighting the cigarette with a match in a way that should be mundane but instead feels marvelously artistic.
Claire’s breath fogs the glass of the frame as she leans in to absorbs every detail. She’s never seen a woman so effortlessly, joyfullyunfeminine. Just looking at it feels a little bit vulgar, like she’s intruding on something private.
“They could be better,” Jacqueline says, coming around the corner with a pen and a pad of paper in her hand. “But life’s all about learning, isn’t it? And please, you should call me Jackie. All my friends do.”
Claire jumps back, quickly putting space between herself and the portrait. Being caught staring at it so avidly feels shameful, somehow, but that shame is eclipsed quickly by a single word.
Friends.
“I think they’re wonderful,” Claire says. She glances back at the photo, and Jacqueline follows her eyeline.
“Ah. You’ve found my candid collection,” Jacqueline says. Claire could swear that Jacqueline’s cheeks have gone a bit pink. “This is where my career started. I’d bring my camera to parties, and people started paying me to develop the pictures. I liked it so much that I started taking courses.”
Claire steps closer to the wall again, making a show of looking at all of the photos while mostly just staring at the one. “Are they friends of yours?”
“Yes. It’s the kind of thing I like to shoot best, but it doesn’t always sell very well,” Jacqueline says. She gives no further information about the woman in the picture, though Claire is burning with curiosity.
“You know such interesting people,” Claire says, folding her hands together with a self-conscious titter. “I can only imagine how tedious you must find me.”
“You keep saying things like that,” Jacqueline says suddenly. Her head tilts. “You’re very hard on yourself. Why is that?”
Claire flounders. Her mouth opens and closes, but no words are forming. She has no idea how to answer that question—she’shaving trouble even understanding it. Nobody has ever done anything besides agree with her self-assessments before.
“I don’t think you’re boring, Claire,” Jacqueline says, once it’s clear that no response is coming. Her smile is full of an understanding that Claire can’t wrap her head around. “But I do think you should be kinder to yourself.”
Claire shifts from foot to foot. She tangles her fingers in her pearls. Jacqueline is still looking at her, not seeming compelled by the usual guard-rails of social interaction that Claire is used to. She seems to operate outside of everything Claire has ever known.
“All right,” Claire says. “I’ll try. Jackie.”
She heads home soon after with a promise to give Jackie a call soon. Just before she reaches her own front door, she catches the telltale movement of Martha’s curtains across the street.
In the end, Claire doesn’t even make the biscuits.
Chapter 7
“Claire? Devilled eggs?”
A tray full of canapes floats into Claire’s vision, disrupting the view of Jackie’s house through Martha’s front window.
“No, thank you,” Claire says. She leans around Martha’s belly, trying to sneak another glance. The roof of Jackie’s convertible has been pulled down, so Claire expects to see her coming outside at any minute, but soon her view is obstructed again. Martha’s sitting room is starting to fill up with the neighborhood ladies arriving for book club.
“Are you sure? You love my devilled eggs,” Martha says. The tray waves in front of Claire’s face again, and Claire is relieved when several other hands reach for it, deferring Martha’s attention.
“I don’t know what you put in these, Martha, but they’re amazing,” Susan Wilson says, taking the seat next to Claire as she shoves an egg into her mouth. She’s the only woman in the room wearing pants, and it doesn’t seem to bother her. She’s a little bit like Jackie in that way—a little brash, a little open and uncouth. Maybe that’s why they seemed to get along so well at the party.
But she lacks Jackie’s kindness. She lacks that mystery, that unexplainablesomethingthat makes Claire need to know Jackie. Susan is an open book, easy reading, and Jackie is an elegant diary with a big, shiny lock on it.
Normally Claire wouldn’t pay Susan much mind. Today, her interest is piqued. How close have Susan and Jackie gotten, exactly? Jackie claimed that Susan had lost interest in their budding friendship, but what does Susan think?
“What’s the book for today?” Susan says, leaning close to Claire conspiratorially. “I had a busy week, and I forgot to pick it up.”
“Little Women,” Claire says.
“I guess I’ll just have to partake in the gossip instead,” Susan says. She grabs a few Vienna sausages on toothpicks as Martha passes, lowering her voice. “Don’t tell Martha I didn’t read it.”
“I won’t. But, um. Speaking of gossip,” Claire says, doing her best to channel Martha’s easy way of prying out juicy tidbits of information, “We have a new addition to the neighborhood?”
