Jackie snorts. “Haven’t you ever wanted to learn to drive?”
“Of course, but it’d be wasted on me,” Claire says. “Pete will never buy me a car. He says I don’t need one. And he’d certainly never let me drive his Cadillac.”
Jackie hums. She reaches to put the car in reverse but hesitates when Claire gives her a pointed look. After a pause, she fastens her own seatbelt as well before backing out of the driveway.
The drive to the store is thrilling. Claire has never ridden in a convertible before—the wind is bracing, cool and fresh on her skin. Jackie’s driving kerchief doesn’t quite keep the long ends of her hair from swirling around her face. The unpredictable motion of it is mesmerizing to watch. Even if it impedes Jackie’s vision, she drives confidently. Almost too confidently, in fact, such as when she sails through a yellow light as it turns red without paying any heed to the honking of cars in the opposite lane, or when she takes a corner so hard that Claire is glad they’re both wearing their seatbelts.
They make it to the store in one piece, at least, and Claire can’t be too judgmental when she herself has never driven at all past a few mandatory lessons in high school.
“What’s on your list?” Claire says, pulling out her own while Jackie grabs them each a cart. While Claire can find her normal items by memory, an Easter dinner requires a few new things, and she unfolds the square of paper with her ingredients on it. Ham and tinned pineapple slices, bread rolls, potatoes…
“List?” Jackie says, grabbing at a bag of potato chips on the first aisle cap they come across. “That takes all the fun out of it.”
“The fun? Out of groceries?”
“I like to mix things up,” Jackie says. She turns into the first aisle, grabbing a can of tamales in red sauce and peering down at the label. “Have you tried these?”
“Pete doesn’t like ethnic food,” Claire says. “We have a dinner rotation.”
Jackie throws the can into her cart with a noise that sounds like a sigh. “And you actually know how to cook, so you don’t need to grab ready-made all the time like me. Part of why I never learned to cook back home is that my apartment was surrounded by restaurants. I miss that.”
“We have some decent restaurants here,” Claire says.
“Diners and malt shops,” Jackie says. She sighs wistfully, looking down at a box of instant mashed potatoes. “You have no idea what I’d do for some decent sweet and sour pork.”
Shopping with Jackie is entirely different than doing it alone. She examines the shelves slowly, picking things seemingly at random. Claire doesn’t need to daydream or distract herself to get through the ordeal. Jackie makes it fun. She makes a game out of the aisles, picking up odd assortments of items and challenging Claire to come up with a meal out of them.
Jackie does end up needing Claire’s help to get a box of minute rice on a high shelf. It feels almost chivalric to reach upand grab it for her, which is oddly pleasant. By the end Jackie’s cart is piled with a mix of frozen meals and expensive coffee, with half the items being things Claire has never tried. She even inspires Claire to do something she hasn’t ever done before—pluck something new off the shelf herself. Inspired by Jackie’s mention of sweet and sour pork she grabs a can of chicken chow mein, advertised by the bright blue packaging asinspired by traditional Chinese cuisine.
“Do you miss living in San Francisco?” Claire says as they line up at the cash register, pulling out her checkbook. “It must have been hard to leave. I’ve always lived within an hour’s drive of where I was born.”
“Sometimes,” Jackie says. She moves her cart forward, flashing the cashier a small, polite smile—smaller than the one she usually points at Claire, which is somehow gratifying. “I left for a reason, but I do miss some things. Good food. Easy gigs. Some of my friends. And the ocean. God, I miss the beach.”
It’s an odd distinction to make—someof her friends. Who are the friends she doesn’t miss?
“The ocean isn’t terribly far from here,” Claire reasons. “You could take a drive? Santa Cruz is only an hour or two. I hear they have a roller coaster.”
“It’s not the same. I used to be able to walk to the shore,” Jackie drawls. “It’s why I bought a house with a pool.”
It’s hard not to wonder why Jackie moved here at all, if she loved the city so much. The question burns in Claire, begging to be asked, but too soon the cashier is starting to punch in their groceries, and it gets lost in the shuffle of bagging and loading and the thrill of driving through town again.
Claire makes the chow mein for dinner that night. Pete absolutely hates it.
Chapter 8
April is a busy time at Pete’s work. Things get more hectic for him after Easter with people buying new cars for the summer, and it means he needs a perfect house to come home to—Claire’s time is usually taken up with deep cleanings in late spring.
Lately, though, at least a few hours a week are taken up by Jackie.
Claire makes excuses, at first. She ensures that she always has a solid reason to visit, with some food to share or a question to ask, but it becomes much easier after her third straight day crossing the lawns, when Jackie finally tells her that she’s welcome to come socialize anytime.
Each day she knocks on Jackie’s door means experiencing something new. Mixing champagne with orange juice over fresh bakery pastries for breakfast. Watching Jackie pop the hood of her Mustang and change the oil, with the femininity of her outfit—a sleeveless jumpsuit with a loud blue and yellow pattern—clashing with her grime-stained hands in a thrilling way. Going through Jackie’s extensive record collection, most of which Claire has never heard before.
One such new thing is revealed two weeks after Easter, when Claire knocks on Jackie’s door only to be met with silence.
Strange. Jackie’s car is in the driveway, so she should be home. Claire knocks again, and this time she can just barely hear Jackie’s voice carry through the wood.
“Claire?”
