To say it’s a shock to answer the front door later in the week to Jackie Callas in a scarlet romper is a vast understatement.
“Jackie!” Claire manages to gasp, swiping at a stray corkscrew of hair that’s fallen out of her bun. There are still suds on her hands from the dishes, and she can feel them drying on her flushed forehead. “What are you doing here?”
Jackie’s romper is partially unbuttoned. It shows off a truly startling amount of collarbone, among other things. There’s a small mole just peeking past the fabric on the swell of Jackie’s left breast. Claire hadn’t been able to see that detail from her window.
She averts her eyes quickly.
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” Jackie says, shrugging. “I thought I’d be the one to stop by this time.”
Claire bites hard on her lower lip.
Since the pool incident, Claire hasn’t been able to clear that strange night from her head. The idea of seeing Jackie up close, talking to her as if she didn’t silently watch her skinny-dip like an absolutepervert, has filled Claire with unexplainable dread.
“I’m sorry I haven’t visited,” Claire says, drying her sudsy hands on her skirt. “I’ve just been…”
“Busy. I guessed,” Jackie says. Something sad passes briefly over her face. It’s fleeting, but Claire catches it. The idea that she might be the cause is too much to bear.
Perhaps Jackie didn’t see her in the window, after all. Maybe Claire is making a mountain out of a molehill like she always does, and ruining something perfectly nice over nothing.
“I’m sorry, Jackie,” Claire says, trying her best to relax and speak sincerely. “I really am. I’ve been a bad friend, lately.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” Jackie says with a careless wave. “If you’re still busy, I’ll go.”
Claire opens the door wider. “You should come in. I’ll make us a drink, for once.”
Jackie hesitates for a moment, but she steps inside. Her heels click on the linoleum. The linoleum of Claire’s house.
Something about it, about glamorous Jackie standing in Claire’s entryway in her chic outfit and following her into the kitchen, makes Claire feel hot and cold all over.
Jackie’s gaze sweeps the kitchen in that quick, observant way she has. She looks around at the speckled countertops, the wooden table, and the window that faces her own driveway with something sharp and appraising in her eyes, and Claire is reminded suddenly of just how different her house is from Jackie’s. Her home has none of the openness, none of the trendiness, and there’s so much housework that still needs to be done.
To Claire’s horror, Jackie’s roving eyes land on the sketchbook sitting on the kitchen table.
“What’s this?” Jackie says, tapping the table next to the book. She doesn’t make any move to pick it up, but Claire still dives for it, clutching it to her chest.
“Nothing,” Claire says. Her voice is a little shrill; she clears her throat, tucking it under her arm. “Just a book.”
Jackie arches a brow.
“Just a sketchbook,” Claire admits. “I’ve been doodling,”
“Have you?” Jackie says, breaking into a wide grin. “That’s fantastic!” For a terrible, breathless moment, Claire wonders if Jackie will ask to see them—if Claire will be forced by politeness to flip through countless half-finished sketches of Jackie in front of Jackie herself. But Jackie doesn’t ask. She leans against the table, smiling at Claire. “I’m glad you’re finding your passion again.”
“Me too,” Claire says. Her voice cracks. She clears her throat, manners outweighing all else even now. “Would you like a tour of the house?”
“I’d love one,” Jackie says warmly.
Her kindness doesn’t negate Claire’s self-consciousness as she guides Jackie upstairs to the bedrooms. Every slightly dustyphoto frame and missed patch of vacuumed carpet might as well be outlined in chalk, ripe for criticism.
“The bedrooms are up here, and the master bath,” Claire says, gesturing at the open doors. She wishes she’d have thought to close them. “And Pete’s home office. Not much to see.”
“Is this your wedding photo?” Jackie says, examining one of the frames near the stairs. “You look so young.”
Claire’s stomach does a funny twist.
“I wore my mother-in-law’s dress,” Claire says. She fidgets with her pearls, pressing one so hard against her collarbone that she wonders if it might bruise. “It didn’t quite fit me.”
She’s not sure why she feels the need to explain it. Her wedding day hadn’t been anything to write home about. Pete didn’t want the fuss of a large wedding, so they did it at the courthouse with only family in attendance. She’s never felt like she looked particularly nice on the day, either. The dress was too small. Too short by a few inches, too narrow in the shoulders and too large in the waist, and Rita had fussed about making any permanent alterations. In the end Claire had worn it cinched with a piece of white ribbon, and held together in the back with a pin.
