Jackie is so very close, right now. Claire can see a single white eyelash nestled among the long, dark others. There’s a darker ring around the edge of her brown irises, almost dark enough to match her pupils, which are strangely wide. Jackie’s scent is so lovely, the warmth of her arm so sweet, and yet her words are so mystifying. How could itnotbe Claire’s fault?
The oven timer blares through the kitchen.
Claire jumps. It’s enough to bring her back to the present; she takes a few deep, heaving breaths, and Jackie moves her arm away quickly.
“Goodness. There that goes,” Claire says, clearing her throat. She wipes her face again, blowing her nose once more and stuffing the tissue into her sleeve, and then she does what she does best. She pushes it all down. “Right. We need to sprinklesome more cheese on for the last 15minutes, so it gets nice and bubbly.”
Jackie doesn’t stop her. She’s pensive until the casserole is served, and Claire goes home feeling more tangled up than ever.
Chapter 11
Martha and Walter’s Memorial Day party is a yearly occurrence. Every year it’s the same potluck food, the same conversations, the same neighbor kids running through the same sprinklers. Claire makes the same potato salad, and puts it on the same folding patio table.
What isnotthe same is Jackie Callas strolling across the lawn with an armful of sodas.
Pete, thank heavens, is too busy at the grill with Walter to notice. Claire darts over to Jackie quickly, taking some of the bottles before Jackie drops them.
“Thanks,” Jackie says, chuckling a little at what she’s sure is a flabbergasted expression on Claire’s face. “Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are. I found an invite from Martha in my mailbox. Wasn’t sure I should come, but then I saw you were here.”
Claire wants nothing more than to preen, but she has more prescient issues. Martha is across the lawn refilling the beer coolers, but more accurately Claire would say that she’s holding a bag of ice while staring at the two of them with narrowed eyes.
“Can I find you again in a few minutes?” Claire says quietly, trying to show as little emotion on her face as possible. Nothing that could be interpreted one way or another.
Jackie looks perplexed, but she nods. “Oh. Sure. I’ll just…mingle.”
Claire heads straight to the coolers. She helps Martha lift the last few bags of ice, distributing more beers throughout, and when Claire is crumpling up all the plastic bags Martha clears her throat pointedly.
“I’m surprised she actually came,” Martha says, nodding in Jackie’s direction.
Jackie is drifting through the party, looking a little lost—she’s very clearly out of place amongst groups of people who already know each other, not wanting to force herself into conversations, and she gives the kids a wide berth.
“I’m surprised you invited her,” Claire says.
“You seem to like her so much, I thought I’d give her a chance.” Martha’s words seem like a peace offering, but her tone says otherwise. This feels less like an olive branch, and more like a test. An experiment to see if Claire is maintaining her now-forbidden friendship.
“I was only being polite. We haven’t talked in weeks,” Claire shrugs. A careful lie, one more barefaced than she’s ever dared before. “We don’t have much in common, to be honest.”
Claire’s suspicion is confirmed when Martha smiles.
“Good. That’s good,” Martha says, pouring out two glasses of fresh lemonade. “You know, I think I should apologize, Claire.”
“You do?” Claire says blankly. In all their years as friends and neighbors, this might be Martha’s first-ever apology.
“For that friction with Pete, over dinner the other day. It was for your own good, you must see that now that you’ve put aside this business with Jacqueline,” Martha says. She’s strangely earnest as she hands a cup of lemonade to Claire. “You aren’t upset with me, are you? I was only trying to help.”
Claire takes the lemonade. She takes a sip—it tastes more sour than usual.
“Of course not,” Claire says. The words feel hollow. A script laid out for her, as if none of her thoughts matter. “It’s for the best.”
“I’m glad you’ve seen the light,” Martha says. She pats Claire on the shoulder, her other hand resting on her belly—she’s reallystarting to show, these days. “Now we can go back to the way things should be, after this silly little speed-bump. Right?”
Claire bites her tongue.
Martha looks as if she might say more, but she stops mid-sentence, her eyeline focusing on the group of kids somewhere over Claire’s shoulder.
“Miss Jane, is that afrogin your hand?” Martha says, pulling out a perfect parental tone that Claire is sure she’ll be hearing from across the road for the next eighteen years. “And dirt all over your pretty dress—whereis your mother?”
Martha bustles off to deal with the situation. Pete is on his fifth beer of the day, loud and boisterous and entirely distracted at the other end of the lawn. Jackie, having probably been frozen out of any conversations, looks like she’s heading home.
