Pete would absolutely hate it.
Claire licks her lips. She smooths her sweaty palms down the front of her shirt, moving her shoulders and watching the way the fabric flexes to accommodate. She’s not too wide for this shirt. Not too narrow for these pants.
“I think the neighbors might talk,” Claire finally says.
Jackie laughs. Her hands move away, and the moment breaks like a pebble hitting a still pond.
Jackie buys Claire the outfit, despite her many half-hearted protests. It goes in a box at the bottom of the closet, hidden safely away from Pete, but every so often Claire takes it out and puts it on while he’s at work just to look at herself in their bathroom mirror.
Every time she does, she feels like a snake shedding its old skin for something new and raw underneath. Something unfamiliar, something frightening, but infinitely better.
Her mother calls after dinner to wish her a happy birthday. Pete doesn’t remember at all.
Chapter 15
August comes with an excruciating heatwave.
Day after day passes by with no relief. Claire’s usual cooking and cleaning schedule has to be done in their sweltering house. In these hellish conditions, she’s more grateful than ever to take shelter for a few blessed hours in Jackie’s air-conditioned living room. Claire often gazes longingly at the pool from her humid bedroom window after their visits, but she never makes the suggestion to swim.
She’s seen Jackie’s chic swimsuit. Claire’s one and only handmade suit looks like a potato sack in comparison, and she’d rather Jackie didn’t have to see it.
The heat seems to make Claire’s anxieties expand along with everything else. The card with the fertility specialist’s number stays next to the phone, with Claire’s appointment date scribbled underneath. Every minute she spends with Jackie runs the risk of getting caught, but Claire can’t stop. Spending time with her isn’t a desire anymore, not even an impulse—it’s a need. A requirement just to get through the day. She’s like an alcoholic, clinging to the bottle even as someone tries to wrench it away.
When Martha calls with an invite for fondue on a Saturday night, it’s actually a relief—Martha has air conditioning, too, and this way Claire won’t need to bake along with whatever she puts in the oven for dinner or listen to Pete complain about eating hot food on a hot day.
Martha’s belly is bigger than ever when she answers the door. She looks about ready to burst, requiring more help from Claire than usual to get things together even if she won’t actually admit it. When they’ve all sat down around the sizzling oil and meltedcheese and Pete compliments Martha on her hard work, Claire bites her tongue.
“Thank you. Things have been so hectic lately, with the baby coming,” Martha says, demurely dipping the edge of a piece of broccoli into the cheese. “And that moon landing party was such a delightful time, but the planning and cleanup really took a lot out of me.”
“I’m glad we could have a quiet night in tonight,” Claire says.
“So are we,” Martha says. She sounds as sincere as Claire has ever heard her.
“Did you see that moon landing party across the road?” Walter says, chortling as he spears several pieces of sausage and sticks them all into the oil at once. “Looked pretty rowdy.”
Claire’s mouthful of bread and cheese doesn’t want to go down, suddenly—she chews and chews, while Pete laughs.
“I try not to pay much mind to that house,” Pete says. He stabs at a meatball so hard that it splits in half and falls into the cheese. “As does Claire. We’re of a like mind about that woman, aren’t we, sweetheart?”
Swallowing the bread is like trying to stomach sawdust, but Claire manages. “Yes, dear.”
Another lie. Another brick on the stack. It feels as if it’s piled so high at this point that she can hardly see Martha at the other end of the table.
Martha’s mouth is pinched. She keeps looking back and forth between Pete and Claire, though Claire thanks the Heavens above that she doesn’t actually open her mouth until she and Claire are alone in the kitchen doing the washing-up.
“Are you and Pete truly of a like mind about the neighbor these days?”
“She has a name, you know,” Claire says tiredly. “Why do you ask?”
Martha quietly washes a plate. She scrubs and scrubs at some imaginary crusted food, rinses it, and hands it to Claire, who wipes it with a towel. A reliable routine.
Walter and Pete’s distant laughter floats in from the den.
“After the last time, Claire, I told you I didn’t want to interfere anymore,” Martha says in a sudden hushed whisper, as if it’s an avalanche she’s only barely kept at bay until now. “But having just seen you strolling around Macy’s with Jacqueline a few weeks ago, I’m starting to think that I might need to. You arelyingto your husband.”
Claire drops the plate. It bounces off the countertop, but she manages to catch it before it shatters.
There’s no fib that can get her out of this.
