The walls are hung with photos. They’re not framed like the ones that decorate the rest of the house but stuck into the drywall with pins. They cover all kinds of subjects—some are people, others landscapes, and some are contextless pictures of statues or animals or colorful flowers. It’s like getting a peek directly into Jackie’s mind.
And there, hung among the photos dead center over Jackie’s desk, is Claire’s painting.
It stops Claire dead in her tracks. It’s unmistakable—the acacia tree that should be hanging in Anita’s shop is here, like a beacon of color in the grey of the silent house. Jackie must have asked for it. Or stranger still, she might haveboughtit and found it important enough to hang in her office. She spends a lot of time here, if the empty mugs and food wrappers scattered across the room are any indication.
Claire is still reeling when she finally remembers what she came here for. She bends over the desk, grabbing the nearest pencil—the end of it is chewed to bits—and searches for something to write on. The desk is covered in more loose photographs, but no paper.
Claire forgets her purpose yet again when she notices that the photos all have the same subject. A woman, with light hair. There’s a shoebox on the floor next to the desk, the dusty lid upended nearby as if Jackie dumped it out. These photos must have been hidden away. At the bottom of the box are some envelopes, but Claire ignores them for now.
Curiosity burns in her. She really shouldn’t be rifling through Jackie’s things as well as breaking into her house, but Claire’s willpower has been so weak lately.
She sinks into the office chair, squinting down at the photos.
Whoever the subject is, she’s gorgeous. Her hair is long and dyed a platinum blonde that Claire is sure most people couldn’t pull off. It’s almost Marilyn Monroe-esque. Her eyes are a startling blue. She truly does look like she could be on the cover of Vogue. She’s effortlessly beautiful, and seems like she lives for the camera. The way she locks eyes with the lens makes Claire feel like she’s the one being stared at.
One picture catches Claire’s attention above all, though. Jackie is in it.
It’s a picture of the two of them together—Jackie is in an armchair, seemingly at one of those parties Claire sees in some of her photographs, and the blonde woman is draped over her lap. Their cheeks are squished together as they smile for the photographer. Jackie looks younger, here. She looks happy. She’s beaming in a way that Claire has only seen for brief but wonderful windows of time, when Jackie lets her guard down.
In the angled light from the window, Claire can see the barest hint of raised letters on the surface of the photo.
She flips it over to find an inscription, in Jackie’s handwriting.
Sept 14, 1964
Valerie,
You and me against the world. Always. You know I’ll wait as long as you need me to.
Endless love,
J.
Claire sets the photo down hastily. The envelopes at the bottom of the shoebox might have piqued her curiosity before, but now she can’t even look at them.
As if she’s been in a trance since she sat down, Claire realizes the gravity of what she’s done. She springs back up, her heart pounding, and backs away. She’s just invaded Jackie’s privacyterribly. She’s not entirely sure what exactly she’s invaded, but that photo feels like something she never should have seen. Something Jackie wouldn’t want her to see.
Jackie has never mentioned a Valerie. Did Jackie have another best friend, before Claire? Someone she left behind in the city? Is that one of the things she was running from?
Is she running from Claire, now?
Claire does scribble down Theo’s number before she runs back home, but her guilt keeps her from calling.
~ ~ ~
Jackie’s Mustang pulls into the drive around noon the next day.
The relief Claire feels when Jackie emerges with her suitcase is enough to give her a head rush. The gloom of yesterday’s weather has persisted, but the sprinkling of light rain doesn’t bother Claire—she barely remembers to turn the oven off before she sprints outside, catching up to Jackie just as she’s fiddling with her keys.
“Jackie?” Claire calls, frowning when Jackie’s hand freezes halfway to the lock. “Where on earth have you been?”
Claire was hoping for a smile, at the very least. Maybe even an apology. Jackie is always happy to see her, no matter her mood. Instead, Jackie’s expression when she turns around is so somber that it looks like a mask.
“I stayed with Theo,” Jackie says quietly.
“You didn’t say you’d be gone a week,” Claire says, her breath coming fast from the run. She presses a hand to her chest. “I was so worried.”
Jackie is uncharacteristically withdrawn. When she takes off her sunglasses her eyes are red-rimmed, though she can’t seemto meet Claire’s gaze directly. She’s staring somewhere near Claire’s shoulder.
