This feels different, somehow. Claire’s skin tingles with nervous anticipation. Like the very hair on her arms is standing up, waiting, until the doorknob turns.
The woman who answers is nothing like Claire expects. She doesn’t have a child on her hip. She’s fashionably dressed in a blue pinstriped minidress, with long, dark hair and olive skin and large brown eyes that look at Claire with some interest. She’s young, and clearly not retired. She’s also startlingly familiar.
The woman from the grocery store.
For a moment, Claire wonders if she’s hallucinating. Is it possible that she’s thought so often about the woman who gave her that strange advice that she’s conjured her here, in the form of her new neighbor? It wouldn’t be surprising, but no matter how many times Claire blinks, that lovely face doesn’t waver.
“It’s you!” Claire blurts.
The woman looks taken aback for only a moment. Her expression schools quickly into something more neutral, her eyebrows raising slightly—her brows are as thick and dark as her hair.
“So it is,” the woman says. That same half-smile quirks at her lips, and Claire knows that her eyes haven’t deceived her. Itisthe same woman.
But does she remember Claire at all? She could be humoring Claire by being polite, having no recollection of their short conversation at all.
“I mean—I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting—” Claire clears her throat, fumbling with the glass dish in her hands. She holds it out like it’s a bomb about to go off. The aluminum foil on the top crinkles, and the woman looks at the gift curiously. “I just wanted to say hello, and welcome to Acacia Circle.”
The woman’s smile grows slowly at first, while Claire’s heart races. As it turns into something more genuine, Claire gets another flash of those uneven canines.
“That’s very nice of you. I wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee,” the woman says, taking the dish from Claire’s hands. She sounds confident, in yet another contrast to Claire’s nervous shrillness.
“No committee,” Claire chirps, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “Just me. I’m number sixty-three, right next door.”
“What a small world. I just enjoyed a bowl of that cereal you helped me get,” the woman says, setting the casserole down on a table just inside the door.
So shedoesremember Claire. It’s gratifying to have, in even the smallest way, taken the woman’s advice—she stood out just enough to be remembered. “I’m very glad.”
“It’s nice to properly meet you, Miss.…?”
“Davis,” Claire says quickly. “Mrs.Peter Davis.”
The woman chuckles lightly. To Claire, it sounds like wind chimes. Soft and lovely. “I didn’t ask for your husband’s name.”
“Right,” Claire says. She shifts from foot to foot. “It’s Claire. I’m Claire Davis.”
The woman’s smile lights up her eyes, this time. “It’s lovely to meet you, Claire. I’m Jacqueline.”
Jacqueline extends her hand between them, as if she wants to shake hands. Claire hasn’t been offered many handshakes in her time—that’s Pete’s domain—but she accepts this one. Jacqueline’s grip is firm and confident, like her voice. Her hand is dry where Claire’s is clammy, and it’s surprisingly large, matching the size of Claire’s, rather than being engulfed by it.
Once again, Claire’s fingers itch for a pencil. Hands are one of the toughest parts of the body to master drawing, and Jacqueline’s would be a unique challenge. The taper of her long, slender fingers, with rounded knuckles. The tendons flexing as she shakes Claire’s hand. The blunt shape of her short nails.
What is it about this woman that makes Claire want to pick up a sketchbook again?
“Where did you move from?” Claire says, fishing for anything that might prolong the conversation.
“San Francisco.”
“Goodness,” Claire says, with a nervous laugh. “My husband says it’s more dangerous the closer you get to the city. You must be glad to have moved somewhere so safe.”
Jacqueline hums noncommittally. She looks amused, likely because Claire is inexplicably still clutching her hand even though the reasonable timeframe for a handshake has ended.
She pulls her hand back quickly, holding her arms stiffly at her sides. Jacqueline is such a stark contrast to Claire—Claire in her outdated floral dress, with her pale skin and her freckles and her dull, frizzy hair. It’s hard not to see the difference between them as a gulf.
The moment grows awkward. In a daze, Claire forges forward with the next conversation topic she can think of. “Is your husband at home? Maybe once you’re all settled in, we could all get together. We could do fondue?”
Jacqueline’s smile fades a little. Her shoulders straighten; she seems to get a bit taller. “I’m not married.”
Claire blinks owlishly.
