How has a woman as beautiful as Jacqueline not been snatched up? Claire has rarely known any woman, let alone a woman who looks to be her own age, to be unmarried unless she’s a widow. Her mother waited four years to remarry after her father died, and that had been considered a bit too long. And besides that, Claire has no earthly idea how an unmarried woman of such ambiguous origin managed to buy a house in this neighborhood. Does she manage her own finances? Have her ownbank account?
“Oh. Gosh, I’m sorry for assuming,” Claire stammers. Claire can’t hear any children in the house, either. Pete will be pleased by that.
Martha will have a field day.
Jacqueline’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes this time. They’re a very dark shade of brown, like some kind of expensive and glossy wood. The iris and pupil are nearly indistinguishable from each other, split only by occasional flecks of dark amber. They look endless. “It’s fine. I realize a single woman buying a house is a rarity.”
It is a rarity. An impossibility, even, in this neighborhood. Jacqueline truly is a singular woman, the likes of whom Claire has never met before.
“Well. I’m sure you’d like me out of your hair, then,” Claire says, forcing a smile on her face despite the disappointment. If Jacqueline had a husband, Claire would have a comfortable excuse to get to know her better. “Surely you have better thingsto do than spend your time with a boring old homemaker like me.”
Jacqueline’s shoulders relax a little, but a furrow forms between her thick brows. “Why would you think that?”
Claire blinks at her again. Much like their first meeting in the cereal aisle, every twist and turn in this conversation has been completely unexpected.
“Honestly, I’m not spending my time with anyone just yet,” Jacqueline says after a pause, perhaps seeing Claire’s confusion and taking pity. She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s hard to get to know people in a new place.”
The movement draws Claire’s eyes down to Jacqueline’s bust, but she wrenches them back up as quickly as she can before it becomes inappropriate. Something in her belly is fluttering madly.
“Maybe you should have a housewarming party,” Claire says.
Jacqueline’s head tilts curiously. “Do you think that’s something people would actually come to?”
“Oh, we love a neighborhood barbecue. It’d be a great way to introduce yourself,” Claire says. Her voice has gone up in pitch again, and she clears her throat quickly. “Just stuff an invite in every mailbox.”
“Would you stop by?” Jacqueline says. “It’d be nice to see a friendly face.”
“If you’re sure you’d want me there,” Claire says, probably a bit too eagerly.
“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.” Jacqueline smiles, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. The movement reveals a small tattoo on the outward edge of her wrist—it looks like the branch of a tree, but Claire can’t see the details without asking Jacqueline to push up her sleeve. She can’t take her eyes away from it.
She’s never seen a woman with a tattoo before. She’s never really seen a tattoo up close at all. Dazedly, Claire wonders if the inked skin is a different texture than the rest. Would it feel raised under her fingers, or smooth? The thought is as fascinating as it is shocking.
“Then I’ll be there,” Claire says, dragging her eyes away from Jacqueline’s wrist. She really should be asking Pete first—he’ll be livid if he decides not to attend and she’s already agreed—but she can’t fathom saying no. The fluttering is coursing through her, driven by something panicky and strange, and her hands are starting to shake. “Should I bring anything?”
“Just yourself,” Jacqueline says warmly.
“Sounds swell,” Claire says, already backing away and down the front steps. She needs to get back home, before she makes any other promises she might not be able to keep. “Just swell. It was lovely to see you again, Jacqueline, and I’ll—I’ll see you at the party.”
Claire darts back home as fast as she can without jogging. Only when she’s in the safety of her own kitchen does she sink into a chair, putting a hand to her chest where her heart beats wildly under stiff fabric.
Strange.
She finds a handwritten invitation in her mailbox the next morning. Jacqueline’s writing is slanted and just a bit messy, and Claire finds herself staring at it for much longer than it takes to read the short, scribbled note with the date and time.
Chapter 4
When Claire enters Jacqueline’s house for the first time, on Pete’s arm and dressed in her Sunday best, the party is different than she expected.
She’s no stranger to neighborhood parties. Usually they’re daytime gatherings, where the men conglomerate to drink beers and talk about grilling techniques while the women fuss with the potluck table and tend the children. They’re over by sundown, and Claire always makes her famous potato salad. It’s a formula she knows by heart.
As written on the invitation, Jacqueline’s party is adults-only, and it’s not a potluck. It’s only now getting into full swing at half past eight. They’ve arrived over an hour late, as Pete had grumbled and dragged his feet about attending just as she suspected he would, and the atmosphere is strange. The lights are dim, the rock music is so loud that it seems to make the air vibrate, and the house is packed.
Jacqueline’s house is what Claire might callartsy. The walls are white interspersed with grey brick, with blue carpets in the living room and eclectic, rounded furniture. It’s decorated as if Jacqueline has transposed it right from the pages of an interior design magazine. Claire can only imagine what a pain it would all be to keep clean. She has a hard enough time with her own house, with its darker palette of reds and oranges and wood paneling.
It seems like the entire suburb is here, drinking and eating catered hors d’oeuvres. There are quite a few couples milling around whom Claire has only seen in passing, and even several that she doesn’t recognize at all—Jacqueline really must have put an invite in every mailbox within a few blocks. Pete likesto stick mostly to the small group of families in their cul-de-sac. It’s a warm night, and the unfamiliar people seem to have conglomerated in the backyard, splashing around in the pool and making a ruckus in various states of undress.
“ThisJacquelineshould be more careful with who she invites,” Pete says darkly.
