But what she said was, “I like doing this. It’s important to me.”
He shrugged, the universal gesture of a man who had made his suggestion and considered his job done.
“I’ll be in the den. The Braves are on at seven. They’re replaying the ’95 World Series again. It never gets old.”
He said it with more enthusiasm than he had shown at the party, at her birthday, or at Claire’s new dress, which was still hanging on the back of the bedroom door with the tags on it because she had not decided whether it made her look like she was trying too hard for a party she was having in her own house.
She listened to his footsteps go down the hall, followed by the loud, familiar thump as he fell into the recliner. It was then followed by the opening bars of a pregame commentary, which sounded like the worst thing on earth to Claire. Men just sitting there giving their opinions on other men hitting balls through the air… for hours on end. No thanks.
These were the sounds of her marriage, predictable as a metronome and twice as monotonous. How had it gotten this bad?
Of course, other marriages were way worse. This was something she told herself regularly. Greg could be a cheater. He wasn’t. Greg could be abusive. He wasn’t. He just didn’t seem to notice she was alive anymore.
Claire looked down at her hands. She had flour under her fingernails. She looked at her thin gold wedding band. She had not taken it off in twenty-six years. It just sat there, a remnant of the romance she once felt, a fleeting moment in time.
Who are you?
The thought arrived sharp and uninvited as it always did, like a car alarm going off at 3:00 in the morning.
But she shook it off because she had a party to finish. Claire Morrison did one thing very well - made others feel valued and seen. Boy, she wished someone would do that for her.
Harper arrived at 5:47, thirteen minutes early, because Harper Ellis had never been late for anything in her life. She had even been born early, and she honestly hadn’t been late a day since.
She came through the front door without knocking, as she usually did. She had never knocked at Claire’s house, not once in all the years they’d known each other. Claire had stopped locking the front door on days when she knew Harper was expected because Harper once stood on the porch for forty-five seconds and decided that was an unreasonable waiting time and then called to ask if Claire was dead.
Spoiler alert: Claire answered the phone, and she wasn’t dead.
She was wearing a silk blouse the color of emeralds, wide-legged black trousers, and heels that qualified as an architectural achievement. There was no way Claire could ever have worn those. She would have toppled over immediately.
Harper’s blond hair was blown out to a shine that suggested either a very fancy salon or forces beyond mortal understanding. She held two bottles of champagne, a gift bag from a store Claire could not even afford to walk past, and the energy of a woman who had gone to back-to-back meetings since seven that morning and had just decided to be fabulous anyway.
That was Harper. Always fabulous, never a hair out of place. She was the epitome of “never let them see you sweat.”
“Claire Morrison, if you tell me that you baked a three-layer cake from scratch for your own birthday, I swear I will sit on your front porch and weep.”
“It’s just simple pound cake, and it’s for all of us.” Claire knew that was a lie. Nothing she ever did was simple.
“I brought cheese from that place on King Street. The one with the goat out front.”
“The goat’s name is Gerald.”
“Of course, you know the goat’s name.”
Harper set the champagne on the counter and pulled Claire into a hug. She smelled like Chanel.
She held on a moment too long, and Claire felt it. Harper never held on longer than necessary.
Then Harper pulled back and looked at her with those sharp green eyes. She never missed anything, not in their thirty years of friendship.
“You look beautiful. How are you? Don’t you dare say fine.”
Claire opened her mouth, then closed it. She smiled the smile she had perfected for parent-teacher conferences and dinner parties. Broad enough to look natural, but small enough not to look psychotic.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
Harper looked at her for a second. Claire could almost see the gears turning behind her eyes. The same analytical mind that ran a $200 million division, deciding whether or not she was going to push further or let it go.
She let it go. For now.
