She looked around the dark truck. It was a mess—coffee-stained napkins, sections of old newspaper, CD cases from his prized Grateful Dead bootlegs, fishing lures, breath mints, keys to God knows what, a rubber duck with the beak chewed off, which had been around since Shea was a baby, the anglers’ club hat that had belonged to Jason’s father, Malcolm. She picked up the hat. “Do you miss your dad?” she asked.
Jason closed his eyes for a split second. “You know, I was just thinking about him today.”
“Were you?”
“Yeah, it’s so strange you asked me. I was thinking about my tenth birthday and how he took me to play my first round of golf at Sankaty. He had a winter membership that year and it was too cold to walk it, so he spent thirty bucks on a cart and he brought along a thermos of coffee with Baileys or something in it that he let me sip from.” Jason swallowed. “It was special, you know, because he was showing me that I was growing up.” He shook his head. “It’s like sex. How many rounds of golf have I played, but I’ll always remember that first time.”
“I miss your dad, too,” Claire said.
“He was a great guy,” Jason said. “The greatest. You know, I want to do something like that for J.D.’s birthday. Maybe I will. See if I can take him for nine holes at Sankaty.”
“Minus the Baileys,” Claire said.
“Right,” Jason said.
Claire relaxed in her seat. She thought of Malcolm Crispin, Jason and Carter’s father, a great, old, salty guy, who worked for the water company for forty years, who loved golfing and fishing and grilling big, fat steaks and drinking red wine and smoking cigars on the deck of the anglers’ club. Malcolm died of mouth cancer when J.D. was a baby, but he’d given Claire a strand of pearls—the ones she was now wearing—for delivering the first Crispin grandchild. Siobhan had been pregnant with Liam when Malcolm died, and she’d never gotten over the fact that Malcolm hadn’t lived to see Carter’s children, or that Claire had gotten the pearls. But even Siobhan’s resentment was born of the fact that they were all one clan, the Crispins. Those ties counted for something.
Jason pulled up in front of Carter and Siobhan’s house; there were cars lined up all the way down the street. Claire drank down the rest of her wine.
Jason opened his door and climbed out.
Claire said, “Jason?”
He peered in at her.
“Thank you for telling me that story,” she said. “About the golf with your dad. It was nice.”
He shook his head. “It’s weird,” he said. “It’s like you read my mind.”
At that moment, Tortola seemed very far away. Claire felt better. They went inside.
The party was lovely. The living room was clean and cozy and lit only by votive candles. People carried drinks in frosted glasses, and jewel-like canapés. There was conversation, laughter, the sexy strains of Barry White floating down from the in-ceiling speakers. Siobhan was across the room wearing something new, something slinky and pink that left one of her shoulders bare. She was surrounded by people. Claire tried to catch her eye, but when she did, Siobhan gave her a half wave that felt like a brush-off. Claire’s good mood was like a basket of fruit balancing on her head; it teetered precariously.
Claire poured herself a glass of wine, and then another glass; she talked to people she had seen only in passing since Christmas—Julie Jackson, Amie Trimble, Delaney Kitt, Phoebe Caldwell, Heidi Fiske.
Where have you been hiding yourself?
No, not hiding,
Claire said emphatically.
Just so busy. Beyond busy. Now that I’m back at work.
How is the baby? He must be getting so big!
So big,
she echoed.
He’s doing great, just had his first birthday. He’s nearly started crawling. He’s fine.
She drank, she chatted, she did not eat nearly enough, though the food was to die for—guacamole with fresh corn, mini Asian crab cakes that were sweet with coconut milk, scallops wrapped in bacon with horseradish sauce.
“Yum!” Claire said to Siobhan as Siobhan passed by with succulent Chinese ribs. Siobhan gave Claire a pointed look over the top of her square glasses. Claire’s good mood tumbled. Was Siobhan mad? Claire thought back: They hadn’t talked in two days. Claire had left a message, or maybe two, which Siobhan hadn’t answered. This was unusual, but Siobhan was busy. She was throwing a party! Claire threaded her way through the crowd until she spotted Siobhan offering a rib to Adams Fiske. Claire tapped Siobhan on the shoulder.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Siobhan said flatly.
“What’s wrong? Are you mad at me?”
Siobhan nodded toward the hallway, where it was dim and quiet. Claire followed, her heart scuttling.
“What is it?” Claire said.
“I spoke to Edward.”
“And?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“He gave the catering job to someone else. For the gala.”
“He did
what?
”
“He gave it to À La Table.”
“Genevieve?”
“Genevieve.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It gets better.”
“What?”
“Because Edward wasn’t even the one who told me. I found out from Genevieve herself. I saw her at the farm market, and you know her, she couldn’t keep herself from spilling it, she was
so happy!
She just had to tell me: she got the catering job for the Nantucket’s Children Summer Gala!”
“Oh, shit.”
“So I went home and I called Edward and he confirmed it, he took their bid. They came under by nearly forty dollars a head.”
“Oh, shit.”
“You didn’t know this?”
“I had no idea.”
“Because I asked him if you knew, and he said he sent you an e-mail.”
“Oh,” Claire said. “Well, he might have. I haven’t checked my e-mail . . . in a couple of days.”
Siobhan took a step closer to Claire, so that the edge of the platter of ribs nudged Claire in the stomach. Siobhan’s glasses slipped down her nose, and her face flushed pink. “Edward knows nothing about food and even less about wine. You could serve him peanut butter on a cedar shingle and he’d say it was delicious. Or a glass of vintage lighter fluid.
Why
did you put him in charge of catering?”
“He volunteered. And I thought he’d pick you. I was sure of it.”
“But he didn’t pick me, did he?”
“Oh, Siobhan, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? You’re sorry? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What else do you want me to say? Tell me and I’ll say it.”
“You were wrong to put Edward in charge of catering. It was a gross error in judgment on your part. You were sure he’d pick me, but if you had any common fucking sense, or better still, if you had just
asked
me, I would have pointed out that Edward has just been
waiting
all these years for a chance to screw me over, for an opportunity to
humiliate
me the way he feels I humiliated him by breaking the engagement and marrying Carter. Otherwise, why would he have picked Genevieve? She sucks! Her food tastes like shit, she actually makes an appetizer using Froot Loops, and she hasn’t timed an event correctly since she got into the business. He picked her because he
knows
she’s my rival; he
knows
I detest her. It would have been better if he had chosen some fancy-pants New York caterer. But Genevieve! The reason she came forty-dollars-a-head under is that she hires her sixteen-year-old daughter and her daughter’s friends to serve.”
“I am so sorry,” Claire said. “I was wrong to put Edward in charge.”
“Don’t just feed my words back to me, Claire. I find that very patronizing.”
“At the time, at that meeting, he was singing your praises, telling everyone how great you were, and I thought it was a sure thing.” Claire reached out and touched Siobhan’s arm, but Siobhan pulled away suddenly and nearly dropped the platter of ribs. Claire was pretty drunk—she didn’t seem to be handling this situation the right way—but Siobhan might have been drunker.
“You know what the worst part is?” Siobhan said. Her voice wavered and her eyes filled with tears. “You’re different. Since you took this stupid job as cochair, Claire Crispin, you are a different person.”
“I’m not different,” Claire said.
“You lied to me about being at Tupancy back at Christmastime,” Siobhan said. Her voice was now a furious whisper. “I saw you, you nearly fucking ran me over, and then you denied ever being there.”
Claire scoffed, though inside her, discomfort bloomed. She had been at Tupancy with Lock, they had been seeking a private spot, and it had been startling to come across Siobhan, so startling that Claire drove on, convinced that she was mistaken.
What should I do?
she had asked Lock. And he had said,
Deny it.
“I can’t believe you’re taking me to task for something that happened back before Christmas,” Claire said.
“Admit that you were at Tupancy,” Siobhan said. “Admit that Lock was in your car.”
“Lock?” Claire said.
“Then a few weeks ago, I see you at confession.” Siobhan leaned forward. “Fucking
confession,
Claire. What was that about?”
“I told you, I—”
“Do you take me for an idiot, Claire?”
There it was, Claire thought. Siobhan suspected something was going on, but she had been left in the dark. Claire hesitated, thinking,
I should have told her before. I should have picked a quiet time and place and told her.
How much less excruciating would the past few months have been if she’d had a repository for her thoughts, her feelings, the delicious and the evil, the confident and the insecure? Claire should have told Siobhan about Lock before, but Claire couldn’t tell her now because Siobhan would be furious—perhaps fatally so—that Claire hadn’t confided in her from the beginning.
What?
she would say, her Irish ire up. (
Woot?
)
You didn’t trust me?
And the truth would be out there between them, stinking and obvious.
Claire didn’t trust her.
She couldn’t tell Siobhan now, in the middle of the party. Maybe someday soon . . . but no, never. Claire would never tell, not even with Siobhan pushing her up against the wall. As long as it was just Claire and Lock, contained in a cell, it was not real; after they left each other, it vanished, it never was, it could not be pointed to or proved. There was no paper trail, not one physical, tangible object that implicated the two of them. If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a noise? No, Claire decided. As long as nobody knew, it was safe. If it stayed secret, nobody would get hurt. But somehow, Siobhan had gotten hurt. She knew that Claire had a new heart.
You are a different person.
Ironic that Siobhan had noticed, but not Jason. And yet Siobhan was closer to Claire in nearly every way, and Claire felt just as bad, if not worse, about betraying Siobhan.
How to keep herself from spilling this, like the ribs, all over the place?
“I’ve been upset about Zack,” Claire said, which was true. “His birthday brought it all back. And then, on the way here, Jason and I were talking about Malcolm . . .”
Siobhan snorted. “Malcolm?” she said. “Ah, yes!” She turned away with her tray of ribs. “By the way, nice pearls!”
Claire was about to follow her (and say
what
to make things right, she couldn’t guess) when she saw something that rendered her temporarily speechless: her husband and Julie Jackson coming down the stairs. The stairs were lit with small votive candles on each end, but as far as Claire knew, that was just decoration and not an invitation to ascend the stairs. As far as Claire knew, the upstairs was dark and deserted except for Liam and Aidan, who were sleeping.
Claire felt like she was going to vomit. Julie Jackson was the most beautiful woman Claire knew. She was touching Jason’s arm, leaning into him, holding on to him. She was wearing a short skirt and a pair of very high heels and she was having a hard time getting down the stairs. Claire thought back to Jason’s turning her down in the bedroom.
We don’t really have time, do we?
She thought of him racing over here in an unprecedented hurry. What on earth would Jason and Julie Jackson have been doing together, alone, in the dark upstairs? Claire might have looked to Siobhan for a reality check, but Siobhan had stormed off. Claire drank what was left of her wine and approached Jason. She knew her cheeks were pinking; she felt like her face was going to explode. Her eyeballs felt like hot glass, and her lips were stretched into a fake smile that made her teeth chatter. Julie squeezed Jason’s arm and ducked out, toward the kitchen.
Jason said, “Hey, babe.”
“What were you doing upstairs?” Claire asked.
Jason laughed and took a swig of his beer. “You should see your face.”
“I asked you a question.” She could not believe the rage inside her. While Siobhan had been raking her over scorching emotional coals, her husband had been upstairs, hiking Julie Jackson’s skirt and bending her over in the guest bedroom. There wasn’t a doubt in Claire’s mind. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You were fucking her.”
“Whoa!” Jason said. His eyebrows shot up.
“Don’t deny it,” Claire said. “The two of you were upstairs alone together. I’m not stupid, Jason.”
Jason set his beer bottle down on the table behind him with a thud. “I was showing her the half-round trim detail in the master bedroom,” he said. “She and Brent are starting their addition and she asked to see it.”
“Oh, yeah, I bet,” Claire said.
“Are you accusing me of cheating on you?” Jason said. “Is that honestly what you’re doing?”
His voice was very loud, and although they were separated from the rest of the party by a wall, the people going to and from the bathroom could see them and maybe hear them—and Adams and Heidi Fiske were peering at them from the doorway of the living room. Making a scene at a party like this was a very bad idea; everyone would be talking about it in the morning.
Jason grabbed Claire’s arm. “Let’s go ask Julie what we were doing upstairs. Come on, right now, so you can hear it for yourself. Let’s go find her.”