“Everything is under control,” Gavin said.
“Have you heard from Isabelle?” Claire said. “I left a message with her Tuesday, and again yesterday, and I sent an e-mail, but I haven’t heard back. I’m afraid she won’t come to the gala.”
“She’s coming to the gala,” Gavin said.
He sounded pretty confident about that, and Claire relaxed a little.
“So there’s nothing for me to do?” she said.
“Nothing,” he said.
Jason was taking the kids to the beach.
“Sure you don’t want to come?” Jason said.
“No,” Claire said. “I’d better stay here and wait.”
Wait for what? Matthew wasn’t due in until seven that evening. Claire wiped down the countertops yet again. The house was clean, the guest room as immaculate and comfortable as the Four Seasons. Claire had stocked her kitchen with chocolate milk and Nilla wafers, and the freezer was full of cherry Italian ice. Claire checked on Pan. Her fever was down to 100.7 and her spots were starting to itch, a good sign. She was sitting up in bed, reading
Harry Potter.
Claire brought her a fresh glass of ice water and a mug of Thai fire broth.
“I’m sorry I can’t work,” Pan said.
“Don’t be sorry. We’ll figure something out.”
Claire left the room. She had calls out to four different baby-sitters, and she was now waiting to hear back. She would figure something out! Earlier in the week, Claire had bumped into Libby Jenkins, one of the gala cochairs from last year, in town. Libby had asked, “How’re you doing?”
And Claire had said, “Great. We’re right on track.”
Libby had said, “Don’t worry. It’s still early. Everything tends to fall apart at the last minute.” She laughed.
Claire had laughed along, thinking,
Clearly the woman has no interest in bolstering my self-confidence.
As it was, things were held together with string and chewing gum. Matthew was coming off a bad drinking binge, the au pair had the chicken pox, Isabelle wasn’t speaking to her, and Claire was being blackmailed by her best friend. In typical fashion, Claire had succumbed to Siobhan; rather than fight her, she had caved in. Rather than say,
No, I will not let you blackmail me,
she had said,
Yes, I will let you blackmail me.I will end things with Lock.
Just let me get through the weekend,
Claire said.
Okay,
Siobhan agreed. They had parted amicably. They had kissed good-bye.
No doubt the place where Claire could be most helpful today was in the catering kitchen, helping Siobhan. But Claire did not want to work under Siobhan’s judgmental eye. Claire would be chopping cilantro, and Siobhan would be thinking,
Sinner! Cheater! Lying Madame Bovary! Aren’t you worried about your soul?
Claire checked her e-mail: nothing. Isabelle had not turned up. Claire checked her outfit. She had finally found the perfect dress at Gypsy. It was a Colette Dinnigan of green and gold lace. It was formfitting but flirty and feminine—silky, lacy, sexy. Claire checked her high heels, and the jewelry she planned to wear. She confirmed her hair appointment at the salon. In the morning, forty women were gathering to decorate—tablecloths, flower arrangements, candles, tasteful and discreet balloons. Lock would make a speech, then give a short PowerPoint presentation. Adams would do the thank-yous. Pietro da Silva would auction the chandelier. Matthew would perform.
Claire sunk into the sofa. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for things to go wrong.
H
e had played for Queen Elizabeth, Princess Diana, Nelson Mandela, Jacques Chirac, Julia Roberts, Robert De Niro, Jack Nicholson, the sultan of Brunei, the Dalai Lama; he had played Bill Clinton’s second inauguration and Super Bowl XXVIII; he had played at both the Oscars and the Grammys. He had played Shea, Fenway, Madison Square Garden, Minute Maid Park, the L.A. Forum, Soldier Field, the Meadowlands. He had sung with Buffett, Tom Petty, Dylan, Clapton, Ray Charles, Jerry Lee Lewis, Harry Connick Jr., Harry Belafonte, and the Boss; he had recorded sound tracks for sixteen major motion pictures, two HBO series, and five commercials, including ones for Coca-Cola and RadioShack. And Max West, aka Matthew Westfield, thought he had never been so nervous as when he arrived on Nantucket to see Claire Danner again.
Well, maybe once: On the dark school bus, in December 1986, the bus that was taking the chorus from the elderly folks’ home in Cape May back to their high school in Wildwood. Matthew and Claire were juniors; they had been best friends since they were twelve. He had slept next to her, platonically, in bed; he had seen her pee, he had seen her puke beer out her nose. She had broken up with Timmy Carlsbad, and he had listened to her cry for three weeks. He had broken up with Yvonne Simpson, and Claire had fallen down the stairs on her way to get the phone at two in the morning when he called to tell her. On that night on the school bus, Matthew was feeling good. He had performed three numbers with the barbershop quartet, and the old people’s eyes had lit up. They had smiled; they had clapped and called out,
Bravo!Encore!
It was his first taste of being a star, and he was high from it. He thought,
I never want this feeling to end.
He had brought those people—whose lives were nearing their dismal end—happiness, just by singing. So let’s say it was all timing: Claire laid her head on his shoulder, put her hand on his leg, and said, “You were great. I’m proud of you.”
He had immediately gotten an erection, which was, at sixteen, not an uncommon thing. He had in fact masturbated while thinking of Claire more than once, though he never would have admitted it to her or anyone else. She was his closest friend, close enough to be his sister. He shouldn’t feel this way about her, but he did. His dick was a shaft of glowing steel; her head on his shoulder and her hand on his leg were bright, burning spots, his heartbeat was an amplified bass line. Surely she could feel it? Should he kiss her? He wanted to kiss her. But either she would become angry, which he didn’t want, or she would laugh, which he couldn’t bear. He sat through one, two, three agonizing moments. Was he brave enough? He was sixteen, but he had the wisdom, somehow, to know that another moment like this wasn’t likely to come along anytime soon: the dark bus, him a star.
He lifted her head. He kissed her—it remained the singular kiss of his life.
Romantic nonsense? This was the question Matthew had asked himself over and over again since October, when he had learned he would be seeing Claire again. Was it all just romantic nonsense, a fixation from his youth? Would she even be recognizable to him as the same person when he saw her? Would she still have any of the qualities that he treasured and had kept in his heart all these years? Had she aged? Had she changed? This was the kind of nervousness he supposed people felt when they attended high school reunions—which he never did, for obvious reasons.
Jesus, the anticipation was killing him!
His pervasive thought, of course, was that he needed a drink—and he did keep alcohol on the plane for emergencies such as this one. But he had had it all removed specifically for this flight because he knew himself. He knew he would want a drink, but he didn’t want to have been drinking when he saw Claire. He had nearly derailed two days earlier. He had gone out with Archie Cole, the drummer from Sugar Shack, who was so young and clueless he didn’t realize Max was an alcoholic. They got completely hammered on gin and tequila, and Archie picked a fight with a complete bozo at one of the clubs, and Max, in an attempt to help Archie out, got socked in the eye and ended up in the slammer. It was typical idiot stuff; he had to stop!
The plane landed, but they were delayed on the runway.
Matthew whipped out his cell phone and sent her a text message.
Just landed. I’m nervous.
A second later, his phone beeped. The message from Claire said,
Don’t be nervous. I’m here alone.
There was a special part of the airport for private planes. Matthew sat, searching out the window, fidgeting.
Let me off!
Where was she? She was there somewhere.
Finally they opened the hatch and let the stairs down, and the pilot said, “Welcome to Nantucket Island.” And Terry and Alfonso, who had been asleep, woke up and descended before him. Sometimes when Max West’s plane landed, the press or a private citizen got wind of it, and there was a crowd of fans, waiting, screaming, and waving signs, and it never failed to make Matthew feel like one of the Beatles. But this time, tonight, when he descended, there was only one person waiting. She had gotten security clearance, because she was standing there at the bottom of the stairs, alone as promised. Matthew looked at her, and his mind went blank. She smiled at him—grinned, really, like a seventeen-year-old girl—and wrung her hands.
What did he think? He couldn’t think. He was gazing upon something beautiful that he had lost, but that now, amazingly, was found. Claire. She was herself, the red hair, the thin white wrists, the green eyes. She reached out for him, and he hugged her and his eyes filled with tears. They did not speak. He lifted her up off the ground. She was as light as a feather. It was miraculous, as miraculous as if she’d been dead all these years but had somehow been brought back to life. His Claire.
In the car, she talked and he gawked. He sat in the front seat of her SUV, which smelled like rug shampoo. Terry and Alfonso were in the back; Alfonso was smoking, finally, gratefully, after Claire had assured him it was okay, and he was careful to blow the smoke out the window. Matthew held Claire’s hand—he couldn’t help himself, because his primary emotion was fear that she would vanish. He had last seen her, Jesus, twelve years earlier, at a concert at Boston Garden. She had come backstage with Jason, who was, at that time, her fiancé. Matthew had been married to Stacey then, though he was drinking heavily and their marriage was on the rocks. Stacey had been jealous of Claire, and their meeting backstage was chaotic and awkward. Matthew had been drunk or high; he had paid too much attention to Jason—trying to impress or intimidate him—and not enough attention to Claire, though Stacey accused him otherwise. Then Claire disappeared into the crowd, and Matthew was too high to feel the loss of her. He felt it months later, his first time at Hazelden.
He would not lose her again! She was whole and perfect, an artifact unearthed. She did not know it as she chimed along about the gala, but he had no intention of letting her go.
She dropped Terry and Alfonso off at their hotel, and then they were alone. She thanked him, yet again, for coming to play, and he said, “I would do anything for you, Claire Danner, and you know it.”
At a stop sign, she reached across the car and touched his face. “What happened here?”
He had a dark purple crescent beneath his eye, and some yellowing on his swollen upper cheek, where he’d taken that punch.
“I was out of line,” he said. “Got what I deserved.”
“You were drinking?” Claire asked.
“Drinking and stupid,” Matthew said. What he needed was someone to keep him on the straight and narrow. Someone like Claire! “It won’t happen while I’m here. I promise.”
“Okay,” she said.
They pulled into her driveway. The house was large and lovely, lit from within. He had pictured Claire in just such a house, happy and bright. She deserved it.
“Here already?” he said. He should have asked her to drive around some, show him the island, even though it was nearly dark. He didn’t want to go inside and face the husband and the kids. He wanted Claire to himself.
“Here already,” she said.
Max West was a rock star, but since Bess and the dogs had left, he had gotten used to being alone. Claire lived in a house full of people: her husband, a slew of kids. So many people!
“Matthew, this is Jason,” Claire said. “You remember my husband, Jason Crispin?”
Matthew did not remember Jason. He could not have picked Jason out of a crowd of two—they had met so long ago, and Max had been wasted, and nothing about Jason was remarkable. He was a big guy—well, bigger than Matthew—and rock solid with muscles, he was tan, he had blond hair, and there was a day’s growth on his face. He was a handsome enough guy, Matthew supposed, but was he special enough for Claire? Max didn’t think so. Could Max take him in a fight? That remained to be seen.
“Hey, man, how’re you doing?” Jason said. He had an aggressive handshake and that eager glint in his eye that everyone got when they met
Max West
. “Good to see you again. I am a
huge
fan!”
Matthew smiled. So underwhelming. Not special enough for Claire, not even close. The most interesting thing about Jason was that he was drinking something from a blue plastic stadium cup. Was it beer? And if it was, would Underwhelming Jason offer Matthew one? Because being in Claire’s actual house and meeting her actual family was making him anxious, and when he got anxious, he got thirsty. He needed a drink.
Underwhelming Jason noticed Matthew’s gaze. He tipped his cup and said, “Iced tea. Can I get you one?”
Iced tea? Matthew nearly groaned. Bruce had called.
“No, thanks, man,” Matthew said. “I’m all set.”
Meanwhile, Claire had the children lined up like Russian dolls, ready to meet him, and she was running through the names. Jaden, Odyssey . . . or did she say Honesty? He missed the third one’s name completely but caught that the baby’s name was Zack. The kids were beautiful, gorgeous, with their golden red hair, their summer tans, their gap-toothed smiles. These were his kids.
“It’s nice to meet you!” Matthew said to his kids. “I brought presents!” He unzipped his duffel and pulled out the black Louis Vuitton shopping bag that his assistant, Ashland, had handed him on the tarmac at LAX. He’d sent her, at the last minute, to Rodeo Drive to get the kids gifts.
They’re little kids,
he’d said.
Or maybe some of them are grown. Two boys, two girls. Get a range.
The kids ravaged the packages as if it was Christmas morning. He, Matthew, was Santa Claus. Claire and Jason looked on politely. Claire said, “You didn’t have to bring them anything, Matthew. They have everything under the sun.”