Daphne’s face softened. “Oh, God,” she said. “How awful. By all means, go, go. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Claire looked at Daphne. Her ears were pink again, like a regular person’s ears. She was, at that second, her old self—but that was part of the problem, too, the inconsistency. Daphne bounced like a tennis ball between two frames of mind. Which personality were you going to get? Claire was no dummy. She was being given a pass, and she was going to take it.
“Okay, I will,” Claire said. “See you later, Daphne.”
He Asks Her (Again)
W
hen Claire walked up the stairs of the Elijah Baker House for the second gala meeting, she found Lock Dixon sitting at his desk much as he had been two weeks earlier, minus the sandwich. He was wearing a pink shirt this time and a red paisley tie; the classical station was on, featuring harpsichord music. The office was dark but for the desk lamp and the blue glow of Lock’s computer. Claire checked her watch, confused. It was five after eight.
“Where is everybody?” she said.
And at the same time, Lock said, “Didn’t you get my message?”
“What message? No.”
“The meeting was canceled. Postponed, to next week.”
“Oh,” Claire said. “No, I didn’t get it . . .”
“We should have tried your cell phone. I told Gavin that, and he looked around the office for the number, but to no avail. I’m sorry. Adams has the flu and Isabelle couldn’t call in tonight, so we bumped the meeting back to next week. I feel bad that you had to come all the way into town for nothing.”
For nothing—well, in a way it was for nothing, but Claire didn’t regret it. She turned to survey the rest of the office. “Is Gavin here?” she said.
“No,” Lock said. “He left at five.”
“Oh,” Claire said. “Well, you and I could talk over some things . . .”
And at the same time, Lock said, “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Viognier?” Claire said. She worried she was pronouncing it wrong, though she had practiced at home in the shower: vee-og-nyay. “Yes, I’d love some.”
When Lock returned from the kitchen with the wine, he said, “Have you given my proposition any thought?”
“Your proposition?” she said, immediately blushing.
“About the auction item,” he said. “About your triumphant return as an artist.”
“Oh,” she said. She took a deep breath, then sank into the chair opposite his desk. He sat on the edge of his desk, close to her. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious or not.”
“Of course I was serious.”
“Fifty thousand dollars?”
“Your
Bubbles
sculptures are worth several times that.”
“Right, but . . .”
He sipped his wine and shook his head. “Never mind, then. It was just a thought.”
“It was a really nice thought,” Claire said. “I’m flattered that you believe my work might be worthy.”
“Worthy?” Lock said. “It’s more than worthy.”
“Hardly anyone on this island knows me as a glassblower,” Claire said.
“Oh, come on. Of course they do.”
“I mean, they know that’s what I do—or did. But practically nobody’s seen my work. The vases, yes, but not my real work.”
“That’s a shame,” Lock said.
“I have a select clientele,” Claire said. “Five people. I’m what you call ‘extreme boutique.’ ”
“You should be as famous as Simon Pearce,” Lock said. “One good thing about doing the auction would be the exposure.”
“But that’s not what I want,” Claire said. “I never wanted to be Simon Pearce. Mass-produced and all that.”
“Of course not. You’re an artist.”
Claire looked at her hands. They had been callused for so many years, callused and sore, cut and burned. They were just starting to look like a normal woman’s hands, red from the dishwater, streaked with Magic Marker—but was this a good thing? She didn’t know. Talking about working again tore her in half. It had felt wonderful to open the sketchbook, and the image of the pulled-taffy chandelier would not leave her alone. But then Claire thought of the kids, especially of Zack: Should she explain to Lock how Zack had weighed two pounds seven ounces when he was born and spent the first five weeks of his life on a respirator? How now, at eight months, he wasn’t crawling yet, whereas her other children had been cruising around, holding on to the furniture? Dr. Patel had told her not to worry.
Kids develop at different paces, Claire.
Claire wanted to see a specialist, but she was terrified of what he would say. She was certain there was something wrong and it was her fault. Her doctor had warned her.
“I can’t do it,” she said.
Lock looked at her for a long while with an inscrutable expression on his face. “Okay,” he said.
Claire felt tears coming on. What was
wrong
with her? She suddenly felt very sad and sorry for herself. She tried to stop; crying in front of Lock was embarrassing. At home, it seemed, one of the children was always crying. Claire was the one who plucked the tissues, wiped the noses, kissed the bumps and bruises, scolded the perpetrator. She did not cry, she realized, because there was no one to comfort her. Jason was as emotionally feeble as the children. If he were watching her now, silently weeping, he would be baffled.
Lock offered her a handkerchief. Claire blotted her face, thinking how charming it was that there was still a man in the world who carried a handkerchief.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did I hit a nerve? I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” Claire said. “It’s okay.” Lock handed her her wine. She took a sip and tried to collect herself. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why do you work here? I mean, you’re . . . you don’t have to work, right?”
Lock gave her another one of his incredible smiles. “Everyone needs something meaningful to do. I sold my business so I could move to the island permanently, but I never meant to stop working. I never meant to have a life where all I did was golf and talk to my stockbroker. That’s not me.”
“No,” Claire said. “It’s really none of my business . . .”
“I looked around the island to see where I would be happiest. I looked at buying a real estate development company, but that felt a little empty at this point in my life. There was a woman who cleaned rooms at the hospital when Daphne was there for physical therapy. Her name was Marcella Vallenda. Do you know her?”
“No,” Claire said.
“Dominican woman. Four kids, three teenage boys, always in trouble, and a daughter. Husband was a deadbeat, alcoholic; he worked some days, and some days he spent at the Muse, playing keno. I got to know Marcella a little bit. She worked three jobs, she developed a cocaine habit to stay awake, basically, but the house was a hellhole, and the daughter, Agropina, found a rat in her cereal bowl . . .”
“Oh, God,” Claire said.
“It happens,” Lock said. “I had no idea until I met Marcella, but it happens here, just like everywhere else. I wanted to give Marcella money, but money doesn’t help—it goes right to drugs. What she needed was programs, and that was how I found Nantucket’s Children.”
“I never heard that story before,” Claire said.
“Well, everybody wonders why I’m here, but few are brave enough to ask. You asked.”
“Oh,” Claire said.
“Raising money for Nantucket’s Children is the most important job I’ve ever had.”
When Claire stood up, her legs wobbled. She was feeling weepy again. Okay, she was hormonal; she hadn’t been right since she stopped nursing Zack. But no, it wasn’t that; it was something bigger. In her universe, an apocalyptic decision was being made. It wasn’t because of Lock’s spiel about making a difference, or the rat in a little girl’s cereal bowl, at least not completely. Claire was making this decision because she wanted to. She felt like a person she had nearly lost in a crowd: her old self.
“I’ll do the auction piece,” she said.
“You will?” he said. “Are you sure? Now I feel like I goaded you into it.”
“I’m sure,” she said. She waited, not breathing. Was this moment loaded for him, or was the emotion all in her mind? She had, after all, just made a monumental decision. Lock was standing before her, larger than life, a god of sorts, a person who could make things happen.
“I should go,” she said.
“But wait,” he said. There was something in his voice that held her there.
“What?” she whispered.
“Thank you,” he said.
He thought she was doing it for him, or for the cause. But she was doing it, ultimately, for herself.
“No,” she said. “Thank
you.
”
When Claire got home, Jason was awake, watching TV with Zack asleep on his chest. Because the whole world was now transformed, Claire looked on them tenderly. Her husband and her baby. They knew nothing about her.
“How was the meeting?” Jason asked.
“Oh,” Claire said. “Fine. I have to try to find Matthew tomorrow.”
“He’s on tour in Southeast Asia,” Jason said. “I saw it on
Entertainment Tonight.
”
“You did?”
“Yeah. The sultan of Brunei attended one of his concerts. It was a pretty big deal. The richest man in the world dancing to ‘This Could Be a Song.’ ”
“Funny,” Claire said. She sat carefully in the chair next to Jason. “Listen, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Jason’s attention was back on the TV.
Deal or No Deal.
“Jase?”
“Mmmmmm.”
“I’m serious. I have to talk to you.”
Jason emitted air that was part sigh, part huff. She was horning in on his date with asinine TV.
She had rehearsed a line in the car. Give it to him straight. Skip the cushioning remarks; he didn’t want to hear them. But Claire found the raw words hard to say. Jason was glaring at her. He had only muted the TV; he had not turned it off.
“What?” he said.
“I’m going back to work.”
Instinctively, it seemed, he squeezed Zack. Right. The guilt was so automatic, Claire’s fingers started to tingle. (She had regained consciousness on the MedFlight jet with Jason stroking her hair.
They don’t know about the baby,
he had said.
They don’t know about the baby.
) Now, the accusation was loud and clear in Jason’s silence: her work had nearly killed their son. If he had his way, she would never set foot in the hot shop again. She had overheard him telling Carter that he wanted to dismantle it, bomb it, burn it down.
“
What?
” he said.
“I’m going back to work. For one project.”
“Did Chick call?”
That was the right question. Chick Klaussen had flown to Boston to see Claire in the hospital. He was racked with guilt that Claire had gone down while working on his piece, and Claire was racked with guilt that she had to ask a studio to finish it. She’d told Jason that she would only return to work for Chick, but both of them knew Chick would never ask.
“No,” she said. “Not Chick. I’m going to create a piece for the gala auction.”
“Jesus, Claire,” Jason said.
“Lock asked me,” she said. “He thinks it will bring in a lot of money.”
“It’s too much to ask,” Jason said. “You’re already chairing the damn thing.”
“I know,” Claire said. “But I’m ready to go back. I want to get back in there. I miss it. It’s who I am.”
“It’s a part of who you are,” Jason said.
“An important part.”
“And what about the kids?”
“They’ll be fine. I have Pan to help me. It’s not going to take a lot of time.”
“Sure, it is,” Jason said. “They’re not asking you to make cupcakes for a bake sale, Claire. They want an auction piece. Something intricate.”
“What I make is my choice.”
He shuddered, jarring the baby. Zack started to cry. Bitterly, Jason said, “Great. You woke him up.”
Claire said, “I was hoping you would understand. I was hoping you would get it. I’m ready to go back.”
“Here.” Jason held Zack out to her. Zack clawed the air like an upside-down bug. Jason said, “It hasn’t even been a year. Zack is still a baby, and a baby needs his mother. You should have said no. Not just to the glass, but to all of it. The whole thing. The gala.”
Claire took the baby and kissed his forehead. She didn’t know how to respond, and it didn’t matter. Jason went back to watching TV.
There was no predicting how happy the idea of going back to work would make her. Claire was both her old self and a new person. She was more energetic with the kids, solicitous, playful. She kissed J.D. on the cheek and he freaked out, and Claire laughed merrily and kissed him again and tickled him under the arms until he said, “Mom, quit it!” with a big grin on his face. She bought a new sketchbook and a set of number two pencils; she sharpened the pencils and stroked the heavy, creamy paper. She then spent two hours sketching the pulled-taffy chandelier in meticulous detail. It was going to be nearly impossible to execute by hand, on her own, but this galvanized her.
Siobhan called just as Claire was ready to take a break.
Siobhan said, “How’s the
work
going?” She had been skeptical when Claire told her the news. She didn’t understand why Claire would work if she didn’t have to; she didn’t understand why Claire was going back to slave over a project that she wouldn’t even get paid for.
You’re a bloody fool, Clairsy! No boundaries!
Claire said, “It feels better than a hot stone massage.”
Siobhan said, “Oh, come on!” and laughed.
“Really,” Claire said.
“You’re soft in the head,” Siobhan said.
It felt good to have a mission. Setting the two hours aside for “work” made the rest of her day go more efficiently: She did not languish in useless yoga positions, and she did not spend precious minutes trying to entice Zack to pick up a Cheerio. She accomplished more. She found herself with a spare hour before pickup, and when was the last time that had happened? She could cut Pan a break and take Zack for a walk to the beach. But she wanted to return to Lock on Monday with a gift, a surprise, a thank-you for the change he had brought about in her life, and so she took the phone into her room and locked the door. She rifled through her address book, which was filled with the torn corners of envelopes and assorted “We’ve Moved” announcements—Claire did herself the favor of dating these things, but she never found time to write them down.
Matthew Westfield (aka Max West): there was a cell phone number, which Claire knew to be useless. The last time Claire had tried to contact him was two years earlier, on behalf of Siobhan’s brother, Declan, in Dublin, who wanted concert tickets. She had been unable to reach Matthew on the cell phone that time, and so she left a message for him with his agent, Bruce, in L.A., and sure enough, tickets arrived by DHL on Declan’s doorstep. But the last time Claire had actually spoken to Matthew was nearly a dozen years earlier. He had called her from the Minneapolis airport. He was on his way to Hazelden for rehab.