Chapter 3
“Honey! Where’s my good tie?”
Claire flips Pete’s eggs, turning the burner off and reaching into the oven for the bacon. “It’s on the hanger behind your suit jackets, dear. Right next to your other ties.”
“Don’t be smart,” Pete calls down the stairs. “Why aren’t they in the drawer?”
“I’ve started hanging them, remember? To stop them wrinkling?”
“I want you to put them back,” Pete says, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. “I liked them where they were.”
Claire sets out the Tuesday morning paper next to Pete’s bacon and eggs, pressing her usual quick peck to his cheek as he sits down to eat with his good tie now fastened. He smells strongly of aftershave and hair oil, as always.
“Protests again,” he says, putting on his glasses to gesture at the newspaper headline. “At the college, this time. Going to be more of that going into the ‘70s. Hippies and fruits. Soon it’ll be draft-dodgers.”
“Nobody wants to be drafted,” Claire says.
“Then they should be signing up, so we don’t need the draft in the first place,” Pete says. “Serving their country, instead of running to Canada with their tails between their legs.”
Rather than speaking the first thought that comes to mind—I don’t see your enlistment papers in the mail—Claire presses her lips together and hums wordlessly.
Pete often talks this way, and Claire knows he just needs a wall to bounce against. Whether she agrees or not, he’d never expect her to have an opinion on the matter.
“Bunch of degenerates. This is why we don’t live in the city. Don’t want to be raising kids in an environment like that,” Pete says.
Claire’s stomach lurches. She almost pours coffee all over Pete’s lap but catches herself just in time.
He doesn’t even notice. He just flips to the sports section, snorting loudly. “Look at this—at this rate, the Mets are going to the top of the league again this year. Someone’s got to give them a run for their money.”
“Quite right,” Claire says quietly, refilling Pete’s coffee cup with a steadier hand.
By 8:15 Pete has bustled out the door with his briefcase and lunch bag, and Claire’s shoulders relax as his noisy black Cadillac trundles out of Acacia Circle. She never feels quite settled into the day until he’s off to work.
First on Claire’s to-do list today is to make a welcome gift for the new neighbors.
The leftover chicken from last night’s dinner makes a perfect quick and easy casserole, and while it’s baking and cooling Claire fixes herself a bowl of shredded wheat and finishes up the dishes.
Once she finds herself with a few minutes to spare between dusting and ironing, she puts on her nicest dress and picks her way between the lawns with the casserole in hand.
It's a lovely day to be outside. The sun is shining in a vivid blue sky, warm without being too hot yet. The honey-sweet smell of acacia is in the air. The birds that nest in the tree are singing, fluttering around each other in a state of spring twitterpation. With most of the husbands in the neighborhood off at work, the birdsong isn’t interrupted by the sputtering of lawn mowers at this time of day.
It looks like Martha might be right about the richy-rich theory, at first glance.
The car that Claire passes in the driveway is a Mustang, a powder-blue convertible with beige leather seats.
To have a sports car with no backseats could mean that the new couple doesn’t have children, or that the lady of the house doesn’t drive, like Claire.
Either way, the idea of having a kindred spirit in the neighborhood is a nice one.
The Mustang is shined up like a new penny inside and out.
The man who drives it must take a lot of pride in keeping it nice.
There’s loud music coming from an open kitchen window when Claire climbs the three steps up to the bungalow’s porch, something mellow and haunting with a female singer.
It’s completely unfamiliar, but intriguing.
Claire adjusts her tight grip on the casserole dish as she knocks soundly on the door.
They’re a double set, wood with clouded glass inserts that obscure the movement inside.
The music stops.
The act of bringing a welcome gift should be an innocuous one. It’s something Claire has done dozens of times for families moving into their suburb over the years they’ve lived here. A slight deviation to her daily routine, but not an unfamiliar one.
This feels different, somehow. Claire’s skin tingles with nervous anticipation. Like the very hair on her arms is standing up, waiting, until the doorknob turns.
The woman who answers is nothing like Claire expects.
She doesn’t have a child on her hip. She’s fashionably dressed in a blue pinstriped minidress, with long, dark hair and olive skin and large brown eyes that look at Claire with some interest. She’s young, and clearly not retired. She’s also startlingly familiar.
The woman from the grocery store.
For a moment, Claire wonders if she’s hallucinating.
Is it possible that she’s thought so often about the woman who gave her that strange advice that she’s conjured her here, in the form of her new neighbor?
It wouldn’t be surprising, but no matter how many times Claire blinks, that lovely face doesn’t waver.
“It’s you!” Claire blurts.
The woman looks taken aback for only a moment. Her expression schools quickly into something more neutral, her eyebrows raising slightly—her brows are as thick and dark as her hair.
“So it is,” the woman says. That same half-smile quirks at her lips, and Claire knows that her eyes haven’t deceived her. It is the same woman.
But does she remember Claire at all? She could be humoring Claire by being polite, having no recollection of their short conversation at all.
“I mean—I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting—” Claire clears her throat, fumbling with the glass dish in her hands.
She holds it out like it’s a bomb about to go off.
The aluminum foil on the top crinkles, and the woman looks at the gift curiously.
“I just wanted to say hello, and welcome to Acacia Circle.”
The woman’s smile grows slowly at first, while Claire’s heart races. As it turns into something more genuine, Claire gets another flash of those uneven canines.
“That’s very nice of you. I wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee,” the woman says, taking the dish from Claire’s hands. She sounds confident, in yet another contrast to Claire’s nervous shrillness.
“No committee,” Claire chirps, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “Just me. I’m number sixty-three, right next door.”
“What a small world. I just enjoyed a bowl of that cereal you helped me get,” the woman says, setting the casserole down on a table just inside the door.
So she does remember Claire. It’s gratifying to have, in even the smallest way, taken the woman’s advice—she stood out just enough to be remembered. “I’m very glad.”
“It’s nice to properly meet you, Miss.…?”
“Davis,” Claire says quickly. “Mrs. Peter Davis.”
The woman chuckles lightly. To Claire, it sounds like wind chimes. Soft and lovely. “I didn’t ask for your husband’s name.”
“Right,” Claire says. She shifts from foot to foot. “It’s Claire. I’m Claire Davis.”
The woman’s smile lights up her eyes, this time. “It’s lovely to meet you, Claire. I’m Jacqueline.”
Jacqueline extends her hand between them, as if she wants to shake hands.
Claire hasn’t been offered many handshakes in her time—that’s Pete’s domain—but she accepts this one.
Jacqueline’s grip is firm and confident, like her voice.
Her hand is dry where Claire’s is clammy, and it’s surprisingly large, matching the size of Claire’s, rather than being engulfed by it.
Once again, Claire’s fingers itch for a pencil.
Hands are one of the toughest parts of the body to master drawing, and Jacqueline’s would be a unique challenge.
The taper of her long, slender fingers, with rounded knuckles.
The tendons flexing as she shakes Claire’s hand. The blunt shape of her short nails.
What is it about this woman that makes Claire want to pick up a sketchbook again?
“Where did you move from?” Claire says, fishing for anything that might prolong the conversation.
“San Francisco.”
“Goodness,” Claire says, with a nervous laugh. “My husband says it’s more dangerous the closer you get to the city. You must be glad to have moved somewhere so safe.”
Jacqueline hums noncommittally. She looks amused, likely because Claire is inexplicably still clutching her hand even though the reasonable timeframe for a handshake has ended.
She pulls her hand back quickly, holding her arms stiffly at her sides. Jacqueline is such a stark contrast to Claire—Claire in her outdated floral dress, with her pale skin and her freckles and her dull, frizzy hair. It’s hard not to see the difference between them as a gulf.
The moment grows awkward. In a daze, Claire forges forward with the next conversation topic she can think of. “Is your husband at home? Maybe once you’re all settled in, we could all get together. We could do fondue?”
Jacqueline’s smile fades a little. Her shoulders straighten; she seems to get a bit taller. “I’m not married.”
Claire blinks owlishly.
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 own bank 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 things to 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.