Chapter 4
When Claire enters Jacqueline’s house for the first time, on Pete’s arm and dressed in her Sunday best, the party is different than she expected.
She’s no stranger to neighborhood parties.
Usually they’re daytime gatherings, where the men conglomerate to drink beers and talk about grilling techniques while the women fuss with the potluck table and tend the children.
They’re over by sundown, and Claire always makes her famous potato salad. It’s a formula she knows by heart.
As written on the invitation, Jacqueline’s party is adults-only, and it’s not a potluck.
It’s only now getting into full swing at half past eight.
They’ve arrived over an hour late, as Pete had grumbled and dragged his feet about attending just as she suspected he would, and the atmosphere is strange.
The lights are dim, the rock music is so loud that it seems to make the air vibrate, and the house is packed.
Jacqueline’s house is what Claire might call artsy.
The walls are white interspersed with grey brick, with blue carpets in the living room and eclectic, rounded furniture.
It’s decorated as if Jacqueline has transposed it right from the pages of an interior design magazine.
Claire can only imagine what a pain it would all be to keep clean.
She has a hard enough time with her own house, with its darker palette of reds and oranges and wood paneling.
It seems like the entire suburb is here, drinking and eating catered hors d’oeuvres.
There are quite a few couples milling around whom Claire has only seen in passing, and even several that she doesn’t recognize at all—Jacqueline really must have put an invite in every mailbox within a few blocks.
Pete likes to stick mostly to the small group of families in their cul-de-sac.
It’s a warm night, and the unfamiliar people seem to have conglomerated in the backyard, splashing around in the pool and making a ruckus in various states of undress.
“This Jacqueline should be more careful with who she invites,” Pete says darkly.
Claire tsks, tugging his arm as they wander into the common area. “Peter. She’s just trying to get to know everyone.”
From the living room, Claire has a better view of the pool through the sliding backdoor. Two people in the water are kissing in a way that Claire can only identify as ‘sloppy’. The people around them seem unperturbed. In fact, a few are cheering them on.
Claire averts her eyes. Her face feels warm.
Jacqueline is nowhere to be found, but Pete quickly spots Martha and her husband Walter sitting stiffly on a large sectional couch in the conversation pit. They’re usually the neighborhood hosts, as they have a large yard and the biggest grill, and they don’t seem to be enjoying the new dynamic.
“Walt!” Pete shouts over the music. It’s even louder here, near the record player.
Walter stands, grinning widely and giving Pete’s hand a hearty shake. “Petey! Some party, huh? Martha and I really scratched our heads when we saw that it started at seven.”
“Babysitters are making a killing tonight,” Pete says. “Have you met this Jacqueline person yet? I’d like to give her a piece of my mind about the music.”
Claire tries not to flinch. For some reason, Jacqueline’s name said in Pete’s voice with such distaste feels like a slap to the face.
“Not yet,” Walter says. “We weren’t sure we were going to come at all, but Martha wanted to see the inside of the house after all those damn renovations.”
“It’s not to my tastes,” Martha says, one dainty hand pressed to her belly. “Very modern. And did you see the nonsense going on in the pool? She’s invited the swingers.”
Something hot and uncomfortable forms in Claire’s belly. She clenches her hand, pressing her nails lightly into her palm—as usual, it eases the feeling.
“Claire doesn’t need to hear about that,” Pete says brusquely. “Why don’t you two ladies grab us some drinks?”
Martha scurries off right away, and Claire follows her to the kitchen. It’s just as crowded as the living room, with the countertops hosting several buckets of ice full of cans and bottles.
“What did you mean by that?” Claire says, sifting through a bucket to fish out a cold beer for Pete. “She invited the swingers?”
“Don’t you see them?” Martha says, nodding towards the large window facing the pool where boisterous laughter and splashing are filtering in.
“They put the whole neighborhood to shame, swapping spouses and-and doing illicit substances.” She says those last two words in a hushed whisper that Claire has to lean in close to hear.
“I know what a swinger is, Martha,” Claire says a bit snappishly, clutching the chilled can to her chest. “But you really think that’s what they’re doing? At Jacqueline’s invitation?”
Martha makes a face. “Our hostess is from San Francisco, I hear. Urban people aren’t like us. Those parties are nothing but drugs and debauchery.”
Claire glances around. She doesn’t see any drugs, just beers and cigarettes. “I don’t think she’s like that. She seemed too nice. She invited everyone, she didn’t have any way of knowing who was who.”
Martha heaves a little sigh, shaking her head. “I hope you’re right. Hopefully she learns a lesson tonight in who to avoid.”
Pete and Walter are deep in conversation about lawn care when they return with the drinks.
Claire keeps an eye on the goings-on around them—the pool has gotten progressively rowdier, and she could swear that the pile of fabric on one of the deck chairs is a stack of bathing suits—but still no Jacqueline.
Not that Claire is overly interested in her whereabouts.
She’s just wondering where the hostess is, at her own party.
When Claire excuses herself to use the bathroom, she’s grateful that Pete is distracted enough by complaining about the party that he only nods briefly at her when she slips away.
It’s much quieter in the hallway Claire ducks into. The house is a bungalow with a swinging door between the common space and the bedrooms, and the loud music and lights are less pervasive here.
She takes a deep, calming breath. There are five closed doors in this hallway, and she’s not sure which is the restroom—she’s just considering knocking on the nearest one when it spills open, and the object of her fascination stumbles out with someone else in tow.
Jacqueline looks just as stylish as she did when Claire met her.
She’s wearing a dress again, and again it’s so unlike Claire’s starched floral shirtwaist that it might as well be a different thing entirely— it’s short and boxy, a navy blue number with little white sleeves and a hem that ends just above her knees.
She’s wearing shoes this time at least, bright yellow sneakers, with tall socks instead of nylons.
One of the socks is pushed halfway down her calf.
Claire also recognizes the woman Jacqueline is with, surprisingly.
Susan Wilson. She moved in a few streets over with her young husband about a year ago, and she occasionally attends the ladies’ book club that Martha runs once a month.
Her tiny dog yips every time Claire walks past on her way to the grocery store.
Claire notes with distant concern that she’s fairly sure she saw Mr. Wilson heading to the pool.
Susan is giggling, twisting her auburn hair up into a bun, and Jacqueline has a light pink mark on the underside of her jaw. It feels as if Claire is intruding on something, but when Jacqueline’s eyes fall on her, her face brightens considerably.
“Claire! You came,” Jacqueline says loudly. The brilliant smile she trains on her sears itself into Claire’s memory.
Susan snorts, and then starts to giggle as if Jacqueline has said something hysterically funny.
Jacqueline elbows her in the side. “Don’t be crass.”
Susan shrugs, still smiling, and she finishes with her hair and squeezes Jacqueline’s arm before shouldering the door open as she heads back to the party. “Find me later, if you get bored.”
The music gets loud, before muffling again when the door shuts behind her.
Claire can’t quite parse their interaction, but Jacqueline and Susan must be getting close already. It makes that hot and uncomfortable thing in Claire’s stomach expand even further.
That’s what Claire gets for being late—Jaqueline is already making fast friends with other people.
“I’m sorry about her,” Jacqueline says, watching Susan disappear through the swinging door with a strange expression. She rubs at her jaw, managing to swipe away whatever pink smudge was there. She’s fidgeting with the fingers of her right hand, but she stops when she sees Claire looking.
Claire waves her off. “Oh, don’t be silly. She seemed nice.”
“That’s one word for it.” Jacqueline fiddles with her hair, now, which is loose and cascading over her shoulders. “You know, I wasn’t sure if you were going to turn up.”
“You weren’t?”
“You practically ran away when I invited you.”
Claire winces. “I’m sorry about that, I just—I remembered that I had a cake in the oven, and I didn’t want it to overbake, you know? Pete hates dry cake.”
It’s a terrible excuse, and an outright lie. Thankfully Jacqueline takes it at face value. “Pete is your husband, right?”
Jacqueline steps towards the door to the living room, like she’s expecting Claire to lead her to him for an introduction, but suddenly the idea of introducing her to Peter sounds like the worst idea in the world.
With a sudden ferocity, Claire wants to keep Jacqueline to herself.
Her own private acquaintance. One small thing in her life that Pete can’t influence.
“No,” Claire blurts. In a wild burst of panic, she reaches out to touch Jacqueline’s arm before she gets to the door. Her forearm feels searing hot, in the moments before Claire snatches her hand back and clenches it into a fist.
Jacqueline frowns. She doesn’t seem bothered by the inappropriate touch, but instead understandably puzzled. “No?”