Chapter 6
Claire doesn’t mean to snoop. She’s not one of the neighborhood ladies that watches the movement of every family like a hawk, craning through her windows and over fences like Martha does. Claire prefers to keep to herself.
But Jacqueline’s front door is so visible from the kitchen window, and Claire is only human.
Jacqueline backs her Mustang out of the driveway a few times in the following week with her long hair tucked under a driving kerchief, often with a passenger seat full of camera equipment. Claire never sees another car in the driveway, so no friends or family visiting—just Jacqueline.
Claire would like nothing more than to pop over for another visit herself, but she can only spare the time during the weekdays when Pete isn’t home, and she has no idea if Jacqueline would welcome it.
They had such a nice time together during their last brief visit, didn’t they?
Claire had thought it was nice, at least. The nicest afternoon she’s had in ages.
But does Jacqueline feel the same?
She’s mulling over this conundrum while throwing together some biscuits on a drizzly Friday when she scoops a measuring cup into the flour tin to find that it’s nearly empty.
She must have used the last of it to make Jacqueline’s muffins last week. Normally she’d go straight to Martha for this sort of thing, but an idea strikes now that she can’t ignore.
“Claire,” Jacqueline says warmly as she opens her front door, leaning on the frame as if she has all the time in the world.
She’s in a striped skirt and shirt combination this morning, loose and comfortable, with her dark hair pulled up into a knot and little wisps falling on either side of her face.
“This is becoming a regular occurrence, I see. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’m afraid I’ve run out of flour,” Claire says, holding out the empty measuring cup like a shield from under her umbrella. “I was hoping I could borrow a bit?”
A crease forms between Jacqueline’s brows. “You know, I don’t think I have any flour in the house. I’m not much of a baker. Or a cook.”
“Oh,” Claire says, deflating like an old balloon. “That’s…quite all right.” She finds herself at a loss for what to say next, but Jacqueline is the one to keep the conversation going.
“In fact, I tried to make scrambled eggs this morning, and I burnt them so badly that I might just throw out the whole pan,” Jacqueline says.
The fact that she’s not closing the door in Claire’s face is encouraging enough that Claire doesn’t excuse herself and go home right away, like she probably should. She clings tighter to her umbrella.
“Oh, don’t throw it out,” Claire says, waving the suggestion off. “All you need is a bit of baking soda.”
“Clearly I’m also not much of a cleaner,” Jacqueline says, chuckling. Claire can now see that she does indeed have a few streaks of black on her shirt. “Can baking soda really fix it?”
“I’d be happy to show you,” Claire says.
Jacqueline doesn’t answer right away. She looks confused, as if Claire’s offer doesn’t make sense to her; after a moment her expression clears, and once again Claire can’t guess at her thoughts.
“That’d be quite a magic trick,” Jacqueline says, standing aside and ushering Claire in. “I’d love to see it.”
The house is much the same as it was last time, still smelling like that warm and comforting scent—cinnamon, maybe, or sandalwood.
She must ask Jacqueline where she gets her candles from.
Claire folds her umbrella, and while Jacqueline hangs it for her on a hook near the door, she gets a better look at the newest décor.
The furniture is much the same, but the walls are no longer bare.
The living room is now lined with framed photographs, and Claire’s curiosity burns as they pass the doorway and head instead towards the kitchen.
“Tell me,” Jacqueline says, reaching the stove and holding up a frying pan crusted with blackened egg remains, “is it a hopeless case?”
Claire can’t hold in her gasp. She takes the pan from Jacqueline, holding it upside down over the sink and shaking it a bit—none of the gunk even budges. “Good Lord—what happened?”
Jacqueline laughs, leaning against the counter. “I got a phone call, and turned my back. Though I’m not sure they would have been any good even if I hadn’t been distracted. Like I said, I’m lousy in the kitchen.”
A phone call. It’s hard not to wonder who has the privilege of speaking to Jacqueline so easily, to just ring her up on a Friday morning like it’s nothing. Claire isn’t sure she’d be brave enough to do that even if she did have Jacqueline’s phone number.
“Oh, I must have done that a hundred times,” Claire says. “My mother has a habit of calling at the most inopportune moments.”
“If it had been my mother on the phone, it would have been a much shorter conversation,” Jacqueline says. Her smile is small, almost nonexistent, but her eyes have crinkled at the corners.
Claire fills the pan with water, setting it on the stovetop to simmer. “Oh? Is she not a conversationalist?”
“I haven’t spoken to most of my family in some time. I left home quite young,” Jacqueline says.
“How young?”
“Fifteen.”
Claire almost knocks the pan clear off the stove. She grabs the handle, moving it back into place as it starts to bubble. “Fifteen? What kind of mother would let her daughter move out by herself when she’s only a teenager?”
“It’s…complicated,” Jacqueline says, rather vaguely. She’s looking not at Claire, now, but somewhere to her right. Her jaw is tense.
Realization stabs at Claire’s stomach.
“Not that I mean to meddle,” she says, hurriedly shutting off the stovetop before the pan boils over.
“For Pete’s sake, you asked me to fix your frying pan and here I am prying into your life!
I’m so sorry, Jacqueline.” Claire only notices that her hands are unsteady when Jacqueline hands her an open box of baking soda, and she scatters some onto the countertop by accident. “Oh—darn.”
Jacqueline wipes up the spilled powder quickly with her hands, brushing them off over the sink. “It’s all right. I just don’t like to talk about my family much, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have,” Claire stammers, her fingers itching to grab at her pearls, “it was in poor taste. It wasn’t my right to—”
“Claire,” Jacqueline says clearly, putting a hand on Claire’s wrist, “it’s all right.”
Jacqueline’s hand moves away almost as quickly as it came, but even those few precious seconds bring a calming effect like Claire has never felt.
No talking-to from her mother, no number of pep talks from Martha, no amount of stern reminders from Pete that she’s working herself up, have ever calmed her so effectively as Jacqueline’s hand gently clasping her wrist.
Claire’s shoulders unclench. She sets the baking soda down, taking a deep breath through a chest that’s only just starting to relax.
Her incessant worries—that Jacqueline would have no interest in seeing her, that Claire had somehow made up their whole last pleasant meeting in her head—finally melt away.
“All right,” Claire says.
While the pan soaks, Jacqueline makes some tea.
The time passes just as pleasantly as it did the last time Claire was here, and by the time she’s scrubbing the pan and showing Jacqueline the way the blackened eggs simply slide off the surface, she’s quite forgotten why she ever thought popping over for another visit would be a bad idea.
“You’re a miracle worker,” Jacqueline says, drying the salvaged pan with a tea towel that looks completely unused. “Look at that. What would I have done if you hadn’t stopped by?”
“Why don’t I give you my telephone number?
” Claire blurts, before she can lose her nerve.
“In case you have another cleaning emergency. Or if you need a cup of sugar, or—or some milk.” She hopes dearly that Jacqueline will reach out for more than just inadequate groceries, but it’s as good an excuse as any, isn’t it?
“That’s very thoughtful,” Jacqueline says, after a pause. “I should offer you mine as well, shouldn’t I?”
“If you’d like,” Claire says, eagerly.
“Let me grab a pencil from my office.”
While Jacqueline strides towards the hallway, Claire’s attention wanders to the arched doorway into the living room. She can see the framed photographs even better from this angle, and she takes two quick steps towards the nearest one.
“Did you take all of these?” Claire says, squinting at the composition.
It’s like a scene from a dream—a fuzzy city skyline at night with two figures in the foreground, dark shapes outlined by warm light.
They have no distinguishable features, but they’re intertwined like lovers.
She can recognize the Golden Gate Bridge, blurred in the background.
“I know it’s a bit gauche to decorate with your own work, but I’ve never claimed to be classy,” Jacqueline calls from the direction of the office. The hallway door is propped open, and Claire can hear her rustling through desk drawers.
Each of the photographs is unique. Some are cityscapes, and others are clearly from professional studio shoots.
Some look candid. Claire’s interest is drawn most to the ones with human subjects as the central point.
They’re all taken from afar rather than close-up, and often the features of the subject are obscured in some way.
An artful angle or shadow. A length of sheer fabric.
A contrast of color. There’s a sadness to the way they’re framed.
They’re distant and untouchable. It’s been a long time since Claire considered herself an artist, but they tug at something in her that she can’t explain.
“They’re beautiful, Jacqueline,” Claire says quietly.
She’s come upon a small grouping of pictures all taken at what appears to be various parties.
Jacqueline has managed to capture quite a lot despite imperfect lighting and a haze of smoke.
The people in them are in various states of revelry, reminding Claire starkly of the ruckus in the pool last weekend.
Claire is all set to move on when her eye catches on one frame in particular.
In the center of the party photos is a shot of a woman wearing what Claire can only describe as menswear.
She’s broad-shouldered and short-haired, not a coiffed and teased pixie cut but shorn close to her scalp at the sides, more like something you’d see on a military man.
She’s sprawled comfortably on a large couch with her legs wide apart, in tight pants and a golf shirt with an ascot tied into the collar.
Claire might have thought she was a particularly handsome man from afar, were it not for the obvious swells under the shirt.
A certain softness to the face. She’s caught in motion, a beer bottle hanging from her fingers and a cigarette between her lips.
A gorgeous long-haired woman is leaning against her arm, smiling coquettishly and lighting the cigarette with a match in a way that should be mundane but instead feels marvelously artistic.
Claire’s breath fogs the glass of the frame as she leans in to absorbs every detail. She’s never seen a woman so effortlessly, joyfully unfeminine. Just looking at it feels a little bit vulgar, like she’s intruding on something private.
“They could be better,” Jacqueline says, coming around the corner with a pen and a pad of paper in her hand. “But life’s all about learning, isn’t it? And please, you should call me Jackie. All my friends do.”
Claire jumps back, quickly putting space between herself and the portrait. Being caught staring at it so avidly feels shameful, somehow, but that shame is eclipsed quickly by a single word.
Friends.
“I think they’re wonderful,” Claire says. She glances back at the photo, and Jacqueline follows her eyeline.
“Ah. You’ve found my candid collection,” Jacqueline says. Claire could swear that Jacqueline’s cheeks have gone a bit pink. “This is where my career started. I’d bring my camera to parties, and people started paying me to develop the pictures. I liked it so much that I started taking courses.”
Claire steps closer to the wall again, making a show of looking at all of the photos while mostly just staring at the one. “Are they friends of yours?”
“Yes. It’s the kind of thing I like to shoot best, but it doesn’t always sell very well,” Jacqueline says. She gives no further information about the woman in the picture, though Claire is burning with curiosity.
“You know such interesting people,” Claire says, folding her hands together with a self-conscious titter. “I can only imagine how tedious you must find me.”
“You keep saying things like that,” Jacqueline says suddenly. Her head tilts. “You’re very hard on yourself. Why is that?”
Claire flounders. Her mouth opens and closes, but no words are forming. She has no idea how to answer that question—she’s having trouble even understanding it. Nobody has ever done anything besides agree with her self-assessments before.
“I don’t think you’re boring, Claire,” Jacqueline says, once it’s clear that no response is coming. Her smile is full of an understanding that Claire can’t wrap her head around. “But I do think you should be kinder to yourself.”
Claire shifts from foot to foot. She tangles her fingers in her pearls. Jacqueline is still looking at her, not seeming compelled by the usual guard-rails of social interaction that Claire is used to. She seems to operate outside of everything Claire has ever known.
“All right,” Claire says. “I’ll try. Jackie.”
She heads home soon after with a promise to give Jackie a call soon. Just before she reaches her own front door, she catches the telltale movement of Martha’s curtains across the street.
In the end, Claire doesn’t even make the biscuits.