Chapter 7
“Claire? Devilled eggs?”
A tray full of canapes floats into Claire’s vision, disrupting the view of Jackie’s house through Martha’s front window.
“No, thank you,” Claire says. She leans around Martha’s belly, trying to sneak another glance.
The roof of Jackie’s convertible has been pulled down, so Claire expects to see her coming outside at any minute, but soon her view is obstructed again.
Martha’s sitting room is starting to fill up with the neighborhood ladies arriving for book club.
“Are you sure? You love my devilled eggs,” Martha says. The tray waves in front of Claire’s face again, and Claire is relieved when several other hands reach for it, deferring Martha’s attention.
“I don’t know what you put in these, Martha, but they’re amazing,” Susan Wilson says, taking the seat next to Claire as she shoves an egg into her mouth.
She’s the only woman in the room wearing pants, and it doesn’t seem to bother her.
She’s a little bit like Jackie in that way—a little brash, a little open and uncouth.
Maybe that’s why they seemed to get along so well at the party.
But she lacks Jackie’s kindness. She lacks that mystery, that unexplainable something that makes Claire need to know Jackie. Susan is an open book, easy reading, and Jackie is an elegant diary with a big, shiny lock on it.
Normally Claire wouldn’t pay Susan much mind. Today, her interest is piqued. How close have Susan and Jackie gotten, exactly? Jackie claimed that Susan had lost interest in their budding friendship, but what does Susan think?
“What’s the book for today?” Susan says, leaning close to Claire conspiratorially. “I had a busy week, and I forgot to pick it up.”
“Little Women,” Claire says.
“I guess I’ll just have to partake in the gossip instead,” Susan says. She grabs a few Vienna sausages on toothpicks as Martha passes, lowering her voice. “Don’t tell Martha I didn’t read it.”
“I won’t. But, um. Speaking of gossip,” Claire says, doing her best to channel Martha’s easy way of prying out juicy tidbits of information, “We have a new addition to the neighborhood?”
“We do,” Susan says. She’s picked up one of the scattered paperbacks and is peering down at the synopsis on the back cover with narrowed eyes as she chews. She doesn’t seem particularly interested in talking about Jackie, which makes no sense at all.
“I saw you getting along rather well at her party?” Claire says.
“With Jacqueline?” Susan says, tossing the book back onto the table and picking over the tray of aspics Martha just put down. “Oh, she’s a gas. But I won’t be socializing with her regularly, obviously.”
“Why not?” Claire asks. She can’t imagine not wanting to see Jackie all the time, if given the chance. Why on earth would Susan not want to associate with her? It certainly isn’t obvious.
“She’s not exactly normal, is she?” Susan says airily. “You were at that party. A dalliance now and then is one thing, but it’s quite another to make a lifestyle out of it.”
Something unfamiliar rises behind Claire’s ribs. An indignation, on Jackie’s behalf, for the judgmental tone in Susan’s voice. Before she can think, Claire’s mouth opens. “Wasn’t your husband in the pool?”
Susan looks at her sharply. More than anything she looks shocked by Claire’s sudden and uncharacteristic gall, but before she can retort one of the chairs opposite the couch is taken up by Dorothy O’Neil. She lives next to Martha, and she’s never missed a book club meeting.
“Are you talking about the housewarming party last week?” Dorothy says. “Can you believe how rowdy it was? That woman should be ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what, exactly?” Claire says.
“A single woman of her age, moving to a nice place like this? She’s not going to find herself a husband here,” Martha says. She sits in the easy chair just to Claire’s left, adjusting herself more comfortably with a hand over her belly.
Dorothy titters. “Maybe she’s looking to be a mistress.”
Another woman pipes in—Louise, who lives around the corner. She’s always been nice enough to Claire, if a bit dull, but she certainly isn’t being very nice now. “And have you seen how dark she is? Don thinks she’s an Italian.”
“She’s Greek,” Claire says, but her voice is lost in the group.
“You’d think her realtor would have warned her this is too nice a neighborhood for that kind of thing,” Dorothy says.
“And have you seen her car? Some rich man bought it for her, no doubt,” Louise says. “Only a floozy needs to drive a car like that.”
Martha clicks her tongue. “Hang on to your husbands, ladies.”
Four pinpricks of pain erupt against Claire’s palm. She hides her balled fist between her thigh and the arm of the couch. “Have any of you even spoken to her?”
“Why would I want to speak to a woman like that?” Martha says. “I said hello when she moved in, and that was enough to know she’s bad news.”
The other ladies cluck in agreement. Claire looks to Susan, but Susan says nothing—she only takes the glass of punch offered to her by Martha, watching the conversation over the rim of her glass.
They hardly even talk about the book, in the end. The full meeting is taken up by gossip, which thankfully shifts from Jackie to other targets quickly enough, and once the other ladies have left Claire finds that she’s not very enthusiastic about helping Martha clean up.
“What’s eating you?” Martha says, after Claire has unhelpfully moved the same tray of empty teacups from place to place three times.
“Sorry,” Claire says, leaning against the couch. She feels deflated, like she’s spent the last two hours holding a heavy weight. “I’m a bit bothered by all the gossip, I think.”
“We always gossip,” Martha says, handing Claire a small garbage bin. She starts gathering napkins and leftover food to put in it, and Claire trails her.
“I don’t think Jackie deserves it.”
Martha stops so suddenly that Claire walks straight into her back. She turns, levelling Claire with a furrowed brow. “Jackie? Since when are you so familiar?”
“Jacqueline,” Claire corrects quickly. Her stomach does a little twist. “I just think she’s an interesting addition to the neighborhood, that’s all.”
“Interesting is one word for it,” Martha says. She starts gathering garbage again, and Claire holds out the bin to make it easier.
“What word would you use?”
“Disruptive.”
“Sure, her party was a bit much,” Claire says, putting the bin down near the door when Martha has finished collecting, “but she’s really very nice.”
“And how would you know that?”
Normally, Claire would easily share something so inconsequential with Martha.
They’re friends. They share burdens around housework or cooking, irks about their husbands or their in-laws.
Being honest about her tea with Jackie should be no different, but something stops Claire this time.
The sharpness in Martha’s tone. The memory of Martha’s curtains fluttering closed as Claire returned home after her last visit.
“We’ve talked at the mailbox once or twice,” Claire says.
Martha hums, but she doesn’t sound convinced. Claire sets the garbage bin down, and she bites her tongue.
“I really should go,” Claire says, grabbing for her purse. “I have a huge shopping list for Easter.”
Martha’s face turns more sympathetic. “Oh, dear. Is the whole gang coming like usual?”
“All three of Pete’s brothers, and their families. Of all the holidays in the calendar year, I might just dislike Easter the most.”
It’s not that Claire objects to the tradition of Easter, per se, but it’s the holiday in Pete’s family rotation which Claire is expected to host. Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July fall to Pete’s two older brothers and their wives.
Christmas is always hosted by Rita. Pete’s younger brother Alan, being the baby of the family, is lucky enough to not be expected to host anything besides the occasional birthday or family cookout.
Hosting for Pete’s family means a house full of nieces and nephews, running about and knocking things over.
It means the usual criticism from Rita. It means trying to make conversation with her sisters-in-law, with whom she has almost nothing in common.
And worst of all, it means she needs to shop for a meal to feed sixteen people and carry it all home by herself.
Pete left extra money for the shopping, at the very least. Claire tucks it into her purse, and she’s just heading out the door fully prepared for a terrible afternoon lugging ham and potatoes home when she hears a shout.
“Claire?”
It’s Jackie. Her hair is tucked up under a kerchief, and she has a set of big sunglasses on her face. Claire was right—she’s about to get into her car, and she waves at Claire from the opposite side.
Claire waves back. Jackie looks genuinely happy to see her, which wipes away the annoyance of the morning. “Afternoon! Heading out for a drive?”
“Heading to the store, actually,” Jackie calls back. “I’m short on groceries.”
“Oh, how funny. That’s where I’m headed,” Claire says.
“You aren’t walking there, are you?” Jackie says, putting a hand up to further shade her face from the sun.
Claire herself just squints into it—Pete has always said that sunglasses make a woman look too uppity.
“I usually do.”
“The nearest grocer is two miles from here,” Jackie says incredulously. “Why don’t you let me give you a lift?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Claire says, though she very much wants to.
“Why not? I’d like the company. Besides, what if I have to grab something on the top shelf?” Jackie says. She flashes a cheeky grin as she sidles around the car to open the passenger side door. “I might need you.”
Claire stifles a giggle. She has very little willpower when it comes to the new neighbor, it seems. And besides, hitching a ride will cut at least two hours out of her busy day. “In that case, I suppose I have to help.”
“Hop in,” Jackie says, rounding the car again and sliding into the driver’s seat. “I’ll even let you drive back, if you want.”