Chapter 9 #2
Perhaps Jackie didn’t see her in the window, after all. Maybe Claire is making a mountain out of a molehill like she always does, and ruining something perfectly nice over nothing.
“I’m sorry, Jackie,” Claire says, trying her best to relax and speak sincerely. “I really am. I’ve been a bad friend, lately.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” Jackie says with a careless wave. “If you’re still busy, I’ll go.”
Claire opens the door wider. “You should come in. I’ll make us a drink, for once.”
Jackie hesitates for a moment, but she steps inside. Her heels click on the linoleum. The linoleum of Claire’s house.
Something about it, about glamorous Jackie standing in Claire’s entryway in her chic outfit and following her into the kitchen, makes Claire feel hot and cold all over.
Jackie’s gaze sweeps the kitchen in that quick, observant way she has.
She looks around at the speckled countertops, the wooden table, and the window that faces her own driveway with something sharp and appraising in her eyes, and Claire is reminded suddenly of just how different her house is from Jackie’s.
Her home has none of the openness, none of the trendiness, and there’s so much housework that still needs to be done.
To Claire’s horror, Jackie’s roving eyes land on the sketchbook sitting on the kitchen table.
“What’s this?” Jackie says, tapping the table next to the book. She doesn’t make any move to pick it up, but Claire still dives for it, clutching it to her chest.
“Nothing,” Claire says. Her voice is a little shrill; she clears her throat, tucking it under her arm. “Just a book.”
Jackie arches a brow.
“Just a sketchbook,” Claire admits. “I’ve been doodling,”
“Have you?” Jackie says, breaking into a wide grin.
“That’s fantastic!” For a terrible, breathless moment, Claire wonders if Jackie will ask to see them—if Claire will be forced by politeness to flip through countless half-finished sketches of Jackie in front of Jackie herself.
But Jackie doesn’t ask. She leans against the table, smiling at Claire.
“I’m glad you’re finding your passion again. ”
“Me too,” Claire says. Her voice cracks. She clears her throat, manners outweighing all else even now. “Would you like a tour of the house?”
“I’d love one,” Jackie says warmly.
Her kindness doesn’t negate Claire’s self-consciousness as she guides Jackie upstairs to the bedrooms. Every slightly dusty photo frame and missed patch of vacuumed carpet might as well be outlined in chalk, ripe for criticism.
“The bedrooms are up here, and the master bath,” Claire says, gesturing at the open doors. She wishes she’d have thought to close them. “And Pete’s home office. Not much to see.”
“Is this your wedding photo?” Jackie says, examining one of the frames near the stairs. “You look so young.”
Claire’s stomach does a funny twist.
“I wore my mother-in-law’s dress,” Claire says. She fidgets with her pearls, pressing one so hard against her collarbone that she wonders if it might bruise. “It didn’t quite fit me.”
She’s not sure why she feels the need to explain it.
Her wedding day hadn’t been anything to write home about.
Pete didn’t want the fuss of a large wedding, so they did it at the courthouse with only family in attendance.
She’s never felt like she looked particularly nice on the day, either.
The dress was too small. Too short by a few inches, too narrow in the shoulders and too large in the waist, and Rita had fussed about making any permanent alterations.
In the end Claire had worn it cinched with a piece of white ribbon, and held together in the back with a pin.
“Why Pete’s mother’s dress? Why not your own mother’s? Or a dress you chose?”
“Rita wanted me to wear it,” Claire says simply. “All my sisters-in-law did before me.”
Despite walking past that photo every day, it’s been years since Claire thought about it in such detail.
She’d never been one to dream about her future wedding day as a little girl, so when Pete and his mother started overriding her decisions, she’d just accepted it.
It wasn’t worth the argument. Her own mother put up a bit of a fuss, but Rita’s pure force of personality put a stop to that quickly.
She can still remember the shame of not fitting into the dress.
Rita had pulled and tugged at the zipper until it almost broke between Claire’s shoulders.
She’d felt like a painting stuffed into too small a frame, all long limbs and protrusions ruining a family heirloom fitted for a more normal body than her own as Rita and Pete tried to trim her edges away.
Jackie looks closer at the photo. “Was Pete standing on a box? I had the idea that you were taller than him.”
Claire can feel her cheeks heating up. Pete has never taken well to that being pointed out, and Claire has yet another reason to be glad he isn’t here. “I wore ballet flats. And stooped a bit. Pete and Rita didn’t want him to look short for the pictures.”
“They had a lot of requests, didn’t they?” Jackie says. There’s something sharp in her tone that Claire can just imagine Pete bristling at.
“It was easier to let them plan it.”
“Did you have a nice honeymoon, at least?”
“Pete doesn’t like to travel,” Claire says, barely able to look Jackie in the face to see the pity she’s sure is written across her features.
After a brief pause, Jackie takes a step towards the closest door. “Is this bedroom yours?”
“Oh, um—Yes. Did you want to—?” Claire says, but Jackie is already ducking inside.
Jackie looks around the bedroom with an interest that Claire can’t understand.
She runs a hand over the foot of the bed as she glides past, the pristine folding of the duvet wrinkling in a line under her fingers, and she stands at the window to look down into her own backyard in the very place Claire peeped from.
Seeing Jackie there makes her feel antsy.
Finally, Jackie comes to the closet, still open after Pete’s dressing this morning. She moves Pete’s things aside to thumb past Claire’s clothes, drab skirt after drab skirt, taking in the breadth of Claire’s stiff handmade dresses.
“I can’t imagine how frumpy this must feel compared to your closet,” Claire says, shifting from foot to foot. “I mean, look at what you’re wearing today. You could be on a runway.”
“You’ve said that kind of thing several times now,” Jackie says suddenly.
Claire blinks. She does remember saying something of the sort, when they first met. She’s only surprised that Jackie remembers, too. “Have I?”
Jackie lets the last skirt fall back into line, turning on her heel and regarding Claire carefully. Claire tries very, very hard not to be rude and stare at the bare skin of her collar.
“Do you remember what I said about being kind to yourself?” Jackie says, one perfect brow arched.
“It’s less an unkindness and more an objective fact,” Claire counters.
Jackie folds her arms. “Do your clothes bother you? Do you feel frumpy?”
Claire sinks down to sit at the end of the bed.
She still hasn’t gotten used to this aspect of Jackie’s personality—the blunt questions, and the seemingly genuine interest in Claire’s answers.
The intensity. Jackie is looking at her as if she expects a real answer, and inexplicably Claire wants to give it.
“I think so,” Claire says. “Frumpy and…and plain.”
“Why not buy some new clothes?”
“Nothing ever fits me right,” Claire says. There’s a thread loose near the hem of her skirt—she pulls at it, even though it means more work in the mending later. “I’m too gangly, I don’t fill anything out properly. I’ve been that way since I was a child.”
“There are styles that would suit you,” Jackie says. “You say I could be on a runway, but you realize that runway models have your body type?”
Claire scoffs. “I look nothing like them. And besides, Pete doesn’t like modern styles. There’s no point in spending money to pretty me up, Jackie. It’s just lipstick on a pig.”
“Lipstick on a—Claire, that’s absurd,” Jackie says. The bed dips just to Claire’s right, and she can feel Jackie’s shoulder touching her own. “Having different measurements than a department-store mannequin doesn’t mean you aren’t gorgeous in your own right.”
Gorgeous. A word Claire has never heard in reference to herself, and one she has a great deal of trouble believing.
Claire recalls Jackie’s word from last week. She called Claire handsome. Claire has never been able to believe anyone—Pete, her own parents, anyone—who called her pretty, but something about the word Jackie used then has stuck with her.
Jackie’s shoulder feels warm against her own. Claire’s skin tingles through the fabric of her dress. She wishes that Jackie would use that word again.
“I should make us that drink,” Claire says, springing to her feet. She feels warm, and Jackie’s body heat isn’t helping any. She turns on her heel, striding towards the stairs, and after a pause she hears Jackie follow.
Claire is only just getting the kettle on to boil when three crisp knocks sound at the front door.
She almost drops their mugs. Instead, she sets them on the table, rushing to the window while Jackie hovers near the stove, not yet sitting down.
Claire can only see a sliver of the front stoop from here, but it’s enough to identify Martha’s bright red hair.
“Shoot,” Claire hisses, letting the curtain fall back. Her heart is in her throat. Knowing that Martha could be watching the frequency of her visits to Jackie’s house is one thing but having her actually see Jackie here is another.
What if she tells Pete?
“Is everything okay?” Jackie says.
Claire whirls around. She wrings her hands together, pacing from the window to the kitchen door and back. “It’s Martha. Okay, just—I’ll just go down there and ask her to leave. It’s fine.”
Jackie is quiet for a moment, watching Claire pace.
“She really doesn’t like me, does she?” Jackie says softly.
Claire sighs. She twists her wedding band around her finger. “She really doesn’t like most people.”
“She likes you,” Jackie says. “And you’re worried about her seeing me here.” It’s matter-of-fact, and it makes Claire’s stomach churn.
“Claire?” Martha calls, muffled by the door. Claire can hear the impatience in her voice. “It’s very hot out here.”
“If you have a back door, I can go,” Jackie says. “She won’t even know I’ve been here.” She moves as if to head in that direction, but Claire steps into her way.
“That’s not—it’s not that I don’t want her to see you, Jackie, it’s—she’s just a bit of a gossip. And Pete, he doesn’t exactly know—it’s not that he doesn’t know, it’s really more that I just don’t mention—”
Knock, knock, knock.
“I’ll be just a moment,” Claire says in a rush. “Please don’t go?”
She runs to the door after Jackie’s tentative nod, opening it just enough to see Martha’s face.
“Finally. What took you so long?” Martha says. She pushes on the door, but Claire holds fast.
“I’m actually a bit busy right now,” Claire says, through the crack. “I’m sorry. Could you come back later?”
“Busy? Doing what?”
“Just busy,” Claire says. She starts to close the door, eclipsing Martha’s shocked face. “I’ll call on you tomorrow, I promise.”
A dainty foot wedges into the crack just before Claire can close the door.
“Claire Davis, do you have someone in there with you?” Martha says loudly.
Claire reels back. It’s as if Martha has slapped her—she stops pushing at the door, which refuses to budge anyway with Martha’s shoe in the way, to stare at her with mouth agape.
“If you’re stepping out on your husband, so help me,” Martha says, her voice getting shrill enough to startle the birds in the acacia tree.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Claire says, opening the door wider in an unsuccessful attempt to get Martha to move her foot. “It’s nothing like that, nothing at all!”
“Then you’ll have no issue letting me inside, will you?”
There isn’t much Claire can do. Martha bulldozes her way in, headed straight to the kitchen, but when the door swings open to reveal Jackie sitting at the table she freezes in place.
“Oh,” Martha says, as Claire hurries in behind her. “It’s you.”
“Don’t worry, I’m on my way out. I needed a cup of sugar,” Jackie says. She rises to her feet. “But I’ve distracted Claire long enough.”
“Wonderful. Be seeing you,” Martha says snappishly.
“You don’t have to go,” Claire says, but Jackie is already halfway to the door. Claire isn’t brave enough to grab her arm.
“But I should,” Jackie says. She nods at Martha, giving her a smile. “Lovely to see you again.”
“And you,” Martha says, with none of Jackie’s warmth.
The door closing behind Jackie leaves Claire all tangled up like a string of Christmas lights. She’s absolutely sure of one thing—that she’s just made Jackie feel as if she’s ashamed to be her friend.
Claire isn’t ashamed. She just can’t let Pete find out. If he does, Claire is sure he’ll put a stop to it.
“I didn’t see her taking any sugar,” Martha says. She hasn’t yet sat down—she smooths a hand over her belly like it’s a worry-stone. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were making friends with the swinging neighbor.”
“Jackie isn’t a swinger,” Claire says, rather forcefully. “I told you that she invited the whole neighborhood to that party. Are you really spreading rumors over that?”
Martha recoils. The echo of Claire’s words seems to ring in the small space. The look of pure shock on Martha’s face speaks for itself—Claire has never snapped at her like this. She’s never snapped at anyone like this, at least not before the lasagna incident with Pete.
“Sorry,” Claire says, hunching her shoulders and trying to lower her voice. “I just think you’re being unfair, that’s all. She hasn’t done anything to you, has she?”
Martha doesn’t answer. She purses her lips, and then to Claire’s horror, her eyes get shiny.
“I came over to figure out what desserts you’re bringing to dinner on Friday night, but it looks like you have a new best friend,” Martha says. Her voice cracks on the last word, but she turns on her heel before any tears fall.
“Martha,” Claire says, half-heartedly. “Don’t be silly. That’s not—”
The door slams shut.
Claire sinks into the closest chair with a shaky sigh.
“Well done, Claire,” she mutters, folding her arms on the tabletop and setting her forehead on them. “Now everyone is upset with you.”