Chapter 28 #2
Claire’s steps slowed as she came to the post office; it was just before seven, and Dan would be starting to close up.
She could see the light was on, and if she stood on her tiptoes she could see the top of his head, standing as he was behind the till.
She wanted to go inside, but what would she say?
She started to walk past and then stopped. She was trying to change her life. Trying to take control of it, hard as that had been, and accepting Dan’s slouch back to the status quo was not being in control or being brave.
Resolutely she turned around and opened the door of the shop.
The warmth and comfort of the place hit her first: the neat shelves, the old-fashioned sweet jars that had proved to be a big hit with the schoolchildren, even the smell of the leftover meat pies drying out under the heat lamps—all of it filled her with an ache of familiarity. She loved it here.
“What are you doing here?” Dan asked. He didn’t sound unfriendly, but his voice was far from welcoming.
“Can’t I come say hello?” He looked nonplussed. And he didn’t say hello back. “Dan . . .” This was far more awkward than she’d hoped it would be. She didn’t even know what she was going to say, what she wanted. “I thought we were friends,” she finally blurted, and Dan stared at her.
“Friends?”
“Yes. Friends. But lately you’ve been so . . .” She searched for a word. “Surly.” Dan didn’t answer, and she continued, each word an agony, “is it something I’ve done? To make you change—”
“You didn’t do anything, Claire.” Dan sighed and came out from behind the till.
Claire thought he was coming towards her—to push her out of the shop, maybe—but he went outside and pulled the iron shutters down over the windows, leaving her feeling entombed in the shadowy interior.
He came back in and started flicking off lights, and Claire realized he wasn’t going to say anything else.
“So what’s going on?” she asked.
“Why does something have to be going on?”
“Because you acted one way and now you’re acting another. And usually that means something has changed.”
He stood by the door, one hand on the main light switch, about to plunge them into darkness. Claire dared to take a step towards him, even to put a hand on his arm.
“I like you, Dan. I thought you liked me.” Inwardly she cringed at how needy she sounded, but another part of her was registering the solid warmth of Dan’s arm under her hand, the heat of his body.
He was so strong he could crush her in one massive fist, and yet she didn’t feel threatened or even intimidated. She felt . . . safe. And tingly.
She glanced up at him, realizing with a jolt at how close his face was. He was looking down at her, frowning slightly, his eyes narrowed.
“Dan . . .” she began, and she imagined standing on her tiptoes, brushing her lips across his. She imagined him taking her in those massive arms, cradling her. Kissing her back. She almost did it. She came so close, her feet tensing as she went on her tiptoes, took a breath—
Then Dan flicked off the lights and moved away. Claire rocked on her feet, throwing out a hand to brace herself against the wall. With the shutters down and the lights off, she couldn’t see a thing.
“Go home, Claire,” Dan said, and stinging with rejection, she went.
The next morning Dan didn’t mention that moment, if it had even been a moment, and Claire went about her work without engaging him in conversation. So Dan didn’t want to be her friend or anything else. She’d get over it. He was a mean-tempered ass, anyway.
At lunchtime he took Bunny for a walk, and the sight of the springer mix—that’s what Dan thought she was, anyway—leaning lovingly against his side practically put a lump in Claire’s throat. He wasn’t that much of an ass. But never mind.
She tended the shop alone, managing the cigarettes and Lottery cards, the cash register no longer the frightening and intricate machine it had been just a little over a month ago. She’d changed, she’d grown, even if it was just in small ways. Even if she wanted to change a little more.
Dan returned with Bunny and resumed his place behind the till; Claire went back to checking inventory. She opened a just-delivered box of groceries, surprised to see upmarket pasta sauces inside rather than the tins of Spam and Fray Bentos “Boozy” pies.
She glanced up at Dan. “This is new.”
He shrugged, not looking at her. “I’m diversifying.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon in silence, but Claire felt a little better. A little hopeful. She even dared to ask Dan if he’d go to the pub quiz on Thursday. “Eleanor Carwell is counting on you, you know.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re a wimp, you know that?” The words rang out before Claire could think better of them. Suddenly she was angry. It had been a long time since she’d let herself feel angry, since she hadn’t assumed it was all her fault and tripped over herself to apologize.
“A wimp?”
“A coward. An emotional coward. It’s cowardly to keep yourself from having friends. I get that you were hurt by your wife—”
“Ex-wife,” Dan interjected, biting off the two words. He’d folded his arms in that menacing way he had, making Claire swallow hard before she continued resolutely.
“Ex-wife, then, and your brother. I’ve been hurt too.
It sucks.” She took a deep breath; her whole body was shaking.
“But you can move on, Dan. You can. Otherwise you’ll just atrophy here in this shop.
You’ll die in your bed upstairs choking on a rubbery piece of Spam, and no one will discover your body for months. ”
“They would,” Dan answered tonelessly. “Because they’d notice when I didn’t open the shop.”
“I was the one who realized something was wrong when you didn’t open the shop,” Claire exclaimed.
“I was the one who cared enough to make sure you hadn’t drowned in the bathtub!
” Furious now, she crossed the shop to poke him in the chest. Ouch.
“I’m the one who is trying to be your friend, you stubborn old .
. .” She trailed off, at a loss for words, and Dan wrapped his hand around her finger still poking into his iron-hard chest.
“Stubborn old what?” he asked quietly.
“Poop,” Claire blurted.
Dan arched an eyebrow. “Poop?”
“I’ve been around a lot of toddlers lately,” she muttered. She was acutely aware of his hand wrapped around her finger. Her heart was hammering with anticipation, which was stupid because nothing was going to happen.
“Why do you care?” he asked, his hand still wrapped around her finger.
“Because I like you.”
“What do you like?”
“You—”
“I mean about me.” His tone was flat, his expression hard. “What do you like about me?”
“I like that you look out for people, even if you pretend you don’t. I like that you have a rescue dog and that you have a sense of humor so dry it’s like living in the Sahara. I like that you’re neat, because I am too.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you mean, that’s it?” she demanded.
“You’re asking me to bare my soul while you’re not telling me anything.
Do you care about me?” The second the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.
Dan had never indicated that he cared about her.
She’d just set herself up for a massive rejection.
“You’re completely exasperating,” Dan said. “And practically useless. You don’t even realize how entitled you are, although you think you do.”
“Right.” Her voice wobbled alarmingly. Yet another person was telling her what a waste of space she was. Why should she be surprised?
“And you work harder than anyone I’ve known,” Dan continued. “And you’re stronger than you realize. And you care about people, even grumpy old women like Eleanor Carwell.”
Claire managed a crooked smile. “She’s not that grumpy.”
“Not as grumpy as me?”
“Not by a long shot.”
He smiled then, the corner of his mouth lifting, and Claire had to keep herself from running into his arms. “So . . .”
“So I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said, and with a grin she realized he meant the pub quiz.
At the quiz Eleanor Carwell flirted with him outrageously, practically cooing and making Claire laugh.
Dan met her gaze once, his mouth curving in the tiniest of smiles, and for a second it felt like they were sharing an in joke, but maybe not.
She was terrible at figuring relationships out.
She’d never had to before; she’d simply done what she was told.
She thought of her first date with Hugh, how he’d come to the villa she’d been showing to a retired couple and told her he was taking her out to the best restaurant in the Algarve.
It had been a statement, a command, and Claire hadn’t thought to protest. He’d taken her to a restaurant that had miniscule portions of artistically arranged seafood; Claire had always hated fish, but she’d eaten the scallops Hugh had ordered for her because that was what she did.
She hadn’t protested when he’d insisted on ordering for both of them, so why would she protest when he ordered something she didn’t like?
She’d been utterly spineless, an indifferent spectator of her own life, removed from everything going on around her. Thank God Hugh had gotten tired of her and insisted she go to rehab. At least he’d woken her up, jolted her out of her catatonic lethargy.
But being awake and alive was as hard as it was invigorating; she needed to act, and sometimes she wasn’t sure how.
A week slipped by, and May marched into June, the days chilly and gray and far from what Claire, after four years in Portugal, thought of as summer, although the residents of Hartley-by-the-Sea still went about in short sleeves and shorts.
Life had eased into a pattern; she cleaned houses, worked in the shop, and wondered how to shift the status quo.
Andrew came back on the weekend and spent an inordinate amount of time at the Campbells’ house; Claire learned to sit down with Emily Hart and let her moan over a cup of tea. She even changed Riley and Rogan’s nappies; unfortunately, she put them on backwards.
Dan, Eleanor, and Lily came out for another pub quiz, and as a team they earned eleven points, their personal best so far.
And all the while Claire felt that something needed to shift, to change or hopefully to grow; she just didn’t know what or how.
Then she came back from work on Friday and saw a car in the driveway of Four Gables, a sleek black Mercedes that sent a tremor of trepidation ricocheting through her. Her parents were home.