A Summer Affair (30 page)
Could he go back to Claire? Would she have him? Would there be anything left?
He strummed the Peal. The Peal, like Claire, was his true instrument, the original. He felt a song brewing inside him, gathering like a storm. An old song, a new song.
I
f her mother had said it once, she’d said it fifty thousand times:
Be careful what you wish for.
As a child, Siobhan had wanted a horse. They did, after all, live on a farm, which her father had inherited, but it was a mediocre piece of land that could only sustain turnips and mean chickens. When Siobhan begged for a horse, her mother said,
Be careful what you wish for. If we get you a horse, you’ll never have a moment’s rest. You’ll have to carry out feed and water, you’ll have to groom the horse and deal with its droppings, you’ll have to give it exercise, which means riding the horse, Siobhan. It will make you sore like you’ve never been in your young life. A horse will run your father and me to the poorhouse faster than we’re going already, and your brothers and sisters will hate you from envy. Wish for a horse all you want, Siobhan, but the worst thing that could happen is for that wish to come true.
Another gem from her dismal Irish upbringing! And yet here were her mother’s words ringing true again. Siobhan had wanted to know what was going on between Claire and Lock Dixon—she had meant to find out! She had threatened and accused and withheld the sound of her voice from Claire’s ear for two full weeks.
Now they were sitting on the cold sand of the south shore, two uneaten sandwiches between them. It was chilly on the beach, but Claire had been adamant about the place. The two of them alone, outside, surrounded by landscape that was bigger than they were.
There’s something I have to tell you,
Claire said.
And Siobhan thought,
Yes! Out with it!
I’m having an affair with Lock Dixon. I’m in love with him.
The horse, her mother, the turnips and chickens, the envy of her brothers and sisters. Be careful what you wish for. Siobhan heard Claire’s words and saw the expression on her face—one of naked pain, as though Siobhan were twisting her arm behind her back. Siobhan filled immediately with regret. And shock and horror. It was true, the unthinkable was true. The betrayal was real and complete. A commandment had been broken, and it lay shattered at their feet. It had been broken by the only person whose goodness Siobhan had wholly believed in. Siobhan didn’t know if she was more disappointed in Claire for the transgression, or in herself for making Claire admit to it.
I’m having an affair with Lock Dixon. I’m in love with him.
In love with him?
Siobhan felt revulsion at the back of her throat, a gag reflex. She was going to be sick. This had been her hair-trigger reaction to every piece of bad news her whole life: vomiting. Gross and mortifying, but true. She had vomited outside the church at her mother’s funeral, even though her mother had been dying for months; she had vomited in her apartment for two hours after she had broken her engagement to Edward Melior. Claire was in love with Lock Dixon, and Siobhan was going to vomit right there onto the cold sand. It was the body’s most basic rejection. Her spirit screaming,
No!
She coughed into her hand. Okay.
This was not a film with actors, it was not one of the afternoon soap operas—her sleeping with him sleeping with her. These were real people in real life; people hurting other people. Claire hurting, for starters, Jason. Poor Jason! Siobhan honestly would have bet her life savings that she would never have uttered those words in her mind, because Jason was
not
“poor Jason.” He was too much of a callous son of a bitch, absolutely impossible, as macho and Marlboro as the male species came, Jason was. He had let his guard down a little bit when the baby was born. Siobhan had seen him weepy and quivery-lipped, but what had he turned around and done then? He had blamed the whole thing on Claire.
She shouldn’t have been in the hot shop. She knew better.
Jason was a Neanderthal. Carter was the refined brother; he did things like mince, julienne, and sauté; he had an artist’s eye, a delicate touch. Jason had tormented Carter about the cooking for most of their adult lives—Carter was gay, cooking was for pussies. Real men did . . . what? Pounded nails into wood. Yes, Siobhan had had her trouble with Jason, they had exchanged words, and he did not appear anywhere on her list of favorite people. But he was family, and as with her brothers and sisters—some of whom she truly detested—she would take his side against someone who was not blood any day of the week.
Poor Jason.
Siobhan coughed again. The back of her throat tickled relentlessly; her stomach roiled. There would be no hope for the sandwich. Siobhan shivered and collected her jacket around her. The sky was leaden and very low. It was hard to believe it was almost summer.
“So?” Claire said. “What do you think?”
What to say? The truth?
I’m bloody horrified. I’m trying not to get sick.
Be careful what you wish for
. The kids—what about your beautiful kids?
Claire started to cry. “You hate me. You think I’m awful.”
Siobhan loathed sitting in judgment like this. It didn’t suit her.
She
was supposed to be the wicked one, the imp, the fiend.
“How long?” Siobhan said.
“Since the fall.”
Siobhan gasped but hoped it wasn’t audible. That long. Since the beginning, practically. Well, Siobhan had suspected something at Christmas. Something—but not this.
I’m in love with him.
This was not Claire giggling over the phone about the cute guy slinging her bags of rubbish into the back of a truck. This was a real situation. Love. Love? Claire was easily swayed, easily influenced; she let people in too close too soon; she loved with abandon, unconditionally; she cared about people, worried about them, took on their shit. It was in her blood, some heinous legacy dumped on her by her parents. Was it any wonder that Lock Dixon, a man with what Siobhan could only assume was a miserable existence—the damaged, schizo wife—had taken advantage of this and invaded?
“Say something!” Claire pleaded.
Siobhan dug her toes into the cold, crumbly sand. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you understand.”
“I don’t understand. Make me understand.”
“You think I’m betraying Jason and the kids. But haven’t you ever been so in love that
nothing else mattered?
” Claire grabbed Siobhan’s hands and squeezed them, but they were numb and bloodless, two dry sponges. “Haven’t you ever felt like your heart was upside down?”
Had she? She rummaged: Carter? Edward? Michael O’Keefe, with those blue eyes, the blue black hair, the tall leather boots? He rode horses. That was why young Siobhan had wanted a horse! She had been fatally in love with Michael O’Keefe. Was that what Claire was talking about? Probably, yes, but Siobhan had been how old then, eleven? They were grown women now; they knew better!
“Are you going to leave Jason?” Siobhan asked.
“No.”
“Okay,” Siobhan said. “So if you have no plans to leave Jason, then how do you see this progressing?”
“I have no idea.”
“You have to stop, Claire.”
“You sound like Father Dominic.”
“I’m sure I do.”
“I can’t stop. I’ve tried.”
“You have?”
“I try every day.”
“So are you just going to keep . . .”
“I really don’t know.”
“Because eventually, it’s going to come to a point where . . . or something will happen that . . .”
“You are my dearest friend in all the world,” Claire said, “and I trust you with my life. But you can’t tell anyone. Not your sisters back in Ireland, not Julie, not Carter . . .”
“Jesus, Claire, of course not.” Siobhan said this automatically, without thinking of how this secret, this insidious worm, was going to gnaw away at her. Could she keep this a secret? Siobhan pushed her glasses up her nose. Her lenses were smudged with salty condensation.
“I can’t believe I told you.” Claire was crying again. “I feel like I just set free the last remaining smallpox virus. I feel like I just handed you the weapon you’re going to murder me with.”
There was a way Siobhan was supposed to be acting; there were things she was supposed to be saying—comforting, reassuring things—that were eluding her. She had wanted the truth, the truth she now had. She had wanted the air clear; she had wanted Claire back. Be careful what you wish for.
Siobhan coughed into her hand. Her mother was everywhere with her maxims. The Irish had words for each blasted occasion, and the words were always right. Her mother’s hand always landed on her back, rubbing away the world, no matter how bad things got.
This too shall pass away, Siobhan, my pet. This too shall pass.
Siobhan looked at her friend. Absolution was beyond her, but was comfort?
“Everything is going to be okay,” she said.
“You think?” Claire said.
She Blows It
U
nlike coastal New Jersey, where Claire grew up, which had a mild spring, Nantucket went from slate gray skies and thirty-mile-an-hour winds to full-blown summer. The change of season was apparent all over the island; it was as though someone had raised the curtain and the show had begun. There were people everywhere; there was traffic; there were lines at the Stop & Shop and the post office; the sidewalks of Main Street were congested with people drinking coffee, buying wildflowers off the back of the farm truck, talking on cell phones, walking dogs, pushing strollers. The restaurants were opening one by one, and this year, Claire and Jason were invited to all of the splashy opening parties because Claire was cochair of the gala, because she was high- profile now, because her name had been linked to Max West’s in the newspaper, because Lock had somehow added her name to each and every invitation list—who knew why?
It was becoming nearly impossible to see Lock. There were people occupying the houses next to and across the street from the Elijah Baker House, there were people visiting the Greater Light garden at all times of day and night, and the police had started trawling even the most remote beaches. The board members of Nantucket’s Children were all in residence, and they popped in and out of the office at unexpected times. Once, when Lock and Claire were in the conference room having quiet, fervent sex, there had been an insistent knock on the door below. It caused them to jump and separate, to furiously pull on their clothes and button, zip, straighten. Lock tiptoed to the twenty-paned window, which was open (for ventilation purposes, it had to be, and because it was such a stubborn old dinosaur, it would remain open until October). Down on the sidewalk was Libby Jenkins, cochair from the previous year’s gala, with her husband and another couple. Libby had consumed some wine, perhaps, and her voice was a touch slurred as she said, “Damn, it’s locked. The office is to die for, I’m telling you, all the original plasterwork from eighteen fifty . . .” Libby and her group drifted off down the street, but Claire was left spooked. She and Lock held each other, breathing heavily, until a safe amount of time had passed and Claire felt okay to whisper, “Jesus.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t a good idea, coming here.”
“The door is locked.”
“I know, but what if we forget one day?”
“Believe me, I won’t forget.”
Claire knew this to be true. Lock checked and double-checked the lock, then checked it again.
“But Gavin has a key. And so does Adams.”
“Yeah, but . . . ,” Lock murmured.
“I feel like we’re going to get caught,” Claire said.
“We won’t get caught,” Lock said. “Trust me.”
This sounded like one of his edicts that could not be argued with—
There is no hell—
but for some reason it did not sit right with Claire. It sounded false and presumptuous.
“Tell me,” Lock said. “What choice do we have?”
Claire rested her head against his chest. “I don’t know,” she said. “We could take a break.”
“Take a break?” he said. “You mean not meet? Not see each other?”
“No,” she said. “God, no.” When Claire was alone, doing yoga, doing the dishes, when she was in her hot shop, and she prayed for strength, this seemed like the answer. Take a break. Cool things off. But when she was with Lock, when he was there next to her, when she heard his pained voice say,
Not see each other?
—it was unthinkable. “We just have to be careful. Really careful.”
“Assiduous,” Lock said. “Steadfast in our commitment to keeping this a secret.”
Claire filled with fresh guilt. She had shared the secret with Siobhan, but she had not told Lock this. He would never in a million years understand why she had done it. He might, quite possibly, feel angry and betrayed enough to end things. And so it was official: Claire was lying to everyone. Siobhan now knew the truth, but since the day Claire had told her at the beach, the topic hadn’t come up again. Siobhan never alluded to it, even when she and Claire were alone. It was as though Siobhan were the one with the hole in her head, and the information had fallen out and vanished. This was a relief to Claire, but puzzling, too. Why did Siobhan not want to talk it to death? Was she actually respecting Claire’s private life, or did she find it too distasteful, disturbing, disgusting, disquieting, to discuss? And if they weren’t planning on discussing it at all, ever, then why had Claire bothered to divulge the secret?
Everything in Claire’s life was getting more complicated. She was so filled with conflicting emotions, she was amazed she was able to walk in a straight line.
“I should go,” Claire said. She hated these moments right before they separated, especially since every night lately had felt like it could be their last one together. She kissed Lock, desperately, then slipped down the stairs.
The worst thing about adultery was her growing envy and resentment of Lock’s life at home with Daphne. As much as Claire tried to discount it, it did exist: Lock and Daphne had a child together whom they loved desperately, whose welfare they discussed, whom they were proud of and worried about. They had a home filled with art and antiques, and every acquisition had a story. They had the airline they liked to fly and their rental car company and their brands of shampoo and olive oil, the places they liked to get takeout, the TV show they watched on Sunday nights, the certain type of down pillow they slept on; they had their bathroom rituals, their sexual positions, their Internet provider, their friends from Seattle and Saint Louis, their photographs from trips to South Africa and Iceland, and a Red Sox game where Ramirez hit a home run and Lock caught the ball, and the night at the symphony when they heard Itzhak Perlman. They had a common vocabulary, years and years of shared experience, every night sleeping next to each other. Whereas Claire and Jason took the kids to Story Land on vacation, Lock and Daphne went to Tortola and stayed at a five-star resort, where the sand was like powdered sugar. It felt like Lock and Daphne’s way of doing things was superior, if only because it was theirs. Claire wanted to have her own life with Lock. To have to live her life with Jason alongside the life that Lock was living with Daphne was excruciating. It was the worst thing.
Claire and Lock saw each other less frequently alone and more frequently with their spouses at various social functions. This was the problem. Claire hated seeing Lock and Daphne together—and it seemed that in early summer, Daphne was out with Lock every night instead of shut away at home, which was where she had always been in years past. Now she was at Lock’s side, his wife; they were a couple, and Claire was confronted with their marriage again and again. She bristled when she saw Lock’s arm around Daphne’s back, when he brought her a drink, when he reached out to straighten Daphne’s necklace. Claire tried to concentrate on being with Jason, but Jason hated these social outings. She had to drag him, she had to set out his clothes so he would look presentable. He was like a sullen teenager, and his impatience was obvious: he spent most of his time sucking down beers at the raw bar, talking to the shucker, Mikey, whom he fished with, and checking his watch. How much longer until he could go home and watch TV?
At some point during each event, Claire and Lock would have to acknowledge each other, and this was painful and awkward: Lock and Daphne face-to-face with Claire and Jason.
“Claire,” Lock said, bending in to kiss her, then reaching across her to shake Jason’s hand. “Jason.”
“Hey, man,” Jason said.
“Claire,” Daphne said, smiling archly.
Claire licked her teeth. “Daphne.” Air kiss. A glance to Daphne’s chest—was she wearing something revealing? Daphne had no qualms about giving Claire the once-over, and then she would hurl veiled insults, one after another, like water balloons over the fence.
Look how much sun you’ve gotten—so many freckles! You always look so nice in that top. It’s the same one you wore to Cinco, is it not? Did you tell me before that you bought it at Target? I never think to shop for my clothes there! God, this wine is atrocious. I can’t believe you’re drinking it! My palate is positively offended by it. And you’re eating the cheese puffs—well, of course you can, you’re so thin. I should follow you into the ladies room to make sure you’re not purging. We all wonder, you know.
Claire would smile, laugh it off. What else could she do? Jason was mute at her side, barely paying attention, while Lock’s eyes grew wider and sadder. He would take Daphne’s arm and try to redirect her, lead her away, but that hurt, too, separating, seeking other conversations. Lock would later try to find Claire to apologize.
That’s just how she is. Believe me, I know—I have to live with her. I’m so sorry. You look beautiful.
Claire glared at Lock, wounded and livid.
“I love you,” he whispered in line at the bar.
She nodded, tight-lipped.
Little League ended, school let out, it stayed light until nine o’clock at night, and it was impossible to get the kids into bed. The days stretched out, impossibly long, and yet impossibly short. With dropping off and picking up to and from camps, lessons, trips to the beach, Claire had little time left to get into the hot shop. The g.d. chandelier had only three arms; it was beautiful in its incompletion, her best work without question, but that didn’t make it any less incomplete. No matter how sunny or filled with possibility the early summer days made Claire feel, there was always a nugget of guilt and dread inside her, emitting radioactivity. The g.d. chandelier. Must finish it!
She would get it done before July 10, she decided. July 10 was the day the invitations to the gala were being mailed out. On the evening of July 9, the gala committee would gather at Isabelle French’s house in Monomoy and they would stuff the invitations into envelopes, stick on labels, and seal the envelopes up. Isabelle herself was arriving on Nantucket on July 8 with the boxes of invitations in tow, so really, Claire’s deadline for the g.d. chandelier was July 8, because she couldn’t live with the stress of having Isabelle on the island and not being finished with the g.d. chandelier.
First, Claire looked at what she had: a glorious pink globe in the center with three gracefully trailing arms. She needed five more arms; then she needed to make the tiny bell-like cups to hold the bulbs. Ted Trimble called each week to see if the chandelier was ready to be wired.
Not yet,
Claire said.
Soon.
Claire went at the g.d. chandelier as if it was an exam she had to take, or a paper she had to turn in. Being Catholic, she held the belief that to create something truly great, truly holy, there must be sacrifice. And so for five days, she gave up all the things that she enjoyed. She gave up her evenings alone with Lock, she gave up a very fancy cocktail party at Libby Jenkins’s house on Lincoln Circle, where she knew she would see Lock, she gave up three perfect, sunny afternoons at the beach, and she gave up the Fourth of July fireworks with her kids—Jason and Pan took them instead, with a gorgeous picnic that Claire had prepared but not eaten. In the days that she set aside to finish the g.d. chandelier, Claire ate pasty, tasteless foods—rice cakes, dry whole wheat toast, saltines with organic peanut butter, edamame, radishes—and something Pan made called Thai fire broth, which was insidiously spicy and which Claire drank only to stay awake.
With such sacrifice, with such a dedicated effort in the hot shop, Claire thought the remainder of the g.d. chandelier would come easily. She did very few things in her life with extreme self- confidence, but blowing glass was one of them. She could make glass do what she wanted; it was a gift. After so many years of blowing out globes for the
Bubbles
or making the glass do other wildly creative things for people like Jeremy Tate-Friedman of London and Mr. Fred Bulrush of San Francisco, Claire knew how the gather would behave. She had a clear idea of what she wanted the arms of the chandelier to look like: she had a sketch taped to the marvering table for reference. Her Catholic soul believed that since she had sacrificed sleep, yoga, sunshine, viognier, all food other than twigs and leaves, and the delighted cries of her children when the fireworks exploded overhead, she would be able to finish the chandelier. She would, through her own willpower, climb out of this hell.
But it was hard. She tried ninety-six times to get the fourth arm just right—and then she nearly dropped it, she was so weary. But it was fine, whole, undamaged. It went into the annealer and she was so tired she could have cried, but she made herself go back to the pot furnace for another gather.
Her arms ached, her sight blurred, she tried and tried again. Four more arms. They needed to fall and twist just so. She thought she knew the perfect angle, she could see it in her mind, but she could not make the hot glass take the angle; if it happened, it happened because of luck. But no, she couldn’t think like that; she had to believe it was within her control. Time and time again, she tried; she was sweating, she was drinking gallons of water—gallons!—and yet she was always thirsty.
One afternoon, when Pan and the kids were at the beach, when she was roasting like a Thanksgiving turkey, she got the fifth arm—perfect, beautiful—into the annealer. Ten or eleven tries later, she got the sixth arm. Yes! Two arms in the space of an hour, and only two left to go . . . She could finish that very afternoon, the afternoon of July 6. She went back to the pot furnace for another gather and pictured herself driving out to the beach for a swim. She thought of the cool, cold water; then she thought of cool water trickling over the side of a stone fountain, a necklace of cool jade stones lying against her breastbone, a bowl of chilled cucumbers, music trilling out of a glass flute, a frosted glass of lemonade, chilled silver cups for mint juleps, ice swans, diamonds. A bead of sweat fell from the tip of Claire’s nose, hit the steaming iron of her punty, and hissed, evaporated. She closed the door to the pot furnace, set her punty down, and staggered to the bench. She felt like she was going to vomit. She bent in half and retched onto the concrete floor. She pushed her goggles up onto her head, ripped off her gloves, and hobbled over to the water basin, where she dunked her hands and splashed her face. She fell back onto her butt.
