A Summer Affair (43 page)

Doesn’t seem right,
she said.

And Ben said,
No, my dear, it doesn’t.

Lock had promised himself he would wait until Monday to discuss the financials with Gavin, but because of his anger and the wine and the zooming trajectory of his thoughts, he found he could not wait. It was just the two of them, alone, at the bar; no one else was around. What were the chances? It was a sign.

“I have to talk to you about something,” Lock said.

The smile fell off Gavin’s face like a man jumping off a building. “I have the money in a duffel bag,” he said. “In my car. I want to give it back.”

Lock stared. He was not prepared for the admission nor for the offer of restitution. He had the money in his
car?
He wanted to give it
back?

“It’s not going to be that easy,” Lock said.

Gavin cleared his throat. “I know about you and Claire,” he said.

Now Lock was the one to lose his composure, or almost. But at that moment the bartender slid Lock’s drinks across the counter, and Lock was able to divert his attention long enough to accept the drinks and pitch a couple of bucks into the tip bowl. Know about Claire? No! How? Lock’s eyes sought out Heather. Jesus.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Lock said.

Gavin sighed. “I came into the office one night when you were there with her. I saw everything, heard everything . . .”

Saw everything,
heard
everything? Lock’s sensibilities were offended. One night when he and Claire were making love, Gavin had been present, watching?

“Okay,” Lock said with preternatural calm. He had made a tactical error; he should have waited, as he’d planned.

“I will tell Daphne,” Gavin said. “I will tell Heather. I will tell Jason Crispin. I will tell Isabelle. I will send the ugly truth through this tent, and by the time dinner is served, everyone will know.”

“You would do that?” Lock said. “Of course you would. You’ve been stealing from the cause for
months,
so it’s no surprise that you would blackmail me to keep yourself from getting in trouble.”

“I want to give the money back,” Gavin said. “It was a mistake.”

A mistake? Lock checked his surroundings to see if anyone was listening. Was the bartender listening? Lock had to seal this up, somehow; he couldn’t handle it now.

“Let’s talk about it on Monday,” Lock said. “You and me, in confidence. You’ll come in at seven?”

Gavin nodded once, briskly. Was he appeased? Would he keep his mouth shut? Did he trust Lock to save him? Why would he? It was safe to say that trust between them, now, was out of the question. What linked them was fear.

Gavin took his glass of wine and his clipboard and disappeared into the crowd.
A mistake?
When you committed a crime or broke a commandment—either a religious commandment or one of your own making—and you did so willingly, with both eyes open, was it fair to call it a mistake?

Maybe it was.

N
ever again! Never again! Never again!
Siobhan was shouting in her mind, but whispering under her breath. She would never again cater two titanic events back-to-back, she would never cater again without Carter, she would never cater again, period! She would sell the business and go back to making sandwiches and scooping ice cream at the pharmacy on Main Street. She would marry Edward Melior and live a life of leisure; she would go to lunch instead of making lunch and serving lunch. Because this was hell. The tent she was working in was hot and airless. She had been up all night for three nights running, prepping the dinner, and because she didn’t have enough staff, and because her husband was a compulsive gambler, she had ignored the passed hors d’oeuvres. She had five hundred pieces of three different things, which was, put mildly, not enough.

Claire poked her head into the catering tent. Siobhan noted, unhappily, that Claire looked fantastic. She was freaking Heidi Klum in that sensational dress, and she had finally found a stylist who knew what to do with her hair—but Claire strolling in all cool and beautiful infuriated Siobhan. To make matters worse, Claire was wearing the strand of pearls that their father-in-law, Malcolm, had given her when she gave birth to J.D., the first child to carry on the Crispin name. She was flaunting her own good fortune by wearing those pearls; she was announcing herself as the “have” to her sister-in-law, the “have-not.” Siobhan felt like Cinderella. The little adulteress was out sipping viognier while Siobhan slaved inside a plastic bag.

Claire said, “There aren’t enough hors d’oeuvres, Siobhan. People are complaining and they’re getting very drunk. They’ve decimated the cheese table and the raw bar. The only things left are some lemon wedges and rinds of Brie. You have to send out more food, pronto.”

Pronto?
Siobhan wanted to slap her.

“I don’t have anything ready,” Siobhan said. “Let them get drunk.”

“What?” Claire said. She looked around the tent. Siobhan’s staff was furiously plating dinner. “Where is Carter?”

Finally she had noticed that Siobhan was doing this
all alone!

“If I had to guess, I would say Harrah’s in Atlantic City.”

“What?” Claire said.

“I kicked him out. It’s a long story that I do not have time to explain,” Siobhan said. “Do you have anything else to say, or are you only here to ride my ass?”

“Siobhan—”

“Nice pearls!” Siobhan spat.

C
laire got the key to the concession stand from the security guard. It was time to bring out the chandelier.

“I’d be careful carrying it in those shoes,” the security guard said.

“Point taken,” Claire said. She should have had someone help her, but she couldn’t find Lock or Jason. Claire scanned the crowd. She saw Jason standing at one of the tall cocktail tables, talking to Daphne Dixon. Daphne looked gorgeous in a coral halter dress that put her “beautiful tits” on display. Claire sighed. The sight of Jason and Daphne together unsettled her, but there was no time to pry them away from each other. And where was Lock? Okay, forget it: Claire would get the chandelier herself. There was a table outside the entrance of the tent where the chandelier was to sit and garner everyone’s admiration on the way into dinner.

Claire made her way across the field, her heels catching in the grass every now and again. There hadn’t been rain, thank God, but a field was still a field. Flats would have been a better call, but the dress called for heels. She would pay for her vanity tomorrow when her feet ached.

A couple stood outside the locked concession stand, deep in conversation. Claire did not look at them closely—she had no desire to interrupt—but then the woman made a noise and Claire did look over. It was Isabelle and . . . Gavin.

“Isabelle!” Claire called out in spite of herself. “God, I tried to reach you all week!”

Isabelle sniffed and adjusted the straps of her dress. Her dress was beautiful and simple, a red sheath with satin piping. “Hello, Claire,” she said.

Claire looked between Isabelle and Gavin. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said. “I just came to get the chandelier.”

“Oh, right,” Isabelle said.

“Is everything okay?”

Claire wondered if Isabelle was crying because of the article in
NanMag
. Was it that big of a deal? Or maybe she was upset that none of her friends had come to the event. Maybe she was crying over her bad divorce. Whatever it was, she had chosen a curious person to comfort her. Gavin. It gave Claire pause.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “I really didn’t mean to interrupt. Just ignore me.”

Claire unlocked the concession stand. Behind her, the party raged. Despite the fact that there were no hors d’oeuvres to speak of, the gala was going smoothly. She had not had the nerve to pop into the greenroom to check on Matthew; if she found him drinking, she would unhinge. It was better not to know. Besides, if she popped in to see him and they got into a difficult conversation, he might start drinking. She would stay away and hope for the best.

The concession stand had no lights, so Claire had to grope through the gathering dark for the chandelier. When she found the box, she became aware of Isabelle and Gavin loitering by the open door.

“I’ve got it,” Claire said. “I’ll unwrap it at the table.”

She hesitated before the doorway, indicating that they should make room, which they did, and Claire stepped through. Should she say anything else to Isabelle? Isabelle, even in the worst of times, had been upbeat and indomitable. She handwrote notes on hundreds of invitations, despite her shame; she got on the phone and interrogated caterers, including the head of the high school cafeteria. Claire should congratulate her, thank her—try one last time to connect with her. Tomorrow, Isabelle French would be out of her life forever.

But Claire stopped herself. Isabelle most certainly did not want to be comforted by Claire. For all Claire knew, she could be the reason Isabelle was crying.

Claire had the chandelier, and right now she needed to concentrate on delivering it safely to the tent. All the way across the field in these heels? Claire proceeded slowly, carefully; the box was heavy.

She set the chandelier down on the designated table and unpacked it, using scissors to free it from its cocoon of protective Bubble Wrap. A card beside the chandelier read,
Pulled-taffy chandelier in fuchsia. Artist: Claire Danner Crispin. Starting bid: $25,000.
People standing around the table oohed and aahed when the chandelier was finally revealed. Claire tried not to smile, but even sitting on the table, the chandelier was magnificent! She had worked so, so hard.

“It’s my first piece in nearly two years,” she said to no one in particular. At that moment, she wished fervently that Lock would win it. She had made it for him.

She touched the perfect arc of the first arm (four and a half hours, sixty tries).

“Good-bye,” she whispered. “Good-bye.”

H
e’d had three six-packs since arriving for the sound check, so eighteen beers, but it was nothing to worry about. Terry and Alfonso weren’t happy with him, he could tell, but they weren’t going to blow the whistle on him, either. It was just beer. They were relieved he hadn’t pulled the Tanqueray out.

He could have whatever he wanted. There was a nineteen-year-old Nepali kid named G-Man in the greenroom whose job it was to fetch Max and the band whatever their hearts desired. What Matthew desired was beer, and beer he got, Heineken after Heineken, in cold green bottles.
Namaste!

He popped open another beer. Number nineteen. The worst thing about drinking beer was that he constantly had to urinate. On his last trip to the Porta-John, he had felt light-headed. Whether this was because of the beer or because of his deep melancholy at leaving the next day, he had no idea. He wanted to leave with Claire, but he had not been able, yet, to persuade her. He entertained fantasies of just staying on Nantucket, of living with Claire and Jason and their kids, like some kind of eccentric uncle. The fact of the matter was, he needed a family; he should have started one of his own, but his lifestyle hadn’t cooperated. Too many drugs, too many late nights, too little chance for routine and consistency.

Matthew sneaked peeks out of the tent, across the field. Claire was in his crosshairs. He tried to appreciate the other women, but his eyes always landed on Claire. That green dress. It was impossible to believe that Claire was even prettier at thirty-seven than she had been at seventeen, but yes, it was true. She had grown into herself. She had so much confidence now, such a way about her, a kindness mixed with competence. She floated, lit from within.

At that second, Matthew saw Claire talking to a balding man in a pink tie. Claire tucked herself under his ear and whispered something. He, in turn, touched the small of her back, as though he was used to touching her. It was the head honcho of the charity. The guy had come into the greenroom and introduced himself a few minutes ago, but Matthew couldn’t remember the man’s name. Dock? Dick? The man had not seemed particularly starstruck to meet
Max West,
as so many people were, but he had been grateful and businesslike. Now, Matthew saw this Dick guy and Claire were on intimate terms. God, the way he’d touched her just now, his hand on the small of her back, practically cupping her ass, made Matthew burn with jealousy. He couldn’t trust himself, especially not when he’d been drinking. Was this Dick person the reason Claire had turned him down?

Matthew called G-Man over. “Would you get me a Tanqueray, splash of tonic, with a very fresh lime?” he asked. “Please?”

I
t was going too fast! Already it was time to sit for dinner. Everybody was starving. The cocktail hour—always legendary—had been a bit lean in the food department.

Claire took a deep breath and looked around the tent. This was
it!
The gala! The tent was lit by white Christmas lights and candles; the tables were decorated with crisp white linens, crystal goblets, and simple arrangements of pink tea roses in silver bowls. The tent shimmied with the sound of people talking and laughing. This was a beautiful party. Adams opened a bottle of champagne and poured some for Claire and then kissed her cheek and said, “You did a great job.”

“It wasn’t only me,” Claire said. She peered at the next table. Lock was sitting between Heather and Isabelle. Daphne was on the other side of Heather, and Gavin—who Claire now understood was Isabelle’s date!—was sitting on the other side of Isabelle. Dara, the cellist, was at the table with a date, and Aster Wyatt, the graphic designer, was there with his boyfriend. None of Isabelle’s other friends had shown up. Isabelle looked positively morose. Claire raised her champagne flute in Isabelle’s direction.
We did it!
she mouthed. Isabelle looked away.

Claire’s heart faltered. She took a feeble sip, then set her glass down. Tomorrow, she reminded herself, it wouldn’t matter what Isabelle thought.

Everything tends to go wrong at the last minute.
They were past the point where everything could go wrong, weren’t they? But Claire worried about dinner. Siobhan had not managed to get hors d’oeuvres out; even Genevieve and her troop of sixteen-year-olds could have done better. When the waiter set down Claire’s plate, however, her mind was put at ease: the food was beautiful. The beef tenderloin was rosy, the lobster salad creamy, the wild rice studded with dried cherries and golden raisins, like jewels. Claire checked around her: service seemed even. Claire believed she could hear a collective sigh of relief, and then expressions of excitement and joy. Dinner!