problem, now, with Daphne: she told you the unadulterated truth about yourself until you cried. She didn’t do it to be mean; she simply couldn’t help herself. Minutes earlier, Claire had been thinking about how things weren’t connected, how there was no tit for tat, no retribution for one’s actions visited on one from above—but maybe she was mistaken. This verbal assault right now was one small piece of payback for everything that had happened the night of Daphne’s accident. The irreparable damage that had no name was this: Daphne was now rude, and not only rude but mean; she forgot things easily; she repeated herself a hundred times—whole thoughts and ideas as well as individual words. It became a verbal tic, this repetition; it became a stutter. She had remarked to Julie Jackson, while her head was still swathed in bandages, “I can see everything now. Everything is crystal clear.” But that seemed to mean she had complete disregard for the rules of polite society, for small talk, for being thought of as kind and amenable. Instead, she was sharp-tongued and venomous; she was notoriously brutal. Nobody liked Daphne Dixon anymore; she set out to sting people, like a wasp. She was her own doppelgänger now, after the accident. She was a bowl of cream gone rancid.
It was always Claire who stuck up for her.
She’s not that bad, really. When she’s on her medication, she’s perfectly fine.
The guilt, old and useless, was tar in her hair; it was an invisible thread snarled around her heart. Claire had bought the last drink, she had not absolutely insisted that Daphne get into the taxi, and a woman’s personality had been forever altered. Daphne was somebody else now, and Claire blamed herself.
Here, in the chilly outer ring of the Stop & Shop, Claire was receiving her just deserts: Daphne was holding up a mirror and forcing Claire to look. How can you chair the gala when you can’t even get a shower? When you were careless in the hot shop and put yourself into preterm labor? When you won’t face the fact that your baby isn’t now, and may never be, right? How can you give it a dedicated effort?
“My nephew broke his arm playing hockey and was medevaced to Boston,” Claire said. “I have to go. I want to make Siobhan some dinner.”
Daphne’s face softened. “Oh, God,” she said. “How awful. By all means, go, go. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Claire looked at Daphne. Her ears were pink again, like a regular person’s ears. She was, at that second, her old self—but that was part of the problem, too, the inconsistency. Daphne bounced like a tennis ball between two frames of mind. Which personality were you going to get? Claire was no dummy. She was being given a pass, and she was going to take it.
“Okay, I will,” Claire said. “See you later, Daphne.”
CHAPTER THREE
He Asks Her (Again)
When Claire walked up the stairs of the Elijah Baker House for the second gala meeting, she found Lock Dixon sitting at his desk much as he had been two weeks earlier, minus the sandwich. He was wearing a pink shirt this time and a red paisley tie; the classical station was on, featuring harpsichord music. The office was dark but for the desk lamp and the blue glow of Lock’s computer. Claire checked her watch, confused. It was five after eight.
“Where is everybody?” she said.
And at the same time, Lock said, “Didn’t you get my message?”
“What message? No.”
“The meeting was canceled. Postponed, to next week.”
“Oh,” Claire said. “No, I didn’t get it . . .”
“We should have tried your cell phone. I told Gavin that, and he looked around the office for the number, but to no avail. I’m sorry. Adams has the flu and Isabelle couldn’t call in tonight, so we bumped the meeting back to next week. I feel bad that you had to come all the way into town for nothing.”
For nothing—well, in a way it was for nothing, but Claire didn’t regret it. She turned to survey the rest of the office. “Is Gavin here?” she said.
“No,” Lock said. “He left at five.”
“Oh,” Claire said. “Well, you and I could talk over some things . . .”
And at the same time, Lock said, “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Viognier?” Claire said. She worried she was pronouncing it wrong, though she had practiced at home in the shower: vee-og-nyay. “Yes, I’d love some.”
When