Love on Lexington Avenue - Lauren Layne Page 0,3

months, she welcomed it. She couldn’t wait for hammering and drilling and muttered swearing. Sure, it was turmoil, but Claire needed it. Craved it.

And yet . . .

She narrowed her eyes at the samples she’d chosen for the kitchen. Cherrywood cabinets and floor to match. Contrasting white granite countertops. Stainless-steel sink. A muted eggshell paint color for the walls. Just a couple of days ago, Claire had been thrilled with the choices. They’d seemed timeless. Elegant without being stuffy. Modern without being trendy.

But now, through the lens of that damn cupcake, all she could see was . . . vanilla. Every single sample, every color, every texture was precisely what was expected.

Slowly, Claire began shuffling through her color selections and textile samples for the other rooms of the house. Her motions became increasingly more frantic as her brain registered what her eyes were seeing.

White. Off-white. Soft white. Snow white. Simply white. Ultra white. Warm white. Paper white. Cream. Beige. Eggshell. Ecru. Cream. Ivory. Oatmeal. Powder. Coconut. Snow. Bone. Linen. Lace. Porcelain. Dove.

For the love of God, one was actually called vanilla.

The worst part wasn’t the blandness, though that wasn’t great. The worst part was the gut-level knowledge that this pile of blah was exactly what everyone expected of her. It’s what she expected of herself.

Claire had always thought of herself as steady. Had prided herself in her reliability, but what if there was a dark underbelly to that constancy.

What if instead she’d fallen into a pit of boring? And worse? What if she didn’t have the foggiest clue how to climb back out again?

Panicked now, Claire snatched her cell phone off the counter.

“Claire?” Audrey’s voice sounded puzzled when she picked up. “Are you okay?”

Translation: Why are you calling instead of texting like usual?

Claire took a deep breath. “I bought a cupcake today. Guess what flavor it is?”

“Oh, it’s a cupcake emergency,” Audrey said with such understanding that Claire knew she’d called the right person. Naomi would have rolled with the direction of the conversation, too, but Claire knew that Naomi’s nights were spent cuddled up with her sexy boyfriend, and cupcake phone calls might be slightly less welcome.

“Hmm, okay, you bought it for yourself?” Audrey was musing. “Then it’s definitely vanilla.”

Claire’s heart sank. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a vanilla cupcake.”

“I’m confused,” Audrey said slowly. “I feel like I both passed and failed a quiz at the same time.”

“No, it’s not you,” Claire said rubbing her forehead. “Out of curiosity, what is the zaniest cupcake flavor you can think of?”

“Well . . . Magnolia has this absolutely decadent flourless chocolate cupcake that’s—”

“Not chocolate,” Claire interrupted. “I mean, it can have chocolate in it. But I don’t want the standard flavors. I’m talking about a cupcake that breaks all the rules.”

“Do cupcakes even have rules? Are you at a bakery having a decision crisis, or is something else going on here?”

Something else.

Though she didn’t blame her friend for the confusion. Claire wasn’t the type of person to call at nine at night with a dessert-related emergency.

For that matter, Claire wasn’t the type to have any emergency. She was a problem solver. She was the one other people called when they needed help, advice, or just a listening ear. The friend who could tell you how to get red wine out of silk or who would gently but firmly tell you that no, a bob wouldn’t really suit your face shape.

In her marriage, she’d been the rock, the one who’d made Brayden a drink at the end of the day and then patiently listened as he unloaded about his brainless coworkers, his small-minded boss, the barista who’d gotten his order wrong.

The roles had rarely reversed, and Claire had never minded—or even noticed, really. Not until Brayden had died. Not until, on the heels of that death, Claire had learned that the stable foundation upon which she’d built her entire life hadn’t been nearly as steady as she’d imagined.

Because Brayden hadn’t just died. He’d left the world naked and drunk and falling off a boat while a twenty-year-old college student waited for him on the dock so they could do exactly what it was that cheating men and carefree twenty-something girls did together.

His autopsy had revealed that he’d hit his head and was unconscious when he went into the water, unaware that he was drowning. Unaware that his quietly dedicated wife once again would be tasked with cleaning up the mess and picking up the pieces.

And she had. She’d gone through all the stages of