with the citrusy scent and swishy bangs. He’d been the artist, the same one who had sat with her at a kitchen table and made finger-painted animals.
She had Mark Enright’s blood in her veins. It was the blood of brothers, some broken, some reclusive, some beaten down. It was the blood of mothers, some absent and some monstrous. The blood of fathers, some quiet and some dead. The blood of sisters, running hot and contentious, warm and loving. Enrights, Clarks, Sullivans, and other ancestors with stories Eileen would never know—they were part of her, but none of them determined who she was.
And now art wasn’t something to be feared. Art could be a way out.
Claire had made that possible, and while Eileen hadn’t decided about the fellowship yet, she did mean to drive to Eugene in two weeks’ time, for the interview.
She was doing the best she could.
Eileen pulled the Caravan into the carport and parked. When she came around to the house, she found Claire sitting on the front porch, wearing her peacoat and messy hair bun. Sun slanted across her face, drawing thick shadows of evergreen branches on her cheeks.
Eileen stopped for a moment, watching her. She and Claire, they’d been close. They’d shared secrets and fought battles, side by side. Then they’d lost the threads that had been holding them together. Maybe those threads were ripped out for good.
Maybe, too, there was another pattern to be stitched.
Claire was a living portrait in the sun and shadows—someone Eileen wanted to paint. She’d call the piece Exceller, and she’d mean it in the most unironic way.
Eileen breathed in deep and walked forward.
“Hey,” she said, reaching the porch. “Weird weather, huh?”
THIRTY-FIVE Claire
At the same time Eileen was driving home from AA, Claire was composing a text to Ainsley St. John.
She used a phone she’d bought from a woman on Craigslist two weeks ago. It was nowhere near as nice as her last one, but these days Claire cared less about battery life and video quality.
Ainsley had written plenty of times since her YALE, BABY! text.
Once to say, Hey, you alive?
Another to say, Happy New Year, hope you’re well.
A third to say, Worried about you, girl. I’ve decided on Yale, hope I’ll see you there.
Claire knew she’d been a bad friend. At first she hadn’t responded because she hadn’t known how. Then she hadn’t because she no longer had a working phone. And then she hadn’t because there’d been too much happening: school starting back up, and a return to the jewelry business, and—the biggest change—spending time with her sisters at night.
Claire didn’t shut her bedroom door that often these days. Instead, after school and on the weekends, the sisters gathered in the den to watch an awful reality show, or—Claire’s choice—Jeopardy!
Sometimes, they just talked.
It was new, and it was nice. It was also another poor excuse for why Claire hadn’t found the chance to write Ainsley back.
Now, on the twenty-first of January, she knew it was time. She’d spent a full month in silence. That had to end.
And oh, the possible texts she could send:
I inherited a house from my long-lost uncle.
Or,
I uncovered way more family secrets than any seventeen-year-old has a right to know.
Or,
I was busy having a crisis about my identity.
Or,
I’ve become disillusioned by the college application process.
Or,
The truth is, I’ve fantasized about meeting you for months, and I know it sounds crazy, and you have a girlfriend, but I thought you could be my first kiss.
Instead, Claire wrote, Turns out I didn’t get in. I’m so happy for you, though. Best wishes, girl. <3
It felt disingenuous. It even felt a little cold. It also felt right. Claire sent the text while sitting on the porch, warming her face in the rare January sun. Then she shut off the phone—a symbolic move.
She closed her eyes, listening to the rustle of wind in the evergreens, breathing in the scent of grass and sunbathed concrete. She listened as a juddering vehicle pulled up the driveway. Then the engine cut. Claire only opened her eyes when a voice said, “Hey. Weird weather, huh?”
“Weird weather,” Claire agreed. She motioned across the porch to a white-and-green-checkered lawn chair.
Eileen sat, stretching out her spider-long legs and knocking together the heels of her combat boots.
“Where were you?” Claire asked.
“AA.”
Claire thought at first that she was joking. Eileen did have a sick sense of humor.
Then she saw it in Eileen’s eyes: the light.
“Oh,” she said. “Wow. That’s … Leenie, that’s … Good for you.”