Blows It
Unlike 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