A Summer Affair: A Novel - By Elin Hilderbrand Page 0,2
texture to her shame. People would hear about Daphne’s accident and think of Claire.
“Thanks,” Claire said.
Daphne survived the surgery. She was hospitalized in Boston for weeks, though it wasn’t clear what was wrong with her. There were no broken bones, no spinal cord injuries, thank God, and no significant blood loss. There was a concussion, certainly, and some other problems that fell under the umbrella of “head injuries.” There was amnesia of a sort—and here the stories varied. Did she know her name? Did she know Lock and Heather? Yes. But she didn’t remember anything about the night out, and when Lock told her who she’d been out with—Julie Jackson, Claire Danner Crispin, Siobhan Crispin—Daphne shook her head. I don’t know those people. The memory came back, eventually, but certain things were rattled out of place. She wasn’t the same; she wasn’t right. There was some irreparable damage that had no name.
The guilt stayed with Claire. She was the one who had invited Daphne to come out in the first place. She had bought the last, godforsaken drink, when Daphne had already overimbibed. She had tried to cajole Daphne into the cab, but she had not dragged her by the arms the way she should have. She had not called the police or enlisted the help of the bouncer. She turned it over and over in her mind. Sometimes she exonerated herself. How could this possibly be construed as her fault? But the truth was brutal: Claire had failed to exercise the common sense needed to keep Daphne safe. A sin of omission, perhaps, but a sin just the same. It will never come out.
When Daphne came home from the hospital, Claire filled a basket with homemade clam chowder and chicken salad and two novels and a jazz CD and some scented soaps. Something was wrong with Daphne mentally, that was the rumor, but no one knew what exactly. Claire sat in the car outside the Dixons’ monstrous summer home for a long time before she summoned the courage to take the basket of goodies to the front door. She was propelled forward by guilt and held back by fear. If Daphne opened the door, what would Claire say?
She knocked timidly, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood with her basket; then she chastised herself. She was being ridiculous! Siobhan liked to point out how ironic it was that Claire was named Claire, or “clear”—because Claire was blurry. No boundaries! Siobhan would shout. All her life, Claire had had a problem figuring out where other people ended and she began. All her life, she’d taken on the world’s hurt; she held herself responsible. But why?
Footsteps approached. Claire stopped breathing. The door opened, and Claire found herself face-to-face with Lock Dixon. He was, as everyone knew, a terrifically wealthy man, a billionaire, though it was now rumored he would sell his superconductor business in Boston. It was rumored that he was going to live here on Nantucket full-time and take care of things until Daphne was herself again.
“Hi,” Claire said, and she felt her cheeks bloom. She thrust the basket at Lock, and they both peered in at its jumble of contents. Soup, soap—Claire didn’t know what Daphne would want or need, but she had to bring something. Claire knew Lock Dixon casually; they had had the conversation about glassblowing, about Claire’s hot shop out behind her house. But would he remember? Claire was sure he would not remember. She was not memorable; she was frequently mistaken for every other redhead on Nantucket. “This is for Daphne.”
“Oh,” he said. His voice was husky, as if he hadn’t used it for days. He looked older to her, balder and heavier. “Thank you.”
“I’m Claire Danner,” she said. “Crispin.”
“Yes,” he said. “I know who you are.” He didn’t smile or say anything further, and Claire realized that this was what she had been afraid of. It hadn’t been Daphne at all, but Lock. He knew about the margarita and the other ways that Claire had failed his wife, and he blamed her. His eyes accused her.
“I’m sorry,” Claire said. There was a funny smell coming from the basket—the clams gone bad, the chicken salad rancid. Claire was mortified. She should say something else—I hope Daphne feels better. Please give her my best. But no, she couldn’t. She turned, fled for her car.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
He Asks Her
Early Fall 2007
Claire Danner Crispin had never been so nervous about a lunch date in all her life.