of this? Because, you know, here in this office, we insist things be done in an aboveboard way.”
Claire gazed at the wall next to Gavin’s desk. Only eighteen hours earlier, Lock Dixon had pressed her up against that wall. What would Gavin think if he knew? He would never believe it—and if he’d seen it with his own eyes, he would have fainted dead away.
We insist things be done in an aboveboard way. Gavin was weaselly, Claire decided. And self-important. He was the kind of guy who assumed that any woman he went out with more than three times would want to marry him, and now he was treating the catering bids as if they were the Pentagon Papers. But unlike three weeks ago, when Claire had known nothing about the gala, had done nothing and contributed nothing, she now felt she had some clout, some bargaining power. She had delivered Max West promptly, and free of charge. Surely she could lobby on Siobhan’s behalf?
“Is it really that big of a deal?” Claire asked.
“I’m just trying to keep everything on the up-and-up. You don’t want your integrity called into question, do you?”
Her integrity was becoming a tender spot already. “God, no,” she said. “You’re right. Forget I asked.”
Gavin nodded again and got back to work, effectively dismissing her.
“You’ll show Lock the contract?”
“When he gets back.”
“Okay.” She couldn’t really delay another second. Did she want to delay? Did she want to see Lock? Yes, desperately, but now she would be too nervous, she would be tongue-tied, and Gavin, with his sharp, discriminating eye, would detect something fishy afoot, something fishier than the catering bids. Get out of there! “Good-bye!”
The following night, Wednesday, there was a real meeting. Jason grumbled and Claire snapped at him for grumbling. He was angry that Claire had gone back to work, and she was angry that he was angry. She was more than angry; she was disillusioned. Jason didn’t value her career—and not only did he not value it, but he hated it. He had told his own brother that he wanted to bomb Claire’s hot shop. Bomb it—like a terrorist! When Claire had heard him say those words, they had not seemed as egregious as they did now. Jason had asked Claire to give up her career; he made her feel like her career was evil. He did not appreciate or respect her work. Lock was responsible for getting Claire back into the hot shop. That was a bond that went beyond the kiss in the office.
As she grabbed her purse, Jason said, “Have fun at your meeting.”
“Thanks,” Claire said with open hostility. “I will.”
Claire could see the lights of the Nantucket’s Children office blazing from half a block away. Then she saw Brent Jackson, Julie’s husband, and Brent’s friend Edward Melior (who had the distinction of having once been engaged to Siobhan) heading toward the office from Water Street. Claire waved and they all climbed the stairs together, and Claire was glad she was entering the office with these handsome, successful men (Brent and Edward were both real estate agents) rather than alone. The office was a hive of activity. Adams Fiske was there, shaking hands, pounding backs, directing people toward the boardroom. Francine Davis was there, one of Claire’s recruits, as well as Lauren van Aln, and the biggest coup, Tessa Kline, who was an editor at NanMag, the island’s biggest, glossiest magazine. She would give them great press. Right away, it was a party of sorts, all these people, a veritable who’s who of year-round islanders, and Claire was so overwhelmed and so pleased with herself for gathering these fine souls that she nearly forgot to look for Lock. There he was, in the corner, talking to a woman Claire didn’t recognize. The woman was attractive, wearing a red silk Chinese jacket and jeans. She had the sort of long, straight hair that distracted men, and the hair was loose, which seemed like a come-on, a call for attention, on a woman in her forties. Why not pull it back or pin it up? The hair—a pretty light brown—was making some kind of statement, and Claire didn’t like what it was saying. She felt as if her own hair—true, deep red and naturally wavy—was a Brillo pad in comparison. It was Ronald McDonald hair. She felt immediately defensive, not only about her hair, but about Lock’s talking to an attractive woman. Claire realized—just as Lock turned and looked at her (blankly, as