A Summer Affair: A Novel - By Elin Hilderbrand Page 0,52
It’s his favorite wine. Not Edward’s, but Lock Dixon’s. Lock Dixon kept telling Claire she was an artist, not an artisan. Siobhan was a caterer, not a chef, not a genius; she had scored Bs and Cs during her years with the nuns. She sometimes got so caught up in the mood of things that her common sense suffered. Her husband had managed to gamble away four figures right under her nose. Right under her nose. It’s his favorite wine.
Was something going on between Claire and Lock Dixon? Never! And yet, it sounded like it. But Claire was a straight arrow; she was all caught up with being good and kind and sending positive energy out into the universe. She was all about her kids and the lofty precepts of art, and besides all that, she had a sex life with Jason that was directly out of Cosmo. Claire would never have an affair. And if she were, impossibly, having an affair, she would never keep it from Siobhan. Claire told Siobhan everything; she told Siobhan about her menstrual cramps, her hangnails; she told Siobhan when the mail arrived or the toilet backed up. It’s his favorite wine. Such a curious statement, and Claire had said it so proudly, so proprietarily. Claire and Lock Dixon? Never! And yet . . . it sounded like it.
Siobhan catered the Montessori dinner to enormous kudos, she got Edward the bid for the gala, she kept an eye on Carter’s gambling, she delivered the boys to and from their endless hockey practices. At Christmastime she went crazy around the house, cooking and decorating: she baked figgy puddings, she made smoked salmon dip with homemade Parmesan pepper crisps, she did a gingerbread house with the boys, even though they had outgrown it and did little more than eat all the candy. Her gift to her friends this year was wreaths made out of dried hydrangea and the giant pinecones that fell from the firs out by Tupancy Links.
Siobhan went on several pinecone-collecting missions, all of them bewitching and romantic. She wrapped herself in a candy-striped merino scarf and carried a woven basket as she wandered through the firs on cold afternoons, with the promise of Christmas carols at home, and a hot buttered rum to warm her up. She was a girl from a fairy tale in those moments as she gathered only the largest, most perfect pinecones, the only person for miles, alone on this pristine part of the island.
Imagine her surprise when, on her way home with an overflowing basket of plump piney beauties next to her, she passed Claire’s car. Siobhan was heading out of the evergreen forest and Claire was headed into it. Claire was driving way too fast, so that when Siobhan came around the bend on the dirt road, Claire’s car was right there on top of her; they nearly collided. Siobhan gasped at the near miss, then gasped again at the fact that it was Claire’s car, Claire at the wheel with somebody in the passenger seat—a man. Lock Dixon. Or at least Siobhan thought it was Lock Dixon. All she could say for sure was that the man was wearing earmuffs and Lock was famous around town for wearing earmuffs (pole up his ass). Siobhan knew Claire recognized her car—how could she not?—but Claire didn’t stop. She and Lock Dixon barreled into the deserted forest that Siobhan had just left.
Siobhan drove on, stymied. In the months since Claire had agreed to chair the gala, there had been two or three meetings a week, always at night. Jason complained to Carter, and Carter passed the complaints on to Siobhan. Seems a bit excessive, doesn’t it? All those meetings. Don’t you ever chair anything like that.
Never, Siobhan said. It’s too much bloody work.
What were Claire and Lock Dixon doing driving into the forest together at one o’clock on a December afternoon? They weren’t going to collect pinecones, that was for sure. Siobhan considered following them. What would they be doing?
Later that afternoon, Siobhan called Claire at home, and Claire said, “Hey, how are you?” As though nothing had happened.
“Did you not see me?” Siobhan demanded.
“See you what?”
“Up at Tupancy. Coming out of the woods. In my car. Jesus, Claire, you nearly ran me over.”
Claire laughed, but Siobhan was her best friend, had been for fucking centuries, and she could tell it was a fake laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”