and would only allow it in her weakest moments). Claire eased the door open, resolved that what she would find inside would not be to her liking—and there she found Shea, asleep upright against the unforgiving bolster of the C pillows, and at the foot of the bed, Ottilie and J.D., quietly drawing. It was adorable, really—when was the last time Claire had seen the two of them doing quiet, productive work together? It had been years. J.D. was sketching with a set of sharp pencils. He was drawing houses; he wanted to be an architect. Ottilie was coloring with a set of special markers that Claire had ordered from a catalog. When Claire entered, the kids looked up and smiled shyly, knowing that although they hadn’t eaten a bite of breakfast, there was no way she could be anything but happy with them. They were doing creative work and keeping watch over their sick sister. Model children, two more miracles, or so Claire would have thought had her eyes not landed swiftly on Ottilie’s special, ordered-from-a-catalog fuchsia marker, which had the cap off and was bleeding ink, in a perfect circle, onto the precious white duvet cover.
The duvet cover was ruined. It was such a stupid thing, in comparison with everything else, but it was the thing that made Claire’s throat tighten; it was the thing that nearly made her cry.
“Come down to breakfast,” she sniffled.
At ten thirty, the phone rang. Claire was upstairs trying to strip the vomity sheets off the bed with Zack clinging to her neck, and the sound of the phone took her by surprise. She zipped downstairs to get it. Siobhan, she thought, and her heart lightened. Or Jason. Or . . . Lock. But no, it was Sunday; he would never in a million years call her house on a Sunday.
The caller ID said Unknown Number. Telemarketer, she thought, her heart sinking. Zack started to bang his head against her breastbone and cry. It was not a good time to take a call. But Claire was grateful that anyone wanted to talk to her, even a salesperson. She picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Claire?”
It was a man. It was Lock? It was not Lock, but the voice was as familiar as Lock’s voice. It was ringing the same bells in her head.
“Yes?” she said.
“It’s me.”
She paused, then said tentatively, “Me who?”
“Matthew.”
“Oh,” she said, astonished. Matthew? Really, it was Matthew? “Oh, God, I can’t believe it.”
“You got my message?” he said. “Back in . . . ?”
“October. Yes, I got it.”
“I’m home now,” he said. “Well, not home home, but in California.”
Zack was crying. Claire couldn’t hear Matthew. She said, “Can you hang on a second?”
“Is this a bad time?”
“No!” she said. “No, God, no.” The voice all of a sudden made sense; it clicked, that famous voice. It had been so long. “I have to talk to you. I mean, I need a friend, and all of my other friends, and my husband, for that matter—well, I’ve pissed them off. I’m pretty much persona non grata around here.”
“That makes two of us,” he said.
“Hold on one second,” she said.
She set the phone down and tried to shush Zack, but he was in a full-blown tizzy; there was nothing she could do with him. But she wanted to talk to Matthew; they had known and loved each other long before Jason or Siobhan or Lock had come into her life, and there was a reason he was calling now, this morning. It was a sign; it was what she needed.
She buckled. She had no choice. She knocked on Pan’s bedroom door.
Pan opened the door a crack. She was wearing a gray athletic shirt and black panties and her hair was in her face. She had been asleep.
“I am so, so sorry,” Claire said. “But can you please, please hold him for ten minutes? I have to take a very important phone call.”
Pan did not respond, and Claire thought maybe she was sleepwalking. Zack lunged for her, and Pan reached out instinctively, took Zack, and shut the door.
“Thank you!” Claire said to the closed door. “Thanks, Pan! Ten minutes!”
She hurried back to the phone. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Thank God,” Claire said. She moved outside and settled on the top step of the deck, where she sat in the sun. She was warm, outside, for the first time in months. “Thank God you called me.”
“Tell me what’s happening,” Matthew said. “Tell me everything.”
Only then did Claire cry.