A Summer Affair: A Novel - By Elin Hilderbrand Page 0,9

it?”

“No, no,” Claire said quickly. “I ate at home.”

“Oh,” Lock said. “Right. Of course. Well, how about some wine, then?”

“Wine?” Claire said. At home, Jason would be dealing with bedtime. This normally went like clockwork: Bath for the younger three while J.D. finished his homework, then a shower for J.D. Then stories for the girls and Zack, which worked if Jason remembered to give Zack a bottle. The bottle had to go into the microwave for thirty seconds. Would Jason know this? She should have reminded him; she should have written it down. Claire eyed the phone on Lock’s desk. She should call home and check on things. Of course Pan, the Thai au pair who had come to live with them after Zack was born, was in the house, too, but Pan rarely came out of her room at night. Still, if Jason got into a jam, he would go to Pan and she would prep Zack’s bottle and rock him to sleep.

“I’d love a glass of wine,” Claire said.

One of the good things about being cochair of the summer gala and attending evening meetings, Claire thought, was that Jason would get more hands-on time with the kids.

“Wonderful,” Lock said. He disappeared into the hallway and came back with two glasses dangling from his fingers and a chilled bottle of white.

Very strange, Claire thought. Wine in the office.

Lock held up the bottle to her like a sommelier. “This is a viognier. It’s a white from the Rhône valley. It’s my favorite varietal.”

“Is it?” Claire said.

“My wife finds it too tart. Too lemony. But I love its brightness.” He poured Claire a glass and she took a sip. Wine, like classical music, was one of those things Claire wanted to learn more about. She had tried to interest Jason in a wine-tasting class offered through the Community School, but he’d refused on the grounds that he never drank wine, only beer. This wine was bright, it was grassy—should she say that word “grassy,” or would she sound like a complete ass? She wanted to make Lock happy (she could hear Siobhan shouting, No boundaries!), and hence she declared, “I love it.”

“You do?”

“I love it. It tastes like a meadow.”

Another smile from Lock. She had spent the past five years certain that he hated her, blamed her—but here he was, smiling! It warmed her to the pit of her stomach.

“I’m glad you like it,” Lock said. He poured himself a glass equal to Claire’s. Was this okay—drinking wine in the office, alone, with Lock Dixon? Had the meetings with his former cochairs gone this way?

“Is Adams coming?” Claire asked. Adams Fiske, a mop-haired local attorney and one of Claire’s dearest friends, was president of the board of directors.

“He’s in Duxbury this week,” Lock said.

“I invited my sister-in-law, Siobhan,” Claire said. “But I doubt she’ll remember.”

“Okay,” Lock said. He sounded like he couldn’t have cared less. He raised his glass. “Cheers!” he said. “Here’s to the summer gala!”

“To the summer gala,” Claire said.

“I’m so glad you agreed to cochair,” Lock said. “We really wanted you.”

Claire blushed again and sipped her wine. “It’s my pleasure.”

Lock was sitting on the edge of his desk. He was wearing khaki pants, loafers without socks, a leather belt with a silver monogrammed belt buckle. His tie was loose and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. Claire found him newly fascinating—but why? She knew nothing about him, other than that he was a rich man. That was interesting. Or rather, it was interesting that he had taken this job (which Claire, as a member of the board of directors, knew meant that he made $82,000 a year) even though he was so rich he never had to work again.

“I think we’ve found someone to be your cochair,” Lock said.

“Oh,” Claire said. “Good.” This was good; Claire certainly couldn’t shoulder all of the responsibility of the summer gala herself. And yet she was nervous about having a cochair. Claire was an artist; she worked alone. There was some sense in which she could call Jason her cochair—the cochair of the family—but if Claire got home tonight and found J.D. on the computer (unshowered, his homework incomplete), the girls lying in bed with tangled hair (you had to comb it out carefully), and Zack zoned out on Jason’s lap in front of Junkyard Wars, she would throw her arms up in frustration. “Who is it?”

“Isabelle French,” Lock said. “Do you know her? She joined the board in