silently, velvet gloves, velvet slippers. He would peek, get visual confirmation, and then beat it.
He crept to the top of the stairs, at which point he heard, very distinctly, the sound of Claire crying. He peered around the corner into the conference room. There they were. What Gavin saw was Lock’s back—he wore only his yellow dress shirt and a pair of boxers. His pants were in a pile a few feet away. He was standing at the conference table. Claire was sitting on the table with her bare legs wrapped around Lock’s back and her head buried in his chest. She was crying; he was shushing her.
Okay, Gavin thought. Enough. Too much. He was leaving! He tiptoed like mad down the stairs; he could not wait to get outside. Carefully, he eased open the door (it was telling, he thought, that they had locked it behind them). They had a system, a ritual; this was a thing that Gavin had uncovered, a real thing! He might have felt excited by this—amused, smug, self-satisfied (he knew Lock was hiding something!). He might have felt relieved that he wasn’t the only person he knew gone wayward; he might also have recognized the value of his new knowledge, its bargaining power. But first what Gavin felt was shock, followed quickly by sadness, disappointment, disillusionment. It was like learning there was no Superman, no such thing as a true hero. Lock and Claire. Gavin shook his head as he barreled through the dark night toward his car (his interest in the letter, like that, had been zapped).
He couldn’t trust anyone anymore.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She Tells Her
Claire tried to make amends. With Jason, this meant apologies on the hour—apologies in person, messages on his voice mail, a note stuck to the steering wheel of his truck. It meant placing herself in servitude. She cooked his favorite things: fried chicken, pasta with sausage and basil, his mother’s corned beef, chocolate chip cookies. She folded his T-shirts, she had a beer cracked when he walked in the door, and she put the kids to bed herself every night so that he could watch TV. Still, Jason slept in the guest room or on the sofa; still he spoke to her in a furious, clipped tone, but by the following weekend, the debacle of the party had been absorbed into the sponge of their life together. There was too much going on to dwell on it. Jason returned to their bed, he reached for Claire as though nothing had happened, and afterward, as she lay awake, she was amazed at what a marriage was able to sustain. It could sustain horrible fights; it could sustain her, desperately in love with someone else.
Claire’s relationship with Siobhan was another story. Claire had not spoken to Siobhan in ten days. Ten days! It was long enough to make Claire think that perhaps Siobhan was gone for good. Claire had tried everything; she had even called Edward Melior about the catering bid.
Edward, who was always charming, was decidedly curt and businesslike on the phone. This may have been a reaction to Claire’s strident tone (which she had promised herself she wouldn’t take, but she had a hard time suppressing it).
“Edward? Claire Crispin. I heard you picked a caterer.”
“Yes . . .”
“I heard you picked À La Table.”
“Yes, we—”
“Unfortunately, Genevieve told Siobhan . . .”
“Yes, I know all about it.”
“It would have been a good idea to have called Siobhan right away, you know. So she didn’t have to hear it on the street.”
“I did call. I left her a message on her office phone.”
“You did?”
“I did.”
“She doesn’t check the office phone in the winter,” Claire said. “You know that.”
“I don’t know that. It was the number she put on the bid.”
“You could have tried to reach her at home.”
“I didn’t feel comfortable doing that, Claire. For obvious reasons.”
“I’m the event cochair, Edward. You could have called me and told me about your decision. Then I could have called Siobhan and smoothed things over.” Claire paused. “In fact, I have to say, I’m a little surprised that you didn’t call me, you know, to check with me, before you handed Genevieve the golden apple.”
“It sounds suspiciously like you’re pulling rank on me, Claire,” Edward said. “Are you? Because I was under the impression that when you asked me to spearhead the catering, you meant that my committee and I were to meet, review the bids, and choose a caterer. It sounds as if what