wide-rimmed Jackie O sunglasses, her eyes are peeled for anyone famous.
Last night after dinner she’d paused to study the photos lining the hallway leading into the hotel restaurant. Almost all of them autographed. There was Winston Churchill and Calvin Coolidge, Robert Redford and Judy Garland. Gabriel García Márquez and Ernest Hemingway. Audrey Hepburn and Shirley Chisholm and Lorraine Hansberry. Remarkable, really. Claire wouldn’t mind spotting Mia Farrow or maybe Dustin Hoffman at the famed Seafarer cocktail hour today. She’d like to ask Dustin what it was like working with Meryl Streep in Kramer vs. Kramer, one of her all-time favorite films. Or how difficult it was to transform himself into a matronly woman every day on the set of Tootsie, another favorite. She bets they’d have a fascinating conversation. And rumor has it that later in the week, the daughter of a Boston Brahmin will be hosting her wedding reception here.
The fact that she’s seen no one famous, though, won’t detract from Claire’s pleasure. She sighs contentedly and gazes out on the side lawn where various croquet matches are taking place. There’s the cute couple she met this morning on the elevator. The fellow has his arms wrapped around his girlfriend while he tries to show her how to shoot her red ball through the wicket. The young woman, her long blond hair hanging down past her shoulders, is even prettier than Claire remembers. She throws her head back and laughs when the red ball goes sailing right past the wicket. “Let’s go back to playing tennis!” she shouts playfully. The whole exchange makes Claire think fondly of those first years with Walt, when they’d been in so in love, every outing an opportunity to flirt, to have fun. When it seemed that the whole world was ripe with possibility. Yes, she’s quite sure that once, a long time ago, she and Walt were a lot like this couple.
She doesn’t want to spoil it for them, but she does have half a mind to march over and warn them. That things won’t always be this easy. That life is difficult, and even if you think you’ve done everything right—lived by your moral compass, loved deeply—the world doesn’t owe you a thing. So beware.
But what is she? A total killjoy?
She scolds herself for being petty. If she’s not careful, she’ll turn into one of those old biddies who give out unsolicited advice, that woman whom people try to avoid at the grocery store. All she needs is a pair of sensible sneakers and a sun hat with a wide brim to complete the stereotype. But no, tonight she’s dressed in a very pleasant-looking blue linen skirt and a white blouse that she hopes will signal to strangers that she’s sophisticated enough for engaging conversation. After the pool, she’d headed up to her room to shower and change, in the event that she did happen to bump into someone famous at the cocktail hour, say, Michelle Obama. Because if they ever got around to talking, Claire is confident that she and Michelle would become instant best friends.
So far, though, she’s only seen couples—everyone annoyingly paired off, who shoot her kind looks and say hello but quickly move on to the next chair, never mind that there are two empty seats right beside her. When a waiter stops to offer her tomato and mozzarella on a skewer, she helps herself to two and places them on the elegant white plate handed to her. There are worse things in life, she reasons, than enjoying a cocktail and hors d’oeuvres on the porch, even if it’s by herself.
For a moment, she considers calling Marty—she has his number now, clocked on her cell—just to see if he might want to hop over to the Seafarer, join her for a quick drink. But then she thinks better of it. There’s a reason he suggested tomorrow for dinner, not tonight. He’s probably busy.
She watches while a Mercedes, a Porsche and then a bright yellow Lamborghini pull up to the hotel. She’s no car expert, but she recognizes money when she sees it. This is clearly the place where the well-to-do come to summer. Other guests wander about in their Vineyard Vines polo shirts and shorts, their sockless loafers. The women—tanned, Botoxed and predominantly blonde—all look twenty years younger than the men. They also all appear to be carrying either an Hermès or a Louis Vuitton handbag. Claire gives her wicker summer purse a swift kick under her chair,