Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,49

booked.”

“Wow, that does sound pretty great.” There’s some noise on Amber’s end, and Claire can hear the beeping of the scanner. For a split second, she almost divulges her plans for tonight. Martin’s name has come up enough times over the years that the kids like to tease her about the fish that got away. But if they knew how much Claire’s mind has drifted to him over the last year, now that Walt is gone, they might be shocked. No, it’s best not to get into it, she decides.

“And how’s my precious granddaughter?” she asks instead.

“Fighting a little summer cold, but otherwise, she’s good.”

“Tell her that her nana misses her.”

“I will. We miss you.”

“Well, only a couple more days till I’m back in your hair.”

“Ha,” says Amber.

“Ha back,” says Claire. Her name is called for pickup. “Well, I’ll let you go. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“You bet. Bye, Mom.”

Claire collects her coffee and heads out, past Nebo and Rowes Wharf, the coffee warming her hands. Isn’t it funny, she thinks, how daughters check in on their mothers, but sons rarely do? She hasn’t heard from Ben since she left Providence on Monday afternoon. He’d come over Sunday night for dinner, hugged her goodbye and told her to call if she needed anything. Boys were funny that way. Men, too, as if whatever protective, worry gene women possessed hadn’t been passed along to them.

A trolley car passes by and hoots its horn, causing Claire to jump. Years ago she and Walt had signed the family up for a trolley tour. It had been surprisingly educational. Their driver was flush with arcane knowledge, explaining such things as why the Beacon Hill brownstones had purple windows (precious glass imported from Europe had unexpectedly turned violet from the sun). The thought of that long-ago trip conjures up Walt, jarring in its immediacy, as if he’s ambling along right beside her, commenting on the people, the sky, the rash of new buildings that have gone up since they last visited Boston. His image is so close, Claire can almost detect the scent of his cologne. Old Spice. She tries to shake it off.

But the thought prompts another memory, unbidden. There’d been that one year, when Amber had been in fourth grade and Ben in kindergarten, when Walt had seemed interested in her again. By then, Claire was back to working at the paper, Walt’s hours at the firm had settled into a more reasonable schedule, and he actually made it home for dinner most nights. Claire remembers it distinctly because it was the year the Hillers moved into the neighborhood.

Originally from Manhattan, the Hillers were a nice enough couple. Their daughter was Amber’s age, and their son one year younger than Ben. Like so many friendships those days, theirs was born of convenience—adults craving grown-up company when the weeks were mostly consumed by work and children. Claire had liked Trevor and Angie immediately, a breath of fresh air in their insular neighborhood. The Hillers listened to NPR, discussed politics and were always dropping off ripened tomatoes or fat zucchini from their garden. Like Claire, Angie worked outside the home in an administrative position at Brown University; their kids all went to the same after-school program at the elementary school down the block.

Angie was smart, funny, a fabulous dinner companion, armed with outrageous stories about goings-on on campus. She was also very pretty. Pale skin. Unusually large brown eyes and a thick, dark curtain of hair that she’d loop over one shoulder while she talked. Claire was completely charmed by her. It wasn’t until a few months later that she realized Walt was equally charmed.

“You like her,” Claire confronted him one night while they stood at the kitchen counter washing dishes after a cookout with the Hillers and their children.

“Hmm? Like who?” he asked.

“Angie.” His eyebrows had flickered up.

“Baloney. Why would I like Angie?”

“Admit it,” Claire had pressed. “You’re attracted to her.”

“Nonsense. She’s married. The Hillers are our friends.”

“Just because she’s married doesn’t mean you can’t be attracted to her.”

“Well, I’m not, okay?”

“But you think she’s attractive, right?”

Walt sighed. “I suppose so. In a kind of old-fashioned, Natalie Wood way. But saying someone is attractive and being attracted to them are two entirely different things.” He’d finished drying the last plate, placed it in the cupboard, and then, as if it were the natural next step in the sequence, he’d boosted her onto the countertop and shimmied her skirt up over her hips. Claire remembers being