Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,68

tonight—she pushes up from the bed and goes into the bathroom to wash her face. The image that stares back at her is unfamiliar. Her eyes are swollen, her lips puckered from crying. She’s a mess, a pathetic, brokenhearted disaster. She splashes cold water on her face and pats it dry, staring at the fine lines that she’s quite certain weren’t there earlier tonight. Or had she just missed them? Getting ready for dinner, she’d felt pretty for the first time in months. Now she understands it was all an illusion, a mirage. The urge to change into her pajamas and crawl into bed is overwhelming.

But no, she counsels herself. She won’t do it. Instead, she summons all her strength and channels her inner Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who has become her own personal touchstone whenever Claire experiences a pang of self-pity. Because RBG tackled overt sexism at Harvard Law School, raised a baby while in law school, helped her husband fight testicular cancer while in law school, and on and on and on. Who is she, Claire O’Dell, to feel sorry for herself because of one disappointing evening?

With shaky resolve, she begins to start the process of reapplying mascara to her paper-thin lashes, a dash of blush, a smattering of face powder, a swipe of burgundy across her lips. It’s only ten forty-five, she reasons. Plenty of time to head down to the hotel bar and drown her sorrows in another cocktail or two. Yesterday when she’d stepped off the elevator on the second floor by mistake, the cherry-paneled tavern had caught her eye. The place, lined with shelves of books, had reminded her more of a library than a bar. She’d been tempted to go in, but it was the middle of the afternoon—and drinking by herself midday seemed, well, unseemly. Ha! she thinks now. The joke is on her—she should have marched right in there and started downing whiskey sours straight through till tonight, in which case she would never have had dinner with Marty in the first place.

She brushes out her hair one last time and reexamines herself in the mirror. A little makeup, and she’s almost back to her old self. She could, she thinks, pass for her late fifties, possibly early fifties in good light. On the bed, she plops down and straps on the Kenneth Cole sandals she’d gifted herself earlier today—when she’d been imagining Marty pulling them off later tonight. Now she sees them for what they are. Ridiculously expensive shoes with a too-high heel that she has no right to be wearing.

It reminds her of a summer night when she and Marty had dressed up to go into Boston—their junior year in college—and she’d worn heels so high she could barely maneuver across the cobblestoned streets of the North End. At one point her heel had gotten wedged in between the stones, and Marty had to yank it out. Except when he did, the heel ripped right off. Oh, how they’d laughed! (They were inexpensive sandals, so Claire didn’t mind.) She’d tried hobbling along, one foot up in a heel, the other trailing along, but it was hopeless. Finally Marty ripped the heel off the other one and slipped it into his jacket pocket. For the rest of the evening, Claire traipsed around in her flat, heelless shoes, no one the wiser that a few hours ago she’d been three inches taller.

But what does any of that matter now? It doesn’t. The fact that she’s devoted the last few months to imagining the press of Martin’s lips against hers, of climbing into bed to cradle his warm body, means nothing. For the first time maybe in her entire life, the sting of unrequited love has snuck up on her. And the recalculation of all that she’s been counting on—now up in smoke—demands so much brainpower, is such a steep mathematical curve to reconfigure, that a sense of vertigo practically overwhelms her. How does she go from counting on Martin to fix everything to admitting that she is completely on her own?

She allows herself to consider that maybe Marty’s relationship with this woman, this Cora (what a ridiculous name!), is short-lived. After all, they’ve been dating for only eight months. Eight months! Maybe they haven’t even had sex yet. It’s possible. And maybe in a few short weeks Marty will call to say that he’s had a change of heart and wants Claire back.

But even Claire understands how unlikely this is, that whatever