A Summer Affair (18 page)
Lock raised a hand. “I just ate,” he said. “Thank you.” He should go. When Claire was ready to speak to him again, she would call him. He turned toward the door. Now, however, Claire would know he’d been here and hadn’t made a point to see her, and what kind of message would
that
send? He cleared his throat. “Can I see Claire? Is she out back?”
“Hot shop,” Pan said. “Working.” This seemed to be an admonishment for him to leave; certainly Claire would not tolerate anyone disturbing her when she was working.
“I see,” Lock said. So he really should go. But it had taken such an effort, emotionally, to come, to cross the line, and he would almost certainly never do it again, so . . . he would see her. He would insist. “I’ll go out back,” he said. “Okay?”
“Claire working,” Pan said. “It not safe.”
True enough. It wasn’t safe. But Lock said, “Please? It’s okay. She wants to see me.”
Pan stared at him. Had he just tipped his hand to the Thai au pair?
She shrugged. “Okay. Be careful. Hot shop hot. Hot shop bright. Wear goggle.”
He smiled. “You bet.”
He left the house by the back door and traversed the slushy, muddy backyard to the hot shop, which was smaller than a guest cottage but bigger than a shed. It billowed white smoke like a nuclear reactor. He had often envisioned Claire at work in the shop, and now he would see her. He knocked on the metal door. There was no answer. She was busy, or she couldn’t hear him. He waited, shivering and tapping his foot against the cold, wondering if Pan was watching him out here. He looked back at the house; the windows were steamed. He knocked again, more forcefully.
“Claire!” he called. The property abutted the public golf course, and his voice echoed out over the frozen fairway. Was this a good idea?
He tried the knob, and it turned. Should he just enter, then? Surprising her was one thing, but what if he scared her so badly she burned herself or cut herself? Well, he didn’t have all day, he needed to get back to the office, and since he was determined to show his face, he pushed into the hot shop.
“Claire?” he called out. Jesus, was it hot! Lock whipped off his earmuffs and unbuttoned his coat. It had to have been well over a hundred degrees in there. The furnace was roaring like a dragon. Lock’s eyes were drawn to the dazzling brightness; it was like looking at the inside of a star. He closed his eyes, and amorphous green blobs danced around. Be careful! He had been here ten seconds and already he’d burned his retinas. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Claire across the room—in a white tank top and jeans and clogs. If he hadn’t known it was her, she would have been unrecognizable. Her hair was gathered in a very tight bun and she wore large plastic welder’s goggles. She was just stepping away from the furnace with a molten blob of glass on the end of a pipe; she turned the pipe deftly so that the blob became a uniform sphere, a perfect globe of yellow jelly. Lock yanked at his tie—it was sweltering, nearly unbearable in here. How did Claire stand it? He noticed she was sweating; her tank top was damp and clung to her. She hadn’t seen him yet, and he wasn’t sure how to announce his presence without scaring the bejeezus out of her. He was fascinated, too, by her movements, by the way she held the pipe, by the way she manipulated the hot glass. The glass was like a living thing on the end of the pipe, with a mind of its own; it wanted to go one way, Claire coaxed it another. She held the pipe to her mouth and blew, and the blob expanded like a balloon. She made it look effortless. She twisted the pipe some more; she lay the balloon against a metal table and rolled it and shaped it and opened the end with a pair of tweezers. Then she turned back toward the furnace. Lock tried to duck out of sight, but he wasn’t fast enough. He didn’t want to scare her, true, but he also didn’t want to stop watching her. She saw him then—her mouth opened, and she jerked the pipe. The vessel on the end of the pipe jerked also and immediately became lopsided. Claire dumped the pipe, vessel-end down, into a bucket of water, causing a lot of steam and hiss. At the same time, Lock’s spirits were dampened. He had made a mistake in disturbing her; he had ruined her work.
He wanted to leave, hastily, but he was here now and she knew it, so he took a few hesitant steps forward.
She closed the furnace door and immediately the room dimmed and grew cooler. She pushed her goggles to the top of her head and blinked rapidly, as if she thought she might be hallucinating.
It’s me,
he thought.
Surprise!
Stopping by had backfired. The five days of silence had been a message. She was finished with him.
But then she smiled. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Can-
not
believe it.”
“I’m here,” he said. “I dropped off those letters.”
“Letters?” she said.
“For the underwriting.”
“Fuck the underwriting,” she said. She looked around the shop. “This place is safe. The only person who ever comes in here is me.”
“Well, then,” Lock said, moving toward her and putting his arms around her waist, “I can tell you the truth. I came for you.”
They kissed. She tasted like metal and sweat; her lips and the skin on her face were very hot, as if she had a fever. It was different, but not unpleasant. When they both went to hell and they kissed, this was what it would be like.
“I’m revolting,” she said.
“You? Never.”
“My hair?” she said. “And God, I stink.”
Her hair was matted against her forehead and there were marks on her face where her goggles had clamped against her skin. She smelled sour and musky. And yet she had never been more beautiful. In fact, Lock would have been hard-pressed to remember a time he had ever found any woman more beautiful than Claire was right now, working, sweating, smiling in her hot shop. She was a queen.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” he said. “About giving you those numbers. I just thought—”
She put her hand over his mouth. “Forget it. I was too sensitive. I shouldn’t have stormed off.”
“And then you didn’t call . . .”
“You didn’t call
me
.”
“I didn’t feel like I could call you,” he said. “I did send an e-mail. Two, in fact.”
She didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure if this meant she had read them or not, but it didn’t matter. What the five days of silence had shown him was that he was in love with her. He might have been in love with her for a while, but he had never felt compelled to say it. To say it would be the ultimate in
not safe
.
“I’m in love with you,” he said.
Her eyes were wet—or it was the perspiration, or a trick of his vision in this heat. But no, he was right: she was crying.
“You must be,” she said. “You came.”
He squeezed her as hard as he could, fearing she would melt in his arms like butter, she would slip away, disappear. The molten glass on the end of her pipe, that hot, pulsing, living thing, that organ she controlled and expanded with only her breath—that was his heart.
They did not kiss much more and they certainly didn’t go any further. The hot shop was too hot, and there was Pan waiting in the house, and the whole fact of Lock’s trespassing on her (and Jason’s) territory. And, too, there was a sense that the purpose of this afternoon’s visit was deeper and more meaningful than their previous couplings. He had shared something, he had given himself over, and now everything was changed. It had been elevated. He was in love. She owned him. He was hers.
“I have to get back to the office,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “But one thing, please? Will you come up and see Zack?”
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs, asleep. I just want you to look at him.”
“Why?”
“Just because he’s my baby. I want you to see him. Please?”
They entered the house together, though not touching. Pan was sitting on a barstool at the counter, eating her lunch. She watched them silently as they climbed the stairs.
They entered the nursery, painted butter yellow. It had an alphabet rug and gauzy drapes, a walnut crib and matching changing table, shelves of board books, an upholstered rocking chair, a basket of plush animals. Heather had had such a nursery—her nursery was redecorated now and served as Daphne’s “study,” though Daphne did no actual work in there that Lock knew of, other than writing angry letters to the editor of the
New York Times
about the liberal slant of the paper’s journalism. This nursery was cozy, like the rest of the house; it soothed the soul. It gave Lock peace to walk in behind Claire, to gaze down on the sleeping baby, a beefy redhead with Claire’s pale skin. He was snuggled under a blue blanket, working a pacifier.
“This is Zack,” Claire whispered.
What did Lock think about this sleeping baby? Claire was knitting her fingers together nervously. She thought there was something wrong with her child, and it terrified her; she was scared, despite the fact that Gita Patel, a very good pediatrician, had said that Zack was fine, normal, healthy. For some reason, Claire wanted a diagnosis from Lock; her fears about Zack were the one thing she wanted him to assuage. It was the only thing she had ever asked him for.
Zack’s hair was red and curly like Claire’s, and his long, curved eyelashes were red. His skin was white like plaster or powder or snow or pure marble. His eyelids flickered back and forth; he sucked rhythmically on the pacifier. He was Claire’s child, her baby, and Lock felt a surge of love for him. If there was something wrong with this child, Lock would help Claire find it, fix it, cure it.
“He’s beautiful,” Lock said. “He’s perfect.”
He Leaves Her
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: February 10, 2008, 10:02
A.M.
Subject: The invite
Isabelle—
Thank you for sending me the mock-up of the invite. It’s lovely, really, with the peach and the mint green, very elegant without being tired or fusty. I just wanted to address a few points. First of all, it seems you have renamed the event. “Une Petite Soirée” does have a certain Continental charm, but Nantucket isn’t Paris, nor is it Saint-Tropez, and the event has been called the “Summer Gala” for so long that I think, to avoid confusion, we should stick with it. So please change “Une Petite Soirée” to “Summer Gala.”
I noticed Aster forgot to include
where
the event was being held, so we need him to add a line after “6–10 P
.
M.” that reads “Town Recreational Fields, Old South Road.” Lastly, would you mind changing my name so that it reads “Claire Danner Crispin” instead of “Mrs. Jason Crispin.” Without getting into the particulars of my marriage, suffice it to say that nobody on this island or anywhere else in the world knows me as “Mrs. Jason Crispin.”
Thx! Claire
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: February 10, 2008, 10:05
A.M.
Subject: The invite
Dear Claire,
Regarding the three points made in your e-mail of a few moments ago: I chose the title “Une Petite Soirée” very carefully. Granted, Nantucket is not Lyons, nor is it Aix-en-Provence, but “Une Petite Soirée” will lend the event an understated elegance it desperately needs.
Secondly, describing the location as “Town Recreational Fields” adds a Sunday-softball-game feel to our event that we would do best to avoid
at all costs,
and so I simply deleted the location when I gave Aster the information in the first place, figuring we would decide on a name for the location that would be more savory to our demographic than “Town Recreational Fields.” We might simply say, “Under the Tent, Old South Road.” This sort of makes it sound like a traveling circus, but it is an improvement on “Town Recreational Fields,” just as “Une Petite Soirée”—you understand the translation, yes, “A Simple Affair”?—is a vast improvement on “Summer Gala.”
As for our monikers, the way I have them written—“Mrs. Marshall French” and “Mrs. Jason Crispin”—is how it is standardly done in New York. I agree, it is a bit old-school Emily Post (and believe me, with the divorce I am going through, I am personally loath to use the name “Mrs. Marshall French”), but I am even more hesitant to buck tradition, especially in light of our demographic, who will, no doubt, appreciate the invitation worded formally.
Thx! Isabelle
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: February 18, 2008, 11:21
A.M.
Subject: The invite
Isabelle—
Sorry it has taken me sooooooooooooo long to respond. My kids are all sick and my husband is on deadline with a job, and wouldn’t you know it, my au pair is on vacation in the Grand Canyon, leaving me to mastermind our daily survival. Time being of the essence, I will cut to the chase:
• I do understand the translation, thank you for asking. “Une Petite Soirée,” a simple affair, is a whimsical name for a certain kind of party, but not this party. I’d rather not be ironic—there is nothing small nor simple (nor French) about the event. And as I’ve said before, there is great danger in changing the name of an event that is as established as ours is.
• We
have
to use “Town Recreational Fields” because that is the
name
of the
venue.
Granted, it is not glamorous, granted, my children do play baseball and soccer there, but it is the only venue
big enough
to host this kind of event and it is
generously donated
to us by the town, and hence the town must be named on the invite. To say, “Under the Tent, Old South Road,” is cruelly uninformative. Old South Road is three miles long; I can just picture our demographic puttering along, trying to locate the peaks of a tent above the trees.
• Thirdly, it is the twenty-first century and it is okay, now, for women to use their own names. There is no reason why you should have to use your ex-husband’s name, just as there is no reason why I should have to use my husband’s name. I will use my maiden name as well as my given Christian name because that is how I am known, professionally and personally: Claire Danner Crispin. I am not willing to bend on this, and I thank you in advance for your kind indulgence.
Thx! Claire
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: February 18, 2008, 11:24
A.M.
Subject: The invite
Dear Claire,
I will inform Aster of the nature of our discussion.
Thx! Isabelle
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: February 28, 2008, 3:38
P.M.
Subject: Urgent question!!!
Isabelle—
Today in the mail I received the sample invite, and I noticed that—although it is utterly beautiful—only one of the changes we talked about had been made. I am still listed as “Mrs. Jason Crispin.” And the location is described as “Under the Tent, Old South Road.” You said you would give the changes to Aster. What happened????
Claire
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: February 20, 2008, 3:41
P.M.
Subject: Urgent question!!!
Dear Claire,
I said I would inform Aster as to the nature of our discussion. He was willing to bend on the name of the event in order to be consistent with years past (I, however, was dismayed, believing, as I do, that “Une Petite Soirée” is a far superior title for the evening). Aster did not see the need to incorporate the other two changes.
Thx! Isabelle
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: February 28, 2008, 8:24
P.M.
Subject: Sense of entitlement?
Isabelle—
I hope I will not offend you when I say that Aster Wyatt, gracious as he was to design the invite gratis, is not in a position to make decisions on behalf of Nantucket’s Children, and I am infuriated that he has done so. Please, I must insist, change my name to read “Claire Danner Crispin.” If you want to leave the location as vague as it is, be my guest, but get ready for the ensuing chaos.
Thx! Claire
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: February 28, 2008, 8:27
P.M.
Subject: Sense of entitlement!
Dear Claire,
Actually, Aster Wyatt is on the gala committee, he was appointed by me, and I made him the chair of invitations, hence all final decisions on the invitation were made by him. He did design the invite for free, though the printing costs for 2,500 invites (including invite, oversize envelope, response card, and response envelope) came to just under six thousand dollars. (A vellum insert printed with the committee members’ names will be extra, but I do think we should include it once our committee is firmed up.) The invites just came back from the printer; I sent you one straightaway. But you’ll agree with me that we can’t incur any
additional
expense by going back and changing your name (which, I will point out, is not misspelled or inaccurate) just because you don’t like it.
Thx! Isabelle
Fwd: [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
Sent: February 28, 2008, 9:00
P.M.
Subject: Sense of entitlement!
Have you seen this??? Can you believe it??? I am going to be listed (underneath Isabelle, by the way, even though I am first alphabetically, and whose decision do you think
that
was?) as “Mrs. Jason Crispin.” It is so disgustingly
Mayflower,
I think I might puke.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: March 1, 2008, 8:14
A.M.
Subject: Sense of entitlement!
Six grand is too much money as it is, Claire. We can’t go back and fix them. On the bright side, Jason will love it.
Adams
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: March 1, 2008, 9:45
A.M.
Subject: Sense of entitlement!
Jason won’t understand it! He’ll see the name “Mrs. Jason Crispin” and think someone is calling him a woman.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Disgusting sense of entitlement
(Unsent)
Isabelle—
I find working with you difficult and unpleasant. I understand that you are going through a very painful divorce and hence I am willing to give you some extra rope. What I’d like you to understand, however, is that Nantucket is different from Manhattan. Nantucket, at its core, is a small town, casual and humble, even in the busy summer months. We do not need (or want) all the trappings and pretensions that might attend a benefit such as the gala in Manhattan (or Cannes, or Nice, either, for that matter!). I do not need (or want) a title like “Mrs. Jason Crispin.” Even my children’s friends call me Claire. It does not matter if the location of the gala is referred to as the “Town Recreational Fields,” because that is, in fact, the venue’s name. I am sorry if that is too down-home-church-social for you. I am sorry if Nantucket in general is too unpolished and loosey-goosey for you. However, remember this: The quiet, modest, relaxed nature of the island is the very reason why so many esteemed people have sought it out as their summer refuge. As an
antidote
to the big city, not a summertime version of it.
Thx! Claire
Bid for Nantucket’s Children Summer Gala: Island Fare Catering, Carter and Siobhan Crispin, Proprietors
Including full bar, champagne fountain, passed hors d’oeuvres, stationary hors d’oeuvres, sit-down dinner, dessert sampler: $225 per person
Caterer’s Note: The following menu has been written for success. It is a challenge for even the largest, most sophisticated catering operation to serve a sit-down dinner to one thousand people successfully. (We heard complaints that last year’s entrées were, in turn, cold, undercooked, and overcooked.) Our focus is fresh, seasonal food (locally grown, raised, and fished, when possible) that can be eaten at room temperature, as at a picnic. We will offer modest portions of three entrées to ensure that we please everyone, and we guarantee elegant and creative presentation.