A Summer Affair Page 19

“Okay, I will,” Claire said. “See you later, Daphne.”

CHAPTER THREE

He Asks Her (Again)

When Claire walked up the stairs of the Elijah Baker House for the second gala meeting, she found Lock Dixon sitting at his desk much as he had been two weeks earlier, minus the sandwich. He was wearing a pink shirt this time and a red paisley tie; the classical station was on, featuring harpsichord music. The office was dark but for the desk lamp and the blue glow of Lock’s computer. Claire checked her watch, confused. It was five after eight.

“Where is everybody?” she said.

And at the same time, Lock said, “Didn’t you get my message?”

“What message? No.”

“The meeting was canceled. Postponed, to next week.”

“Oh,” Claire said. “No, I didn’t get it . . .”

“We should have tried your cell phone. I told Gavin that, and he looked around the office for the number, but to no avail. I’m sorry. Adams has the flu and Isabelle couldn’t call in tonight, so we bumped the meeting back to next week. I feel bad that you had to come all the way into town for nothing.”

For nothing—well, in a way it was for nothing, but Claire didn’t regret it. She turned to survey the rest of the office. “Is Gavin here?” she said.

“No,” Lock said. “He left at five.”

“Oh,” Claire said. “Well, you and I could talk over some things . . .”

And at the same time, Lock said, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Viognier?” Claire said. She worried she was pronouncing it wrong, though she had practiced at home in the shower: vee-og-nyay. “Yes, I’d love some.”

When Lock returned from the kitchen with the wine, he said, “Have you given my proposition any thought?”

“Your proposition?” she said, immediately blushing.

“About the auction item,” he said. “About your triumphant return as an artist.”

“Oh,” she said. She took a deep breath, then sank into the chair opposite his desk. He sat on the edge of his desk, close to her. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious or not.”

“Of course I was serious.”

“Fifty thousand dollars?”

“Your Bubbles sculptures are worth several times that.”

“Right, but . . .”

He sipped his wine and shook his head. “Never mind, then. It was just a thought.”

“It was a really nice thought,” Claire said. “I’m flattered that you believe my work might be worthy.”

“Worthy?” Lock said. “It’s more than worthy.”

“Hardly anyone on this island knows me as a glassblower,” Claire said.

“Oh, come on. Of course they do.”

“I mean, they know that’s what I do—or did. But practically nobody’s seen my work. The vases, yes, but not my real work.”

“That’s a shame,” Lock said.

“I have a select clientele,” Claire said. “Five people. I’m what you call ‘extreme boutique.’ ”

“You should be as famous as Simon Pearce,” Lock said. “One good thing about doing the auction would be the exposure.”

“But that’s not what I want,” Claire said. “I never wanted to be Simon Pearce. Mass-produced and all that.”

“Of course not. You’re an artist.”

Claire looked at her hands. They had been callused for so many years, callused and sore, cut and burned. They were just starting to look like a normal woman’s hands, red from the dishwater, streaked with Magic Marker—but was this a good thing? She didn’t know. Talking about working again tore her in half. It had felt wonderful to open the sketchbook, and the image of the pulled-taffy chandelier would not leave her alone. But then Claire thought of the kids, especially of Zack: Should she explain to Lock how Zack had weighed two pounds seven ounces when he was born and spent the first five weeks of his life on a respirator? How now, at eight months, he wasn’t crawling yet, whereas her other children had been cruising around, holding on to the furniture? Dr. Patel had told her not to worry. Kids develop at different paces, Claire. Claire wanted to see a specialist, but she was terrified of what he would say. She was certain there was something wrong and it was her fault. Her doctor had warned her.

“I can’t do it,” she said.

Lock looked at her for a long while with an inscrutable expression on his face. “Okay,” he said.

Claire felt tears coming on. What was wrong with her? She suddenly felt very sad and sorry for herself. She tried to stop; crying in front of Lock was embarrassing. At home, it seemed, one of the children was always crying. Claire was the one who plucked the tissues, wiped the noses, kissed the bumps and bruises, scolded the perpetrator. She did not cry, she realized, because there was no one to comfort her. Jason was as emotionally feeble as the children. If he were watching her now, silently weeping, he would be baffled.

Lock offered her a handkerchief. Claire blotted her face, thinking how charming it was that there was still a man in the world who carried a handkerchief.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did I hit a nerve? I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Claire said. “It’s okay.” Lock handed her her wine. She took a sip and tried to collect herself. “Can I ask you a question?”

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