A Summer Affair Page 26
Really? Was this true? Claire thought of Isabelle French.
“What about Isabelle French?”
“What about her?”
“I saw your wife at the grocery store. She seemed to think there might be something going on between you and Isabelle French.”
“She said that?”
Claire looked at the floor. Now she had the weirdly unpleasant feeling that she’d betrayed Daphne’s confidence. Which felt like a worse offense, somehow, than kissing Lock.
“Yes,” Claire said.
“Daphne doesn’t always realize what she’s saying.”
This was a generous spin on the way things were, but Claire wasn’t going to argue with Lock about Daphne’s state of mind.
“I have no feelings for Isabelle French,” he said. “Other than compassion.”
“Compassion?”
“Bad divorce,” Lock said. “And some subsequent bad decisions.”
“I haven’t met her yet,” Claire said.
“You will.”
“Yes.” This sounded sort of like a discussion about the gala, which was odd because they were standing very close to each other, closer than normal people would stand. Claire was inside Lock’s orbit; she was a captive of his magnetic field.
It’s like someone cast a spell on me.
Was this total bullshit? God knows, it sounded like it. If Jason had heard Lock speak those words, he would have guffawed and choked on his spit. He would have questioned Lock’s sincerity, and possibly his sexual orientation. But that was how Claire felt, too. She had attended the lunch at the yacht club terrified of Lock Dixon, but after the first meeting, she was thinking about him in a whole new way, thinking about him all the time. He’d wooed her, somehow.
And now they were kissing and she didn’t understand it, and he didn’t, either, apparently, and that came as a relief. He was not a brave horseman after all. If it did turn into something more, it would be the two of them, bumbling their way through the dark, which felt like something Claire might be able to handle.
Since they were on the topic of the gala, sort of, Claire decided to bring up the ostensible reason she was here.
“I got Max West,” she said. “He’ll do it for free.”
“I know,” Lock said. “I heard.”
“How?” Claire said. “How do you know?”
“Someone told me.”
“Who?”
“I promised not to reveal my source. It was someone you were at a party with over the weekend.”
So, one of twenty-five people. It was a very small island.
“I thought you’d be shocked. You didn’t think I could do it.”
“Of course I did.”
“So you’re proud of me?”
“I’m proud of you.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.
“I started sketching the chandelier,” she said.
“That’s great,” he said.
“It is great,” Claire said. “I’ve been wanting to get back into the hot shop. I just needed a push.”
“I’m nothing if not pushy,” he said. He checked his watch. “I should get home.”
Stupidly, this pierced her. Claire had thought he would try to persuade her to stay. Didn’t he want her to stay? Didn’t he want to kiss her some more? She had only been having an affair for twenty minutes, and already she was jealous.
“Okay,” she said. Thank God for words like “okay,” employable in any situation, even when what you meant was the opposite of “okay.” Claire had to get out of there; she was in danger of sinking into an emotional quagmire. She hadn’t taken her jacket off and hence she couldn’t busy herself with putting it back on. There was nothing left to do but turn and go. Was that what she should do?
“So I’ll see you . . .” She wanted to know if this was it. Would there be more, and if there was to be more, then when, and where?
“We have a meeting Wednesday night,” Lock said.
“Right,” Claire said. She had mentioned Wednesday’s meeting to the people who had volunteered for the committee; she would have to call and remind them. “I’ll see you Wednesday, then.” She turned to go, yes, go—and he took her arm. He pulled her to him. She filled with elation. He wasn’t ready to let her go. He kissed her so gently that she emitted a sigh, and then he kissed her more hungrily. He wanted her, she could feel him wanting her, she could feel his arms around her, trembling—with fear or lust or in an attempt to hold himself back, she had no idea, but she loved it. The person she was—a good person, a person committed to kindness, who showed up with a basket of soup and soap, a peace offering—did not do things like this. But Lock’s trembling, his kiss, was a drug, a rush, an attraction too powerful to resist. Claire thought of Jason, and of her kids, and they seemed distant, but sweet, too, and simple and safe.
What was she doing? She was too easy. She was the Universal Acceptor.
Lock pressed her up against the wall. He ran his hands up inside her sweater. He touched her nipples, lightly, with his palms. She gasped. His touch was electric. She should go now. She’d asked for this in her mind and here it was: amazing, foreign, scary. Because what came next, what happened now? This was all still relatively innocent; it had yet to take on heavy, cumbersome labels like “adultery” and “cheating.” This was leading to serious trouble, to something Claire would regret, something she would not be able to wish away or undo. And yet she didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want to pull away. She didn’t want to. His hands were on her waist; he tugged at her belt loops.