Jason was right. She should have let him bomb the hot shop or shoot it full of arrows. Burn it down. Put Darth Vader into gear and run it over.

Claire placed the globe for the chandelier and the one peerless arm in the crate and set them on top of her filing cabinet, out of the way. She would think about the chandelier later; the best thing to do when the glass wasn’t cooperating, her instructors used to tell her, was to walk away. Take a break. Claire took Ottilie and Shea to get haircuts—and then, as a super-duper special treat, manicures. Claire got a manicure herself, but the mere sight of her hands reminded her of the chandelier, and she left the salon with two giggling girls and a heavy heart. The chandelier called out to her. It haunted her. It was a baby she’d abandoned in a Dumpster, screaming for her. Talk about waking nightmares! Claire managed to make it through dinner, but after the kids were asleep, she went back into the hot shop and fashioned a tiny, bell-shaped cup onto the end of the one and only arm. This was where the bulb would go. It was sweet and precious, this tiny cup, like the blossom of a lily of the valley. Claire felt good about the project for about five minutes; then she started in on another arm. Forty-seven tries later, she was in tears again. She climbed into bed next to Jason, who woke up momentarily and said, “Jesus, Claire, just forget about it. You’re making yourself crazy.”

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: March 27, 2008, 1:32 A.M.
Subject: Auction item
Isabelle—
I am having a very hard time producing an item for the auction. I planned to make a chandelier, which I thought would be a real winner, but it isn’t turning out as I had hoped. I know it’s late in the game as far as these things go, but I wondered if you might be able to scare up another auction item. Perhaps we should revisit the singing lessons, or loge seats to South Pacific, followed by a meet and greet with Kristin Chenoweth. With everything I have on my plate right now, the idea of having to produce this piece of art is bone-crushing—it’s keeping me up at night. (As you can see, I am writing this e-mail at one in the morning. I am losing sleep!) Will you please help me explore other options?
Thx!
Claire
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: March 28, 2008, 7:32 A.M.
Subject: Auction item
Dear Claire,
I have the fullest confidence that you will create a breathtaking piece for our auction. The sentiments of the committee during our initial meeting are ones that I share: you are an island artistic treasure, and having your masterpiece to auction is a coup for Nantucket’s Children indeed. Dinner with Kristin, although a fabulous idea, might have been an option for us back in October, but by now she has donated away all her time for the next calendar year. I really do think we will have to stay our course with your magnificent piece.
Thx! Isabelle
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: March 28, 2008, 9:12 A.M.
Subject: Auction item
What about the G5?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: March 28, 2008, 9:13 A.M.
Subject: Auction item
What about it?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: March 28, 2008, 9:35 A.M.
Subject: Auction item
The round-trip flight anywhere? The cocktail party onboard? I thought that was the best idea of all! Is it still available?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: March 28, 2008, 9:37 A.M.
Subject: Auction item
No.
Claire should abandon it, declare it beyond her reach. They still had four months until the gala. They should certainly be able to come up with another option. Claire was positive that Isabelle was insisting on the chandelier as a means of revenge. The damn thing would sap Claire’s energy and steal her time, and then, then, to cap it all off, no one would bid on it except for Lock, and Claire would look like—indeed, be—a failure. Abandon it! It was giving her one bad day after another. Her frustration with the chandelier was creeping into the rest of her life. She was late for pickup two days in a row, and she missed most of J.D.’s first Little League game.

Some part of Claire felt she deserved the torment the chandelier was causing her. She deserved it because she was a liar and a cheater. She was having an affair with Lock Dixon.

She wondered if, after a certain amount of time passed, the intensity of her feelings for Lock would fade. Would the sparkle wear off? Would he seem familiar? Would she begin to notice the twenty pounds he had to lose, or the shiny bald spot on top of his head, or the words he routinely used to show off (“pernicious,” “occult”)?

No. Every day, every meeting, Lock Dixon seemed more amazing to Claire, more mysterious and unattainable—and therefore desirable—than ever. She was in love with him and it was making her miserable. When she couldn’t be with him, which was nearly all the time, she was a hostage to her longing. She couldn’t enjoy anyone else—not her kids, not Siobhan, not Jason. She counted hours, minutes, she rearranged her schedule, she skipped things, blew them off, so she could spend one more bittersweet hour with Lock.