“I don’t like where this conversation is headed,” Edward said.

“Fine. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. What’s done is done. The real reason I’m calling is that I’d like you to call Siobhan and apologize.”

This was met with hearty laughter. “For the record, Claire, I did contact you when the committee made a decision. I sent both you and Isabelle an e-mail. Isabelle got right back to me.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you—”

“Good-bye, Claire.”

There was no point in taking the problem to Lock or Adams, because Edward was right: he was put in charge of catering, it was his job to pick a caterer, he had a fiduciary responsibility to Nantucket’s Children to take the best menu plan at the lowest price, and in this case, that bid was from À La Table. Claire could not argue with saving forty thousand dollars for what would be a similar catering experience. Edward had e-mailed both Claire and Isabelle when the committee made its decision; the fact that the e-mail came in during the ten-day period when Lock was gone and Claire had put a moratorium on checking her e-mail could not be held against Edward. Isabelle had gotten back to him within fifteen minutes. Claire had been copied on that e-mail as well. It said, simply: fine. Fully trust the committee’s judgment. Edward said he left Siobhan a message on her office phone, the phone number on the bid. This was reasonable. The fact that Siobhan had bumped into Genevieve at the farm market and Genevieve had chosen to gloat was just bad luck. That Claire had asked Edward to apologize to Siobhan was perhaps out of bounds, but Siobhan was her best friend and Claire desperately wanted to make things right. She had no boundaries.

Claire left messages on Siobhan and Carter’s home phone, and she left messages on Siobhan’s cell phone, both simple (I’m sorry. Call me) and more elaborate (there were two messages, left in tandem, that documented Claire’s phone conversation with Edward). Siobhan did not answer; Siobhan did not return the calls. Claire finally stopped by Siobhan and Carter’s house on Saturday morning, a week after the party. Liam answered the door and told Claire, with a straight face, that his mother was upstairs lying down. Claire considered sitting in her car across the street until Siobhan emerged, but that fell into the category of stalking, and knowing Siobhan, she’d call the police and get a restraining order.

The Irish were so damn stubborn! Siobhan was waiting for the one thing Claire was not willing to give her: a confession. I am having an affair with Lockhart Dixon. The affair has been going on since September and I have been keeping it from you. Claire saw Julie Jackson at pickup, and Julie gave her a weird (sympathetic? angry?) look. Claire smiled and waved as though everything were fine, but inwardly she groaned, praying that the substance of her and Jason’s fight had not made its way around the party. How mortifying! They should put their house on the market now.

As Siobhan’s silence entered its second week, Claire gave up. She even saw Siobhan’s car outside the skating rink—Siobhan was watching Liam’s or Aidan’s hockey practice, so she was a sitting duck—but Claire didn’t bother stopping. Claire had been ostracized on the playground as a child just like everybody else; she knew that she would not remain on the outs forever. She had lost her best friend, but so had Siobhan. Siobhan would come around eventually—this was what Jason said on the subject. He was barely speaking to Claire himself, but he had enough mercy to tell her this: if it went on much longer, he would call Carter and set up a family meeting, an airing of grievances. This sounded like something he’d learned from watching The Sopranos, but Claire appreciated his willingness to intervene if need be.

Claire consumed herself with Lock—four times in one week, five times in nine days. If he was the reason her life was going down the tubes, then she wanted, at least, to be with him. In the hot shop, she worked crazily on what she now thought of as the g.d. chandelier. She spent all day Monday and all day Tuesday trying to pull out a second arm, eight hours of work, 163 tries. She was rewarded with not one but two arms that made it into the annealer. Claire wasn’t sure at first, but when she held them up to the sublime sphere of the body, she saw that they fell perfectly, better than perfectly; they dripped and twisted like the trajectory of a flower petal falling to the ground, like a happy or peaceful thought flowing from the mind to the page. Claire thought, This g.d. chandelier is going to be the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever done. Elsa, of Transom, had called again, asking for two dozen of the Jungle Series vases, and although the vases would have been easier, not to mention good money, Claire turned her down. I don’t have time right now. Claire was cheating on Jason with Lock; she was cheating on her career with the chandelier; she was cheating on her life with the gala.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: April 29, 2008, 11:01 A.M.
Subject: Seating
Dear Claire,
Just to give you the heads up, I have called Lock and purchased a $25,000 table for the gala. I feel it’s important that, as cochairs, we support the gala in the biggest way possible, and one way we can do that is by purchasing the most expensive tickets. I noticed, from looking at the list of tickets sold last year and the year before, that you and your husband bought $1,000 tickets and sat in the back. You will understand, no doubt, the importance of sitting up front this year—we can take tables side by side—in the $25,000 section. I just buy the table myself and invite people to sit with me. (It’s expected, in turn, that they will make a large donation to the cause.) However, it is perfectly acceptable to ask the people sitting at your table to pay for their seats, which is what you may prefer to do. I have purchased my table now because summer is nearly upon us and the time has come to start selling tickets and it’s always better/easier to do this when one has bought tickets oneself.