Vivien shook her head. “I’m sorry, no. I’m sitting with Lotte.” Even as she said this she caught sight of Lotte already at a table, surrounded by her neighbors, the ones who made the goat cheese and the other ones who pressed the olive oil.
“Do you know the story of Saint Sebastian?” Sebastian asked her.
“I’m afraid I don’t know very much about saints.”
He raised his bushy eyebrows. “No? A pity.”
“I wasn’t raised Catholic,” Vivien explained.
“Saint Sebastian,” he said. “He is patron saint of athletes because of his . . . endurance. So you see? I wait.”
Vivien blushed. “You are certainly a romantic,” she said.
Flustered, Vivien walked away from him and squeezed herself on the picnic bench beside Lotte.
Lotte’s eyes followed Sebastian as he made his way to the table where most of the workers sat talking noisily.
“He’s sweet on you,” she said.
“Please,” Vivien groaned. She took some chicken from the platter and some of the salad. “Don’t encourage him, Lotte.”
“Thirteen years,” Lotte said. “It’s too long to wait.” Her voice sounded tired of this conversation.
Luckily, Pamela came running up to them, holding out her jar. In the darkening night, the fireflies inside glowed bright.
“I caught five!” Pamela said. “More than Bo!”
Lotte kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “My girl,” she said softly.
Unexpectedly, tears sprang to Vivien’s eyes. For the first time, she realized what made her so weary here. The noise, the companionship, the children. She envied her friend. The idea made her whole body heavy, as if stones weighed her down. In their youth, it had been her, Vivien, who had attracted suitors and other friends. She’d always had invitations, to parties and dances and shows. She used to have to practically drag Lotte along. And now, what did Vivien have? The stories of dead people. A foolish belief that her lover was waiting for her to find him. While Lotte had . . . Vivien dared to look up. Pamela had climbed onto Lotte’s lap and the two of them were laughing over something Vivien was not privy to. Someone had put on a record, and Caruso’s scratchy voice rose above the laughter and conversations. While Lotte, Vivien thought, had everything.
THREE
No one should ever be forced upon those in grief, and all over-emotional people, no matter how near or dear, should be barred absolutely.
—FROM Etiquette, BY EMILY POST, 1922
5
Just Like Jackie
CLAIRE, 1961
Peter’s voice startled her awake. “Home at last,” he said.
For a moment, Claire thought he might have turned around and they were back at their own home. She squinted out the window, but the snow hid everything.
“We’ll just have time to change and get to the party,” Peter was saying.
“Okay,” Claire said.
She opened her purse and took out her compact and lipstick. She powdered her cheeks, and rubbed at the dark circles under her eyes. Then she carefully put on fresh lipstick.
“Why are you bothering with that now?” Peter said.
Claire snapped the compact shut. Because it’s what is expected of me, she thought. Because even though I am unhappy and I don’t know if I love you anymore and I’m pregnant, I still need to do the things I have always done.
But she said none of it. She just pulled a comb through her hair as he parked in front of his mother’s house.
“You’re not going to meet anyone here,” he said, motioning toward the green triple-decker. “No one cares if your hair is done or if you have lipstick on.”
“I care,” Claire said.
She stepped out of the car, slipping as she did. A small yelp escaped before she caught herself. By the time Peter arrived at her side, she was steady again.
“Careful,” he said, his hand firm on her arm.
Was he being kind? Or simply safe? Every word he said, Claire found herself weighing, trying to determine what emotion lay behind it. Would he forgive her? Or would he punish her forever?