She paused.
“Pluto,” she said finally. She smiled to herself. That was the pizza part.
“Almost ready?” Peter called up to her.
“Almost,” she called back.
Claire had found a pewter maternity sheath dress like one she’d seen Jackie wear last year. It had pockets at the side, and flared gracefully from the waist. She’d started wearing her hair in a bouffant like Jackie’s too. Everyone had. And standing in front of the mirror now, Claire was satisfied with how she looked tonight.
“Claire!” Peter was calling. “We have the guest of honor waiting.”
She could hear the strain in his voice and wondered if his mother heard it too. Again, she wondered what Birdy knew. But there was no time to worry about that now. Claire touched up her hair, lifting the top slightly and spritzing Aqua Net on it, then spraying a bit more on the curled-up tips.
“Coming!” she said, and hurried down the stairs.
“Worth waiting for,” Birdy said, even though she was already in her coat and hat. “You look lovely.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said, and she saw Peter flinch slightly.
“Women are slow,” he said. “Pregnant women even slower.”
He had Claire’s coat held up, ready for her, and she slipped into it.
As the three of them headed down the stairs and out to the car, Claire vowed to have a good night. Tonight she would be the wife her husband wanted her to be. The daughter-in-law she should be to Birdy. She would be gracious. She would smile. She would not apologize for who, she feared, she might be becoming.
The Hope Club sat on the corner of Benefit and Benevolent Streets on the East Side of Providence. A four-story brick Victorian house, it had been a private club since 1875, and it was, Claire knew, the kind of place that Birdy always wanted to belong to. As a young woman, she had lived a privileged life in San Francisco, with club memberships like this one, and private schooling. Peter had told Claire this when he’d explained his mother’s struggles to her. She’d married a laborer, and come East reluctantly. His mother dreamed of living in one of the Victorian houses that lined College Hill in this part of Providence, and used to take Peter for drives past them, pointing out their architectural details, their gingerbread trim, the towers and turrets and rounded porches.
But they never could afford to buy a house like that. Apparently, she had accepted that stoically, never showing his father her disappointment, but Peter saw it in her face, in the way she would park on Bowen Street or Lloyd Avenue and stare up at the painted ladies there. Someday, I’m going to buy you one of those houses, Peter had promised her when he was ten or eleven. No, no, she told him, then I would have to clean all those windows. He told Claire these stories with a mixture of sadness and pride.
To have her eightieth birthday party at this venerable club was a point of pride for Birdy. As she walked in, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
Claire watched her, and saw that her whole demeanor changed when she stepped inside. She had not given much thought to her mother-in-law’s past—Peter had told her that she’d been a teacher long ago—but seeing her as she gave her coat to the butler and took a glass of champagne from the tuxedoed waiter, Claire saw that Birdy had once been a very different woman. Or perhaps still was that woman, somewhere deep inside.
There were hors d’oeuvres passed, shrimp paste on triangles of toast and smoked salmon with capers and dill. Claire let Peter keep one hand on the small of her back as he introduced her to the guests. The snow had not kept anyone away, and a small crowd soon gathered in the dining room, looking for their place cards, their names written in calligraphy on heavy white paper.
Claire’s mind drifted to Jackie and JFK. What were they doing tonight, on the eve of the inauguration? she wondered. What must it be like to be them, their future stretching gloriously ahead of them?
The night swirled on, Claire drinking too much champagne with dinner.
Before the toasts began, she excused herself and went to the ladies’ room to freshen up. She was slightly drunk, she realized. Or maybe more than slightly.
Peter was waiting for her when she came out.
“I didn’t want you to get lost,” he said.
“I am,” she said softly, but he didn’t hear her.
He was guiding her backwards, his hands on her shoulders. She almost lost her balance, but he held her tight, urging her into the cloakroom. Inside, it smelled of wet fur and wool, and mothballs.
“You look so beautiful,” Peter whispered.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her hard on the lips, parting her lips and pushing his tongue inside to meet hers.
Claire let him kiss her like that, wishing she could feel what she used to.
Peter pressed her between the coats, his hand reaching under her dress.
“Peter,” she said, surprised. “Anyone could walk in.”