“Really,” Claire said, putting her hand up to stop Connie, “I don’t want to hear this.”
Connie’s thin eyebrows lifted. “Her husband beat the crap out of his brother, but I think he should have thrown her out. I mean—”
“I have to try to get some sleep,” Claire said, standing up. The scotch had made her dizzy, and she held on to the table for support.
Connie narrowed her eyes.
“How did we ever get on this topic anyway?” Claire said, forcing a chuckle.
“Jackie,” Connie said.
“Right.” Claire waited for Connie to stand too, to go back downstairs. But she just sat there, waiting. “Will you watch tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Connie said. She brightened. “Tell you what. If she wears red, I’ll cook you dinner, and if she wears pink, you can cook me dinner.”
“Great,” Claire said, even though that was a silly idea. Her mother-in-law was probably dying; how could she cook dinner for Connie?
“What would you cook? If you won,” Connie said, still not making a move to leave.
“I don’t know,” Claire said. “Probably coq au vin.”
“Cocoa what?”
“Chicken. In wine sauce. It’s my specialty, kind of.”
“Huh,” Connie said. “Okay. I’ll make you spaghetti and meatballs. I make the best meatballs. Ask Jimmy.”
“I really need to go to bed,” Claire said. “I’m sorry.”
Connie looked surprised. “Sorry? Sorry for what?”
She shrugged and said, “For going to bed, I guess.”
The first time she saw Miles was at Trudy’s on a Saturday night in May. It was the Saturday right after Dougie Daniels disappeared. Claire and Peter arrived late.
“Babysitter,” Peter had explained.
“Regina Knightly,” Claire said, which was enough for all the women to nod.
“Enough said,” Trudy said, offering a tray of hors d’ouevres.
Regina Knightly was always late, and slow-moving, the last-resort babysitter in the neighborhood. When Cheryl Merckel babysat, she taught the kids her high school cheers, right down to the cartwheels. Beth Piper did elaborate art projects. Diane Carrington wrote plays for them to perform. But Regina Knightly just ate the leftovers and left the dirty dishes in the sink. The women suspected that she rifled through their dresser drawers, spritzed on their perfume, even stole their husbands’ condoms. But no one could ever prove any of this.
Peter immediately gravitated toward the men, who stood in a smoky corner arguing about whether Nixon would make a good president.
When the doorbell rang, Claire was relieved. Someone was actually arriving even later.
“Can you get that?” Trudy asked Claire. She was filling another tray with celery stuffed with cream cheese. The way Trudy made those, she always put half an olive on some, some tomato on the others, alternating them neatly. “It’s my spare,” she added.
“Spare?”
“I needed a fourth guy, to even things out.” Trudy tilted her chin in the direction of her husband’s sister Polly, who had been widowed recently. Polly had to be invited to every event at Trudy’s, leaving Trudy to always be on the lookout for single men. “He’s married,” Trudy said, “but I was desperate. His wife is in the hospital.”
Claire laughed as she headed to the front door. “I hope she didn’t just have a baby.”
“No. Something silly, like getting her tonsils out. He works with Dick.”
Claire walked through the dining room, already set with Trudy’s china. The pattern was ornate, a busy cluster of pink flowers in various shapes and shades and the plates themselves scalloped along the edges. The water and wine glasses were pink too. Peter would never have let her choose pink china and crystal. But they did catch the candlelight beautifully.
The doorbell chimed again.
“Claire!” Trudy called. “Did you get lost?”
In the front foyer, a large orange tree bloomed from a golden urn. How did Trudy keep that thing producing oranges, Claire wondered.
She pulled open the heavy front door.
A man peeked at her from behind an enormous bouquet of flowers.
“Trudy?” he asked.
“No, I’m just a neighbor. Trudy is serving the hors d’oeuvres.”