They stood awkwardly for a moment, until Claire realized she should take the flowers from him and let him inside.
Weeks later, after she’d walked into Kennedy headquarters and took the seat next to him at a bank of telephones, he would tell her that in that awkward moment, he couldn’t catch his breath. I knew I was in trouble, he whispered to her. He’d said, The neighbor, as she sat down. Claire remembered how he’d listened that night at Trudy’s, the way he cocked his head when she told the story about being stuck in Madrid during a rainstorm when she worked for TWA. The story was a funny one, good for a dinner party what with its matador and flooded hotel lobby and tapas. But it wasn’t that interesting. Yet he’d listened to her as if every detail mattered, and met her gaze and held it just a moment too long. She remembered that dinner had been roast beef, and about his wife’s appendicitis—it wasn’t tonsils, after all—and Polly’s gruesome description of her husband’s slow death. Dessert was chocolate soufflé.
At some point during that first night at Kennedy headquarters, Miles leaned close to her and said, It’s happening again. I can’t catch my breath. Claire had ignored him, but her heart was doing funny things. She could practically hear it pumping her blood and sending it through her veins. In fact, she was getting light-headed. Air, she thought. Fresh air.
It was July, and hot. Claire lit a cigarette and took a deep inhale. She smoked Newports, and they tasted almost minty. The air seemed not to move at all. Rather, it hung heavy and wet, sending sweat trickling down Claire’s ribs. She held her light cotton sleeveless blouse out, away from her body, and fanned it, though that did not bring relief.
“Claire.”
She turned toward him. He wore a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The lamplight cast a pale blue glow over everything.
“The old era is ending,” he said. “The old ways will not do.”
“I’m not going to do this,” she said, maybe knowing even then what this was.
“We can have faith in the future only if we have faith in ourselves,” he said, moving closer to her.
“Have you memorized the whole speech?” she said. She could smell her own sweat, and his too, a male musk beneath a layer of lime.
“I have,” he said. “But I didn’t realize it would relate to me so personally. My old ways. My faith in the future.”
Now he stood only inches away from her. A thin line of sweat moved down his cheek.
‘You don’t even know me,” she said.
“Tell me who you are then,” he said in a low voice.
“I don’t do things like this,” she said, laughing softly.
“Neither do I,” he said.
“I’m married,” she said.
“I know. I met him. Tall handsome guy who doesn’t appreciate you.”
Claire shivered despite the heat.
“He does,” she said, because a wife always defends her husband. But did Peter appreciate her? Did he even really notice her?
“I’m guessing he married a beautiful woman who would give him beautiful children and keep a beautiful house,” he said, cocking his head. “He just plugged you into his plan.”
“You’re fresh,” Claire said, starting to walk away.
But he grabbed her arm to stop her.
“I see you,” he said softly. “I see something in you.”
“I can’t parallel-park,” Claire told him, unsettled by what he’d said.
“I’ll teach you,” he said. “You’re a smart girl. You’ll learn fast.”
He thought she was smart? A fast learner? She shook away the image of Peter smiling at her as if she were a child. Don’t even think about that, he always said, it’s too complicated. Or: Don’t worry your pretty little head. About bills or hurricanes or politics or anything at all.
“I’m not a very good cook,” Claire continued. “But I try Craig Claiborne’s recipe every week. Sometimes it comes out right.”
“I make a mean chili,” he said. “That and a Craig Claiborne from time to time. The other nights we’ll eat out.”
“You’re out of line,” she said unconvincingly.
“What else?” he asked her.
“I don’t like The Red Skelton Show. I don’t think he’s funny.”
“He’s not funny,” he said. “Lenny Bruce is funny.”
Claire smiled. “Lenny Bruce is funny,” she said, thinking of how Peter couldn’t stand Lenny Bruce. Too crass, he said.
He stood so close to her that she could smell the coffee on his breath.
“I’m a Hoosier,” she said. “I was an air hostess for TWA.”
“Tell me something that matters.”
“My birthday is in June,” Claire said. The lights of an Esso station across the street blinked off. “That makes me a Gemini. Do you know anything about that?”
“I think I’m a Libra,” he said. “September 28?”
“I think that is a Libra,” she said.
“Are we compatible?” he asked. “Libra and Gemini?”