The smell brought a wave of nausea to Claire, and she thought again of finding some sleds and going outside in the cold fresh air.
“I mean, who wears tan? Did you get a load of her today? Tan,” Connie said.
“Well, taupe,” Claire said.
Connie narrowed her eyes.
“Technically she wore taupe,” Claire said.
She hadn’t noticed that Jimmy was standing in the doorway of his apartment, wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt that didn’t cover all of the hair that spread like grass across his chest and arms.
“Taupe?” he mimicked. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s . . .” Claire struggled to describe it. “Sort of beige—”
“Tan,” Connie said, smirking.
“Fine,” Claire said, wanting to get out of there. She was actually having trouble catching her breath.
“You okay?” Jimmy asked. “You’re a little green around the edges.”
“I need some fresh air,” she said. “I was thinking I could take Little Jimmy and Kathy sledding. At the park?”
“Sure,” Connie said. “The sleds are down in the basement.”
Claire had her hand on the door that led outside.
“I’m just going to step out for a minute,” she said.
As she was closing the door behind her, she heard Jimmy saying, “She’s kind of delicate, ain’t she? Connie just pops kids out.”
“Nine months,” Connie said, “and I don’t even burp.”
Claire sat on the cold stoop and leaned her head against the front door.
Think about Jackie, she told herself. She closed her eyes and took in big mouthfuls of air. So lucky, Jackie was. The first lady. With that handsome husband and those children and the White House and all that Newport money and horses and speaking French. Like someone in a fairy tale.
Claire opened her eyes. White. Jackie would wear white tonight. Not cream or winter white but fairy-tale white. Maybe with sparkling beads. She was certain of it. She could almost see it, Jackie in a glittering white gown, dancing with her husband the president.
Smiling, Claire went back inside and up the stairs to her mother-in-law’s to call Dot.
Claire had forgotten how long it took to get children in their snowsuits and mittens, the squirming as the layers piled up, the forcing of their little feet into boots and their sweaty hands into mittens. By the time they had been zipped and snapped, Claire was exhausted. A few weeks ago, after a big snow, she had wrestled Kathy into her snow gear only to have the girl crying and cold within minutes, ready to go back inside. Today, at least, all of the work getting Little Jimmy and Kathy ready to go sledding would pay off with an hour or two bumping down the snowy hills at the park.
On the way there, the children ate Cheerios in the backseat and looked at The Poky Little Puppy together. Claire could almost imagine a future with two children, Kathy and this new baby sitting back there, playing and talking, growing up under her supervision. For these twenty minutes, as they drove past snowdrifts and cars stuck off the roads, Claire could let herself forget.
But then, just as suddenly as a sense of ease had come over her, Claire remembered what Rose had told her.
Claire glanced at the children to be sure they were still occupied before she said in a low voice, “They arrested the man who took Dougie Daniels.”
“They caught him?” Peter said.
“You hadn’t heard?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be damned.”
“What kind of person would do such a thing?” Claire said.
She didn’t expect an answer, but Peter said, “A sick bastard, that’s for sure.”
At the word bastard she looked to be sure the children hadn’t heard. Kathy was holding the book and pretending to read it out loud, and Little Jimmy listened, rapt.
“It’s over finally,” Claire said, trying to imagine Gladys Daniels receiving the news. It would never be over for her.
Up ahead the park came into sight. All of the hills were dotted with sledders, bright splashes of red and green and blue against the white snow. The sky had turned from pewter to a clear royal blue. Cloudless, it seemed to stretch forever. Claire smiled to herself, pleased with her idea to do this. She leaned across the seat and kissed Peter lightly on the cheek. Surprised, he put his hand to his cheek, as if she had branded him.
“Thank you,” she said anyway.
“The things I do for you, Clairezy,” he said, his hand still resting on the spot her lips had touched.
Was he trying to erase it? Claire wondered. Or preserve it?