“Pain like ours makes people uncomfortable. I had no one to talk to about it. It drove me insane.”
Claire’s ability to display the bad parts of her life made Kitty jealous, but it did help to know she wasn’t the only one who had fallen to such depths. Things were better now, being able to see Sarah, but she knew the grief of which Claire spoke.
“I keep wondering if there was something different I should have done.”
Claire reached across the table to cover Kitty’s hand. “There wasn’t.”
Kitty greedily accepted Claire’s comfort.
“You know, there are plenty of women who would benefit from you telling your story.”
“Maybe I’ll write about it.”
Claire’s head went to one side. “You write?”
Kitty rushed to downplay her admission. “I dabble.”
“Like, what kind of writing?”
“I doctor scenes.”
“Well, you should write a whole something. It would open up a new market for you.”
Kitty looked at her curiously. “Thanks for the career advice.”
Claire explained. “I used to run public relations for my family’s company, but I’ve always wanted to work in film.” Claire talked fast, as though she was afraid Kitty would be angry.
“I could let Nathan know,” Kitty said, understanding now why she’d been invited.
Claire clasped her hands together. “Would you?”
“Sure, but—are you going to try for another baby?”
“Absolutely. I was born to be a mother.”
“Then maybe you should wait to start a new career.”
Claire waved a hand. “I can work while pregnant.”
“I couldn’t imagine filming pregnant.”
“Are you going to try again?”
“Never,” Kitty said. If she ever got pregnant again, she would drink whatever potion was supplied.
“You may feel different in a few years. I was the same.”
Race aside, Kitty wasn’t sure. She loved holding and kissing Sarah, but she wasn’t envious of Nellie’s work as a mother. And that was putting it nicely.
Claire seemed to think she could do it all—and maybe she could, Kitty considered, but Kitty had no aspirations to try.
“I can’t just party with my husband for the rest of my life.”
Kitty smiled; she intended to.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Claire asked. “Winston, my husband, is working late. I made lasagna.”
“You cook?” Claire looked like the type who grew up having the basics done for her. Kitty had first picked up a knife when she was seven.
“I have a short list of specialties.”
“I hope lasagna is one of them.” Kitty didn’t know what lasagna was and was sure she’d mispronounced it.
Claire bumped Kitty’s shoulder with her hip before pulling her from the chair. “Come see.”
Kitty was pleased by the kitchen’s savory aroma; it was complex and heightened by the warmth of the oven.
“Did you always like to cook?” Kitty asked.
“Yes, it runs in my blood. My grandmother was a baker.” She stirred the sauce before lighting the pilot. “Half an hour. Wine?” Anticipating a yes, she handed Kitty a glass.
Kitty swirled her glass as Claire did before taking a sip.
Claire pulled a pan from an overhead cabinet, setting it and some oil on the table in front of Kitty. “I normally drink white wine because I eat so much cheese and it goes better. That and grapes is a standard meal for me.”
“My stomach doesn’t like too much cheese.”
“You haven’t had the right cheese. My grandparents had cows, and their cheese was so fresh and creamy, I could have eaten pounds of it if they’d let me.” Claire pulled open her refrigerator. “There’s a Cornish hen and potatoes from the other night if you’re starving.”
“It’s fine. I’m not too hungry, I was more enjoying your company.”
Claire directed Kitty to lay the strips of pasta in a pan. “Did you always want to be an actress?”
“Yes. I’d only admit that now that it’s happened, but yes.”
Claire handed her a tool with a silver wheel on its end to cut the dough she’d rolled out between them. “We need another layer of noodles. Wide strips.” She held her palms apart to show her. “Although”—Claire was in the middle of a thought—“it seems like a lot of pressure.”
“People expect me to be everything no one else is, including my husband.”
“He is a movie guy, Kitty.”
“Yeah, but…” Kitty let herself trail off. She was talking too much.
“Rough patch?” Claire nodded knowingly before Kitty could answer. “It’s natural, with all that you two have been through.”
“Or maybe I’m just not bright and shiny anymore.”
“Imagine how it is for the rest of us, who aren’t as genetically blessed.” Tomato sauce splattered on top of the noodles. “Winston works for Playboy now.”
“How’s that?”
Claire collected her thoughts as she reached for a wet noodle. “I know you make a living off your looks—”
“And talent.”
“Yes, and talent, and I do not want to offend you, but I wonder if, as women, we’re on the verge of liberation or merely building a jail we’re willing to live in.”
“Concerning the nudity?”
“Well, yes, but everything. Our own lives.”
“I think it’s both.” For Kitty it was more of the latter, though, and Claire agreed.
“In my jail, we have rules. He knows I won’t stand for cheating,” Claire continued. “So as long as he’s sleeping with me, I don’t worry about it. My father had a mistress throughout most of my parents’ marriage, and they slept in separate bedrooms.”
“Did your mother know?”
Claire gestured a slap in the air. “She hit me once when I tried to address it.”
“There must have been something between them to make her stay.”
“Money. Her duty. Who knows? He’s a pig. Countless accusations. You can’t imagine.”
“Accusations of what?”
Claire wouldn’t answer but raised her brows like Kitty should know. “My family paid off some women—the ones they knew of, anyway. That’s why he never learned his lesson. And he’s a judge, so they just sweep it under the rug.” Lost in thought, Claire came to with a panicked look. “Please don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“I wouldn’t. My father wasn’t a great person either. He never had anything to do with my mother and me.”
“Trust me, mine has yours beat. I didn’t know it, though, until I was much older. I’m thankful for that.” Claire slid the lasagna into the oven and grabbed the wine. “Fifteen minutes more. Let’s sit in the other room.”
Walking down the hallway, Kitty discovered she was a little drunk. Her pace slowed as she looked at the photographs covering the walls. She became fixated on one of a little girl, likely Claire, sitting atop a black horse. Her legs hung halfway down the horse’s belly, as did her fire-engine-red hair. At least twenty other kids stood around the horse; behind them were decorations in the trees and a table piled high with gifts.
Claire came to her side. “My fifth birthday party.” If that was the definition of a birthday party, Kitty had never had one.
Claire pointed to a series of Christmas photos. In each was a massive lighted tree and presents that covered the ground and came to the very edge of the picture frame. “We had Christmas every year at my grandmother’s house in North Carolina.”
“What part?” Kitty was starting to feel like she didn’t care if Claire was White or not; maybe they could be friends.
“Do you know it?”
“Parts.”
“The land has been in my family for five generations.”
“Cotton?” Kitty asked.
Claire sighed. “Such a Northerner’s question. Mostly tobacco. It’s a miracle some of the properties are still standing. My grandparents have a beautiful house there. It sits on a hill, back from the street—it’s hard to miss. I planned to get some renovations done when my grandmother died, but I was outvoted. I don’t know what condition it’s in now. There’s a creek behind the house; we used to climb down the hill to play there. Amazing we never got bitten by a snake.”
“You sound adventurous. I wouldn’t dare—”