Where is Charlie? Claire scanned the room for a glimpse of his sandy hair and broad shoulders, but no one remotely resembled him, not even from the back. Out of the corner of her eye she’d seen Alison wandering alone through the crowd a few minutes earlier, but that didn’t necessarily mean Charlie wasn’t there. Maybe he’d been waylaid in the foyer.
That morning he had called Claire from work. “It’s your big night,” he said. “Excited?”
“A little nervous. I’m glad you’re coming.”
“I want to. I’m going to do everything I can.”
“What do you mean?” she said, struggling to keep the irritation out of her voice. “This is important to me. Why can’t you just say you’ll come?”
He sighed. “It’s complicated. The kids, Alison … I’ll try. I’m just not a hundred percent sure.”
“But I’ll be really disappointed.” She knew she sounded petulant, but she didn’t care.
“Me, too.”
“It won’t be any fun without you.”
“Oh, come on, Claire—you’re going to have a great time, whether I’m there or not.”
“No, I won’t,” she said stubbornly.
“Claire,” he said. “I do want to come. I want to be there for you. But I’m no good at hiding my feelings; you know that better than anyone. With Alison there, and Ben … Frankly, it seems dangerous.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Charlie. It’s a big party, with lots of people.”
“But I won’t be able to keep my eyes off you.”
“That’s okay; I’m supposed to be the center of attention.”
“Not to mention my hands.”
She laughed. “Stop. Promise you’ll come.”
He had promised, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. This would be the first time the four of them would be in a room together since that night out in Rockwell, three months ago. Once or twice in the past few months Ben had remarked that they hadn’t seen much of Alison and Charlie; but everyone was busy, and it didn’t seem particularly strange. The falling-out with Alison, Claire had to admit, made it easier to do what they were doing.
“Claire, this guy’s important,” her publicist, Jami with an i, said sotto voce, startling Claire out of her musings. Jami motioned toward a man with wolfman sideburns who was bearing down on them, snagging a martini from a waiter without breaking his stride. “Jim Oliver. He’s a reviewer for People.”
“Hello,” Claire said as he joined their small group. “I’m Claire.”
“I deduced that,” he said. “Though I must say you look livelier in person than in that ice-princess author photo.”
“Thank you. I guess.”
“We’re all so proud of her.” Jami beamed, squeezing Claire’s waist. “Did you hear we made a hard/soft deal with Japan today? And her agent is talking to Dreamworks? And she got a great review in EW this week? It’s all happening so fast!”
Claire felt ridiculous, standing there listening to Jami inflate the facts. She had a mental image of her 230-page book literally puffing up and floating away on its own hot air. The Japan deal was for a paltry $5,000; Claire’s agent had managed to slip the book to Dreamworks because her neighbor was a minor executive there; the “great” review in Entertainment Weekly was actually an okay B+. But this, Claire knew, was the game.
“It’s at the top of my pile,” Jim Oliver said, taking a swig from his glass. He held it aloft and squinted at it, as if contemplating a toast. “So what’s with the blue martinis?”
Claire held up a copy of her book and wagged it at him.
“Well, that clears it up,” he said. Jami, whom Claire had gotten to know well over the past few weeks, elbowed her in the side.
“It was my mother’s drink,” Claire said. “Curaçao is like heroin to her.”
“And she was—you know—depressed,” Jami interjected with a meaningful nod.
Claire looked across the room at her mother, Lucinda Ellis, there in the flesh, chatting amiably with Martha Belle Clancy, the safety blanket she’d hauled up from North Carolina. The two of them, wearing floral dresses and beige pumps and Monet pearls, looked like stage props for Claire’s book. Every now and then Ben would bring someone over to meet Lucinda, and she’d gush in a way that tended to startle New Yorkers but that came as naturally to her as breathing.
As she looked around, Claire’s gaze fell on Alison, standing at the drinks table, accepting a blue martini from a boy with a tattoo of thorns ringing his forearm, and looking around for someone to talk to. She seemed unsure of herself, out of place. In Claire’s former role, the role she’d played all her life, she would have rushed over to introduce Alison to someone, but now she decided to let her be. Claire’s therapist was helping her to separate, to stop feeling responsible for other peoples’ feelings at the expense of her own; it was part of her decision to write the book, to put off having kids, to take time to figure out what she wanted in her life.
To get involved with Charlie.
Claire glanced at her watch: 8:44. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” she said to Jami. “I’ll be right back. It was nice meeting you,” she added to the People guy, who tapped the book and grinned.
In the bathroom, with the door locked, she pulled her cell phone out of the little bag she was carrying and pushed number nine, speed-dialing Charlie’s cell phone.
“Hi,” he said, picking up after several rings. “This is a surprise. Aren’t you—?”
“I escaped,” she said. “I’m in the bathroom.”
“Who’s that, Daddy?” she heard a child say, and Charlie replied, in a muffled voice, “Nobody, honey, just—work.”
“‘Nobody’?” The word stung, even though Claire knew she was being irrational. She sighed. “You’re not here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve called. At the last minute—”
“I knew you weren’t coming.” He didn’t say anything, so she continued. “It’s okay. It’s just … boring without you.”
“I don’t believe it. This is your moment.”
“It doesn’t feel like my moment. It all feels very—removed, somehow.”
“It’s a damn good book. You know that, don’t you?”
“What book?” Claire could hear Annie asking in the background.
“Nothing, sweetie,” he answered, his voice muffled again. “Just something I read. Go help Noah with the train tracks. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“You finished it already?” Claire asked.
“Just this afternoon, on the train.” He paused, and Claire guessed he was waiting for Annie to leave. Then he said, “It’s an incredible story. It makes me—oh, never mind. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Tell me.”
“Honestly—it makes me like you even better.”
“Oh.” She smiled into the phone.
“So relax. Enjoy this.”
“Urrr.” She groaned. “I’d rather be with you.” She held the phone to her ear, listening to the static between them. “When can I see you?”
“Soon.”
“When?”
“It’s the weekend,” he said. “I don’t think I can get away.”
“Before I leave on tour? Monday?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Charlie … ”
“What?”
“I just … I want to be with you.”
“Yes,” he said again.
When the call was done she clicked off and held the warm phone to her chest for a moment, as if it were a piece of him. Then she slipped it back into her bag and opened the door. Surveying the room, she watched as Alison caught Ben’s eye and he nodded and held one finger out—wait—so that the person he was with couldn’t see. After a moment he extricated himself with a deft turn and started to make his way over to her. Claire saw Alison’s features soften and her shoulders drop. Now she could relax—Ben wouldn’t desert her until she found her footing.
All evening, Claire had watched Ben work the room as only Ben could, seeking out the uncomfortable and the socially awkward, refilling drinks and matchmaking commonalities. Every now and then he’d look over at her and lift his glass, offering to refill hers, or raise his eyebrows in a bid to rescue her if she needed it. More than once, feeling the warmth of his gaze, Claire wondered how it could be possible to love someone as much as she loved Ben, and yet no longer be in love.