A Summer Affair (11 page)

Gavin nodded again and got back to work, effectively dismissing her.

“You’ll show Lock the contract?”

“When he gets back.”

“Okay.” She couldn’t really delay another second. Did she want to delay? Did she want to see Lock? Yes, desperately, but now she would be too nervous, she would be tongue-tied, and Gavin, with his sharp, discriminating eye, would detect something fishy afoot, something fishier than the catering bids.
Get out of there!
“Good-bye!”

The following night, Wednesday, there was a real meeting. Jason grumbled and Claire snapped at him for grumbling. He was angry that Claire had gone back to work, and she was angry that he was angry. She was more than angry; she was disillusioned. Jason didn’t value her career—and not only did he not value it, but he hated it. He had told his own brother that he wanted to
bomb
Claire’s hot shop. Bomb it—like a terrorist! When Claire had heard him say those words, they had not seemed as egregious as they did now. Jason had asked Claire to give up her career; he made her feel like her career was evil. He did not appreciate or respect her work. Lock was responsible for getting Claire back into the hot shop. That was a bond that went beyond the kiss in the office.

As she grabbed her purse, Jason said, “Have fun at your meeting.”

“Thanks,” Claire said with open hostility. “I will.”

Claire could see the lights of the Nantucket’s Children office blazing from half a block away. Then she saw Brent Jackson, Julie’s husband, and Brent’s friend Edward Melior (who had the distinction of having once been engaged to Siobhan) heading toward the office from Water Street. Claire waved and they all climbed the stairs together, and Claire was glad she was entering the office with these handsome, successful men (Brent and Edward were both real estate agents) rather than alone. The office was a hive of activity. Adams Fiske was there, shaking hands, pounding backs, directing people toward the boardroom. Francine Davis was there, one of Claire’s recruits, as well as Lauren van Aln, and the biggest coup, Tessa Kline, who was an editor at
NanMag,
the island’s biggest, glossiest magazine. She would give them great press. Right away, it was a party of sorts, all these people, a veritable who’s who of year-round islanders, and Claire was so overwhelmed and so pleased with herself for gathering these fine souls that she nearly forgot to look for Lock. There he was, in the corner, talking to a woman Claire didn’t recognize. The woman was attractive, wearing a red silk Chinese jacket and jeans. She had the sort of long, straight hair that distracted men, and the hair was loose, which seemed like a come-on, a call for attention, on a woman in her forties. Why not pull it back or pin it up? The hair—a pretty light brown—was making some kind of statement, and Claire didn’t like what it was saying. She felt as if her own hair—true, deep red and naturally wavy—was a Brillo pad in comparison. It was Ronald McDonald hair. She felt immediately defensive, not only about her hair, but about Lock’s talking to an attractive woman. Claire realized—just as Lock turned and looked at her (blankly, as though he didn’t recognize her)—that the woman was Isabelle French. Here, in person. Claire was taken aback; she had expected that Isabelle would call from New York. She had been ready for a disembodied voice, not an intriguing flesh-and-blood presence.

Lock said, “Claire!” and waved her over in a way that made her feel like his servant.

She tried to smooth the wrinkles in her mind. When she was working and she blew out a piece too thin, or she marvered lopsidedly, the best thing to do was start over—go back to the crucible and get a new gather. She could do that now, with Isabelle: start fresh, with a glob of molten possibility that could be coaxed into something divine.

The room seemed to part as Claire made her way toward Lock and Isabelle.

Lock said, “Claire,
this
is Isabelle French, your cochair. Isabelle, Claire Crispin.”

Claire smiled. She and Isabelle clasped hands like two heads of state. Claire could imagine the caption beneath their official photograph:
Gala cochairs meet for the first time.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Isabelle said. Her voice was smooth and rich and a touch smoky, like some kind of complicated sauce. “I know your work, of course.”

That was a nice touch, Claire thought.
I know your work.
It made Claire feel like Gertrude Stein.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” This was the woman in the Indian-print tunic whom Claire had seen at the benefit. Claire remembered seeing her one other time before that, from across the room at a board meeting—but Claire could never have guessed from either of those previous sightings that they would someday be shackled together.

“Let’s get started,” Lock said. “Will everyone take a seat?” He pulled out a chair for Isabelle and took the seat beside her. Claire felt a twinge of jealousy. She remembered Daphne Dixon:
If she touches him, or if they spend time alone together, I want you to call me
. . . But who was the real threat? Why, it was Claire! Claire was the only woman Lock had kissed other than Daphne in twenty years. But Lock Dixon hadn’t pulled out
her
chair.
Okay, stop,
she thought.
Back to the crucible.
She needed to remember why they were there—to help people like Marcella Vallenda, to raise money, to fund programming, to improve people’s lives.

Claire wanted to get away from Lock, but the chairs were filling up quickly . . . She felt a momentary panic, as if this was a child’s game, the music was going to stop at any second, and she would have to grab a seat . . . and the only seat remaining was to Lock’s right. Claire sat down; now she and Isabelle were flanking him. To Claire’s right, thankfully, was Adams Fiske, with his mop of brown curls and glasses sliding down his nose. Claire adored him unconditionally. His youngest son, Ryan, was J.D.’s best friend. Adams was in Claire’s foxhole; he would watch her back.

Isabelle cleared her throat. “I’ve written up an agenda for the meeting,” she said. She opened up a luscious calfskin portfolio and took out a sheaf of papers, passed them around. Claire felt the first drop of poison sully the new waters of her relationship with Isabelle. She had written up an
agenda?All right,
Claire thought. That made sense. She wouldn’t travel all the way from New York City on a Wednesday in October to show up at a meeting unprepared. So, the agenda. Claire glanced at Lock, who had put on his bifocals. Forty-eight hours earlier, they had been making out like a couple of teenagers in the other room, but now that seemed like a figment of Claire’s imagination.

The first line item on Isabelle’s agenda was “Talent.”
Discuss talent possibilities. Assign talent point person. Create talent and production budget (including travel and accommodations).

Isabelle tucked her long hair behind one ear, then tossed the ends over her shoulder. It was a move from her personal theater, Claire could tell, and she knew she’d see a lot of Isabelle’s hair tossing between now and August. Another drop of poison in the well.

“Since the gala is, in essence, a concert,” Isabelle said, “I thought we’d start by discussing talent.”

Claire opened her mouth to speak, but Brent Jackson beat her to it. “We got Max West,” he said. “Max West has agreed to play for free.”

Isabelle turned to Lock, slowly, deliberately. Claire and everyone else in the room watched, fascinated. Had Lock not
told
Isabelle about Max West?

“Max West?” Isabelle said. “Max
West?
” She might have said his name with awe and admiration—or disbelief—but what Claire heard was disdain. “Do we
want
Max West?”

Claire leaned against the back of her Windsor chair so that she could feel every one of her vertebrae, and she pressed her feet flat to the ground and simultaneously tried to lower her pelvis. She was creating her own yoga position. This distraction lasted for a few seconds before the shouting in her head began.
Do we
want
Max West?
That was like asking if they wanted Billy Joel, John Cougar Mellencamp, Tom Petty. Max West was probably the biggest cross-generational rock star in the
whole world
. He was right up there with Jimmy Buffett and Elton John.
Do we want Max West?

Was she kidding?

“Hell, yes,” Brent Jackson said. “That’s why I’m here. I love Max West. Everybody loves Max West.”

Isabelle tilted her head back so that her nose pointed up. “I’m not sure he’s right for our demographic,” she said. “Our leading donor demographic is fifty-five to seventy. That’s the biggest money. They don’t want to hear Max West. They want to hear Broadway.”

Adams said, “With all due respect to our demographic, since Max West is willing to play for us for free, we are going with Max West.”

“I think that’s a mistake,” Isabelle said. “I really do.”

So there you had it: the well was poisoned. Claire
hated
Isabelle French. Siobhan had tried to warn Claire, but Claire had not heeded this warning—she had felt
sorry
for Isabelle French! (
Bad divorce,
Lock had said.
And some subsequent bad decisions
.) But now Isabelle was making Claire look like an ass in front of Adams, the committee, and Lock. Overriding Claire’s embarrassment, her humiliation, her indignation (should she recite the litany of charitable organizations that wanted to get Max West and had no prayer? Should she inform Isabelle that Max had turned down
Bono?
), was mounting anger at Lock. He should have told Isabelle about Max West before the meeting started, and he should be de- fending Claire now. It had never crossed Claire’s mind that there was a person alive who would not want Max West to play the ben-efit. Claire was completely blindsided. She was mute with rage.

Lock said, “I guess we could look into other options . . .”

“No,” Claire said. All this time she had been staring into her lap, and there was a reason for that—she knew her face would be discolored. Her skin was milky white, but now she would have a red spot—round as an apple—on each cheek. She looked up at Brent Jackson and Tessa Kline, the magazine editor—
God, what must she be thinking?
—then turned to Isabelle and Lock. “No way. If you make me cancel Max West after calling in this favor, I will quit.” She rose from her chair to show she was serious, but was this a threat? Did anyone
care
if she resigned as cochair? Did Lock care?

Lock said to Isabelle, “Claire brought us Max West. He’s a friend of hers from high school.” He made it sound like Claire was a cat who had dropped a dead mouse at their feet.

“Forget it,” Claire said. She felt like a nine-year-old, a seven-year-old, a four-year-old. “I’ll call him back and tell him we don’t want him. I’ll tell him he doesn’t hit our demographic.”

“I’ve been talking to people, too,” Isabelle said. “Kristin Chenoweth, who is the hottest voice on Broadway right now. And Christine Ebersole is considering us, too. I’ve known her manager for years.”

“Christine Ebersole?” said Lauren van Aln. “Never heard of her.”

“How old are you?” Isabelle said.

“Thirty-one.”

“Well, that’s why.”

“I’ve never heard of Kristin Chenoweth,” Brent Jackson said.

“She’s starring in the revival of
South Pacific,
” Isabelle said. “Her face is on every bus and billboard in the city. She is
h-o-t.
”

“What is your objection to Max West?” Claire said. “If I may ask. He has eight platinum albums. He has thirty-one Top Forty hits. He has mass appeal. He is a bona fide celebrity, everyone knows him, and he will put ticket sales through the roof.”

“Nobody’s going to pay a thousand dollars for someone they’ve never heard of,” Francine Davis said.

There was silence. Everyone was waiting for Isabelle to speak. When she did speak, she looked at Lock, though Claire was the one standing, demanding an answer. But Isabelle appealed only to him. “Max West is a
rock
star,” she said. “His songs are loud and some of them have an edge. Do we really want our elegant evening to end with screaming guitar?”

“It’s mostly acoustic guitar,” Brent Jackson pointed out. “And incredible vocals.”

“I think he’s tawdry,” Isabelle said. “He’s common, lowbrow. He will make the event seem cheap. We’re not selling tickets to Fenway; this is an upscale event. We should get an upscale performer.”

“You have a point,” Lock said.

“I was asked to deliver Max West,” Claire said. “I have delivered Max West, but now I’m hearing we don’t want him. I’m hearing he’s not suitable. Is that how everybody feels?”

“No!” Brent Jackson said. “Why are we even having this conversation?”

Why indeed?
Claire thought. She was glaring down at the bald spot on Lock’s head with such heated vitriol that she expected it to catch fire. “Do we want Max West or not? I’m happy to cancel him and walk.”

Adams took Claire’s arm. “Don’t cancel him. We’re in the business of making money for this organization, and I think the best way to do that is to take the biggest star power we can get. Max is a coup for us, and he’s willing to do it for free. In my mind, there’s no question. Maybe we lose a few old folks who think his music is too loud, but we’ll pick up younger people.”

“We’re making a mistake,” Isabelle said. “What about the man’s personal life? The drugs, the drinking, the rehab, the affair with Savannah Bright splattered all over the tabloids. Is this a person we want representing a charity for
children?
”

Claire put her hands to her burning cheeks. She couldn’t decide which of many nasty things to think first.
What do
you
know about children? Do you even know who Big Bird is? And what about kissing another woman’s husband on the dance floor of the Waldorf-Astoria in front of eight hundred partygoers? What about the letter that came a week later asking you to rotate off the board of Manhattan East Hospital? Are
you
the right person to represent a charity for children?