A Summer Affair (12 page)

“We are sticking with Max West,” Adams said. Adams was always conciliatory, always open to other points of view and extending any debate, but tonight his voice was firm. “I don’t want to talk about it any further.”

Isabelle laughed derisively. She waved her hand. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll pull my other lines out of the water. But let it be noted that I think we’re making a mistake.”

“So noted,” Adams said.

“He’s, like, the biggest name in the business,” Brent Jackson said.

Isabelle’s smile was so fake it looked painful. “Okay,” she said. “Fine.”

Claire sat back down. Technically, she had won her point, and yet she felt defeated. Her own cochair wasn’t happy about Max West, and Lock had come dangerously close to rolling over on it—and this after he had
asked
her to pursue Matthew in the first place! Isabelle had gotten her shots in, calling Matthew tawdry, common, lowbrow, and cheap, and because Matthew was Claire’s friend, because they had grown up together and shared a history, Claire now felt like she was the skanky ex-girlfriend of a motorcycle drug lord. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of jockeying, or the politics.

Claire didn’t want to fight with Isabelle; she didn’t want to compete to see who would be the alpha dog, though wasn’t that what Isabelle was doing? Wasn’t that the point of her creating an agenda in the first place? Isabelle was asserting her control, taking charge. It hadn’t crossed Claire’s mind to write up an agenda for the meeting. Claire had thought that Lock would run the meeting, or Adams would, but not her and certainly not Isabelle.

Isabelle said, “We’ll make Claire the point person for the talent, then. Okay with you, Claire?”

“Fine,” Claire said. “I already delivered the contract and the rider.”

Adams held them up. “I have them right here. I will look them over.”

Next on the agenda were the invitations. Isabelle knew a graphic designer in New York who would do them gratis. She said this word, “gratis,” instead of “for free,” and Claire shuddered. The graphic designer, Isabelle said, was young and hip; he lived in Nolita. (Claire understood that this was a neighborhood in Manhattan, but she didn’t know where it was because the last time Claire had been to New York, Nolita hadn’t existed.)

“We need to revamp the invite design,” Isabelle said. “It’s fusty. The past few years the invites have been straight out of the retirement home.”

Perfect for our demographic,
Claire thought.

Isabelle reached into her portfolio. “I’ve copied the invitation list for each of you to look over. Please add people, delete people, make notes by anyone you know who has died, or worse still, divorced.” She looked up for a laugh but got none. Claire felt marginally better. “This list is stagnant. It needs freshening up. We don’t want it to be the same old people.”

The same old thousand people,
Claire thought.

“Like I said, having Max will bring in some new faces,” Adams said.

“Yeah,” Brent Jackson said. “Like me. Finally, someone I’d pay a thousand bucks to see.”

Isabelle sniffed. “Is it all right with everyone if I spearhead invitations?”

People nodded. Fine, fine. Though what was the point of having a committee if they weren’t going to be given jobs?

“Item three,” Isabelle said. “Catering.”

Claire had been prepared, coming into this meeting, to do battle regarding the catering. She was so stunned after fighting about Max West, however, that she couldn’t remember how she had planned to broach the catering question.

“There were problems with the catering last year,” Isabelle said. “Some people said their steaks were raw, and some said theirs tasted like shoe leather.”

Claire tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice. “Maybe we should switch caterers,” she said.

“Absolutely,” Isabelle said, and for a split second, there was harmony. Palpable relief around the table. The cochairs agreed! “Do you have anyone in mind?”

Claire paused. Did she dare say it? “I know someone who’s interested in putting in a bid.”

“Who’s that?”

“Island Fare.”

“Never heard of them,” Isabelle said.

“Really?” Claire said. She pressed her back against the chair again and did the thing with her feet and her pelvis in an attempt to keep her mouth shut, but that was impossible. “The owner, Siobhan—she’s my sister-in-law—said she catered a lunch at your house last summer.”

“Oh,” Isabelle said. “Well, I threw a lot of catered luncheons last summer. I don’t remember who I used for each one.” There was silence around the table. If the rest of the committee hadn’t hated Isabelle French before, they did now. Claire tried to keep her expression neutral. She had never had an enemy before, or even a rival; she wasn’t used to feeling pleased when someone said something asinine.

Adams cleared his throat. “They’re very good,” he said. “They cater the Boston Pops every year.”

“We don’t want to use the same people as the Pops,” Isabelle asked. “We want to distinguish ourselves.”

“It would be different food,” Claire said. “It seems to me we want the most creative, delicious food at the best price. Yes or no?”

The table murmured yes. Edward Melior piped up. “I think Siobhan would be great.”

“Let’s have them give us a bid,” Adams said. “I happen to have two other bids here, though one of them is from the catering company we used last year.”

“Well, forget that,” Isabelle said. “They were awful. Half our table had their entrées, but the other half had to wait, and by the time their food came, the rest of us were finished.”

Things were looking good for Siobhan, Claire thought, and she’d barely had to say a word. “Edward, will you take charge of catering?” she asked. She knew he would pick Carter and Siobhan because he and Siobhan had once been in love and engaged to be married, and everyone in the universe knew he still carried a flame for her. The only person who would not be thrilled about this situation was Carter—he didn’t like Edward—but Siobhan wanted this job, and here was one way for her to get it without Claire’s having to perform subterfuge with the paperwork.

“My pleasure,” Edward said.

“Item four,” Isabelle said. Was it Claire’s imagination, or did it sound like she was wearing down? “Auction item.”

Lock had been sitting, this whole time, still as a statue, his hands folded on top of his legal pad. He had not written a single note, and he had not (as Claire had hoped) looked meaningfully in her direction. Possibly he was afraid to speak. He had a cochair to his left who was making the meeting difficult and unpleasant, and a cochair to his right whom he had kissed two days earlier. Claire was hurt that he wasn’t placing himself solidly in her corner, but perhaps he was afraid to show his hand. He had feelings for Claire but couldn’t let anyone know it, so he would let Claire flounder and take Isabelle’s arrows. Or he was exercising his usual good judgment and listening to everyone’s opinions before weighing in. Claire should admire his impartiality instead of letting it bother her.

“I have a few spectacular ideas for an auction item,” Isabelle said. She did the tucking-and-tossing thing with her hair again. Claire was certain that none of Isabelle’s “spectacular ideas” included a museum-quality piece of glass conceived and fashioned by Claire Danner Crispin. If Lock hadn’t told Isabelle about Max West, then he certainly hadn’t told her about Claire’s coming out of retirement for the auction item. Claire had considered bringing the sketch of the chandelier, but in the end she had been too afraid. Art was subjective and always included the possibility of failure. Already there had been a few nights, before she drifted off to sleep, when she imagined Pietro da Silva, the island’s best auctioneer, starting the bidding on her piece and looking over a sea of people, all of whom were sitting on their hands.

“Since we’re not going to ask Kristin Chenoweth to perform,” Isabelle said, “we might ask her to donate private singing lessons.”

“Singing lessons?” Tessa Kline said skeptically.

“Her face is plastered across every subway station in the city,” Isabelle said.

Edward Melior shrugged. “What about orchestra seats to the show, with a meet and greet afterward?”

“Or dinner,” Tessa said.

“I’m willing to ask,” Isabelle said gamely.

Claire’s breathing was shallow. No one was going to want her glass. It wasn’t sexy; it wasn’t interesting.

“I also have a friend willing to donate his G5,” Isabelle said. “That’s a private jet. I could ask for a round-trip anywhere in the United States with twenty people onboard for a cocktail party.”

“That sounds incredible,” Edward Melior said.

“Incredible,” Claire echoed. She felt like a complete ass. Lock had led her to believe that people would want her glass—but compared with singing lessons from a Tony Award–winning actress, or a cocktail party on a private jet flying to Palm Beach or over the Rockies, what Claire was offering up felt like a crayon drawing.

Lock Dixon tapped his pen against his notebook, like a judge with a gavel. “Claire and I have already discussed the auction item,” he said. “And she has agreed to create a museum-quality piece of glass that we will put up as the auction item.”

Claire felt her cheeks burning, as obvious as two circles of red felt. This was quite possibly the most mortifying moment of her entire life. Why had she let Lock talk her into this? She had no boundaries. Her cells, as Siobhan so adroitly pointed out, had no membranes. When she looked up, there would be a table full of uncomfortable looks and throat clearings and scratching of heads, literal and figurative. Museum-quality glass? Huh?

Tessa Kline shrieked. “Oh, my God!” she said. “Claire? You’ll do it?”

“Um,” Claire said, “I told Lock I would. I don’t have an idea yet, though.” Here, she thought, in addition to her cheeks burning, her nose would grow. “Plus, let’s face it: art is subjective. People could hate what I do.”

“But you’re a genius!” Tessa said. “Claire has a piece in the Whitney Museum, you know.”

“I told her this would mark her triumphant return,” Lock said. He sounded, at that moment, proprietary and proud, and although Claire was elated, she was also worried. Would everyone now guess that there was something between them? “Back after a two-year hiatus.”

“But Claire has a point,” Adams said. “Art is subjective. I would hate to see her spend a lot of time and energy creating something and then not have it go for what it’s worth.”

“It would be embarrassing for me,” Claire said. “And bad for Nantucket’s Children. If we didn’t get the money, I mean.” In the two weeks since the gala auction item had first been mentioned, it had jump-started Claire’s career and caused a rift in her marriage—and now Claire found herself backpedaling about it.

“We already have a guaranteed bid of fifty thousand dollars,” Lock said.

“We do?” Adams said.

“Yes,” Lock said. “From Daphne and me. Whatever Claire creates, we’ll pay fifty thousand dollars for. And we can cultivate other bidders.”

“Precisely,” Tessa said. “I’ll do a feature article in the magazine, with a photograph. Museum-quality piece. People will go
crazy
. The homes on this island have gotten so out of control with their movie theaters and their sculpture gardens and six-thousand- dollar shower curtains—I’ll bet there are a bunch of people who would jump at a chance to own a major work by Claire. It would be one-of-a-kind, right?”

“Yes,” Claire squeaked.

“One-of-a-kind. And she’s been out of commission for a couple of years. That makes it even more special. I say we go for it,” Tessa said. She grinned at Claire. “I say, go home and get blowing!”

Brent Jackson laughed at this, and Edward Melior started to applaud. Lock said, “Great. Tessa, will you head the auction committee? You’re the right person to get news about the piece out there.”

Claire turned to Adams. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“You seem to have the full confidence of our executive director,” Adams said. “And Tessa is right about the summer people having a bad case of one-upmanship. The question is how you’ll find the time.”

Of course, along with the waking nightmares, that was the question.

Claire glanced over at Isabelle, who was quietly tucking her papers into her calfskin portfolio. What did Isabelle think of Claire’s creating a museum-quality piece of glass for the auction? Did she think it was a good idea or a bad idea?
I know your work.
But did she
like
Claire’s work? Did she consider blown glass to be
art,
or did she consider it a hobby, like pottery, or knitting? Strangely, Claire found herself seeking Isabelle’s approval, her endorsement. But Isabelle didn’t respond; she looked exhausted. She had flown in for this meeting with her neatly printed agenda, but things hadn’t gone her way. Claire should have been pleased, but she was plagued with self-doubt. What if Max West
was
perceived as tawdry and common? What if hiring Siobhan to cater
was
unethical? What if Lock
was
the only one bidding on Claire’s piece? Did Claire really know how to run a benefit better than Isabelle French, who had done it for larger organizations, in the most sophisticated city in the world? It was silly to think so.

If Claire was a reluctant victor, Isabelle was a stoic loser. She crumpled the agenda in her fist in a way that seemed more resigned than angry.

“I’m tired,” she said. “And starving. There is still PR and marketing to discuss, but should we save it for next time?”

“Next time,” Lock agreed, and the rest of the committee seemed relieved. People packed up.

“Dinner?” Claire heard Lock say.

“God, yes,” Isabelle said. “Where?”

“I made a reservation at Twenty-one Federal,” he said.

“Is Daphne coming?” Isabelle asked.

“No. She wanted to see you, but she didn’t feel well enough to come out.”

Claire tried to remain calm. Lock was taking Isabelle to 21 Federal for dinner. This really, really bugged her, but why? After all, Isabelle had arrived from out of town. Tessa and Lauren and Francine were lingering by the door. They were waiting for Claire; they wanted to talk to her about the meeting, and she needed to thank them for coming. She should thank Brent and Edward, too. They had been supportive. But Claire could not tear her attention away from Lock and Isabelle. Lock was taking Isabelle and her beautiful hair out for dinner.