Free A Summer Affair by Elin Hilderbrand Page A

She was her own doppelgänger now, after the accident. She was a bowl of cream gone rancid.
    It was always Claire who stuck up for her.
    She’s not that bad, really. When she’s on her medication, she’s perfectly fine.
    The guilt, old and useless, was tar in her hair; it was an invisible thread snarled around her heart. Claire had bought the last drink, she had not absolutely insisted that Daphne get into the taxi, and a woman’s personality had been forever altered. Daphne was somebody else now, and Claire blamed herself.
    Here, in the chilly outer ring of the Stop & Shop, Claire was receiving her just deserts: Daphne was holding up a mirror and forcing Claire to look. How can you chair the gala when you can’t even get a shower? When you were careless in the hot shop and put yourself into preterm labor? When you won’t face the fact that your baby isn’t now, and may never be, right? How can you give it a dedicated effort?
    “My nephew broke his arm playing hockey and was medevaced to Boston,” Claire said. “I have to go. I want to make Siobhan some dinner.”
    Daphne’s face softened. “Oh, God,” she said. “How awful. By all means, go, go. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
    Claire looked at Daphne. Her ears were pink again, like a regular person’s ears. She was, at that second, her old self—but that was part of the problem, too, the inconsistency. Daphne bounced like a tennis ball between two frames of mind. Which personality were you going to get? Claire was no dummy. She was being given a pass, and she was going to take it.
    “Okay, I will,” Claire said. “See you later, Daphne.”

CHAPTER THREE
    He Asks Her (Again)
    W hen Claire walked up the stairs of the Elijah Baker House for the second gala meeting, she found Lock Dixon sitting at his desk much as he had been two weeks earlier, minus the sandwich. He was wearing a pink shirt this time and a red paisley tie; the classical station was on, featuring harpsichord music. The office was dark but for the desk lamp and the blue glow of Lock’s computer. Claire checked her watch, confused. It was five after eight.
    “Where is everybody?” she said.
    And at the same time, Lock said, “Didn’t you get my message?”
    “What message? No.”
    “The meeting was canceled. Postponed, to next week.”
    “Oh,” Claire said. “No, I didn’t get it . . .”
    “We should have tried your cell phone. I told Gavin that, and he looked around the office for the number, but to no avail. I’m sorry. Adams has the flu and Isabelle couldn’t call in tonight, so we bumped the meeting back to next week. I feel bad that you had to come all the way into town for nothing.”
    For nothing—well, in a way it was for nothing, but Claire didn’t regret it. She turned to survey the rest of the office. “Is Gavin here?” she said.
    “No,” Lock said. “He left at five.”
    “Oh,” Claire said. “Well, you and I could talk over some things . . .”
    And at the same time, Lock said, “Would you like a glass of wine?”
    “Viognier?” Claire said. She worried she was pronouncing it wrong, though she had practiced at home in the shower: vee-og-nyay. “Yes, I’d love some.”
    When Lock returned from the kitchen with the wine, he said, “Have you given my proposition any thought?”
    “Your proposition?” she said, immediately blushing.
    “About the auction item,” he said. “About your triumphant return as an artist.”
    “Oh,” she said. She took a deep breath, then sank into the chair opposite his desk. He sat on the edge of his desk, close to her. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious or not.”
    “Of course I was serious.”
    “Fifty thousand dollars?”
    “Your Bubbles sculptures are worth several times that.”
    “Right, but . . .”
    He sipped his wine and shook his head. “Never mind, then. It was just a thought.”
    “It was a really nice thought,” Claire said. “I’m flattered that you believe my work might