A Perfect Life?

“Lindi’s pregnant.”

“She’s what?” That was the last thing she’d expected.

“And she’s so excited that I couldn’t wreck it.”

“Oh.” Claire squeezed her eyes shut. She felt angry and bereft and…skeptical. Was Lindi-with-an-i faking? If she was wily enough to pretend to be pregnant, Claire didn’t even want to mess with that. That was Days of Our Lives material for sure. And if Jared’s wife had gotten pregnant exactly when Jared had fallen in love with Claire, she didn’t need Zoe to point out the cosmic coincidence of it all.

“Well, congratulations,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t rush out to buy you a cigar.”

“But it’s you I love, Claire. Remember that.”

Yeah, right. A single tear went splat in the middle of her lap—a Rorschach blot that seemed to resemble her heart. But she wouldn’t waste one more tear stain on her silk dress over this.

“And I want you,” he said more urgently. “Can’t we work something out?”

Here it came. This doesn’t have to change anything. I’ll tell her. I promise. After the baby’s born. Or when he’s two. Make that five. Or in college.

Immediately, the Chickateers came into her mind. She imagined them sitting on the arm of the couch, legs dangling—Kitty fierce, Emily stern, Zoe worried—and they gave her the courage to say what she knew she had to.

“No way, Jared,” she said, the words ringing clear as a bell. “We are so over. Don’t call me again.” Picturing the Chickateers high-fiving her, she dropped the phone into its cradle.

Then her heart began to ache. And throb. And burn. She had to do something to feel better. Her first thought was ice cream. If ever Claire had earned the right to eat ChocoCherry Rumba Swirl after ten, this was it. She deserved something rich and luscious and comforting. Especially because the champagne seemed to have turned her into the Leaning Tower of Claire.

In the kitchen, she spotted the champagne bottle she’d nearly emptied resting beside Jared’s stupid-ass roses, droopy, dark and shriveled after a week of careful watering. She dumped the bubbly in the sink and, oblivious to the bite of thorns, tossed the roses into the trash. Valentine’s Day was so over.

She threw open the freezer. The pint of ChocoCherry she’d bought two days ago felt suspiciously light. Inside, a frosty spoon rested on just a scrape of pink and chocolate at the bottom. Damn it, Kitty. Tell me these things.

If she expected to get her fat-and-sugar fix tonight, she’d have to go to the all-night grocery, where a pack of gum cost as much as the GNP of a small nation. But this was an emergency. She grabbed her purse and managed a slightly wobbly march to the elevator and then outside. She thought about what she was wearing—the sexy “getup” she’d splurged on—and her spirits sagged.

Jared’s loss, she told herself, throwing back her shoulders and wavering fiercely onward in her spike heels. She deserved better than that putz, just like Georgia had said.

The evening, as lovely as the previous one, was a depressing contrast to her mood. Conversation and music leaked from the restaurants and bars she passed. At least somebody was enjoying Valentine’s Day.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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