We moved outside to the back porch because the kitchen felt too warm, the heat from the oven still lingering from the morning. Claire sat on the green wicker bench, her knees pressed tightly together as she stared at the overgrown tomato plants in my small garden plot.
She reached out and took my hand again, her fingers so cold they felt like ice from the freezer, despite the autumn sun warming the wooden steps.
“I can’t sleep, Marianne,” Claire said, a tear finally escaping and tracking through her thick foundation. “Every morning I wake up and feel like my life is stuck in neutral while everyone else is moving forward.”
“You have a beautiful home, Claire,” I said, looking at her expensive leather purse resting on the porch floor. “And you have Evan.”
“But I have one more hope left, and it’s sitting across from me,” she said, her voice barely louder than the dry leaves scraping across the lawn.
The wind from the oak trees rustled the gutters, bringing down a shower of yellow acorns onto the grass. Claire did not look at the yard; her eyes were locked on mine, wide and desperate in a way that made me feel entirely responsible for her happiness.
“We have tried everything,” she said. “The acupuncturist in Grand Rapids, the herbal teas, the clinic in Chicago that cost us eight thousand dollars.”
“You never told me about Chicago,” I said.
“Evan wanted to keep it private because of his clients,” she said, her grip tightening until my knuckles ached. “He is under so much pressure at the real estate firm right now.”
“What kind of pressure?” I asked.
She looked toward the screen door, checking to see if Evan was still standing in the kitchen. “Just the market, you know how things are in Oak Creek right now with the interest rates. He has a lot of capital tied up in the new development on the north side.”
“He seems more than just busy, Claire,” I said. “He seems completely detached.”
