Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [69]
“I’m coming back to Atlanta in a few months with my husband to visit his family,” she told Gary and Alan, lying brazenly now, “so I’ll get to explore a little then.”
This seemed to satisfy them. They made plans to meet up later by themselves. Was Alan gay, too? Of course, she realized—that was it. She was just the stage prop to get them together.
In front of the hotel, sitting in Gary’s car, Claire said that she wouldn’t need him to ferry her to the airport the next day; she’d take the hotel shuttle.
“I’ve got to get you on that plane,” Gary said with alarm. “If you don’t get to Richmond on time my ass will be grass.”
“Your ass will not be grass,” Claire said. “I’m a big girl. I’m not going to miss my plane.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
When she got out of the car, Gary was checking his reflection in the rearview mirror, rubbing his finger across his teeth, tousling his hair.
“Have fun tonight,” she said.
“Oh, honey, you know I will,” he said. “You have a nice bubble bath.”
“I plan to,” she said, feeling a flush of anticipation.
WALKING INTO THE dim bar from the hotel lobby, Claire was momentarily blinded. The first thing she saw, when her eyes adjusted, was the whiteness of Charlie’s shirt. He was sitting at the far end of the bar, nursing a beer and chatting with the bartender. It was as if she’d conjured him just by wishing. It didn’t seem possible that he was actually here—the bar might as well have been in a distant solar system, light-years from Earth.
Then he saw her. “At last,” he said, rising with a grin.
She moved toward him. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No, don’t be,” he said quickly, grasping her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “It was nice. The anticipation. Knowing you were coming.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. She felt the weight of his sadness, like a blanket over his shoulders, and she put her arms around him.
“Oh,” he breathed. She could hear his heartbeat, or at least she thought it was his heartbeat—it might have been the percussive undercurrent of the music, a Carrie Underwood song she recognized from the radio.
After a moment Claire pulled back. She lifted his glass, which was half full, and took a swallow.
“You need a drink,” he said.
She shrugged. “You’ve been here a while. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t care. I just want to be with you.”
She slid onto the vinyl stool beside him. “Charlie—the accident … . it’s all so awful.”
“It is.”
“How is she?”
“Not so good.”
“What does she—what do they … ” Claire stopped, unsure how to continue.
“There will be a hearing in a few weeks,” he said. “Mandatory sentencing for DWI—she’ll lose her license for three months and has to take some classes. Thank God, though—it doesn’t look like she was at fault in the accident. Technically.”
“Technically.” Claire repeated the word flatly, without affect, but it was a question. Did Charlie think that Alison was at fault?
“She shouldn’t have been driving in that condition,” he said.
“She had a couple of drinks. I’m sure she felt she was fine to drive.”
“Her judgment was impaired, yes.”
“Come on, Charlie,” Claire said, finding herself in the odd position of defending her lover’s wife to him. “You’ve never driven anywhere on a few drinks?”
“Yeah, I probably have. But I can absorb more, I have faster reflexes. … ”
“Basically, you think your judgment is better.”
He didn’t answer. He lifted the glass of beer and drained it.
Claire shook her head. “It could’ve happened to any of us. The other car ran a stop sign, for God’s sake! And I’ve never understood the rules of a four-way stop—when to go, when to stop.