Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [82]
But no—that wasn’t going to happen. Only a moment ago he’d been filled with giddy anticipation. He deftly made his way to the shortest line—cash only, mostly baskets—and paid up, adding a Swiss candy bar to his purchase at the last minute. As he left Fairway with his mesh bag, he glanced at his watch: eleven-forty-five. Her plane would land at two. There was plenty of time to tidy up the apartment and send a few e-mails for work. Beyond that, the weekend stretched ahead lazily, full of expectation and promise. Claire was coming home.
IN HIS DRESSER drawer, as he was putting away his clothes, Ben came across two pairs of Claire’s underwear folded inadvertently in a stack of his T-shirts. White with blue flowers. Little girl underwear. She always wore cotton bras and socks and underwear, cotton T-shirts to bed. Once, early on, he had given her a short silk nightgown, pale blue. She wore it a couple of times, and then she tucked it away. Looking around, he found it now in a pile of clothes on a high shelf in the bedroom closet, along with a bulky wool sweater she’d bought with him on a trip to Scotland, two of his old button-downs she used to wear around the house on weekends, the Barbour jacket he’d gotten her in London. She had been self-conscious about wearing it at first; it was brand-new, and they’re supposed to look lived in. Ben took it down and fingered the thick oilskin. It was perfect now, just the way you’d want it. He put it back on the shelf and closed the closet door.
BEN WAS STILL at his laptop, answering one final e-mail, when he heard Claire’s key in the lock. According to the tiny clock on his monitor it was 2:51—just about the time he’d figured it would be, given the cab ride from the airport. Quickly he pressed send later and stood up.
He had arranged the flowers in a Simon Pearce vase on the coffee table in the living room. He’d deliberated over whether to unwrap them—would it be nicer for her to open the package herself? In the end he decided it would be better to come upon them lush and blooming, a visual expression of domestic tranquility.
Claire stepped into the apartment, jangling her keys, balancing a bag on each shoulder and trailing a roller suitcase.
“She’s home!” Ben said, leaping to the door to help her, holding it open as she rolled across the threshold. “Is there anything else?” He peered into the hall.
“This is it,” she said, setting the keys on the side table and letting the bags drop to the floor. “God I’m glad to be here.”
Ben stepped forward and put his arms around her, leaning in to kiss her. She stiffened slightly, and then, as if realizing she was being impolite, relaxed into his embrace.
“I missed you, babe,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
“You must be exhausted.”
“I am. I could sleep for days.”
Turning away, she bent down to gather her bags. For a moment they argued over who would carry them into the bedroom—“Stop, let me do that”; “Don’t be silly, I’m fine.” Then she gave up and let him, following him through the apartment to the back, passing the flowers on the coffee table without comment.
“I got those at Fleur,” he said in the wake of her silence, then immediately regretted it. He felt like an awkward teenage boy on a first date, trying too hard to impress.
“What?”
“Oh—nothing.”
She stopped and looked around, her gaze eventually resting on the flowers. She went over and touched an open yellow rose with the tip of a finger, then crouched down to smell it. “These are lovely,” she said, looking up at him. “For me?”
“Of course.