“The problem, and, it isnottiny, is with you, Claire. You’re a liability. If that model sues me, I’ll lose my business.”
“She wasn’t hurt.”
“How the hell do you know? The thing was suffocating her. She couldn’t breathe!”
“Just let me take the suit to the engineer—”
He shouted into the phone, “Security fifth floor.” He slammed the phone down on the cutting table. “Out.” His nostrils flared like a dog on a hunt. “Now.”
“You can’t be serious. You hired me to invent a swimsuit with a built-in life preserver.”
“I hired you to design swimsuits. Period. And now I’m firing you.” He swept his arm toward the door. “Out!”
The studio closed around her, plunging her into a feeling like being dragged by an undertow. Numbness seized her arms. The sound of crashing waves filled her mind and dulled her vision. She shook her head and focused on the walls, hung with sketches, fabric swatches, photos. She stopped, stood still. She was in her studio. The waves ebbed.
Why hadn’t the switch released? There was plenty of pressure, too much pressure.
“That’s it,” she shouted. “There was no resistance! If a woman were in the water and pressed the button, the tube would not have inflated without stopping. As the inside pressure equalized from the water pressure outside the tube, the pump would have stopped, and the inflated tube would float the woman. You can only push the button if you’re in the water. There was no water pressure to stop inflation.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“You must leave now,” he whispered. “I need to make sure Alisha’s not scarred.”
Two security guards walked down the hall toward her.
“Right.” Claire stumbled toward her desk, leaned over, and examined the prototype sketch.
“Claire!” Rick shouted.
She blinked.
The two guards appeared at her side. Rick placed her coat and purse in her arms. Then he lifted her tattered sketchbook, the one she’d brought with her on her first day at Aqua-Line, and gently placed it in her arms. “Good luck, Claire.”
“I’ll wait for the prototype outside the fitting room.” She turned and felt the vice-grip of the guards close around her arms.
They walked her to the elevator—open, empty, and waiting—and escorted her inside. A guard hit the lobby button. She turned as the elevator doors shut out her life.
Chapter 2
Athome,Claireflungherself face down upon the bed, rolled over, and stared at the ceiling as tears ran in rivulets down into her ears. “Oh, David, I’ve failed at my invention. And I’ve been fired.” She pounded her fists into the mattress. “And I’m broke.”
She picked up the framed photo of him holding a rare bottle of wine at a sommelier’s dinner—glowing with pride for his ability to identify it in a blind tasting. “I’m so desperate, I’m talking to you, and you’ve been gone for more than a year. I know you didn’t mean to die without a will, but I may lose our house!” She sobbed and cradled the picture.
They’d never talked about death. They’d never dreamed that it would arrive so early in David’s life. Claire knew fabrics and design. She didn’t know anything about intestate laws, but she was learning. Not fast enough. An image of aFor Salesign on her front lawn surrounded by cardboard boxes made her pulse race. Where would she live? How would she live? On what? “I can’t fix this. I need you.”
After releasing a sob, she dragged herself to the closet as images of the day he passed clouded her vision. As she reached for David’s favorite sportscoat, her fingers tingled, like she’d been stung. She shook her hand and pulled it from the hanger.
She snuggled her face into the jacket. “I miss you.” She scrunched the fabric and inhaled, searching for his woodsy, lime scent. “I wish you were here to hold me.” She slid her arms into the sleeves, wrapped the jacket around her, and fell onto the bed.
As her hands caressed the soft wool, her fingernail struck a stiff edge. She pressed the pocket, making a crinkling sound. She’d not touched this jacket since the day David died, when she’d been far too upset to notice anything in his pockets. Opening the jacket, she ran her fingers along the inside breast pocket and pulled out a photo of a boy of about six or seven years, standing amidst a vineyard. His eyes were David’s. His curly brown hair, David’s. His dimples on either side of his smile…David’s. Her husband’s dimples had lured her the first moment he smiled at her, just as this child’s dimples were now snagging her aching heart.
She turned the photo over. In handwritten ink were the words:Our Luca.Last year’s vendange. Merci, Sophie.
David never missed the French grape harvests; whatever vendange it had been, he must have been there. Butour? Did Sophie mean she and her husband or David?
Luca had David’s eyes, hair, and dimples. Could Luca be the son of a long-lost brother of David’s? She was grasping for a lifeline with that far-fetched explanation. David was an only child, just like she was.
