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“But at some point we stopped being two people who wanted each other and became two people who had agreed not to disrupt an efficient arrangement.” She heard herself and added, “He’s not a villain. Neither am I. We were just very talented at postponing the obvious.”
Erin watched her without rushing to fill the silence. That restraint felt more intimate than words of sympathy would have.
“The strange part is that freedom was more frightening than the marriage,” Claire continued. “Nobody tells you that. You sign the papers, divide the accounts, keep things civilized for your children, and suddenly every evening belongs to you, and you have absolutely no idea what to do with it.”
“What did you do?”
“I worked. Or, overworked, I should say. I read and I moved into my own townhouse and redecorated two rooms nobody uses. And then I worked up the courage to drive miles in a snowstorm to buy a vibrator.”
Erin laughed. Claire joined her, and soon she had to set down her glass before she spilled it. She couldn’t remember the last time laughter had come this easily.
“For what it’s worth, the vibrator was an excellent decision,” Erin said, still grinning.
“The jury is still out on the snowstorm.”
They sat in the quiet that followed, and Claire felt the unfamiliar sensation of having said honest things to someone who hadn’t flinched, analyzed, or offered unsolicited advice. Erin had simply listened, recognized something familiar, and laughed in the right places.
Claire’s stomach interrupted the quiet, broadcasting its grievance without consulting her.
Erin pressed her lips together and failed entirely to suppress a grin. “Right. I should find us dinner before your stomach leaves a one-star review saying I failed to satisfy you.” She unfolded herself from the chair and headed toward the narrow hallway behind the register. “Fair warning, the kitchenette was stocked for one person who wasn’t expecting company or to be snowed in, so manage your expectations accordingly.”
Claire followed her into the kitchenette, which turned out to be a galley-sized alcove behind the studio door. Erin pulled open cabinets and a mini fridge, lining up everything she found along the narrow counter: a wedge of brie from the workshop, a sleeve of water crackers, a jar of mixed nuts, two cans of soup, a bar of dark chocolate stamped with the boutique’s logo, dried apricots, and a tin of smoked oysters she held up with visible suspicion.
“These might predate the building.”
“Set them aside. We’re not that desperate yet.”
Erin arranged the food in no particular order on a wooden cutting board. Claire moved the brie to the center, fanned the crackers around it, grouped the apricots beside the nuts, and broke the chocolate into uniform pieces along its scored lines.
Erin watched her work. “You’re plating emergency rations like you’ve worked in a high-end restaurant.”
“An avalanche is no reason to abandon standards.”
“It’s canned soup and gas-station nuts.”
“The chocolate has your logo on it. That’s practically artisanal.” Claire positioned the last square and stepped back. The board looked far better than canned soup and gas-station nuts had any right to.
Erin poured the soup into a small saucepan and set it on top of the wood stove. She placed the wooden cutting board nearby so the brie could lose some of its chill while the soup heated.
Once steam began curling from the saucepan, Erin ladled the soup into two mismatched mugs. They carried everything to the seating area and settled into the chairs with the cutting board resting on the table between them. The brie had softened enough to spread. The crackers were stale, and the soup was saltier than either of them would have chosen. Neither woman complained.
“The house I rented has a full kitchen,” Claire said, dragging a cracker through the brie. “It has a Viking range, marble countertops, and a pantry I stocked for one person. Unfortunately, my grocery-shopping instincts still think I’m feeding a family. There’s a beef tenderloin in the refrigerator. I bought the smallest one available, and it could still feed five people.”
“Was your family supposed to join you?” Erin asked.
“When I booked the house, that was the plan. My daughter Camille and her fiancé, my son Julien and his girlfriend. We spent last Christmas there and loved it so much that I reserved it again months ago.” Claire ate the cracker. “The house was perfect last year. Loud, but perfect. Camille burned the rolls, and Julien argued about football with anyone who would engage. I fell asleep on the sofa at nine-thirty and woke up to all four of them playing cards in the kitchen.”
“When did their plans change?”
“Several weeks ago. They both had good reasons, so there was no one to blame. The house was already paid for, and I didn’t want to spend Christmas at home pretending it was an ordinary week. I told myself a few days alone in the mountains would be restorative.” She brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “That word did a lot of heavy lifting.”
“Will it be?”
“The mountains are beautiful. The silence might be a bit louder than I anticipated.” Claire picked up a square of chocolate. “Coming here today was the first decision I made all week that didn’t involve pretending I was fine.”
Erin held her gaze for a beat longer than casual, then said, “My plan was closing up, driving home, and pretending it was just another night.”
“No family calling to ask if you are coming last minute to surprise them? No friends insisting you come over?”
