A wry smile tightened James’s mouth.
Time hadn’t fully melted the frost that sometimes fringed their exchanges. Honestly, given Anne’s resentment, it was incredible that they’d managed to form a mostly amicable relationship over the last few years. Any lingering bitterness was more than warranted. After she’d spent so long trying to make their marriage work—“Happiness is for children,” her mother had told her on her wedding day, “don’t think you’ll get it from your husband”—James had returned the favor by making a public fool of Anne. She’d sacrificed her body, her energy, her best years, nearly everything that mattered on the altar of their marriage.
But, after a year of licking her wounds, Anne had begrudgingly realized it was time to move forward. She and James were permanently linked through their children and grandchildren, so polite congeniality made it easier for everyone. And, well, she wanted to be perceived as gracious. The kind of woman who rose above it all.
Old hurts didn’t die easily, though; they retired first and made a home in some internal basement.
The front door opened and Claire strode in, the heels of her beige pumps clacking loudly against the hardwood floor. Sheheld a bow-tied bottle of rosé that matched her blush-pink Tory Burch shirtdress, and her brash bottle-red hair fell in sleek, smooth waves just past her shoulders.
Claire gave Anne a perfunctory cheek kiss before handing her the rosé. “Got you a sweet and full-bodied vintage, which, now that I think about it, is averyironic gift, considering—well, you. Hey, Mom, exactly how much did you pay Sades to keep her from writing you a bespoke birthday poem? Fifty bucks? A hundred?”
“A promise to help her track down a Celine box bag at Déjà New,” Anne said wryly, and then, because she couldn’t stop herself, “Claire, are you completely sure that dress is the right color for you?”
“Terrific. Not even ten seconds inandI haven’t had anything to drink yet. Wanna criticize my hair, too? I don’t think I’ve heard you bring up Chucky in at least three weeks.”
“I don’t know why you always think I’m attacking you. It’s not criticism. I just want to help you look your best.”
“Well, you sure did it, Mom. You helped. Amazing job.”
“There’s my Clarabelle,” James said from the kitchen, with just a little extra insistence. Clearly trying to protect his eldest, although God knew what Claire needed protection from. “You look beautiful, kiddo. How’s things at work?”
Claire brightened. A fashion designer, she’d recently taken a job with a small luxury brand. “We’re getting a display at the Beverly Wilshire Neiman’s. One mannequin. Xiomara’s thrilled.”
“That’s wonderful! Congratulations!” James exclaimed, just as Anne asked, “Only one mannequin?”
She’d meant that the department store should’ve given them more, but the excitement slipped from Claire’s expression. “Thanks, Dad,” she said and then glanced through the French doors at the deck. “Oh, hey! There’s my dazzling diva!”
Anne didn’t need to watch. Claire would rush onto the deck for a bear hug, and Sadie would return the hug just as enthusiastically, rocking Claire side to side. They’d taken to each other the first time they’d met, a bond begun when Sadie had cooed over Claire’s garish arm tattoo, then cemented once they discovered their shared neurodivergence and a mutual obsession with avant-garde haute couture.
It wasn’t surprising that Claire loved Sadie. Her entire family loved Sadie. In fact, Anne had an uneasy suspicion that their willingness to drive into Topanga every once in a while was due more to Sadie’s perpetual presence than wanting to spend time with Anne herself.
James strolled over to Anne, coupé glass in hand, and clinked the bottle of rosé she still held. “You could be nicer to Claire, you know.”
“Shecould be nicer tome.” Anne hated the sulk in her voice. “An hour late, and I didn’t even get a ‘happy birthday.’”
“Well, I can give you that.” James raised his glass. “Happy birthday to the most magnificent woman I’ve ever known. May the coming year bring you everything you deserve.”
Anne gave him a look.
“It’s not a threat,” James protested. “You should have the best, kid. Don’t you know I want that for you? I want you to be as happy—”
He stopped, but Anne heard the rest of his sentence anyway.As I amwith Arthur.
James didn’t have to tell her how happy he was. Anne could see it in the way he’d transformed entirely, almost nothing remaining of the man she’d lived with. His posture, his smile, his entire demeanor had softened.
For their entire marriage, she’d always had the sense that James held himself at a distance, that parts of him were lockedaway. Now when Anne looked at James, she felt in a way she couldn’t explain that there was more of him to look back.
That was Arthur’s influence. They’d met less than a year after James had come out to Anne—“You’ll never meet anyone at your age,” Anne had snarled then—and married just six months later, two men in their sixties not wanting to waste the time they had left. Arthur was everything Anne hadn’t been and never would be: outgoing, joyful, soft, expressive, easy. Male.
James took a sip of his cocktail. “Are you still seeing that financial advisor?”
“Investment banker. And no. He was too clingy.” Since the divorce, Anne had dated a few fawning men, all with generous portfolios and generous hairlines. None of them had lasted. “We can’t all have your luck.”
“Right.” James cleared his throat. “Anyway, I should get back out there.” He gestured with the hand holding his glass toward the back deck, where Arthur stood in animated conversation with their younger daughter. “I’m pretty sure he’s telling Brooke about the identical paint swatches he can’t decide between, and as a dad, it’s my job to rescue her.”
The tightness of Anne’s smile didn’t cancel out her genuine amusement. The dry affection in James’s voice sounded just like her own wry, fond responses to Sadie’s rants about quantitative meter, or when she’d wax lyrical on the topic of Stella McCartney’s fabric draping.
Come to think of it, in some respects, Arthur was a bit like Sadie.