I've Got You Under My Skin

4

Claire Bonner settled at a table in the Seafood Bar of The Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach. She was facing the ocean and watched with detached interest as the waves crashed against the retaining wall directly below the Bar. The sun was shining but the winds were stronger than she had expected in Florida on an early spring day.

She was wearing a newly purchased zippered jacket in a light shade of blue. She had bought it when she noticed that it carried the name of THE BREAKERS on the breast pocket. It was part of the fantasy of spending this long weekend here. Her short ash-blond hair framed a face that was half-hidden by oversized sunglasses. The glasses were seldom off, but when they were, Claire’s beautiful features were revealed, as well as the tranquil expression that had taken her years to achieve. In fact, a discerning observer might have realized that the expression was caused by the acceptance of reality rather than peace of mind. Her slender frame had an aura of fragility as though she had been recently ill. The same observer might have guessed her to be in her mid-thirties. In that case he would have been wrong. She was forty-one.

In the past four days she had had the same polite young waiter and now was greeted by name as he approached her table. “Let me guess, Ms. Bonner,” he said. “Seafood chowder and two large stone crabs.”

“You have it,” Claire said as a brief smile touched the corner of her lips.

“And the usual glass of chardonnay,” he added as he jotted down the order.

You do something for a few days in a row and it becomes the usual, she thought wryly.

Almost instantly the chardonnay was placed on the table before her. She picked up the glass and looked around the room as she sipped.

All of the diners were dressed in designer casual clothes. The Breakers was an expensive hotel, a retreat for the well-heeled. It was the Easter holiday week, and, nationwide, schools were closed. At breakfast in the dining room she had observed that families with children were usually accompanied by a nanny who skillfully removed a restless toddler so that the parents could enjoy the lavish buffet in peace.

The lunchtime crowd in the bar was composed almost totally of adults. In walking around she had noticed that the younger families gravitated to the restaurants by the pool, where the choice of casual fare was greater.

What would it have been like to vacation here every year from childhood? Claire wondered. Then she tried to brush away the memories of falling asleep each night in a half-empty theatre where her mother was working as an usher. That was before they met Robert Powell, of course. But by then Claire’s childhood was almost over.

As those thoughts went through her head, two couples, still in travel clothes, took the table next to hers. She heard one of the women sigh happily, “It’s so good to be back.”

I’ll pretend I’m coming back, she thought. I’ll pretend that every year I have the same oceanfront room and look forward to long walks on the beach before breakfast.

The waiter arrived with the chowder. “Really hot, the way you like it, Ms. Bonner,” he said.

The first day, she had asked for the chowder to be very hot and the crabs to be served as the second course. The waiter had also committed that request to memory.

The first sip of the chowder almost burned the roof of her mouth and she stirred the rest of it inside the soup bowl that was a scooped-out loaf of bread to cool it a bit. Then she reached for her glass and took a long sip of the chardonnay. As she had expected, it was crisp and dry, exactly as it had tasted for the last few days.

Outside an even stronger wind was churning the breaking waves into clouds of cascading foam.

Claire realized that she felt like one of those surges of water, trying to reach shore but at the mercy of the powerful wind. It was still her decision. She could always say no. She’d said no to returning to her stepfather’s house for years. And she passionately didn’t want to go now. No one could force her to go on a national cable television show and take part in reenacting the party and sleepover twenty years ago when the four of them, best friends, had celebrated their graduation from college.

But if she did take part in the show, the production company would give her fifty thousand dollars, and Rob would give her two hundred fifty thousand dollars.

Three hundred thousand dollars. It would mean that she could take a leave of absence from her job in Chicago’s youth and family services. The bout of pneumonia she had survived in January had come close to killing her, and she knew her body was still weak and tired. She had never accepted Powell’s offer of money. Not a single cent. She had torn up his letters and returned them to him. After what he did.

They wanted to call it the “Graduation Gala.” It had been a beautiful party, a wonderful party, Claire thought. Then Alison and Regina and Nina had stayed overnight. And sometime during that night, my mother had been murdered. Betsy Bonner Powell, beautiful, vivacious, generous, funny, beloved Betsy.

I thoroughly despised her, Claire thought quietly.

I absolutely hated my mother, and I loathed her beloved husband, even though he kept trying to send me money.