Still, imagining going back to the stay-at-home life she’d had before that coffee shop meeting with Whitney made her stomach roil with dread. Dread about what the other women would say (or not say) about her if she disappeared. Dread about what she might do if left to her own devices. (Would she also end up in the hospital for a spell, like Joanna? Would Whitney once again collect money from the other women to send flowers?) So if she wanted to stay in the club—and Lord help her, she did—she would have to dig a little deeper into her private emergency bank account.

Chapter 7

When Whitney opened her door for Claire on Tuesday, Whitney’s smile was so tight that Claire thought she might pull a muscle in her cheek.

“Hi,” Whitney said. “A little heads-up: My husband is home today with a horrible cold, but he still has to get work done, the poor guy, so we’re trying to be as quiet as a bunch of crying babies and chatty women can be.”

“Damn,” Claire said. “My whole set list today was heavy metal, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Whitney gave a real smile then, although it evaporated back into a painted-on grin by the time they made their way into the living room. Gwen and Amara were both fussing over Amara’s baby, trying to make him stop crying. (No dice. That kid had a set of pipes on him.) On the couch, Meredith was pouring a generous amount of wine into Ellie’s glass while Ellie rolled her eyes at something. Vicki sat by the window, staring out at the trees. (Did Vicki talk? Perhaps she was a land-loving, bargain-striking mermaid who’d never managed to get her voice back from the sea witch.)

“Look who’s here,” Whitney said in a cheerful whisper. As Claire took her guitar out of its case, the other mothers said their hellos and began to gather on the rug. Amara gave her a curt nod. Meredith whispered something to Ellie, and Ellie cackled, her laugh echoing around the room. Whitney stiffened. “Sorry, Ellie. Could you be a little quieter? Grant’s trying to work.”

“Oops,” Ellie said. “Sorry.”

“Let’s do some nice, mellow music today, huh?” Claire said.

“Yeah, that sounds fun!” Gwen said, trying to hold little Reagan on her lap. Reagan, normally so well-behaved, was extra wriggly today, as if, even though she couldn’t control her own bowels, she too could sense the tension in the air.

Claire began to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” There was a reason it was a classic. As the simple melody took hold, the babies slowly began to settle. Whitney caught her eye and gave her a grateful smile.

And then a door next to the bookshelf opened, revealing the man whom Claire had seen in Whitney’s family photos. He was dressed smartly from the waist up, in a powder blue button-down shirt, but he wore gray sweatpants. He still looked like a Ken doll, albeit one with a runny, inflamed nose and, Claire guessed from the strain on his face, a pounding headache. The open door behind him showed an office in a state of disarray at odds with the cleanliness of the living room, with a large flat monitor on a desk, stacks of papers, and a few coffee mugs scattered around. Oh, he definitely worked in finance. Claire was willing to bet that, if she tried to talk to him about his work, she’d soon want to bludgeon herself to death with his computer monitor to escape the conversation.

He moved over to Whitney and stood behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, honey,” Whitney whispered, reaching up to cover his hand with her own. The diamond on her finger caught the light from the fixture above. He nodded his head along to the beat as Claire played the rest of the song. Maybe it would have happened with the presence of any interloper, or maybe it was his maleness, but the group’s attention trickled to him, heads turning to catch the reactions of this unexpected judge towering above them.

When Claire hit the final chord, he untangled his hand from Whitney’s and clapped. “That was adorable,” he said. “How’s playgroup going, ladies?”

“Oh, it’s good,” said Gwen. “Thanks so much for having us. We love coming here.”

“We’re sorry you’re sick, Grant!” Ellie said, pouting her lips out.

He shook his head. “These head colds. They really get you. Otherwise, believe me, I’d never wear sweatpants in front of such special guests.” Even in the grip of a cold, he was a prep school Adonis, clean-cut and polite. If a man like this approached Claire in a bar, she’d assume he was about to ask for directions. Grant was not the sort of guy to hit on mere mortals.

“Want to join us for a bit?” Whitney asked.

Grant shook his head. “There’s nothing I’d love more, but I’ve got a video conference coming up soon.”

“That’s too bad,” Gwen said.

“So,” Grant said, “the thing is, the music.” He looked at Claire, holding up a conciliatory hand. “It sounds great, you’ve got a great voice, and hey, who doesn’t love ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’? But it’s coming straight through that door.”

“Well, how long is the call?” Whitney asked. “We can hold off on music for a little while, if Claire doesn’t mind.” She turned to Claire. “We’d pay you extra for your time, of course.”

Under that plastic Ken-doll veneer, Grant’s jaw tightened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You never know how long these things are going to go.”

“Ah,” Whitney said, pursing her lips, her cheekbones nearly slicing through her skin. She blinked. Grant looked down at the Rolex on his wrist and frowned at the time he saw there.

Claire glanced around the circle. Meredith, Ellie, and Gwen wore blandly sympathetic looks on their faces. Amara had no such shield, and for a second, she and Claire locked eyes. (Vicki was sticking her finger into her son’s mouth and staring at him as he gnawed on it.)

Then Whitney clapped her hands. “Oh, I know!” she said. “What if we had music on the balcony? We’ve got such a lovely view of the park, and lots of comfy chairs.”

“It’s freezing,” Amara said.

“I can try playing softer,” Claire said.

“Maybe we should just call it off for today,” Meredith said, glancing at Ellie.

“Yeah, maybe,” Ellie said. In the ensuing silence, they all looked at Whitney.

“Oh,” she said. She was still smiling, her eyes bright, but in her lap, one of her hands was squeezing the other, digging nails into skin. “Well—”

“Hey,” Grant said, holding out his arms triumphantly, “I’ve got a great idea. Gwen’s apartment!”

“What?” Whitney asked.

“We went there for the Christmas party, right? It’s just a couple blocks away, and it’s got plenty of space. Win, win!” He turned to Gwen. “That is, if you don’t mind.”