When she was sufficiently sweat soaked and soothed, Claire jogged home and hurried to shower—she had time before the match started, but she wanted to be early enough to get a good seat. After she was clean, she pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that was cute enough for Louie's. Then, for luck, she threw on one of Matthew's sweatshirts. She ran her thumb over the slightly-frayed edge of the cuff, imagining all the other times he had worn it, all the times it had been his skin inside the soft fabric instead of hers. A happy little shiver ran down her spine. She grabbed her phone off her vanity, sending Matthew a quick "I love you and you're going to be fabulous" text before shoving it in her pocket.
In the kitchen her mother sat with her hands around a cup of coffee and stared out the window. There was an untouched sandwich in front of her. Claire took a deep breath, gripping the edge of Matthew's sweatshirt for support. She hadn't spoken to her mother much since the gathering, which wasn't such a big challenge. Marie worked crazy hours, meeting with clients, working her contacts, and playing with new equipment when she wasn't involved in an actual photography session.
Claire was mostly relieved that her mother hadn't seemed to notice how much time she was spending in the forest—that she wasn't questioning whether or not Claire was ready for the new moon gathering. Claire grimaced, wishing she wasn't going to be paraded around like a trick pony—or trick wolf. Whichever.
As if she could hear Claire's thoughts, Marie turned to Claire and took a sip of coffee.
"Good morning, chérie. Actually, afternoon almost, isn't it? Are you just waking up?"
"No. I went for a run. Did you need me to check in or something?" The last sentence came out with a fish-hook barb on the end of it, and Claire bit the inside of her lip, hoping it wasn't going to get her in trouble.
Just pretend everything's fine long enough to get through this afternoon. That's all I have to do. Then I'll spend every possible second getting a handle on the fire stuff.
Her mother raised an eyebrow, but she let the comment slide. "Matthew's game is today, yes? The important one?"
"Yep. I was wondering—um, is Lisbeth coming this afternoon? I sort of need a ride."
"Emily isn't going?"
"No. She has a family thing she couldn't get out of. Plus, she doesn't really love soccer, you know?"
In spite of the fact that Claire and Matthew had been dating seriously for months, Emily and Matthew still hadn't become friends. At first it had seemed like Emily didn't want to butt in. She'd made lots of innuendo-laced comments about a couple needing to "get to know each other" without interruptions. But lately Claire had been wondering if there was more going on. Interspersed with the eyebrow-waggling one-liners, Emily had been mentioning third wheels and unwanted spinsters.
"You look extremely thoughtful." It was a statement, but there was an obvious question underneath it. Marie was always worried about Emily—or, more specifically, Claire slipping and Emily figuring out the truth. "I'm just not awake yet." Claire shrugged off her mother's curiosity. "So, can you drive me?"
Her mother shook her head. "I've got client calls starting in half an hour, and I'll be busy straight through dinner." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "But they are sending a car for me for the dinner. . . ." She slid off her chair and padded over to the coat closet. When she came back, the shiny black oval key fob dangled from her hand.
Car keys.
The car keys.
Marie held them out. "Why don't you take my car? You have a license. There's no reason you can't drive yourself." Do not squeal. Do not squeal. Do not squeal.
Claire cleared her throat as casually as she could. "Are you sure?"
Her mother stared at her pointedly. "I trust you with far more than a car on a daily basis. I know you will be careful."
Claire reached out and took the keys, reveling in the sharp weight of them against her palm."Thanks," she said. "This is actually great—I'll be able to give Matthew a ride home after Louie's."
Marie smiled. "See? Better for everyone, then." She looked at the clock. "I'd better go prepare for my calls. Enjoy your afternoon."
"Sure thing." Claire grabbed her bag and headed for the garage before her mother could change her mind. She'd driven plenty of times—with Marie in the passenger seat. She'd even driven Matthew's car a couple of times at the very end of the summer, when he'd pulled a muscle in his calf.
But she'd never had a car all to herself before.
The Mercedes sat in the garage, all glossy black paint and sinfully soft leather. Claire hit the button that opened the garage door and slid behind the wheel.
This was going to be good.