Love on Lexington Avenue(10)

What did Claire have?

She lacked Naomi’s boldness and Audrey’s effortless charm.

She was polite, sure. Likable, hopefully. Traits she’d always thought were enviable, but now she wasn’t so sure. Where had that gotten her?

She was widowed. Alone. Bored.

She had no career, no romantic prospects—not that she wanted those—no hobbies. Nobody looked twice at her, and she never looked twice at anyone else.

Claire was more sure than ever that she was due for a change. The spontaneous cupcake date with Audrey on her birthday had been a good start, but it was only the start. She wanted more of that. More of doing whatever she wanted just because.

“What’s going on with you?” Naomi demanded, giving Claire an assessing look. “You’re all up in your head.” She waved a finger around Claire’s head as she said it.

“Too long a story for a hardware store.”

Naomi studied her a moment longer, then nodded, pointing at Claire’s purse. “You get what you need?”

Claire nodded. She’d picked up just about every paint swatch she could find in the pink/rose/mauve category. Partially because she was warming to the idea of pink accents in her newly renovated home, partially because it pleased her to imagine Scott Turner’s face when he saw her haul.

“Perfect! It’s time for your belated birthday lunch. Which is on me since I was left out of the actual birthday festivities. Cupcakes without me. The betrayal burns my very soul.”

“We texted. Twice,” Audrey said in defense. “You didn’t respond.”

Naomi inspected her manicure. “Oliver and I were busy.”

The slightly satisfied look on her face said exactly what they were busy with.

“Oh?” Claire said innocently. “Netflix or . . .”

“Or Netflix and chill?” Audrey said in a sly tone.

Claire looked at Audrey. “What does that mean?”

“Do not answer that question,” Naomi said, pointing a finger at Audrey. “Come on. Lunch.”

Naomi charged out of the store, never breaking stride in her five-inch Jimmy Choos. Claire and Audrey exchanged a bemused glance and followed. It was pointless to argue with a determined Naomi.

Fifteen minutes later, the three women were seated at a trendy French bistro as a server opened a bottle of champagne and poured three glasses. When he moved away, Naomi lifted a glass in a toast. “To our birthday girl. How does thirty-five feel?”

“Well,” Claire said, taking a sip. “So far, better than thirty-four. I no longer have a husband to cheat on me.”

“Dark,” Naomi said approvingly. “Very dark, and I like it. Now, fill me in, what did I miss when you got cupcakes without me?”

“You mean when you were having sex with Oliver?” Claire countered.

Audrey leaned in. “By the way, that’s what Netflix and chill means.”

Claire frowned. “Why not just say sex?”

“See, that’s why you can’t flirt, dear. You’re too wonderfully literal and straightforward.”

“It doesn’t feel wonderful,” Claire muttered. “It feels boring.”

She looked at Naomi. “Did you know that my favorite kind of cupcake is vanilla? Was vanilla,” she corrected quickly.

“Oh, not this again,” Audrey said, slumping slightly in her chair.

“Sure,” Naomi said. “What’s wrong with vanilla?”

“I’ve just been wondering what it says about me that my favorite cupcake is flavorless, colorless.”

“They have a color. They’re sort of yellowish. Beige. And they have a flavor. Vanilla. Better yet, it’s a flavor everybody likes.”

“Well, I’ve decided I don’t want to be beige anymore,” Claire said. “And I don’t want to be universally liked. I want to be . . . interesting.”

Naomi frowned. “You are interesting. And what do you mean you don’t want to be beige. You are not your cupcake flavor, Claire.”

Aren’t I?

The past couple of months flitted by in a sad, drab little montage. Her generic birthday cards. The flavorless cupcakes. Her Pinterest boards and renovation project folder overflowing with whites and beiges. The realization that she apparently didn’t even know what flirting was, much less know how to do it.

“Claire?” Audrey nudged, worry in her voice.

Claire smiled. “Don’t worry. I promise this isn’t some sort of midlife crisis where I’m going to go get a pixie cut that doesn’t suit my face or decide to start collecting tattoos that I’ll regret in a month. I’m just realizing I’m in a tiny rut is all.”

“A vanilla rut?”

“Basically.” Claire let her shoulders rise in a shrug before dropping them again. “I’m just so aware that my only identity these days is widow. And even more alarming, even before Brayden died, my only identity was wife. Before that it was girlfriend. Before that . . . I don’t know. I guess I just have this weird sense that I’ve lost sight of who I am. If I ever even knew.”

Naomi opened her mouth, but before she could reply, the server approached the table. Feeling unexpectedly vulnerable, Claire welcomed the interruption, placing her order before her friends could tell the waiter to come back later. “I’ll have the mixed green salad, and I’ll add the scallops to that, please.”