Love on Lexington Avenue(2)

So, no. Claire’s parents had not been what she’d needed on this particular birthday. And though she felt guilty admitting it, she hadn’t been up for seeing any of her friends, either. Partially, because friends—the real kind—were hard to come by these days. Her once thriving social circle had all but dried up after Brayden’s death.

Some of that was on them. They’d apparently decided a widow at a cocktail party was a downer, and the invitations had stopped rolling in just as abruptly as the sympathy flowers.

But a little of her current isolation from her old social group was on Claire.

Even the well-intentioned friends, the ones who cared more about her than the gossip, hadn’t understood. Not what it was like to lose a spouse so young, and certainly not what it was like to lose a spouse who’d turned out to be downright odious.

But there were two people who got it. Two friends who understood her in a way Claire’s old social set never could. In fact, Naomi Powell and Audrey Tate had been the only people with whom Claire would have considered ringing in thirty-five.

They’d have been here in a heartbeat, and her husband’s girlfriend and mistress, more than anyone, would have understood the melancholy tone of this particular “celebration.”

And yet, some nagging part of Claire wondered if they would truly all-the-way understand.

Naomi Powell may not have known that Brayden was married any more than Claire had known that Brayden was cheating, but that didn’t change the fact Naomi had been the hot, adventurous mistress. The Jessica Rabbit type of seductress that men were drawn to when they weren’t satisfied at home. Men like Brayden, apparently.

Audrey might have understood a little more. Naomi had thought of Brayden as a fling, but Audrey Tate had loved Brayden, had confessed to Claire that she’d hoped—even assumed—she’d marry him some day, unknowing that the title of Brayden Hayes’s wife was already in use. The sheer pain of the betrayal, Audrey understood.

It was the way Audrey and Claire had emerged from Brayden’s betrayal where they were different. Audrey, with all the hopeful optimism of a woman in her twenties, was still convinced that Prince Charming was out there.

Claire? Not so much. Sometimes a toad was just a toad, no matter how properly he was kissed.

Her lone birthday candle now dripping green wax all over vanilla frosting, Claire blew it out with an irritable puff and turned to the other harbinger of her birthday blues:

The stack of birthday cards.

She’d thought the smattering of text messages and emails that had been trickling in all day had been depressing enough. Most of them had simply said Happy Birthday, resulting in balloons exploding all over her iPhone. Others had contained a chipper Happy BDay, Girl! from women she hadn’t heard from since her last birthday.

But these—the cards that had been appearing in her mailbox for a few days now—they felt like they were from a different lifetime. Claire hadn’t even realized people under the age of sixty still sent paper cards, but alongside the expected cards from some distant relatives, there were plenty of cards from people Claire’s age.

They were well-intentioned, she knew that. They were meant to let her know someone was thinking of her, but part of her, the new bitter, jaded part that had emerged since Brayden’s death, couldn’t help but wonder . . .

Had these so-called friends sent paper cards because they were a one-way communication? As a way of acknowledging her birthday without having to interact with all of her tainted, depressing widowness?

They were all expensive, as was the way of the Upper East Side elite. Glitter and rich, heavy card stock abounded. Personalized heartfelt messages did not.

Cheers to another year, Claire.

Best wishes, Claire!

Enjoy your big day!



She swallowed, fighting a wave of despondence at the realization that these generic birthday messages were the grownup version of “Have a great summer!” scrawled in a high school yearbook.

When had she become that woman nobody thought about until her birthday popped up on their calendar? Oh yeah, her. Poor thing. Better send a card . . .

Claire shoved away the cards and resumed glaring at the cupcake. She plucked the candle out of it and sucked the frosting end.

So. This is thirty-five.

Claire’s only consolation was that thirty-five couldn’t possibly be worse than thirty-four. A year ago, she’d still been dealing with the aftermath of planning her husband’s funeral. Not great. The fact that she hadn’t attended the funeral she’d planned? Worse. Much worse.

Claire had made it as far as the top of the steps of the church. Even as her brain had dictated she play the role of grieving widow, her heart had commanded something else:

Screw him.

Screw Brayden, and the mockery he’d made of her marriage.

And so she’d run. Figuratively. More accurately, she’d teetered as fast as her stilettos would carry her. And so, while family and friends had gathered to say farewell to Brayden, Claire had been sitting on a bench in Central Park.

Ironically, it had been that day, in that spot, as she’d sat both hating and missing Brayden, that she’d met Audrey and Naomi. It had been there that the three women had made a pact not to fall for another man like Brayden.

But what Claire hadn’t said that day—what she still hadn’t told them—was that she had no intention of falling for another man. Period. She’d done the big white wedding. She’d promised to love and cherish. And damn it, she’d honored those vows. No one had told her that it would be one-sided. Nobody told her that lurking beneath the veneer of a relationship, hiding under the label of “love,” was a whole steaming pile of crap.