Throughout the entire car ride, Claire divided her time between reliving the evening’s confrontations with Tony and imagining her reunion with Harry. It was at least thirty minutes into the trip before she realized she and Eric were driving in complete silence. It wasn’t as if they’d ever chatted, but in the past their relationship was cordial. Nevertheless, when Claire recalled his persuasive behavior from earlier, she felt no desire for familiarity. Besides, her mind was too full of thoughts and memories; the outside world seemed temporarily irrelevant. It was when those thoughts incited tears that Claire asked Eric to turn on some music. Truly it was an attempt to conceal her crying from Tony’s informant.

Interestingly, Claire noted Eric never asked her where she lived. Perhaps more thought provokingly, she never questioned his knowledge. Music was their only topic of conversation. Eric’s only words during their entire drive were those in his reply, “Yes, ma’am, do you have a preference?”

She shook her head to the eyes in the rearview mirror and turned again to the side window. The interior of the Mercedes filled with the sounds of Doc Severinsen and Louis Armstrong. Claire doubted the moisture on her cheeks and occasional ragged breath escaped Eric’s observation. Nevertheless, she took comfort in the fact the jazz music muffled her involuntary sounds.

In Claire’s likely scenarios for their reunion, she imagined Harry sad, hurt, or more optimistically relieved that she’d made it back. She imagined his supportive embrace as she explained the events of the night. Not once during her hour long journey did she foresee anger. Why would she? In the three months she’s known Harry, she’d never witnessed him upset.

Stepping into his entry, Claire saw and felt the aura of his fury. After dealing with Tony’s anger, she was now face-to-face with an obviously irate Harrison Baldwin. Her imagined scenarios paled in comparison. This was worse than she’d predicted.

He displayed the source of his discontentment on the table near the sofa. Laid out for her viewing pleasure were pages of information, multiple internet stories complete with photos featuring her.

Shit, she thought, this stupid gala only happened five hours ago. How did all of this get out already?

Claire walked silently to the table and scanned the headlines: Rawlings’ Reunited, Anthony Rawlings Asks for Privacy, Innocent? Anthony Rawlings’ New Claim. There were more but she just couldn’t stomach to read each one. Each article contained pictures. There was one photo of them during the introductions, Tony’s arm behind Claire’s back. They were both smiling. Another picture was during the meal. He appeared to be smiling at something she was saying, a friendly conversation. There was another picture of them standing together talking to another couple. The other couple was not identified. Claire read the caption:

EVERYONE IS TALKING! The big news at this year’s National Center for Learning Disabilities Fundraising Gala, in San Francisco, is not the millions of dollars raised for a worthy charity. It is the reunification of Anthony Rawlings and Claire Nichols. Their unexpected inseparability during the festivities begs the question: is this merger only personal or will it include Shedis-tics and SiJo Gaming?

She put down the page and another photo caught her eye. It was one of Tony kissing her hand. The look on her own face made Claire uneasy. The woman in the picture was staring into Tony’s eyes with a blushed radiance. Claire remembered; it was right after his speech.

“Yeah, that one caught my attention, too.” Harry’s emotionally ladened voice returned Claire to present. “I’ve never seen that look in your eyes. You’re acting skills are amazing!”

Tentatively she looked up to Harry. His blue eyes cried out with unspoken angst. She laid the papers back on the table and struggled with her own emotions. Claire needed to feel understood. Instead she felt challenged and fought the urge to launch her defenses. When she spoke, her voice came out flat. “Do you want to hear what happened? Or have you already made your own conclusions?”

He stared in silence. Finally, shrugging his shoulders, he walked to the kitchen, and returned with a partial bottle of Blue Label and an empty tumbler. Pouring himself two fingers of whiskey, he sat down in his recliner, gestured to the sofa and replied, “By all means, make yourself comfortable and fill me in. I can’t wait to hear how this isn’t how it looks.” She sat; he took a drink of the amber liquor and added, “It never is, is it?”

“I’ve never seen you drink, like this.”

“I’ve had a shitty day. Would you like a glass? Or has your day been all parties and private drivers?”

She saw herself in the mirror at Tony’s penthouse. How could he not see that she’d been crying? Claire could feel her swollen eyelids. Did he think she looked like someone who’d had a great day?

“No, thank you.” She answered dryly. “Harry...” Claire began. Then she stopped. Her head pounded with her internal debate. Was she mad, sad, defensive or wounded? Abruptly she stood and walked toward the door. “I can’t do this.” The tears resumed. Claire honestly wondered how she had any tears left. “I can’t do more confrontations.”

Suddenly, Harry was out of the chair and standing before her. She looked up at his expression. Behind the anger she saw hurt.

She had been wrong; hurt was worse than anger. The smell of whiskey burned her nostrils as his breath blew warmly toward her face. Her stomach clenched, but undeterred she strived to maintain the eye contact.