was nice, but not every minute of every day.
Once they were inside, Amy took charge. Claire tried not to be upset about the fact that an eight-year-old knew more about shopping than her. The truth was, she rarely shopped. Lisa, her manager, brought a selection of clothes to Claire’s apartment or her hotel room if they were on the road, Claire tried them on and kept the ones she liked.
She wore classic styles from expensive designers. Her performing clothes were mostly long black dresses…variations on a theme. She didn’t own jeans or T-shirts or a sweatshirt. Which was all about to change.
Amy led her to a table of jeans in different colors. Claire picked dark blue and black, then followed the girl to racks of shirts and knit tops. Some were plain, but others had embellishments—printing, or appliquéd flowers. Even small rhinestones. She grabbed a jean jacket, a couple of pairs of dressier jeans, sweatshirts, casual sweaters and a couple of white cotton blouses.
Amy picked up T-shirts, a halter top in bright pink and a couple of lacy tunic tops Claire wasn’t sure about. Then they made their way to the dressing room.
Thirty minutes later, she had a casual wardrobe filled with easy-care cotton and fun colors. She bought jeans with flowers sewn on the back pockets and skimpy T-shirts that fit snugly enough to both make her nervous and make her feel good about herself.
She bought blouses and a couple of sweatshirts, along with a few sweaters. Nothing in black, nothing she couldn’t wash. The five bags they dragged back to the car had cost less than the last designer blouse and skirt she’d bought only two months ago.
Amy helped her stow the bags in the trunk. Claire pushed it shut.
“That was fun,” she said, then signed, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Amy said. “Bookstore now.”
They stopped for ice cream first, at the Cold Stone Creamery, then sat in the sun at a metal table to eat their snack.
“How was school?” Claire asked.
“Good,” Amy signed, then switched to voice. “We practice speaking,” she said slowly. “Practice every day.”
“Can you hear anything?” Claire asked.
“Tone. Not words.”
“What if I yell really loud?”
Amy giggled, then signed, “I’m deaf.”
Claire couldn’t imagine not hearing. Memories of music she’d played filled her head, making her ache to be at the keyboard again. Her fingers curled into her palms. How could she both love and hate playing at the same time? No matter how she filled her day, the nagging sense of needing to practice haunted her. Yet the thought of sitting down at a piano made her chest tighten with the first whispers of a panic attack.
“Were you always deaf?” Claire asked.
Amy nodded, then moved her hands, signing what Claire assumed was born.
“I’m lucky,” the girl continued, both signing and speaking. “I can hear a little. Some don’t.”
“Do you feel sound?” Claire asked, hitting her chest with the palm of her hand. “In your body?”
“Music. I feel music.”
She wondered if Amy would be able to feel her play. If putting her hands on the piano would produce enough vibration. Would she be able to tell the difference between notes? Would she recognize the difference in pieces? Would a concerto feel differently than a Broadway show tune?
She was about to suggest they experiment when she remembered that she didn’t play anymore. She’d just been panicking a minute before. Why was it so easy to forget she wasn’t that person anymore?
They finished their ice cream and went to the bookstore. Amy helped her pick out a couple of basic cookbooks.
“Now I can cook dinner,” Claire said.
Amy nodded and flipped through the book. She pointed to a meat loaf recipe.
Claire read the list of ingredients. It didn’t look hard.
“For tonight?” she asked.
Amy nodded.
The recipe suggested mashed potatoes and carrots. Under vegetables she actually found a recipe for mashed potatoes and a chart that told her how long to steam carrots. It was a miracle.
“Grocery store?” she asked Amy.
The girl smiled at her. “I know where.”
They made their way to a grocery store, with Amy giving great directions. Claire chuckled as she wondered who was babysitting whom.
They gathered potatoes, carrots, an onion, found the hamburger, although Claire was momentarily stumped by the different kinds. She bought the one that cost the most and hoped it was right.
“Your daughter is so pretty,” an older woman said as she walked past them. “She has your eyes.”
The comment surprised Claire, but she smiled. “Thank you. She looks a lot like her dad.”
“I’m sure he’s a handsome man.”
Claire thought about the last time she’d seen Wyatt. He’d been on the landing, in Nicole’s house. As usual, he’d been frustrated by her. She wasn’t sure why she pushed all his buttons; she certainly wasn’t trying.
“He’s pretty cute,” she admitted.
The woman smiled and moved on.
Amy touched Claire’s arm. “What did she say?”
“She thought you were my daughter. She said we had the same eyes.”
Amy studied her for a second, then raised her hand, fingers together, thumb across her palm. “Blue,” she said, wiggling her hand back and forth.
Claire repeated the sign. They did both have blue eyes, and they were blond, she thought. Amy was lucky—her beautiful color was natural while Claire’s required a touch-up and highlights every four weeks.
“My mom is gone,” Amy said. “She moved away.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire signed.
Amy shrugged, then looked at the list, as if it didn’t matter.
They continued their shopping. Claire found herself wondering about Amy’s mom. Who could have left this child behind? Who could have left family?
That’s what Claire wanted while she was here—to reconnect with Nicole and Jesse. To belong somewhere. She also wanted—hoped—she could find someone of her own to love. A man who would care about her, love her, want to marry her. What she couldn’t decide was whether or not she had a manageable goal or a stupid dream that was never going to come true.
THEY MADE IT BACK to the house by four-thirty. Amy helped
