Debra Borchert

Chapter 1

This was the day Claire had been working toward for twenty-three years. Today she would prove her design worked and would save thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of lives. And she and her boss and Aqua-Line Swimwear would make millions on the patent.

Claire extracted the prototype from the safe in her office. She held out the turquoise and lime-green spandex bathing suit that she’d designed and sewn by hand herself. The slip of fabric wouldn’t cover one of her thighs.

Alisha, the fitting model, whose long, shapeless legs reminded Claire of a flamingo’s, crossed her arms over her breasts. “What’s that contraption?”

“A life preserver.” Claire shook the one-piece suit. “Just put it on as if it were any other swimsuit. Rick’s going to love it. It’ll be the best-selling maillot of next season.”

With eyebrows lifted in what Claire figured was skepticism, Alisha pulled the Spandex up over her flat hips, nonexistent tummy, and small breasts, then slid her arms under the shoulder straps. Lime-green ruffles draped her biceps. She leaned over, jiggling her breasts into the bra cups, smoothed the straps and stood tall. “It’s loose around the bust.”

“It’s not hooked, yet.” Claire fastened the strap in the back and looked out of the door adjacent to the reception area, searching for her boss. She called out to his assistant, “Eleanore, please tell Rick we’re ready.”

Alisha pulled the fabric. “Still loose around the bust.”

“It won’t be. Feel this button?” Claire guided Alisha’s thumb to the ON button that was sewn into the shoulder strap. “When Rick gets here and I say, ‘Go,’ press the button. Got it?”

“This puffy thing?”

“Right.”

Alisha nodded just as Rick entered Claire’s studio. Alisha gave him her dazzling smile, rested her hands on her hips, pushed out her pelvis, and turned on her five-inch heels, snapping her head around making her long black curls whip around her neck. She was a flirt but also a perfect fitting model. Claire gripped her hands like she was praying for her life.

Stroking his graying beard, Rick circled Alisha, examining the suit. He flicked a hand. “Baggy and boring.”

“It won’t be.” Claire pinched her thumb and forefinger. “Go!”

Alisha tilted her head.

“Go ahead. Press the button,” Claire urged.

A whooshing sounded as Alisha pressed the strap. Air pumped into the ruffles at the top of her arms, and they puffed out, like a child’s water wings. A rubber tube, inserted in the lime green strap circling her chest, inflated like a bicycle tire. Alisha’s breasts rose against the plunging neckline, giving her flat chest lovely cleavage. Smiling, Alisha twisted to the right and left before the full-length mirror as her bosom seemed to enhance itself.

Rick’s eyebrows popped up. “What the—”

“I’ve done it. This suit has a built-in life preserver,” Claire cried. But then she noticed Alisha’s bust continued to enhance.

That was enough inflation to give him the idea. “Okay, release the button,” commanded Claire.

Alisha let go of the button. The sound grew louder as her breasts began to bulge over the neckline.

Claire stepped closer. “Release the button.”

“I did!”

The tube continued inflating. Claire grabbed the strap and clamped her fingers on the button, pinching it hard.

Alisha pulled the Spandex straps. “Get this thing off me.”

The whooshing sound wound higher. The tube bulged beyond Alisha’s breasts, growing as large as a child’s swim ring circling Alisha’s chest. The turquoise Spandex stretched, the color fading as it expanded to accommodate the ring. Claire had no idea the tube could stretch to such a size, but it would keep an adult afloat.

It was working!

But it wasn’t stopping!

“Help!” Alisha screeched and shoved at the tube, now the size of a motorcycle tire, struggling to push it down to her waist. The tube bulged. She couldn’t grip the slippery fabric covering it. “I can’t…breathe.”

“Get it off her,” Rick shouted.

“You trying to kill me?” she cried.

“I’m so sorry.” Claire plucked her fabric shears from the cutting table. “Hold still.” She grabbed Alisha with one hand to steady her and inserted one of the blades between the swimsuit and her back. She released Alisha and, with both hands, she snipped.

The wheezing sound filled the room as Claire pulled the tubing away from Alisha’s chest. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry.”

Alisha gasped for air. “Dizzy.” She bent over. Claire guided Alisha to sit on her chair. Examining the deflated ON button, she said, “I paid three thousand dollars for this prototype—it should have worked, damn it.”

Rick rushed to Alisha, shouting, “Are you all right?”

Alisha rounded on Claire, ripping the shoulder strap out of her hands. “You crazy bitch!”

“The pump should have stopped. Did you press it completely?”

“With all my might!”

Claire pulled the tube that ran up the suit’s shoulder strap. “Here’s why it didn’t stop: the switch didn’t release.” She dropped the strap. “You pushed it too hard.”

“You told me to push it harder.” Alisha ripped the tube away.

“I told you to release it.”

“You’re nuts!” She grabbed her robe from the chair, held it to her chest, and rushed for the door. “You’ll hear from my lawyer.”

Rick shouted at his assistant, “Eleanor, call a doctor.” He caught up to Alisha and put his arm around her shoulder. “Let me help you.”

She smacked her hand against his shoulder. “Get out of my way, or I’ll sue you, too!”

He stepped back, his arms hanging as Alisha ran through the design studio and into the showroom.

“Wait!” Claire headed after her.

Rick grabbed Claire’s arm and dragged her back into her office. “You could have killed her.”

“I’m sorry for what happened, but she’s not hurt.”

“You’re fired.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It wasn’t my fault.” She pointed at Alisha. “I must take that suit back to the engineer. We’re almost there.”

Rick dragged his hands down his face. “You’re insane.”

“I am not. I’m trying to save lives.” Claire’s fingers vibrated with longing to examine the tubing. “Three thousand people drown every year, and that’s just Americans!”

Rick stepped close to her. “You’ve been trying to incorporate a life preserver in swimsuits since you started working here. Now this—trying to disguise it as a bust enhancer?” He stepped closer. “Today, you nearly killed a model with your deranged idea.” Another step closer. “You’re fired. F-I-R-E-D. Fired!” With the courtesy he’d bestow upon a Neiman Marcus buyer, he opened her office door. “And if she sues me, I’ll sue you.” He scowled. “Now get out!”

“You’re just upset. Tomorrow, you’ll recognize this patent is brilliant.” Claire stood her ground, hands trembling. “I need the prototype.”

Rick grabbed her arm. “You have two minutes to leave on your own before I call security.”

“There’s no need for security. Alisha’s not going to steal the suit.”

“For you! I’m calling security to get rid of you! Now get out!” He grabbed the phone from Claire’s desk.

“But I’m so close to the design. The patent could make you millions. And save thousands of lives. There’s just the switch—a tiny problem.”

“The problem, and, it is not tiny, is with you, Claire. Remember the time you spent two-thousand dollars for fabric guaranteed to float? And the cork bra cups that popped out of the suit and floated away? Another grand. How much did you spend on this disaster? You’re a liability. If that model sues me, I’ll lose my business.”

“She wasn’t hurt.”

“How the hell do you know? The thing was suffocating her. She couldn’t breathe!”

“Just let me take the suit to the engineer—”

He shouted into the phone, “Security fifth floor.” He slammed the phone on the cutting table. “Out.” His nostrils flared like a dog on a hunt. “Now.”

“You can’t be serious. I’ve been working on a patent for a swimsuit with a built-in life preserver since you hired me.”

“I hired you and now I’m firing you.” He swept his arm toward the door. “Out!”

The studio closed around her, plunging her into a feeling like being dragged by an undertow. Numbness seized her arms. The sound of crashing waves filled her mind and dulled her vision. She shook her head and focused on the walls, hung with sketches, fabric swatches, photos. She stopped, stood still. She was in her studio. The waves ebbed.

Why hadn’t the switch released? There was plenty of pressure, too much pressure.

“That’s it,” she shouted. “There was no resistance! If a woman were in the water and pressed the button, the tube would not have inflated without stopping. As the inside pressure equalized from the water pressure outside the tube, the pump would have stopped, and the inflated tube would float the woman. You can only push the button if you’re in the water. There was no water pressure to stop inflation.”

“Claire.”

“What?”

“You must leave now. I need to make sure Alisha’s not scarred.”

Two security guards walked down the hall toward her.

“Right.” Claire stumbled toward her desk, leaned over, and examined the prototype sketch.

“Claire!” Rick shouted.

She blinked.

The two guards appeared at her side. Rick placed her coat and purse in her arms. Then he lifted her tattered sketchbook, the one she’d brought with her on her first day at Aqua-line, and gently placed it in her arms. “Good luck, Claire.”

“I’ll wait for the prototype outside the fitting room.” She turned and felt the vice-grip of the guards close around her arms.

They walked her to the elevator—open, empty, and waiting—and escorted her inside. A guard hit the lobby button. She turned as the elevator doors shut out her life.

###

Chapter 2

At home, Claire flung herself face down upon the bed, rolled over, and stared at the ceiling as tears ran in rivulets down into her ears. “Oh, David, I’ve failed at my invention. And I’ve been fired.” She pounded her fists into the mattress. “And I’m broke.”

She picked up the framed photo of him holding a rare bottle of wine at a sommelier’s dinner—so proud of his ability to identify it in a blind tasting. “I’m so desperate, I’m talking to you, and you’ve been gone for more than a year. I know you didn’t mean to die without a will, but I may lose our house!” She sobbed and pressed the picture to her chest.

They’d never talked about death. They’d never dreamed that it would arrive so early in David’s life. Claire knew fabrics and design. She didn’t know anything about intestate laws, but she was learning. Not fast enough. An image of a For Sale sign on her front lawn surrounded by cardboard boxes made her pulse race. Where would she live? How would she live? On what? “I can’t fix this. I need you.”

After releasing a sob, she dragged herself to the closet as images of the day he passed flashed in her mind. As she reached for David’s favorite sportscoat, her fingers tingled, like she’d been stung. She shook her hand and pulled it from the hanger.

She snuggled her face into the jacket. “I miss you.” She scrunched the fabric to her face and inhaled, searching for his woodsy, lime scent. “I wish you were here to hold me.” She slid her arms into the sleeves, wrapped the jacket around her, and fell onto the bed.

As her hands caressed the soft wool, her fingernail struck a stiff edge. She pressed the pocket, making a crinkling sound. She’d not touched this jacket since the day David died, when she’d been far too upset to notice anything in his pockets. Opening the jacket, she ran her fingers along the inside breast pocket and pulled out a photo of a boy of about six or seven years standing amidst a vineyard. His eyes were David’s. His curly brown hair, David’s. His dimples on either side of his smile…David’s. Her heart ached. David’s dimples had lured her heart the first moment he smiled at her, as this child’s was snagging her heart.

She turned the photo over. In handwritten ink were the words: Our Luca. Last year’s vendange. Merci, Sophie.

David never missed the French grape harvests; whatever vendange it had been, he must have been there. But our? Did Sophie mean she and her husband?

Luca had David’s eyes, hair, and dimples. Could Luca be the son of a long-lost brother of David’s? She was grasping for a lifeline with that far-fetched explanation. David was an only child, just like she was.

There had to be an explanation. David would never cheat.

She sat up. Searched the other jacket pockets. Got up and pulled every jacket, sweater, coat, shirt, pair of pants, robe, pajamas, sweatshirt from the closet and searched every single pocket and sock and shoe and pair of boxershorts. Nothing. Not a penny, business card, or matchbook.

She pulled out David’s family photo album and thumbed to the page titled, Second Grade. She compared David’s school picture with Luca’s photo. They looked like twins.

Turning on the bedside lamp, she examined Luca’s photo. The boy stood next to an elaborately carved wooden sign with the words, Château Soltner. The vineyard had to be in France. If it was in America, Sophie would have used the word, “harvest,” not “vendange.” The soil was chalky white, the grapes green, the grape leaves yellow and red. White wines were produced there, wherever there was.

Dread slid down and sat in the pit of her stomach like wine sediment at the bottom of a bottle. She hadn’t been in David’s office since she closed the door after the paramedics removed his body. How long had he possessed the photo?

The child was now a year older. Why hadn’t Sophie called David or sent him a letter? The image of a pile of unopened mail puddled in her mind. She’d opened all the bills, statements, tax documents, and anything else that appeared official and trashed the rest. But nothing had arrived for David in the past six months.

The doorbell rang.

She groaned. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. She would not answer. It was probably some missionaries, anyway.

A banging on the door echoed in the foyer.

She willed whoever it was to go away. But it could be Holly, the mom next door who had four children. She hoped not, but she couldn’t ignore an emergency. She stumbled to the hall and saw a tall, slender, dripping wet Marti peering in through the side window, and she’d spotted Claire. Claire bumped the heel of her hand to her forehead. She’d forgotten their Tuesday lunch.

Just what she needed, her best friend since they were college roommates, from whom she kept nothing.