Sweet Talk. Сьюзен Мэллери

into her lungs. She was going to pass out and then she was going to die.

      “I can’t—” she gasped, and set the coffee on the counter. “I can’t.”

      “What’s wrong?” the girl asked. “Are you having a fit? Is she having a fit? Can I have my coffee first?”

      There was a buzzing in her ears. Claire staggered back. She leaned against the wall.

      Maggie hurried over. “What is wrong with you?”

      “Can’t … breathe. Panic … attack.”

      “You’re worse than Nicole said. Just get out of here. Go. You’re scaring the customers.”

      It was just like what had happened the last time she’d been on stage, only no one rushed to help her. She wasn’t urged to lie down or sip water. It was as if she didn’t exist.

      As she leaned against the wall and struggled for breath, she watched customer after customer be served, then leave. They went on with their lives. They had lives. What did she have?

      She sank into a crouch, still gasping. Tears burned in her eyes. This wasn’t what she wanted, she thought grimly. She wanted to be more than a crazy person with mutant hands. She wanted to be strong and capable. She wanted to be normal. But how?

      She tried telling herself that despite how she felt, she really was breathing. Otherwise she would already be dead. Panic attacks were just a sensation. They were a biological response but they weren’t about anything.

      What she wanted to do was curl up in a ball until it was over. Instead, she forced herself to stand. After taking in two slow, deep breaths, she walked back to the counter and called out the next number.

      A man stepped forward. “A dozen doughnuts,” he said. “They’re for the secretaries in my office, so lots of chocolate.”

      She nodded and reached for a box. After collecting twelve doughnuts, mostly chocolate, she went to the cash register and looked at the card. There was a single price for a dozen.

      “Five-fifty,” she said.

      He handed her a ten.

      Claire put that into the cash register, made change and handed it over. The man smiled at her.

      “Thanks.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      She checked the next number and called it out. Her chest still ached and she couldn’t catch her breath, but she kept going. Working carefully, trying to smile and give each customer what he or she wanted.

      One customer turned into two. Two turned into five. Eventually the bakery cleared out. When they were finally alone, Maggie looked at her.

      “You all right?”

      Claire nodded. “Sorry about the panic attack. It happens sometimes.”

      All the time, lately, but she didn’t want to admit that.

      “You didn’t give up,” Maggie said. “That’s something. And you helped. So thanks for that.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “You can go. We’ll be slow from now until lunch. By then Tiff will be here.”

      Claire nodded and walked into the back of the bakery. After removing the apron and hairnet, she collected her purse and walked to her car.

      She started the engine and leaned back in the seat. She was exhausted. A quick glance at the clock told her less than two hours had passed since she’d arrived, which didn’t seem possible. She felt as if she’d been working days.

      Her cell phone rang. Claire pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Lisa again. Nothing good would come from that call. She turned off the phone and shoved it in her purse.

      No doubt Nicole would have something snippy to say about her panic attack, but Claire refused to care. She’d managed to work through it and come out the other side. It was, for her, the first victory in a long time and nothing was going to take that away from her.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CLAIRE HEATED the last of the takeout Wyatt had brought over. As she waited for the microwave to do its thing, she placed her hands on the counter and closed her eyes. Without even willing them to, her fingers moved against the cool granite. In her mind, she played notes and heard music. The sound filled her until her body seemed to rise up and float.

      The microwave dinged, dropping her back into this reality—the one where she didn’t play piano anymore, didn’t go to classes or teach or fit in that world.

      She missed playing. Crazy, considering the fact that she could barely look at the damn instrument without having a panic attack. Maybe it wasn’t the piano she missed as much as the sense of getting lost in music, of losing herself in the richness of the sound. Plus, practice and play were her life. It was like quitting smoking—even without the physical addiction, she still had all the behaviors in place.

      She glanced at the stairs leading to the basement. While she didn’t want to go back down there, she should take care of the piano. Her mental problems weren’t the instrument’s fault.

      After checking on Nicole’s dinner, she found a phone book and looked up piano tuners. She called three places before finding a guy who would come out this week and tune the piano. That done, she put the plate on a tray, along with a pot of herbal tea and some bread, then carried everything upstairs.

      Nicole’s door stood open. Claire entered and smiled at her sister. “I thought you might be getting hungry, so I brought a little more than last night. How are you feeling?”

      Nicole lay on top of the covers. Sometime during the day, she’d changed into different sweat pants and a new T-shirt. Thick socks covered her feet. The color had returned to her face.

      “I’m fine,” her sister said.

      “Good.”

      Claire set down the tray. “This is the last of the takeout. I’ll get something else for tomorrow.”

      “Are you cooking?” Nicole asked.

      “Uh, no. I was thinking maybe Chinese.”

      Nicole didn’t say anything, which left Claire feeling as if she’d failed again. She didn’t know how to cook. When was she supposed to find the time?

      She told herself that she didn’t have to apologize to anyone for her life, but couldn’t shake the feeling that she was once again being judged and found wanting.

      Nicole slid the tray onto her lap, then looked up. “Thank you for helping out in the bakery this morning. They were swamped.”

      Claire stepped forward eagerly. “I couldn’t believe how many people were there. It was a huge crowd. Everything went so fast. It was difficult to figure out how to use the cash register, but by the end of the morning rush, I sort of knew what I was doing.”

      She’d come through and that was what mattered, she told herself. Every challenge met made her stronger.

      “I heard you had some kind of fit,” Nicole said sounding more curious than concerned. “Are you on medication?”

      Claire felt herself blushing. She forced herself to continue to stand there. “I had a panic attack, but I worked through it.”

      “Don’t expect an award for showing up,” Nicole muttered.

      Claire’s embarrassment shifted to annoyance. “Did I ask for an award? Did I ask for anything at all? My recollection of recent events is a phone call from Jesse asking me to come home because you needed help. I dropped everything and flew out the next morning, showed up here to do exactly that—take care of you. I’ve brought you meals and snacks, helped you to the bathroom, carried in whatever you’ve asked for, helped out at the bakery and in return you’re nothing but mean and sarcastic. What is wrong with