18
The sun reflecting off the snow outside made artificial light wholly unnecessary. Clara shielded her eyes from the glare as she entered the kitchen. “Wow, that’s bright, huh?”
“Makes you glad you don’t have a hangover, huh?” Beck retorted.
“No kidding,” she said, easing into a chair.
“I’m making you French toast,” Nash told her.
“Aw, for real?” she asked, touched.
“Yep. Ready in about three minutes. It would be four minutes, but the pre-cracked eggs are saving me a bunch of time.”
“Great.” She gave Jesse a thorough once-over. Like her father, and unlike the rest of them, he was already dressed for the day, though it looked like he hadn’t shaved. He narrowed his eyes at her, no doubt suspicious of her scrutiny, so she set her elbow on the table and offered him her hand in the universal language of an arm wrestler.
He responded instinctively, picking up the gauntlet, and as they clasped hands she tested the pliability of her opponent. He didn’t budge; she pushed harder, with the same effect. He was immovable.
“Just warming up,” she explained.
“Making me nervous,” he said, his voice a little rough from lack of use.
“Go,” she said.
“I’m going.”
But she couldn’t push him past the midpoint, and he didn’t push her at all; he just played defense. And then, unbelievably, she started to gain a little traction, and Jesse’s eyes widened in surprise.
She realized instantly that he was pulling her leg, but for the sake of her younger brothers, she played along.
Playing. She couldn’t believe the man was being playful! Talk about progress.
“I’m winning!” she cried jubilantly, and noticed in her periphery that her brothers looked a little alarmed. “I’m winning!”
Jesse was visibly struggling now, and as a last-ditch effort he used his other hand as well.
“Cheating!” she cried.
He let go, and she slammed his fist onto the table. He blew out a breath. “Holy—have you been working out?”
“Yes,” she said proudly. “I can bench press a hundred and fifty pounds.”
She hoped that was an impressive number.
“ What ,” Beck hissed.
“That’s great, Clara!” Nash praised her.
“Crazy,” Jesse said, lounging back in his chair.
She smiled at him, feeling incredibly pleased.
“Arm-wrestle me next,” Beck ordered.
“No, I need to rest,” she said airily.
“After breakfast,” he amended quickly.
“Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t want to wear out my shoulder.”
“Hart!” Nash said, catching sight of his oldest brother. “Clara just beat Jesse arm wrestling. She said she can bench one fifty.”
Hart looked indulgently at the baby of the family. “Unbelievable.”
“I just saw it, man.”
Hart looked at Clara. “Arm-wrestle me.”
“Fine,” she sighed. “But then I’m stopping.”
“Move,” he ordered, and she scooted to the next chair so that he could sit down in hers. “First, Jesse.”
Jesse and Hart grappled and Clara was pretty sure they were both trying their best, but at long last, Hart prevailed.
“Okay, makes sense,” Beck allowed. “He’s younger and everything.”
“Now against Clara!” Nash cried. “You can do it, Clara!”
“No, dude, she can’t,” Beck corrected, looking at Nash like he’d lost his mind.
But, amazingly, Clara did do it. The stunned, almost mournful silence in the room when she beat Hart made her want to laugh.
“Wow,” Hart said mildly. “Guess you weren’t kidding.”
“That’s not possible!” Beck exploded. “Arm-wrestle me! Right now!”
“No, I’m sorry,” Clara declined. “My breakfast is ready, and now my arm is super tired. Maybe tomorrow. Thanks for the toast, Nashy.”
“Dad!” Beck raged.
“Comparison is the thief of joy,” the Colonel said mildly.
“What’s all the commotion?” Dr. Wilder asked, coming slowly down the hall with her walker.
Her children all turned to watch her.
“That’s so depressing,” Nash said involuntarily.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of it soon. What did I miss in here?”
“Clara beat Jesse and Hart at arm wrestling,” Beck said, indignation returning.
“Oh. Good job, Clara.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Now she won’t go against me ,” Beck continued.
“Frustrating,” the doctor murmured, taking a seat at the table.
“Yeah, it’s frustrating! And probably completely fake! I’ve seen Hart deadlift three fifty!”
“That’s different muscles,” Clara said with great dignity. “Everyone knows that.”
“Perhaps Hart has been slacking lately,” Dr. Wilder suggested.
“This is ludicrous,” Beck pronounced. “You’re all nuts if you think Clara can out-lift anyone in this room. Just take a look at her puny arms.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Dr. Wilder reminded him.
“I’ll tell you what,” Clara said, taking pity on her brother, “if you can beat Jesse and Hart, too, I’ll wrestle you.”
“Done,” Beck accepted immediately.
“Not quite done,” Hart pointed out, his tone a trifle icy.
“Are you kidding? If you can’t even beat Clara, I’m not going to have any trouble with you,” Beck mocked him.
“But,” Clara continued, “if you can’t beat Jesse and Hart, I get to cut your hair.”
Everyone, including Beck, expressed hearty approval of this arrangement.
“Let’s save the wrestling for after breakfast,” Dr. Wilder requested.
“I was thinking after breakfast we should pull Mom around on the sled,” Nash suggested.
“No,” everyone else said in unison.
“I’m a little sore from the drive up yesterday,” she said, patting his arm fondly. “I was hoping we could play some board games or something a little…quieter.”
“Oh, okay,” he said, perking back up. “Yeah, we can do that.”
Clara was at first concerned that another day cooped up inside would cause her mother’s cabin fever to flare, but she soon realized her mistake; Dr. Wilder was thoroughly enjoying the rare pleasure of having the five of them together. The boys were good-natured about playing any game she wanted, and if play devolved into the occasional argument or brawl, she didn’t seem to mind.
Long after their parents had gone to bed that night, the Wilder siblings remained in the kitchen, laughing uproariously at one another’s antics, powering through all available snacks, and drawing Jesse inexorably into their hilarity.
When Hart said good night and Clara started cutting Beck’s hair, Jesse slipped away. She found him later, dozing in the darkened living room near the dying fire.
Clara plopped down next to him. Her younger brothers had finally gone to bed and the rest of the house was very quiet now.
Jesse’s breathing changed, and she knew he was aware of her.
“Did you let Hart beat you at arm wrestling, too?” she asked.
He kept his eyes closed and said nothing. There was probably no right answer; if he said no, he looked weak, and if he said yes, he looked arrogant.
“Never mind,” she said, with a gurgle of laughter.
“I’m going to bed,” he informed her drowsily.
“Me, too. It’s past midnight.”
But neither of them moved.
After a moment, she said, “Mom didn’t announce her retirement today.”
“She’s waiting for the right time.”
Minutes passed in companionable silence. She broke it to ask impulsively, “Would you ever consider it? Taking her practice?”
“No, Clara.”
“Right,” she agreed softly. “Dumb.”
“Dumb,” he reiterated firmly.
“It’d be nice to have you around more, though.”
“You’ll see me sometime.”
“I don’t want to see you sometime. I want to see you regularly.”
“High-maintenance,” the doctor diagnosed.
“Guilty,” she said.