Chapter 2 Clara
“T HE THING NOBODY TELLS YOU about nepotism is anybody can be a victim when you’re not the favorite child.”
“I—” Honor says before the line goes quiet. My eyes dart from the sparsely leaved trees lining the highway to my phone screen to check the call is still connected. I hold the phone to the window like somehow that’ll fix the problem.
“Hon? Did I lose reception?” After several seconds of silence, I finally hear a sigh that sounds like it came from the depths of Honor’s soul.
“Is everyone in the Davenport family allergic to critical thinking or do you catch it from your dad when you see him at work?” A surprised laugh chokes its way out of me so brutally that my driver, who hasn’t said one word since he picked me up, checks on me through the rearview mirror. “Don’t answer that, I know the answer.”
Having a grounded and straight-talking best friend is great until you want to have your ungrounded thoughts and feelings justified. “You can’t just humor me a teensy-weensy bit?”
“No,” she says. “I won’t be responsible for making you worse. You’re capable of doing that all on your own.”
“You’re mean today. I’m not saying I don’t deserve it, but I definitely don’t like it.”
I hear her fail to hold back a yawn. She’s getting ready for another night shift in the emergency room. “Yeah, well, someone vomited on my feet last night, and there’s a very high chance that will also happen tonight.”
“So what I’m hearing is we both hate our jobs… and we should quit?” It’s an idea one of us has floated at least once a month since we were old enough to have jobs. Playfully, most of the time. Being a nurse like her mom has always been Honor’s dream.
“You don’t hate your job, Clara. You hate that your dad is probably going to give your brother the position you’ve been busting your ass to get. You need to quit your job and work for someone who appreciates you.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Ouch.”
It didn’t occur to me to be worried about Max, my younger brother by one year, getting Daryl’s job over me until four months ago.
After finishing business school, he took an eighteen-month contract at a company out of Boston.
A year passed by quickly, and it was at a Fourth of July barbecue that Dad first casually dropped a comment about Max joining the family business at the end of his contract—which is now next month, perfectly in sync with Daryl’s retirement date.
Max’s contract expiration has been hanging over my head like a metaphorical rain cloud since summer, but I can’t work out a way to bring it up.
We’ve been competing against each other our whole lives, for attention (where Max usually won), in challenges Grandpa created to keep us busy (where I usually won), and academically (where Max always kicked my ass).
It was a relief when we hit our teens and I didn’t have to compete with him at work. When I was spending my weekends at Davenport Toy Emporium, our flagship toy store in the city, hauling boxes and dealing with sticky children, Max was at the movies watching Star Wars marathons with his friends.
I spent my college summer breaks at Davenport headquarters, fetching coffee and learning as much as I could about how each department functions. Max spent his in places like Japan, playing real-life Mario Kart through the streets of Tokyo, or in California, learning to surf.
I graduated, started as close to the bottom as being the CEO’s daughter would allow, and have spent the last decade working my way up. He graduated, immediately started working for Silicon Valley tech bros until he decided he wanted to get his MBA, and has shown zero interest in Davenport.
It’s not that I think Max shouldn’t work with us; it’s our family business after all. I just don’t want him to get the job I want. The one I’ve worked for.
I lean my forehead against the window, the quick stream of traffic blurring into the darkening sky. Honor’s daughter shouts something unintelligible in the background of the call. “Is he late picking her up?” I ask.
“Of course he is. He’s a lot of things that I can’t say out loud right now.” I hear the strain in Honor’s voice. It happens when she talks about her daughter’s dad. “I’m changing the subject. How far away are you?”
I tilt my head toward the center of the car. The console screen is lit up with a map. “Twenty minutes.”
“You nervous?”
“Not really. I’m annoyed that I couldn’t get this woman to take my call and now I have to show up in person.
” Twenty-four hours of attempting to reach Florence Girard amounted to nothing but her mailbox being full of my annoying customer service voice asking her to return my call.
“But the town looks cute and a change of scenery for the night is fun, I guess.”
Honor sighs. “All this over two dolls.”
I mean, it’s a little more than that. Corporate greed, creative theft, reputational downturn, et cetera, but essentially, yeah. All this over two dolls.
Dolls have existed in different forms for thousands of years. Something about this specific doll from Fraser Falls has caught the attention of parents and kids across America. Like most people, I can’t put my finger on why her versus all the other products available on the market.
Problems seem to multiply when something holds a special kind of magic that people can’t explain. People want to re-create the magic for themselves, even when they can’t work out what the magic is.
It’s the beauty and misery of virality in the digital age. Everything is so amplified it becomes inescapable, and in certain circumstances, it can bring unfathomable, life-changing levels of success. But how is anybody supposed to re-create it when nobody knows how it happened in the first place?
How are you as the person benefiting from the attention supposed to cling to it when everyone is trying to replace you at the top? When companies like Davenport have more money and more resources and, likely, less shame?
But there’s no manual on how to re-create it, as much as people hawking online courses would love for you to believe them when they say that there is. Most of the time it’s lots of different things aligning at once, plus a dash of something that can’t actually be bottled.
We all know this. We talk about it at work all the time, and yet they decided to try anyway and thought undercutting a small business wouldn’t backfire on them. My grandpa would be seething if he were still here.
“Dad’s worried it’s going to drag on and hurt sales or overshadow the Clara party,” I say. “He’s determined to break the donation record, hence the goodwill tour.”
I can just picture Honor’s face. She’s never liked my dad. “If he’s so concerned he should go himself. And that’s another cursed doll, add her to the list.”
My hand covers my mouth to smother my laugh. Twenty years ago, Davenport debuted the Clara doll. She’s eighteen inches tall, with soft auburn curls that brush her shoulders and a neat center part tucked back with two velvet ribbon barrettes.
Her eyes are hazel, more green than brown in the right light, and framed by the perfect amount of dark lashes.
She wears a thoughtful expression, and a sensible oatmeal-colored cardigan layered over a crisp Peter Pan–collared blouse and a wool pleated tartan skirt.
On her feet are brown leather Mary Janes.
Each doll comes with a miniature canvas satchel embroidered with the letter C; tucked inside are tiny paper books, a pencil stub, and a coin purse.
Unlike all the other dolls that were popular at the time, Clara wasn’t bright or flashy.
She didn’t have glittery outfits or fancy accessories.
She was a good friend, a role model, and our most popular toy for a long, long time.
Her success put Davenport on the map and funded our growth.
It’s as fun sharing a name with a toy now as it was when I was fourteen.
When the bitchy teens at my school would tease me about it, Honor was the first person to tell me not to worry.
The doll was named after me, obviously. Not because my dad thought it would be a sweet nod to his only daughter, but in recognition of the fact I came up with her during one of my grandpa’s challenges when I was ten.
Dad wanted to call her something else; it was Grandpa who insisted she have my name.
This year, our annual charity Christmas party is also a celebration of two decades of Clara. In fact, the reason Daryl’s department was able to get the Evie doll green-lit is they pitched her as Clara’s modern sister for her anniversary year.
“I have to go, Hon. It’s my job.”
Would I prefer not to be visiting the businesses signed up to our program? Of course.
I’m still finding my feet after being away for a year.
The last thing I want to do is spend my week being the human equivalent of the Energizer Bunny running from company to company.
Since Florence Girard mentioned the small business program in her video, I need to fly out to check in on every company signed up.
They all admitted they’d looked over their contracts after hearing about the video but didn’t find anything suspicious. Two put me off until January because they’re busy, but the other four happily accepted a free business outing.
Thankfully, the two that turned me down are on the West Coast. One’s in Maine, another in Pennsylvania; the other two sit within a few hours’ drive of each other in Illinois. So assuming everything goes according to plan, I’ll be back in the city by Friday late afternoon.
“Speaking of jobs, he just pulled up so I’m gonna head to mine.” How Honor keeps this calm when her ex almost makes her late every single time it’s his turn for custody amazes me. “Stay safe and let me know how it goes. You’re gonna win them over, I just know it.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too. Paloma, come say love you to Auntie Cla—she’s gone. Never mind, she does love you. Bye.”
The map says five minutes when I put my phone back into my purse and slip my headphones back into their case. I’m booked into a charming bed-and-breakfast less than five minutes’ walk from the bakery and café that Ms. Girard runs.
My research tells me that the dolls are handled by Harry’s, a handmade furniture store opposite Ms. Girard’s businesses.
Tomorrow, I’m going to Bliss Café and finding a table to observe at.
Then I’ll approach her after the morning rush has cleared.
After I’ve gauged how she’s feeling, I’ll head across the street to introduce myself to Harry.
Hopefully, smoothing this over will be quick and easy and I can get to Maine early for the second stop on my tour. And if it isn’t quick and easy, at least I’ll be eating lobster for dinner.
My plan tonight is to grab something to eat from a nearby bar that has great reviews and make it an early night.
The roads have been getting narrower for the last five minutes and now we’re moving steadily down a quiet lane bordered by fields.
I stare out of the passenger-side window; the orange hues of sunset that were cascading a warmth between the trees have now melted into the deepening blue of the night sky.
A “Welcome to Fraser Falls” sign is erected in the grass, the thick white letters illuminated by two lights shining from the bottom of the frame, making each word stand out against the forest-green-stained wood.
“Nearly there,” my driver calls from the front of the car. “This is Main Street.”
Everywhere is bathed in a golden glow from the tiny lights decorating the town as far as I can see.
There are dozens of fairy light strings draped above the sidewalk between the buildings and the trees and lampposts lining the pavement.
Small, glowing snowflakes dangle from the string, giving a floating effect that feels magical.
Each trunk and post is wrapped in an evenly spaced spiral of tiny bulbs leading up to a thick red ribbon.
It feels like something from a holiday card.
I’m so distracted by the lights I forget to look out for the café, but from what I can see, most of the stores are closed or closing.
The car slows as it approaches a stop sign, and directly in front of us is a beautiful white gazebo at the start of a U-shaped grassy field.
Lights drop from the center of the roof and drape outward; they’re softer and more delicate than the other lights on Main Street.
The wide entrance at its front is split into stairs and a ramp; the same muted lights weave between the spindles of the handrail up to a seating area.
I want to sit and look at everything in this picture-perfect town.
Fraser Falls feels like an amalgamation of every cheesy holiday movie I watched growing up in the best way. It makes me understand why the Hallmark single city girl chose the small town. Its clean streets and easy roads are worlds away from Manhattan, from most places I know actually.
The one strange thing that I can’t quite shake as I climb out of the car in front of Maggie’s B & B is I haven’t seen anyone. Ms. Girard asked people in her video to visit to support her town this holiday season and now I understand why.