Chapter 34 Clara
T HERE’S A SADNESS FOLLOWING ME around and I can’t shake it.
It’s like a black cloud that only I’m stuck under. Wilhelmina is hosting a pottery class to make Santa plates, but I can’t find the energy to go and pretend to be happy.
Elf is lying across me like a fifty-pound anxiety blanket, whipping me with his tail every time I speak. Jack is still downstairs working. He’s using our bullshit bingo card while replying to customer emails—ones he didn’t want my help with—so I’m alone with my thoughts.
I tell myself that the black cloud is just because I don’t feel Christmassy yet.
But in reality, I’m blaming the lack of Christmas spirit because it’s easier than facing the truth: I just don’t want to leave.
I pull out my phone and breathe a sigh of relief when I still don’t find an influx of activity and car service confirmation email.
I google basic gingerbread recipes and click on the one by Martha Stewart. I scan the ingredients and shuffle Elf off me so I can check the kitchen cupboards. It’s a workout but I manage it and find everything I need.
This will fix things, I decide. I had a momentary reprieve from the ticking clock of doom while eating my cinnamon roll earlier, so maybe the cure to my grief is sugar.
I send Jack a text that tells him not to be scared if the fire alarm goes off. Ten seconds later he’s walking through the door. “Why are we burning things?” he asks, leaning on the end of the kitchen counter.
“Because it isn’t festive in here,” I tell him, reaching on my tiptoes for the flour. He walks behind me, his firm body pressed into mine as he reaches over my hand to grab the container for me.
“I see. And fire is festive?” He makes an overdramatic grunt when I elbow him gently in the ribs. “What else do you need to get festive in here?”
“Baking soda, baking powder, brown sugar.” Jack stays behind me, getting things down off the shelf one by one. I turn around and wrap my arms around his waist, burying my head into his chest. “Ground ginger, ground cinnamon, ground cloves. Do you have molasses? I can’t find it.”
“In the refrigerator,” he says. “You’ll have to let go for me to find it.”
“It isn’t supposed to go in there,” I tell him as I free him.
He responds by kissing the top of my head.
I already have the unsalted butter, salt, pepper, and eggs ready to go.
I move the molasses jar he hands me from side to side and watch dark, sticky liquid move slowly.
“I’ll let you get away with it. It’s still pourable. ”
Jack blows out a puff of air and wipes his hand across his forehead theatrically. “Thank God, you had me worried you wouldn’t let me get away with it.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” I look for mixing bowls and find nothing.
I don’t want to ask him for help because he already looks like he’s in a good mood and I have no patience for it.
I don’t know what it is about being around happy people when you feel bad that makes you feel even worse.
I open another pointless cabinet and only find protein shakes.
“Baby, why don’t you just ask me to tell you where to find what you’re looking for?” he says softly.
“Because…” I don’t have a reason. I’m just being a grumpy asshole who needs to get out of this funk.
I should be happy I’m not needed anymore.
The town is thriving. People are delighted.
I’m getting my promotion—well, as soon as I call Dad I am.
The thought makes me feel sick. “Because I don’t know. ”
Jack’s cell phone starts ringing, probably with someone asking him to do something or fix something or give advice on how to do or fix something.
He’s a better person than me because there’d be a certain point where I’d just start asking people if they bothered to google it before deciding to call me. To my surprise, Jack sends the call to voicemail and puts his phone on the counter. I practically gasp. I’ve never seen him miss a call.
“They can wait,” he says as a partial explanation. “We’re doing your thing. Now, tell me what you’re searching for, please.”
“Mixing bowls,” I answer sheepishly. He turns around and takes them out of the cabinet behind him. “Baking tray, rolling pin, and parchment paper.”
Jack pulls out drawers and opens the correct cabinets easily, putting each thing on the counter in front of me. “What else?”
“That’s it. I know where everything else is.”
“Why do you look so sad?” Jack says gently.
I push the ingredients to the side and slide myself onto the counter. “I don’t even want to make gingerbread.”
Jack moves between my legs and runs his hands up and down my outer thighs. “You don’t need to make gingerbread. I can put all this away and we can pretend it never happened. Do you want me to get my laptop and work up here?”
I shake my head. “No. I think I’m going to nap this funk away. I’ll be nicer when you’re done with work.”
He kisses my temple. “You’re always nice. I won’t be much longer, okay? Then we can make this place festive.”
I help him put everything back onto the shelves and ignore it when he puts the molasses back in the refrigerator. “I’m sorry for being a grump. I’ll snap out of it.”
“You’re allowed to be whatever you want to be, Clara. You don’t have to pretend for me. I’ll be back up soon.”
It’s funny because I don’t feel like I’ve needed to pretend the whole time I’ve been in Fraser Falls. Everyone has accepted me as I am.
I grab my phone from on top of the chopping board and immediately spot a missed call from Max. I suddenly wish I were distracting myself by making gingerbread.
My fingers hover over his name in my call log. I press his name and decide it’s probably nothing. Max picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hey, sorry I missed your call.”
“That’s okay. I wasn’t sure if you were busy tipping cows or whatever,” he says, the sound of loud honking cars behind him.
“We don’t do that on Thursdays. It’s a rest day. So what’s up?” There’s a long, drawn-out beep in the background. “Where are you?”
“Walking through Midtown,” he says, his voice becoming muffled. “Nothing’s up. I wanted to see if we could have lunch on Monday.”
“Sorry, back up. Why are you in Midtown?” I brace myself to be told it’s for a work meeting. That this is how I find out I’m not getting the promotion.
“My project finished early so when I went back to Boston after Thanksgiving, we agreed to end my contract now instead of January. I’ve only been back a few days,” he says. “So, lunch?”
“I’m not coming back until Wednesday, before the gala,” I say, figuring out exactly how I can ask Max if he’s going to be working at Davenport without sounding like a bitter bitch.
Max makes a noise somewhere right between a sigh and a groan. “I really wanted to talk to you before the gala.”
My stomach drops. “Just say what you need to say now, Max.”
“No, I want to see you and talk to you in person. Let’s do Thursday morning then if you really can’t make time.”
I force a smile even though he can’t see me. “I’ll put you in my schedule. See you at the gala.”
I stare at my phone after Max is gone. I could call my dad now and tell him about the videos. He could say the words congratulations on your promotion and it’ll make me feel less paranoid and twitchy.
But then I’d be forced to leave.
It feels like an impossible choice between the discomfort of not knowing and the heartbreak of leaving. I still have so many ideas, so many things I want to achieve. So many things to learn about the people that make this town what it is.
The door opens again, and Jack appears in the doorway with his laptop. “You look more miserable than you did when I went downstairs. What’s wrong with you today, Clara? Please, just talk to me.”
Realistically, I could unload every single thought and feeling onto Jack right now and see if it makes me feel lighter.
But all it’s going to do is make him feel heavier, or worse, trigger an argument about my job.
There’s one thing I can tell him that is truthfully the root of all the bad things I’m feeling right now, and he deserves that honesty.
“I don’t want to leave,” I admit. “I haven’t had enough time. I need more time.”
Jack looks at my cell phone clutched between my hands warily. “I’ll cause a PR crisis for you and you can stay forever. I’ll make criticizing Davenport my life’s work if it means you don’t have to leave. I’ll get social media accounts and one of those ring lights and I’ll terrorize them.”
I rub my eyes on the backs of my hands. I’m not crying yet but there’s a heavy, weepy weight sitting on my chest and it might bring tears. “I can’t believe you know what a ring light is.”
“Is this why you’re so sad today? Have you been told to go home?” There’s a cautious undertone to his question. Jack hates talking about my job and, by extension, my family. It would matter if this thing between us didn’t have an expiration date, but it does, so I don’t push him.
“No, I just know it’s coming soon. I have a weird relationship with my brother when it comes to work and you don’t want to hear about it, Jack. I’ll be okay.”
He puts his laptop down on the back of the couch and holds his arms open for me. “I wish you’d talk to me properly about what’s bothering you. I hate not being able to fix it.”
Beneath the words, I know his intentions are good. Jack is the fix-it person. He takes on everyone else’s burdens. It’s programmed into him to try. But I can’t pretend it doesn’t rub me the wrong way that he’s acting like I’m holding things back from him. I lean away and scowl.
“What do you expect me to say?” I snap. “My problems are all intertwined with the one thing you don’t want to hear about. Don’t act like I’m not an open book when you’re the one who wants to rip some chapters out.”
“I don’t want… Clara, I—” He takes a deep breath. “I just wish you’d stand up for yourself when it comes to them. I hate hearing about them because it’s always how you’ve been used and not appreciated. I hate how talking about Davenport ends up with you upset.”
“Forget it,” I say. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“I don’t want to spend the time we have left together fighting. I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s my boundary and you’re respecting it. We can turn this day around. It isn’t festive in here at all. Will you come with me to pick a Christmas tree?”
I take a step back and fold my arms. “That depends, are you going to knock me to the ground this time?”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Only if you’re on the nice list.”
“That’s a no then.” Jack grips the front of my sweater and pulls me toward him. His kiss is gentle at first, like he’s not sure if I’m still ready to fight. He tastes like peppermint. I lean back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Have you been eating candy canes? Without me?”
His eyes widen. “I can explain. Nancy gave me one. Only one . I would never not share with you.”
“I’m so mad at you right now.” What a day. “I can’t believe you’d do something so… not festive!”
“How about you stop being mad at me immediately, and I detour to Luke’s via the grocery store and buy you a whole pack. Plus”—he holds out his hands like an overenthusiastic car salesman going in for the verbal kill—“you get to choose the tree.”
“Is there hot chocolate available while we’re choosing this tree?”
He nods. “Or mulled wine.”
“And when we decorate the tree, do we have anything on in the background?”
Jack watches me carefully, considering all the options to what is quite clearly a question designed to trip him up. “Destiny’s Child’s Christmas album?”
He shies away from his answer like a nervous game show contestant. I wish I had a buzzer I could set off. “Okay, I guess I can stop being mad under those conditions.”
“Thank fuck. Wrap up, it’ll be cold up there and we’re due a lot of snow tonight.”
“You wear sensible shoes then, because I don’t want you falling on top of me again,” I say, totally lying. “Wait, I need to go to Maggie’s and get my boots.”
Jack digs in his pockets and tosses me his truck keys. “You go. I need to do something here first. I’ll walk over in around twenty minutes? Then drive us over to Luke’s farm.”
My eyes narrow. “What’re you up to?”
“It’s a surprise. Drive safe.”