Chapter 29 Claire
CLAIRE
“What are you doing?” Cassidy exclaims.
I glance up, my hand frozen mid-stroke. “Frosting?”
I say it as a question, but it’s fairly obvious.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she informs me, walking over to the fridge and pulling out an assortment of lemonades.
I sigh, resuming the process of icing Tommy’s birthday cake. Today is his party. “I’m fine, Cassidy.”
I woke up with a headache. Every time I woke up, which was every two hours, thanks to my concerned sister and her online research.
The Siege medical staff cleared me. I passed the concussion evaluation and haven’t experienced any of the symptoms that indicate anything might be wrong.
My hair is down, the curls mostly concealing the bruise by my hairline.
Painkillers are managing the lingering ache from my collision with the post.
But Cassidy is still freaked out. She, Josh, and Tommy were all at the game last night. We literally carpooled since I’m without a car, which worked out well because I didn’t have to drive home after leaving the game early.
My sister hasn’t been to many soccer games. That wasn’t the first time I’d left a game to be evaluated, after a messy tackle or a bad header or a collision with another teammate.
When I told Cassidy that, she frowned and said, “Maybe you should retire.” She followed it up with a sly mention of how “romantic” it was that my coach ran onto the field to check on me.
Two topics I’ve avoided discussing with her—leaving soccer and Otto—and at least I could claim being tired and not feeling great as an excuse to dodge the subjects. Which was when Cassidy pulled out her phone to set a series of alarms throughout the night.
“Seriously, Claire,” she says, walking over, “I have everything handled. Josh will be here soon to help. So will—so will Dad and Lindsey.”
The soy milk I ate with my breakfast cereal curdles in my stomach at the reminder. “I want to do it,” I reply stubbornly.
Mom would always stay up late the night before my or Cassidy’s birthdays, making a homemade cake to celebrate.
The last one she made was for my eighteenth birthday, nearly a decade ago.
I offered to make Tommy’s this year. Followed the same recipe, written out in Mom’s messy scrawl.
We’ll visit her later this week, on Tommy’s actual birthday, but we agreed that her attending today’s party would be overwhelming and confusing for her.
“It looks just like hers,” Cassidy says quietly.
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
My sister studies me for a few seconds as I continue to smear chocolate frosting on the cake. “If you’re really fine—”
“I am,” I interject.
“Then you’re coming out for drinks with me and Josh tonight.”
I groan. “What? No.”
“We won’t stay out late. But he wants to celebrate the anniversary of me becoming a mom, which is lame but also sweet, and I want you there.”
“I don’t drink during the season,” I remind her.
“Paul Rebeer’s has soda.”
“Is this another double date?” I ask warily.
“No. Just the three of us, hanging out like old times.”
“Okay.”
“Speaking of double dates… Walker told Josh you guys, uh, fizzled out?”
I’m surprised, honestly, that it’s taken her this long to ask. “Yeah. We weren’t…compatible.”
It was a massive relief, when Walker told me a colleague at work had asked him out.
I assured him I was too busy with soccer anyway, and that was the end of the one-sentence texts we’d traded back and forth for a couple of weeks.
My stomach never flipped, not once, when his name showed up on the screen.
Let alone the fireworks display that used to go off in Paris when Otto sent me a new message.
The doorbell rings.
“That must be the caterers!” Cassidy exclaims, bustling around the island and heading toward the front door.
As soon as her back is turned, I make a face.
I kept my mouth shut about the party. I knew any negative input would upset Cassidy, and Tommy was obviously thrilled about the elaborate plans.
My dad’s gift—well, one of them, I’m assuming—was a bouncy house for the party.
That was delivered and assembled first thing this morning.
Tommy has been jumping in there ever since.
My phone begins buzzing on the counter. It’s a number, not a name, on-screen, so I answer hesitantly. “Hello?”
“Hello? Is this Claire Caldwell?” a deep voice asks.
“Yes. This is she.”
“This is Travis Malcom from 617 Towing. I’m calling to let you know your vehicle is ready to be picked up whenever you’d like.”
I exhale a relieved sigh. “Great. Thank you. I’ll be by tomorrow morning. What-what is the final total for the repairs?”
A pause.
“The bill has already been paid, ma’am.”
“What? That must be a mistake. There’s…” My voice trails as I realize there is someone who would have paid it on my behalf. The same person who had called the garage and arranged for my sedan to be towed.
“Thank you,” I repeat, then hang up, carefully setting my phone on the counter.
I shouldn’t have asked Otto how much the repair would cost. But it never occurred to me he’d cover the expense.
And I’m grateful. It was a thoughtful gesture. But I resent how inferior it makes me feel. Most people would describe me as efficient and organized. But around him—the person I most want to see me as capable? I’m constantly needing help. My phone dies, or I drink too much tequila, or my car quits.
Voices drift from the front hall. The distraction is a relief, until I recognize the deepest one.
My dad appears in the doorway a few seconds later. Lindsey is right behind him, as impeccably dressed as every other time I’ve seen her. Hair highlighted and nails manicured.
It should be a consolation—that my father’s second wife is about as opposite of my mom as could be.
I can admit now that he and Lindsey are better-suited as a couple.
A practical pair. But their ideal match came at the expense of what I considered a perfect family, and their happiness only serves as a reminder.
“Hello, Claire. Nice to see you.” Lindsey speaks first, as unfailingly polite as ever.
She’s never forced any relationship between us—easy when our lives barely overlap at all. I could count on both hands the number of times we’ve been in a room together.
“You too, Lindsey.”
She smiles, then turns to Cassidy. “Did the bouncy house get delivered?”
“It sure did. Thank you again. Tommy is thrilled. I haven’t been able to drag him out of there all morning.”
“What about the extra tables?” Lindsey asks. “Did the layout I mapped out work?”
“I think so,” Cassidy replies. “But I wanted you to look at whether some should be farther from the swing set.”
Lindsey nods, heading for the sliding doors that lead onto the deck. “I thought about that. Maybe we should…” The rest of her sentence trails as Cassidy follows her outside and shuts the door.
Leaving me and my dad alone.
I fiddle with the knife I was using to spread the frosting. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hello, Claire.” He approaches the island slowly. He’s dressed up, same as Lindsey, wearing slacks and a button-down.
My current attire—Siege T-shirt and ratty sweatpants—isn’t helping me feel any more mature. In my defense, I took a metal pole to the forehead last night. But I should probably sneak upstairs and put on a dress, before kids and their parents start to arrive.
I clear my throat, so we’re not standing in silence, then bang the knife against the bowl for the same reason.
When I glance up, Dad is staring at the recipe card on the counter.
“Haven’t had one of those cakes in a while,” he comments quietly.
“Me neither.” I use up the last of the frosting, setting the bowl and the knife in the sink.
“Could I talk to you out on the sunporch for a minute?”
I still, searching for an excuse. I have to change, I have to check on something, I have to… I deflate, deciding it’s better to get this conversation over with. “Yeah. Sure.”
Cassidy seems settled, with her job and with Josh.
Tommy is making friends. He’s playing T-ball now and talking about starting soccer in the fall.
It would surprise me if they moved again soon.
Maybe ever. There are going to be more birthday parties.
More holidays. The sooner Dad and I find some way to coexist, the better, and having this conversation is one step closer to civility.
I follow him into the small room off the kitchen. Mom’s desk remains tucked in one corner, but the surface is no longer covered with papers. They were all sorted months ago, either recycled or transported to Echo Glen with her.
Aside from the desk, two armchairs are the only furniture out here. I sit in the left one; my dad takes the right.
“Cassidy said you were injured during yesterday’s game.”
I nod. “It’s not a big deal. I just bumped a goalpost. No concussion.”
Dad’s frowning, looking concerned. Looking like…a parent. He came to all of my games in high school after the divorce even though I refused to acknowledge him. Yet I never told him when I signed with the Siege. I’m not sure how he found out. Cassidy probably.
For the first time, I regret that. He should have heard it from me.
The awkwardness between us is stifling, expanding to fill the small room.
“Are you okay?” I finally blurt.
I really, really can’t deal with a second sick parent.
My dad’s face creases with confusion, then smooths with understanding. “I’m fine, Claire. Perfectly healthy, as far as I know.”
I nod, relaxing deeper into the cushions. “Good.”
Dad exhales. “Cassidy told me about your mother’s diagnosis.”
“I know.”
“You should have told me, Claire.”
“I know,” I repeat. “I was going to…eventually.”
I was. My parents’ communication dwindled down to practically nothing after I turned eighteen.
I got a full athletic scholarship to Lincoln, so Dad didn’t even have to contribute to tuition.
He came to my college graduation, and Mom and I saw him at the hospital when Tommy was born.
I think that might have been the last time they saw each other in person.
It was the last time I’d seen my dad in person, until Cassidy moved back.
Despite my many issues with how he’d handled the end of their marriage, my plan wasn’t to keep Mom’s illness from him.
“She didn’t want you to know,” I add. “She wanted time to accept it herself.”
Dad glances at his lap, clasping and unclasping his hands. “I understand. She’s at Echo Glen?”
“Yes.”
“I looked it up. It’s very nice.” A pause. “Expensive.”
With my dad, it almost always circles back to money. He didn’t grow up with much, but makes a lot now. I’m sure he’s thrilled to be paying for Tommy’s preschool. I think he was almost disappointed he couldn’t pay for my college.
“It’s being handled.”
“How?”
I bristle. “Mom’s finances aren’t any of your business.”
“They are if they’re impacting my daughter’s.”
Did Cassidy imply that? Or is he assuming on his own?
I haven’t had to pay for any of Mom’s care yet.
But there’s a good chance her savings won’t cover everything.
The book she’s working on is unlikely to ever release, and royalties tend to trend lower over time as new titles draw more attention and dominate sales.
I remain silent, neither confirming nor denying his statement.
“I’ve set up a trust to supplement your mother’s care in any way necessary. Your mother’s accountant has all the relevant details. You will never need to support her financially.”
I stare at him. Dad offering money isn’t a shock.
For all his faults, my father has never been greedy.
He gifted Mom this house. Paid her more than the allotted amount of child support, plus covered the costs of the travel teams and out-of-state camps I attended.
Bought Cassidy a car when she turned sixteen and offered the same to me.
But offering and doing are different actions.
There’s always been a choice, not a firm decision already made.
“You-you didn’t need to do that. I’m not sure Mom would want—”
“I broke vows to your mother, Claire, and I’ll be the first to admit that.”
I still. Since it happened, we’ve never discussed the divorce.
“But sickness and health isn’t one I’ll renege on,” Dad continues. “I’m not asking. I know she gave you power of attorney, that you could fight this if you choose to. But this is something I owe her. And I know, without a doubt, that it’s the right thing to do.”
Beneath the surprise and uncertainty, another emotion trickles in.
Relief. The responsibility of possibly having to pay for Mom’s care was…
heavy. A separate weight from the emotional burden of witnessing her lose parts of herself.
And it’s…gone, just like that. Cassidy will agree with him.
Mom might have, and it’s one of many things I wish I could ask without confusing or upsetting her.
Dad seems to understand I need time to process. “If you want to discuss details or have any questions, you know how to reach me. This is Tommy’s big day; I’m not trying to overshadow it with serious topics. But I wanted to talk to you in person, and that’s… Well, I don’t see much of you.”
I swallow hard, guilt resurfacing.
“You can talk to me about anything else too. I hope you know that. Even if it’s something you don’t… I’d rather we discuss the hard things than not talk at all.”
I nod, too overwhelmed to respond.
He smiles, stands, and heads for the doorway.
“Dad?” I manage.
I don’t turn to see, but I hear his footsteps stop.
“Thank you.”