11. Clara
Chapter eleven
Clara
I ’ve died incrementally every day I haven’t been able to go back to the cabin. It’s all I think about lying in bed each night, trying to fall asleep. My perfect, cozy retreat, the writing desk in the sunroom calling me to take a seat. I’d barely been able to dip my toe into the oasis before reality slammed into me.
The past three weeks have been an exhausting blur of helping take care of my dad after work and on weekends. The handful of days I haven’t gone to my parents’ house have been spent working late into the evening at the office. I had to make up for the time I took off to be in the hospital with my dad and going to follow-up appointments. On top of my dad’s physical needs, I’ve also pitched in to help with the Living Nativity preparation tasks he usually takes care of each November.
Madison repeatedly pushed me to take PTO days and delegate my assignments rather than catching up in the late evenings. But I can’t bring myself to burden other people with my work. I’d rather abandon any semblance of a social life or time to myself.
Except each night, when I let myself replay a mental video montage of the hour of time I spent with Clark. Possibly even less than an hour of total time in each other’s presence. But something about our interactions, about him, just won’t vacate my short-term memory. So I relive it each night, sometimes wondering if I imagined the whole thing.
I’d failed at trying to explain to Mads exactly what it was about Clark that clung to my thoughts. Possibly because I couldn’t quite nail it down myself. Sure, he was physically attractive—incredibly so—but that wasn’t it . Or, at least, not the sum of it.
I nearly asked Dawn for his phone number, since she had to call him to send him to the rescue that night. But Dawn has been unsuccessfully trying to set me up ever since my college boyfriend broke up with me right before graduation. All the dates she’d arranged for me had been massive failures. Come to think of it, failure isn’t a strong enough word to describe the disastrous dates accurately. Furthermore, calling them “dates” is an insult to the concept of a date.
Needless to say I’d never be rid of her meddling if she had the slightest hint of my interest in Clark. I can’t even tell her it’s only to check in on my Tineke. If she knew that I entrusted a plant to him, then she’d really clue in to my interest.
So I’ve waited, anxious to know if my plant is dead or not. Although, something about Clark’s competence fixing the door, coupled with the kindness in his eyes when he steadied my elbow, has me believing he’s entirely capable of keeping her alive.
It’s Tuesday evening, and I’m pushing a shopping cart through the grocery store, picking up the final supplies we need for Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, Overland Park must be full of procrastinators, turning a grocery run into a fight through a battlefield.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from Mom. I answer, anticipating her adding something to the shopping list.
“Hey honey, what are you up to?” she asks.
“Oh, you know, fighting the hordes for Thanksgiving groceries,” I reply, only half kidding. The woman in the aisle next to me holds up a Mockingjay salute. I give her a smile of solidarity before reaching around someone to get the French-fried onions for green bean casserole.
“I wanted to tell you that your father and I talked about it, and we think you should go back to your cabin next week. Take some time off, work remotely, whatever you need to do. But go back down and enjoy a few days there,” Mom says.
“But Dad’s still recovering—I can’t leave you on your own to take care of him, Mom,” I counter.
“I’m not a total invalid!” my dad’s voice yells in the background. My mom prefers to talk on speaker phone 100 percent of the time for reasons that remain a mystery to everyone. “I’m getting pretty good at navigating with the crutches, and your mom can take me to all the physical therapy appointments. You deserve a break, Care-Bear.”
I spin the birthstone ring on my finger as I contemplate the option. My selfish inner voice screams, “YES!” But I’m worried about how well my parents will truly be able to navigate my dad’s limitations without backup.
“Clara, I’m ordering you to go back to Noel,” my mom says in her best drill sergeant voice. “If you attempt to come to our house next week, I will lock you out.”
“I have a key, Mom.”
“I’ll install new locks.”
“Like you’d know how.”
My mom makes a psssht sound. “You need this, Clara. Your dad and I will be fine. We are grown adults, after all. And we have neighbors and friends from church who would be happy to step in and help if I need it. Arrange things with your boss for you to be out of the office and go take some time for yourself.”
I enjoyed a lovely Thanksgiving Day with my parents, relishing the feast I helped Mom prepare. We even managed to continue our traditions of attending the Plaza lighting that night and visiting the giant Christmas tree in Crown Center on Saturday. Of course, my dad’s temporary disabled parking pass helped make those activities much more feasible. It was pretty comical watching him putter around with his little knee scooter.
After spending all day Sunday preparing food for the week so my mom wouldn’t have to worry about cooking, I’m finally making my way back to my cabin. The car fills with the sound of my voice singing along to one of my Christmas playlists on the drive down. I’m thrilled to have an entire week to get settled in and enjoy the Christmas festivities in Noel . . . maybe even reconnect with Clark? I plan to take Monday and Tuesday off, then work remotely the rest of the week.
It’s pitch dark by the time I make it to the outskirts of town at 6:00 p.m. This will be perfect to drive in and see the Christmas lights for the first time! The anticipation sends a rush of adrenaline through me, and I can’t help but grin as I turn onto Main Street.
My grin dies a slow, agonizing death as I idle down the street, searching every which way for signs of Christmas cheer.
There’s nothing.
No festival. No shops. No decorative displays. There’s not a strand of Christmas lights in sight.
There are no other cars around, so I’m not blocking traffic when I stop in the middle of the street. I give my eyes a firm rub, expecting Christmas to magically appear when I open them again.
Nothing.
My heart turns to a drum in my chest, beating with panic or disappointment or rage or all of the above. I pull a sharp left turn into the parking lot in front of Noland’s, the small grocery store, determined to get answers—and food.
Walking through the doors of the small store, I grab a handheld basket and quickly fill it with basic food essentials to get me through the next few days. Confusion and frustration fight against my cheerful disposition as I walk the aisles, heated to a boiling point by the time I reach the check-out counter.
A woman who appears to be in her mid-forties sits on a stool, bits of gray streaking her dark brown hair with silver. It’s tied up in a loose bun at the top of her head, and despite the dark circles under her brown eyes, she gives me a warm smile.
“Hi there, sugar. Did you find everything you needed?” she asks.
I glance down at her name tag—Emily.
“I did. Thank you, Emily,” I reply, a waver in my voice. Maybe it’s her warm smile or concerned eyes or my utter exhaustion from the past month that causes me to burst into tears. “Actually, no, I didn’t find everything I needed.”
Emily reaches a hand out to cover mine. “Oh my, I’m sorry. I’ll help you find it—what are you looking for?”
“Christmas!” I blurt out between sobs. Emily’s facial expression slips to confusion. Rightfully so. I compose myself, and everything tumbles out. “I bought a cabin here to use as a writing retreat because I love Christmas and I want to write Christmas movie scripts and I drove down from Kansas City today expecting to see a Christmas festival wonderland, but there’s nothing. There’s no Christmas spirit!”
I take a deep breath and blow it out. “I’m so sorry. I know I sound ridiculous. It’s been an exceptionally stressful month, and I’m beyond worn out, and I was counting on a big dose of Christmas cheer as inspiration to pull me out of the funk.”
Emily chews her lip before responding gently, hand still covering mine. “I’m sorry, hon, but we’ve never had any kind of Christmas festival. Who told you to expect that?”
I pause a moment, twirling my ring. “No one told me to expect it, I suppose. But I mean, the town is named Noel—I assumed there had to be some sort of big Christmas to-do.”
“Ah,” Emily responds, and I already know I don’t like what she’s going to say. “Well, the town is named after the surname of the man who founded it—pronounced ‘Nole,' rhymes with hole. Not ‘No-el.' I could see why you’d be confused.”
I spin my ring faster around my finger, mind racing.
“What?! It’s…but the town is spelled N-O-E-L. That’s obviously No-el. What kind of false advertising is this?” I declare more as a statement than a question. “I want to file a complaint—who’s in charge in this town?”
Emily fights a smile, which should make me upset, but makes her more endearing for some reason. “It’s a small town, so our city council is limited and doesn’t meet frequently. But we do have a mayor, and you’re in luck—his office hour is on Mondays.”
“You mean the mayor of the city only has office hours on Mondays?” I question, my big-city roots showing.
“No ‘s.’ Hour, singular,” Emily clarifies. “He has one office hour a week, Mondays from 10:00-11:00 a.m.”
I’m too bewildered to respond. Emily pushes a button on the receipt machine to push out some blank paper, scribbling on it. “Here, this is the address of the mayor’s office. And that’s my phone number. You come back here and see me or give me a call any time you need something, sugar.” She hands it to me and proceeds to ring up my purchases. I hand over my credit card without saying anything, too stunned to make conversation.
My manners overcome my disillusionment enough to thank Emily for her help. “By the way, what time does the coffee shop next door open in the morning?” I ask.
Emily frowns and gives a sad shake of her head. “I’m afraid it’s closed for the season. Not enough people around town anymore to make it worth Becky’s time keeping it open except during the summer tourist season. Most of the town will be closed up till April, at least.”
Nodding my head in resigned acknowledgment, I carry my groceries out to my car. I fight back tears as I make my way to the cabin, punching in the code to unlock the door and carrying the bags inside.
The fatigue of the past month, combined with the despondency of Emily’s revelations, drive my steps to the bedroom. I quickly change into flannel pajamas and fall into bed. My mind is too disenchanted to entertain optimistic thoughts of seeing Clark again. I slip into a fitful sleep.
I wake the next morning with righteous indignation in my bones.
How dare they not get into the Christmas spirit?! Even if the town was originally named for some old guy named Noel-rhymes-with-hole, how could they not embrace the alternate pronunciation, at least during the Christmas season?! This is outrageous.
My adrenaline is pumping, courtesy of my ranting thoughts, plus two cups of coffee. I stomp up to the door of the small office space in an otherwise abandoned commercial building. I glance at the sign on the door: Office of Mayor C. J. Noel.
Of course, nepotism would be the only reason a slacker, who only deigns to see people for an hour a week, could be voted as mayor of this town.
I’m notoriously terrible at conflict (i.e., I avoid it at all costs). So, I pause to huff out a breath and gird up every ounce of displeasure I can muster. Whipping the door open, I square my shoulders, raise my chin, and call out loudly, “Excuse me? I’m here to file an official complaint.”
The rest of my words die off when I make eye contact with the mayor.
With him.
Clark.