17. Clara
Chapter seventeen
Clara
“ W ould you say that each member of your team is equally deserving of a holiday bonus?”
Mr. Douglas, my boss, stares at me, waiting for my answer.
It’s end-of-the-year review time. While I’m thankful for my glowing personal review, I don’t enjoy the part where I have to give feedback about the copywriters on my team. Particularly one member of the team.
I squirm in my seat, eyes flitting away from Mr. Douglas’ stare. Madison attempted to make me take a blood oath to be honest about Michael’s less than stellar job performance. But just this morning, he’d come into my office with tears in his eyes, asking for my help with his final article of the month. His childhood dog passed away, and he was too broken up over it to concentrate.
“Umm,” I hum, spinning my ring. “I, uh, yes, I think all the members of my team have done their part to earn the holiday bonus,” I finally confirm. I can already picture Madison’s disappointed rage face.
“Okay, thanks for your help, Clara,” Mr. Douglas wraps up. “We appreciate your exemplary contribution to the company, as always.”
I murmur appreciation before leaving the office, heaving a sigh. Unlocking my phone reveals I have a text from Madison waiting for me.
MADS
And????
ME
Happy to report that you WILL be receiving a bonus. Merry Christmas from WritInc!
MADS
That’s not what I’m asking and you know it.
ME
Who wouldn’t want to hear that they get a bonus?!
MADS
Ughhh, there’s my answer. I’m not talking to you for the rest of the day.
ME
sad eyes emoji
Returning to my office, I scoot past my Tineke plant to sit down at my desk. Although I’m grateful to have a private office and not a cubicle, it’s still tiny. The plant is too large for the small space, but my office window gets better light than any room in my apartment. When I left Noel two days ago, I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to go back before Christmas, so she came home with me. I certainly wasn’t going to ask him to take care of her again.
I’d gathered up enough gumption to stay in Noel for the rest of my planned week, although working remotely proved to be less efficient than I’d anticipated. I wound up having zero time to start writing a Christmas movie script, but I did enjoy the view of my Christmas lights from the sunroom while working. I also enjoyed a few more conversations getting to know Emily when I craved people time and returned to Noland’s for random groceries. Her kids—a son in tenth grade and twin daughters in ninth grade—supplied her with a never-ending well of dramatic tales to draw from. She liked to associate each story with an individual strand of gray hair.
Emily gave me Sydney’s phone number too, but I ran out of gumption to contact Syd on this trip. I didn’t know how to handle conversation with the wife of Clark’s best friend just yet.
My phone dings. Anticipating another scolding from Madison, I open it with an eye roll at the ready.
McSCROOGE
Why would you leave your Christmas lights on when you’re not in town?
Madison may have changed Clark’s name in my phone first thing when I got to the office.
ME
Why were you at my cabin??
McSCROOGE
I wasn’t. The glow party is visible from the road.
ME
Why were you driving past my cabin??
McSCROOGE
Stop evading the question. Why are you wasting electricity running lights when you’re not there? Are they on all day?
I’m not the one evading a question here. Why was Clark driving past my cabin?
ME
There’s this genius new invention called the smart phone that allows you to control a power switch remotely. Of course I’m not leaving them on during the day. They’re on a timer that I can control from my phone.
ME
And maybe leaving behind a dose of Christmas cheer in your precious town is worth a higher utility bill.
Clark doesn’t respond right away, and I find myself unable to do anything but stare at my phone, waiting. Maybe I shouldn’t have prodded his anti-Christmas sentiments. A realization flashes through me with fury.
ME
Don’t you dare unplug them.
McSCROOGE
Annoying the town with your disco party is not worth your hard-earned cash.
Before I can fully think through my actions, I hit the call icon next to McScrooge’s name.
“What are you doing calling in the middle of a perfectly adequate text conversation?” he answers gruffly.
“I’m making sure you’re not on your way to unplug my Christmas lights, that’s what I’m doing,” I respond, heart racing. I can’t believe I just called him.
I really can’t believe he answered.
Although he’s not answering my accusation now. “Clark . . . Don’t. You. Dare unplug my lights.” The sound of Chase barking is the only response on Clark’s end.
“I will look up the police department and contact them about a trespasser,” I threaten.
“Oh yeah? Who do you think Larry is going to side with? You, or me—the guy he’s known since first grade, who also happens to be the founding father’s descendant and current mayor?”
“Wow, really inflating that self-importance, aren’t we? I’ll do some digging into your genetic connection to George Washington and see what turns up.”
“Har har.”
“Clark? Stay away from my cabin.”
Silence. Then a huffed, “Fine. I’m turning around.”
“Now, if you’re done plotting felonies, I need to get back to work,” I say.
“Unplugging unwanted Christmas lights is hardly a felony,” he grumbles. Barking sounds again, and I hear a muffled, “Stop it, Chase.”
I can’t help but crack a smile as I respond. “I’m sure trespassing and property damage could be inflated to amount to a felony. I am a writer, you know—I could be exceedingly convincing in my police report.”
“You clearly don’t know how small towns work.”
“Besides, texting while driving is also illegal in some places. And I caught you in the act,” I chide.
“You know, there’s this genius thing called a smart phone that lets you voice to text,” he retorts.
We’re both silent for a long pause. Just as I’m opening my mouth to say goodbye, Clark clears his throat and asks, “When are you coming back to the cabin?”
Surprise has knocked the words right out of me, but Clark rushes to fill in my silence. “I didn’t know if you needed someone to water the plant if you’d be gone a while.”
“Are you trying to trick me into giving you permission to be on my property so you can conveniently disable the Christmas lights?” I ask, giving in to a small smirk.
“What?! No!”
“Kidding. But no, I brought her back with me this time. She’s sitting right here next to me in my office. Taking up way too much of my personal space.”
“Oh.”
“Thanks for thinking of it, though,” I say, taking a baby step to test out this bridge he seems to be rebuilding between us.
“Well, next time you can leave it here. I already know the watering drill.” Clark clears his throat and abruptly says, “Take care, then.”
“You too—” the words are barely out of my mouth before the call has ended.
What in the Magic Eye illusions are you, Clark Noel?
I think about the books of optical illusions my parents always had at the house. It’s the perfect metaphor. I just can’t bring the true Clark into focus. There’s obviously a cohesive image below the surface-level mess of colors and patterns. But it’s not making sense yet. He’s not making sense.
And gosh darn it, there’s suddenly nothing I want more than to figure out the hidden picture beneath Clark Noel’s confusing exterior.
A teardrop trickles down my cheek, closely followed by the gathering stream.
Magical snow slowly falls from the rafters, gathering in small drifts between twirling pointe shoes.
The Snow Pas de Deux has always been my favorite scene in The Nutcracker . I’m sure that was directly influenced by Aunt Gloria’s opinion—it was her favorite to perform, even more than the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.
It’s our first time to watch the ballet without Aunt Gloria sitting next to us.
As the curtain falls for intermission, I can tell my parents are wiping away the same tears I am. Madison pats my arm in support—she took our fourth ticket tonight in Aunt Gloria’s place, an invitation I know my parents will offer for as many years as she accepts.
I excuse myself to use the restroom, grateful to stretch my limbs and collect my emotions. My parents and I had enjoyed all of our usual Christmas festivities in the past few weeks. We hit up every major lights display in the Kansas City metro. We took photos with the elaborate decorations at Union Station. We even went ice skating at Crown Center—Dad enthusiastically cheered from a bench. Activities that historically included Aunt Gloria as our fourth. I know we’d all equally smiled at the memories and cried at the loss.
As I dry my hands, I study the tanzanite ring Aunt Gloria gave me on my sixteenth birthday. We were as close as an aunt and niece could be, even after I abandoned ballet lessons in eighth grade. I’d inherited her lithe ballerina frame from my dad’s genetic pool, and I trained at the ballet school where she was an instructor from the time I was itty-bitty.
But Aunt Gloria recognized my heart was filled with stories and words more than fouettés and échappés before I was brave enough to admit it. She encouraged my parents to enroll me in a creative writing course in lieu of ballet class. Aunt Gloria always understood me, always supported me. Even in her passing, she understood and supported me with the gift of the writing cabin.
I return to my seat right before the curtain rises. As the dancers travel to the Land of Sweets, I picture all the worlds, all the princes, all the love stories I’ve dreamed up over the years. It’s time to use the gift that Aunt Gloria gave me to the fullest extent. It’s time to write one down, finally.