2. Blake
CHAPTER 2
BLAKE
S ome folks have a glow about them, you know what I mean? It’s not that they’re pretty, though Claire sure was that. It’s more like they’re blessed, or maybe enchanted, and the grime of the world won’t rub off on them. They glide through their lives, graceful as swans, while the rest of us plod along in their wake.
The first time I saw her was first year of med school, in the student bookstore by the book bag display. It was raining that day, the footpath all muddy. Claire floated by with pristine white sneakers, and all I could think was how the hell? How? Later, I found out she had these shoe-baggies, clear plastic covers she slipped on and off. But at the time, it felt like she’d just walked on water.
It wasn’t just her shoes that seemed better than real. Her hair was wet that day, but not the way mine was. Not messy clumps slicked to her neck. Her luscious black curls sparkled with raindrops, an artistic scatter like beads on a veil. She spotted a friend, and her smile was like sunshine, pink apple cheeks, twinkling dark eyes. I tried not to gawk at her as she glided by, but I’d say my jaw was about on the floor.
Most folks, that glow wears off once you get to know them. The curtain pulls back and you see they’re just human. But somehow Claire’s flaws only made her more perfect, how she’d curse for real, then cover up with oh sugar . The way she sat tall when she got nervous, or tall as she could at about five foot three. Even her shoe-condoms made her more precious, because really, who’d think of a thing like that? Someone attentive, who took care of her things. Maybe someday, she’d take care of me.
It wasn’t raining when we left for Thanksgiving. We took Claire’s car because mine was a beater, and from the moment I got in, it was like, I don’t know. Stepping into her bubble, I guess you might say. Into her orbit of sparkling perfection. First thing I noticed was, her car smelled amazing, like hot spiced cider and gingerbread.
“It’s the thingy,” she said, when she caught me sniffing. “You know… this.” She flicked at the air freshener hanging off her rearview mirror, not the usual pine tree but a gingerbread man.
“I didn’t know they made them in different smells.”
We drove out of Memphis and out through the burbs, and with every mile, the view got more gorgeous — big, fancy houses, then gated estates, then a riot of fall leaves lining the road. I caught a glimpse of blue water, a horse in a field. A fairytale house with a tall ivied tower, the kind you’d look up and see Rapunzel. I saw kids with their daddy playing football. A car pulling up to a massive McMansion, a family piling out to be greeted with hugs.
“It’s like one of those movies.”
Claire smiled. “Which ones?”
“The ones where some lady goes home for Christmas, and it’s this town right out of a snow globe, cute and old-fashioned, like time never touched it. There’s always a church like you’d see in a postcard— Oh! There it is.” I squinted at a steeple spearing the sky. “This is like Christmas town, but for Thanksgiving. I mean, how are there no rotting leaves in the gutters?”
Claire laughed. “Street sweepers?”
“‘Shoppe’ with a PE!” I pointed at the wine shoppe. “Oh, should we stop and get wine for your parents?”
“Got some,” said Claire. “And you brought your pie, right?” She hung a left past the shops, up a long, winding drive, then right through a gateway with the gates thrown open. I breathed a sigh of relief at first — her house wasn’t that big — then I spotted the other house rising up from the trees.
I swallowed. “Which one’s yours?”
Claire blinked. “Which what?”
“Which house?”
“Oh!” Claire laughed. “This place was an inn, y’know, way back when. Those were the stables.” She nodded at the small house. “They were practically rubble when my parents moved in, so Dad tore them down and put in the guesthouse. He had to rebuild the main house as well. That’s how they could swing this, it being a teardown.”
“Your dad’s in construction?”
“An architect.” She brightened. “Ooh, there he is!”
A man had come out on the big house porch, small and plump with a round, red face. He waved as we pulled up and jogged down the steps. Claire was out of the car like a shot, and she flew straight to him and flung her arms around him.
“Dad!”
“Sweetheart! Your mom’s run next door. We’ve run out of ovens— oh, you must be Blake.” He freed one hand from Claire’s embrace and held it out for a shake.
“Blake Finley,” I said. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Oh, I’m just Alan. No need for all that.” He pumped my hand twice, and Claire let him go. She ducked back to the car and pulled out a bag.
“We brought you some wine, the kind Mom liked last Christmas. And Blake baked a pie. Maple pecan.”
Alan groaned. He slapped his big belly. “I’m not fat enough, you’ve gotta bring me more pie? Sharon’s already got three of them baking.”
“I could take it back,” I said.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Alan took the box from me and popped the lid. He took a long sniff and his eyes fluttered shut. “Mm-mm, that’s good. Worth every calorie.”
“Watch out,” I said, almost too late. A dog burst from the house and charged down the steps, barreled past Alan, and jumped up on Claire. Alan fumbled the pie and nearly dropped it, and caught the box between his chin and his chest. Claire shrieked, then laughed.
“Oof! Get down, Buster!”
Buster danced around her, trembling with joy. His pink tongue lolled out of a huge, doggy grin. I stood in a daze — was this real? Was I dreaming? Nobody’s life was this picture-perfect, at least outside of TV romance land. But Claire’s mom was bustling up in an actual apron, with actual flour dusting the front. She hugged Claire, then me, and brushed flour off my shirt.
“Sorry, I’m a hugger. It’s so good to meet one of Claire’s friends from school! We were starting to think she was too busy to make any, all that homework they load you kids up with.”
“Mom!”
“Sorry, Claire. But you do work so hard.” She pinched Claire’s arm. “You’re looking too thin.”
Buster shoved his wet nose into my palm. I petted his big head and he wriggled with glee.
“Your friend passed the Buster test.” Alan was grinning. “Look at them bonding. Just don’t feed him scraps.”
“I won’t,” I said, and Buster did sad eyes. But from the look of him, he was plenty well-fed.
“Let’s get inside while I check on my turkey.” Sharon shooed us inside, and I couldn’t believe it, not just how nice it was, though it was that. What sent me spinning was how lived-in it felt. Everywhere I looked screamed home and family : a trio of coat hooks on the wall by the door, Mom , Dad , and Claire painted on the backboard. A cute little end table crowded with photos, Claire’s graduation, Claire at the fair. Claire’s mom and dad cutting their wedding cake. I spotted a pack of Claire’s little shoe-guards sitting on a shelf above the coat rack, a man’s gloves to one side of them, a woman’s scarf to the other.
“Should I take my shoes off?”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you. Buster likes socks.” Alan took my arm. “Sharon won’t let us mess with the turkey, but the side dishes are anyone’s game.”
Next thing I knew, we were all in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner. I won Sharon’s praise with my fine carrot-chopping, but she nudged me out when I went for the gravy.
“Uh-uh, no you don’t. That’s perfect already.”
“Gran’s recipe,” said Claire. “Mom still won’t share it.”
“Not till you’re settled with your own family. That’s how it’s always been, so — hey! No spoons!” Sharon smacked Claire’s spoon away as she went for a taste. Claire stole a carrot and ate that instead. Buster watched, mournful, waiting for spills. Me, I kept waiting for the enchantment to fade, for the curtain to fall back and reveal… I don’t know. Cameras, maybe. Big movie lights. Whatever went into this kind of magic. Only, the night went on, and it never did. The picture-book moments just kept on coming, and the dizzying thing was, they all felt… real.
We went round the table before we dug in, said what we were thankful for by candlelight. Alan said Sharon, and Claire’s success. Sharon said Alan, Claire, and her health. Claire said her parents and all their support. I didn’t know what to say, so I said this dinner, and everyone laughed, but I didn’t feel stupid.
“Well, dig in,” said Sharon. “Before it gets cold.”
“Yes, thank you, Sharon, for this wonderful meal.” Alan stood up to carve the turkey. “To the chef, the first slice.”
“To the chef!” Claire raised her glass, and we all drank.
It couldn’t have been the wine — I didn’t drink much — but the rest of that night swam by in a blur. Claire and her parents weren’t like on TV, not like I’d thought when I first saw their place. They had little in-jokes they sometimes explained, and sometimes they didn’t, and I laughed anyway. They annoyed each other in commonplace ways, Alan asking Claire if she’d had her oil changed, Claire rolling her eyes, for the millionth time, yeah . They told round-robin stories where one of them started, then another took over, then the last of them burst in at the end with the punchline. Claire talked about school, Alan about retirement. Sharon didn’t believe he’d ever quit working.
I felt half-sad listening, knowing I’d never have this — a family I went back with all the way to the start. I still exchanged emails with one of my foster moms, but only quick updates. Nothing like this.
After dinner, we all made a start on the dishes, rinsing off what we could while the rest sat and soaked. When the dishwasher was crammed, Sharon called a halt. She herded us all to the den for hot chocolate and a movie, but I couldn’t say what movie we watched. All I could focus on was Claire and her parents. Claire was stretched out with her feet on the couch, sleepy from the turkey, wholly relaxed. Sharon was leaning up against Alan, and halfway through the movie, he took her hand. Whenever something funny happened onscreen, Claire would look at her parents and they’d look at her, and they’d all laugh together and turn back to the screen.
Claire sat and nudged me as the credits rolled. “You’ve been quiet,” she said. “You feeling okay?”
I straightened. “I’m great. This whole night’s been great.”
Claire stretched till her back cracked and covered a yawn. “We shouldn’t drive back tonight. We’ve both had some wine.”
I must have looked doubtful, because Alan laughed.
“There’s PJs you can borrow in the guesthouse. Might be a little bit short in the leg, but other than that, you should be okay.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You don’t mind me staying?”
“We figured you would.” Sharon stood up and smiled. “That’ll give me time to pack up your leftovers. Turkey to last you the rest of the week.” Her grin turned impish, and Alan facepalmed.
“Take it,” he groaned. “As much as you want. If you don’t, we’ll be eating it till Santa’s big day.”
Claire shot me a look — didn’t I tell you? I bit back a chuckle.
“Thanks. That sounds great.”
“Now, you kids go on. Rest for your drive back.”
Our walk up was crisp, a chill in the air. I breathed deep and smelled fall, dried leaves and woodsmoke. Lights lined the drive, mellow against the backdrop of colorful leaves. I got that sense again I’d stepped into a postcard, and then Claire stopped at the steps of the guesthouse. She turned to me and the light caught her hair, bringing out highlights like in a painting. Her apple cheeks dimpled as she smiled up at me. I had time to think, is this where I kiss her? Then she fished her keys out.
“Now, which one… Ah, here.” She picked out a silver one and gave it a jingle. “If this were a movie, I’d probably drop these.” She dropped them and caught them in her other hand. “Then you’d pick them up for me, and on your way up, we’d kiss.” Her cheeks turned pink. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“I could make like I didn’t hear. Or maybe I did?” I took her keys from her, then took her hand. She didn’t pull back, and I moved closer. Claire tilted her head back, and just like that, I kissed her.