13. Clara
Chapter thirteen
Clara
I close the front door behind me and scream into the emptiness of my cabin.
I’m such an idiot, I tell myself as I yank my shoes off.
Pacing the living room, I dial Dawn. “You could have told me that this stupid town is called Nole, not No-el, and that there is exactly zero Christmas atmosphere here!” I scold the second Dawn answers.
“Umm, whoa there tiger, what in the world are you all feisty about?”
I take a deep breath. “Dawn, when you sent me the listing for this cabin, had you bothered to do any research at all about the actual town of No-el? That there is no Christmas festival? That it’s actually pronounced ‘Nole’?”
Dawn hesitates. “I mean . . . no.”
“Dawn!” I yell, exasperated.
“Well, neither did you!” she defends.
“But you’re the real estate agent. You’re supposed to know all this important stuff about properties!”
“Yeah, but you’re the buyer! People looking to buy houses usually do some reconnaissance about where they’re buying!”
Another deep breath in, out. Maybe I should have known to do more research on my own since Dawn is fairly new to real estate. Then again, I’m brand new to property ownership, so how was I supposed to know that I should Google the pronunciation of the town’s name?!
“There’s really no Christmas festival?” Dawn asks, contrition in her voice.
“No. There’s nothing,” I sigh.
“I’m sorry, Clara. I messed up. I should have investigated before I pitched the property to you,” Dawn says.
I sigh again. “It’s okay, Dawn. It’s not your fault. And the cabin itself is still amazing. Perfect, even. I just . . . I just need to adjust my expectations now, that’s all,” I reply, not wanting her to feel guilty.
Dawn’s on her way to meet a client, so I reassure her again that I’m not upset before hanging up. She’s not really the one I’m upset with, anyway.
I’m upset with myself. Upset that I constructed this fantasy of writing Christmas stories in a cabin in a picturesque Christmas town without bothering to see if it even is a Christmas town.
Upset that I’ve spent the past month daydreaming about Clark, thinking there was some sort of connection between us, something remarkable about him . But he’s C.J. Noel—descendant of the Nole scrooges, an anti-Christmas crusader.
Not to mention, his cold response to me this morning made it perfectly evident that he hadn’t given me a second thought since I left. This was clearly one-sided on my side.
I’m such an idiot.
Thankfully, rage is the perfect productive energy. I have my boxes unpacked and everything put away in record time. I even hang up the Christmas decorations I brought with me, complete with a mini tree by the fireplace hearth.
At 5:00 p.m., I decide to make my own cocoon of Christmas cheer and put my writing desk to use. That’s the whole reason I bought this cabin. Even if the rest of the town doesn’t want to celebrate the season, I can still create my own inspiration.
I put my velvet robe on over my clothes and turn on strands of Christmas lights in the sunroom. Then, I make an extra-large cup of hot cocoa, complete with a heaping pile of whipped cream. My “Chill Christmas” playlist streams through my Bluetooth speaker, and I settle into the chair at my writing desk, glasses perched on my nose. The cursor on my laptop screen blinks at me as my fingers hover over the keyboard.
The chime of the doorbell jolts me out of my staring contest with the computer. Unless a neighbor is picking a peculiar time of day to welcome me to the neighborhood, odds are I know who’s ringing that bell.
I sulk and make him wait an extra minute before I amble to the door, confirming my suspicion with a peek out the window on the way. I unlock the deadbolt and open the door a crack.
“My Ficus!” I exclaim, opening the door and pulling the plant inside. Consequently, I’ve pulled Clark into the cabin as well. “Don’t let her get too cold!”
“It’s fine; it was only outside for a minute walking up from the truck,” Clark says. He’s still wearing the same gray Henley shirt that he had on this morning, but now a backward baseball cap makes him look more casual. Not that jeans and a Henley shirt are typical business attire for a mayor.
I inspect the plant with concern. I’m pleasantly surprised to see an impressive amount of new growth. Clark hands me a bottle of plant fertilizer—my favorite brand of fertilizer. “Here. I researched, and this was the fertilizer most people raved about. It’s what I’ve been adding to the water.”
“It is the best,” I murmur. I stare at Clark.
“Don’t look so shocked—it’s not that hard to keep a plant alive. I watered it a couple of days ago, so it should be good for another week or more.”
“Thank you,” I remember to say, setting the plant down on the coffee table in front of the couch. I straighten and shift awkwardly on my feet, unsure of what else to say. My awkwardness is equally matched by Clark’s eyes darting a crisscross pattern from me to anywhere else in the room and back on repeat.
“Well, you have the plant. I’ll just be going,” Clark says, turning to leave.
“Clark, wait,” I stop him. “I’m sorry about getting worked up earlier. I don’t want you to be upset with me.”
He simply nods, hazel eyes not truly meeting mine.
“I guess I don’t understand why a little holiday celebration would be so bad,” I press. “Christmas is kinda my thing. I could help. I’d love to help.”
Clark closes his eyes and sighs. “It’s . . . not worth it, Clara,” he responds. “I’ve lived here my whole life—generations of my family have lived in this town since the beginning of its existence. Please, can you just trust me and drop it?”
My heart stings.
Blinking rapidly, I try to prevent Clark from seeing the watery hurt in my eyes. I pretend to pick lint off my robe. Gosh darn it—why didn’t I take the robe off before I answered the door?!
I skirt around him to open the front door. “Thanks again for taking care of my plant. Goodnight, Clark.”
For a moment, he looks as though he might say something more, but doesn’t. He murmurs, “G’night,” on his way out the door, and I lock it behind him.
There’s no explanation for the salty tears streaming down my cheeks, for the ache in my chest. Clark and I barely know each other. There’s no reason for me to care this much about his rejection of my offer to help. There’s no reason to care this much about any of his thoughts.
An idea cuts through the ache like a spotlight through the night sky.
I’ll show him how I could help, how great it could be. I smile and give my hands a small clap before springing into action.
My eyes are slow to open the following morning. I stayed up far too late rewatching my favorite Heartmark Christmas movies, taking meticulous notes about every detail of the perfect Christmas festivities pictured. Then I did some Internet sleuthing for real-life Christmas towns, noting all the best and most feasible ideas to implement in Noel.
I may not have slept enough, but I have a compelling case to present to Clark now. Real evidence of what’s possible. A vision of what could be.
After a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee, I take a short bath, only long enough to wash my hair and freshen my curls. I dress in dark jeans and a deep turquoise sweater—no leggings today for my business proposal.
I break down and text Dawn to ask if she still has Clark’s number, making up an excuse about something needing to be fixed. I cross my fingers that she won’t read into it. I’m relieved when she sends the number back shortly later without any commentary.
Thinking confident, breezy thoughts, I send a text to Clark’s number.
ME
Hi, Clark, this is Clara. I was hoping to talk to you. Where might I be able to find you today, since it’s not a Monday between 10—11 a.m.?
I stare at my phone to see if he’ll respond right away, nervous when he doesn’t. Maybe I shouldn’t have made the office hour dig? I walk to the sunroom and stare out the windows, sit in my oversized chair, stand up and rearrange things on my desk, walk circles around the room.
Ping. My phone finally sounds.
CLARK
I’ll make an office hours exception and meet you there. 15 min?
ME
Sounds good!
I take a moment to review my list, twirling the ring on my finger. Maybe I should have typed it up instead of giving him a handwritten note? I dismiss the doubt and stand in front of the bathroom mirror.
“You can do this, Clara,” I tell my reflection. “You are the queen of helping people. You can help this town.”
Fifteen minutes later, I walk from my car back to the mayor’s office—Clark’s office. I open the door, and the dog comes barreling toward me like he remembers our short encounter yesterday.
“Chase! Settle down,” Clark admonishes, but I squat down to give Chase some proper love.
“He’s fine—more than fine, he’s a sweetheart,” I say, slipping into that baby voice everyone uses talking to adorable children and animals. “Aren’t you the sweetest boy?” In response, Chase’s tail switches into high-gear windshield wiper mode.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” Clark asks, interrupting my moment with Chase.
I pull the file folder from under my arm and take out my list. “I stayed up last night doing research. Here’s a list of easy things the town could do to create a small but inviting Christmas festival. I looked up events held by other cities with similar demographics to Noel, to get a realistic comparison.” I even pronounce Nole without choking.
Clark accepts the list from my outstretched hand, but doesn’t look at it. He maintains steely eye contact with me as he says, “I thought I told you to drop it.”
My heart manages to drop to my stomach and simultaneously clog up my throat. Nothing in his hazel eyes is sparkling right now. Chase nuzzles my hand with his nose, and I absentmindedly stroke the soft fur between his eyes.
“Clark, I . . . I want to help. I thought if you saw an actual plan, you might see how amazing it could be. I even have screenshots to show you to see the vibes of the—”
“It’s not gonna happen,” Clark cuts me off. “I already told you that.”
I swallow back the lump in my throat, willing myself to keep my composure. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
“But if you’d just consider some of the ideas,” I try again, motioning toward the paper in his hands.
The paper that he crumples and throws in the trash can behind him. “I appreciate that you want to help, but we don’t need your help. We don’t want a Christmas festival here.”
Get out, get out, get out! my mind yells. My feet listen and slowly back away from Clark. There’s no chance of hiding the tears in my eyes or the shock on my face. Trembling that started in my hands spreads throughout my body as I whisper, “I was so wrong about you.”
And then I flee.