15. Clara
Chapter fifteen
Clara
I shut myself in my cabin and ugly cry until every trace of moisture has left my body.
Maybe I should pack up and go home. Forget the week here. Retreat from my retreat.
My cheeks are blazing, so I step onto the back porch. The chill in the air calms the flush. Although trees have lost their leaves, there are enough evergreens to provide privacy around the lot.
I still don’t have any porch furniture, so I sit down on the edge of the small deck. Even though it’s the middle of the work day, I decide to call Madison. My solo brainpower isn’t enough to compute this situation.
She answers, “Clareeeey, why are you calling me right now?” Oh dear. Mads only calls me “Clarey” with the drawn out “e” when she’s annoyed.
“What’s with the attitude?” I ask.
“Well A of all, it’s supposed to be your day off, so you shouldn’t be calling me during work. B of all, stinking Michael knows I’m your best friend. He keeps coming to ask me all his dumb questions and trying to wriggle his way out of assignments since you’re gone. And C of all, I don’t want to admit that I miss having you at the office,” Madison ticks off.
I smile, grateful for the distraction that is Madison Wheeler. And her mash-up of list phrases.
“I’m calling because this trip is swirling the drain of nightmare territory, and I need your help processing through it,” I tell her.
“Ooo, I love a good processing sesh—lay it on me.”
I fill Madison in on every detail of the past two days, and she interjects with all the appropriate displays of supportive emotion and outrage. “I’m honestly tempted to wave the white flag and come home today. Forget working remotely the rest of the week. What’s the point of being here when my inspirational setting has devolved into gloom?”
Madison scoffs, then says. “Firstly, dramatic much?” I harrumph before she continues. “Secondly, don’t you dare, Clara Jane Sullivan. Just because McGrinchie or the town doesn’t want your help, that doesn’t mean you give up on your dream. Do you still want to write Christmas movie scripts?”
I sigh. “Of course I do.”
“Do you still love the cabin itself?”
“Well, yes. It’s precisely the cabin in the woods getaway I’d imagined.”
“Do you still love Christmas?”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous, Mads.”
“Answer the question.”
“YES, I still love Christmas!”
“Then stay there and make your Christmas dreams come true, Clara. He-who-does-not-deserve-to-be-named shouldn’t ruin that for you,” Madison finishes decisively. She abruptly ends the call when Michael comes back into her view, throwing herself on the land mine to save me from having to talk to him.
Wrapping my arms around my knees, I mentally survey my options again.
One: Admit defeat and leave, never to return again. Surrender the cabin to the forces of entropy. I’ve invested in a future haven for woodland creatures.
Two: Withdraw to lick my wounds, but return eventually to utilize the cabin as a hermit in solitude.
Three: This is my property, gosh darn it! Claim what’s mine, and make it mine .
My eyes flash with new resolve as I settle on option number three, thanks to Madison’s pep talk. Aunt Gloria didn’t give me this money so I could sink it into a cabin that I never use. Never realize my dreams. A rude, grumpy mayor can’t ruin this place for me. Forget him and his unforgettable eyes.
I stand up and take in my surroundings. Around the perimeter of the cleared yard, there are three pines that have clearly waited their whole lives to be Christmas trees. One particularly adorable one is only three feet high. The others are taller than me, but less than seven feet.
You may not want Christmas, Mayor Scrooge, but you’re not the boss of me.
I immediately head to the grocery store, glad to see Emily at the checkout counter again. I’m even happier when I see a mini Christmas tree on top of the register next to her. Christmas music is playing over the store speakers. Maybe not everyone in this town is as grinch-y as Clark makes out.
I beeline to Emily, even though she’s in the middle of talking to a young woman who looks to be around my age. She has highlighted blond hair, light brown eyes, and the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. Was she born with those, or is there some miracle eyelash serum I don’t know about?
Emily sees me coming and calls out a greeting. “You’re back! I didn’t even catch your name last time, sugar.”
“Oh, I’m Clara. Clara Sullivan,” I say. “And I’m glad you’re here again—do you work most days?”
“Honey, I work here every day,” Emily laughs. “My husband’s family owns this store. Paul handles all the inventory, stocking, and finances, but I do all the caring about people up front.” Her gaze assesses my face. “Speaking of caring for people, I can’t help but notice your eyes appear to have shed a tear or two recently. Everything okay, Clara?”
Instant heat flames my cheeks. In my zeal to enact my newest plan, I didn’t take time to freshen up my makeup or even glance in the mirror. Here I am, standing by the woman who should be hired for every single mascara commercial, and I likely have black smears on my splotchy cheeks.
“Oh, yes, I suppose I . . .” I trail off, floundering for an explanation. Emily and Gorgeous Eyelash Woman gaze at me with such sincere concern, I settle on the truth. “I recently had an unpleasant conversation with the mayor. A couple of unpleasant conversations, to be precise.”
Emily gives a hearty guffaw. The other woman regards me with compassion as she says, “Oh goodness, I’m afraid Clark doesn’t always make the best first impression.”
I don’t bother to explain that this wasn’t my first impression of Clark. That my first impression of him was rather captivating. That the dissonance between my first impression and most recent impression is what caused these puffy eyes.
“I’m Sydney, by the way, but everyone calls me Syd,” she offers. “My husband is best friends with Clark, and I’ve known him my whole life too. Sometimes you have to take Clark with a grain of sugar to counterbalance the gruff exterior.”
“Gruff is one word for it,” I mutter under my breath.
The two women exchange a look before Sydney speaks up again. “I’m not making excuses for him by any means. He’s always come off a bit rough around the edges. But he’s . . . well, he’s been through the wringer in a lot of ways. He lost his parents and older brother a while back. Plus, he carries the weight of his family’s legacy in the town in ways he maybe shouldn’t. With so many people moving away from Noel lately . . . let’s just say Clark’s gruff exterior has been extra gruff.”
Sydney’s words poke holes in my Madison-inspired resolve to write Clark’s name in a metaphorical burn book. Knowing he has a tragic backstory behind his behavior would normally make me want to do whatever I could to help him heal and be happy. I love helping people get better. But there are still yellow “slow down” lights going off internally regarding Clark. I decide not to delve into those emotions yet, refocusing on my original mission coming in today.
“Emily, do you sell any Christmas lights? Or is there another store in town that does?” I ask.
“We’re the only store in town, aside from the small hardware and auto parts store. We don’t carry an abundance of Christmas stock, but I’ll show you what we do have,” Emily offers, coming out from behind the register.
“Thanks for the groceries and the adult conversation, Emily,” Syd says. “I’d better get back home before Addie wakes up from her nap. She’ll throw a fit if Davis is the first one she sees upon waking.” Syd smirks at Emily and turns to me. “It was nice to meet you, Clara. I hope I’ll get to see you again soon.”
“Oh, thank you,” I respond. “I live in Kansas City, but I got a cabin here to come stay a couple of times a month. Or at least that was the original plan.”
Syd smiles warmly, “Well, feel free to get my phone number from Emily—I’d love to hang out whenever you’re here. I’m always looking for more friends my own age.”
“And what am I, missy—geriatric?!” Emily mock-scolds Sydney.
“You are like my wise older sister, Em,” Sydney replies, a twinkle in her eye. “My much older sister.”
Emily laughs as Sydney leaves, then leads me to the back corner of the store. She wasn’t kidding about the minimal Christmas stock. Did some Ghost of Christmas Past cast an anti-holiday curse on this town?! I silently wonder, gritting my teeth.
“I’ll take all the lights you have,” I tell Emily, who raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Do you sell any extension cords?”
As Emily scans my purchases, she prods me. “I didn’t want to say much in front of Syd, seeing as how you hadn’t met her before. But since you and I go way back, you care to tell me more about your unpleasant conversations with Mayor Noel? Have anything to do with the town not being No-el?”
I blow a breath out the side of my mouth, fluffing the curls on my cheek. “Something like that.”
Emily continues scanning silently, a quirked eyebrow the only sign she expects more of a response.
“I might have expressed my displeasure at the lack of Christmas spirit in town,” I begin. Beep, beep goes the register. “And I might have offered some suggestions to, you know, imbue a dose of Yuletide cheer into the city.”
“Ah,” Emily responds. “Say no more; I can imagine how the rest of the conversation went. And why the splotchy eyes.”
I avoid eye contact as images of my morning conversation with Clark play on the IMAX screen of my mind against my will. Emily takes my credit card and swipes it through the register. She taps my card as she waits for the receipt to print, then hands both to me.
She traps my hand in both of hers, forcing me to meet her gaze. “I hope you’ll keep your original plan to come to Noel regularly. And that will mean interacting with Clark. It’s a small town—there’s no way around it. Just . . . don’t write him off, okay? Or, at least, don’t write the town off.”
Something about the way Emily says it makes me think that maybe this whole community, not only Clark, might be hurting in ways I don’t understand yet. Emily’s kindness makes me want to understand.
Three cups of hot cocoa, two bowls of Cocoa Puffs, and countless frustrated outbursts later, I plug in the chain of extension cords, illuminating my backyard with bright, multicolored light. A satisfied grin spreads across my face at the glow. The three pine trees are wrapped with strand after strand of Christmas lights, throwing a beacon of holiday joy into the dismal atmosphere of Noel.
A beacon of joy. Maybe that’s exactly what they need. What he needs.
“All right, Clara. We’re playing the long game,” I tell myself out loud, rubbing my hands together.
No-el to the rescue.