29. Clark
Chapter twenty-nine
Clark
I t’s been two-and-a-half weeks since our float trip, and I haven’t heard a word from Clara.
Not that we typically stay in touch when she’s back home in KC. But the second weekend after she left, I kept waiting for that invisible string to vibrate with her presence, thinking she might fall back into her biweekly visit rhythm.
No sign of her.
The decreased amount of sleep I’m getting is making me sluggish, but I don’t know what to do about it. Every time I lie down in my bed, my thoughts take it as their cue to replay that day with Clara.
I think about floating on the river together, watching her laugh with Syd and catch snacks tossed by Davis. I remember the flush that spread across her cheeks when she caught me staring at her reapplying sunscreen. I’m tormented by the ghosts of her touch. Her hands in mine when I pulled her out of her inner tube. The lightness of her fingers against my skin tracing the lines of my tattoo. I think about how not uncomfortable it felt to tell her about my complicated family history.
It’s that lack of discomfort that makes me terrified of her effect on me.
I also replay the sight of her flinching away from me after I forcefully turned down her repeated offers to help. I know I was too forceful, but at this point, I need both of us to get the picture that we aren’t a good idea. Her trying to help me isn’t going to end well for either of us.
She lives to feel needed, and I live to not need anyone.
So I’ve been spending a lot less time sleeping and a lot more time in Sam’s old room, which I converted into a home gym. Trying to occupy my mind and tire out my body to encourage sleep. The strategy hasn’t worked yet.
I’m at Pops’ house replacing a couple of boards in his front porch. The lack of sleep must be making me grumpier than usual because Pops hollers at me from his rocking chair. “What bee flew up your bonnet?”
“No bees. Other than this heat wave,” I grunt. I pull the bottom of my t-shirt up to wipe the sweat off my forehead, just for extra emphasis. Chase dashes over to lick my forehead, then returns to his place at Pops’ feet.
Pops gives me a serious stank eye. “I’m not buying what you’re putting down, or whatever it is the kids say these days.”
I bypass correcting Pops’ mash-up of phrases. “I don’t think ‘the kids’ are using that saying anymore.”
“Don’t matter. Something’s clearly bothering you, and you may as well spit it out. I got nothing else to do but listen,” Pops says. His words add another layer to my worry about the lack of meaningful things to keep him occupied.
“Fine,” I give in. “Got a few things on my mind.”
“Things such as, oh, I don’t know, a certain pretty redhead?” Pops quips, eyes boring into mine.
“It’s more strawberry-blond than—” I stop myself from finishing my comment, but that doesn’t halt the merry twinkle in Pops’ eyes. I roll mine.
“Yes. It’s partially Clara,” I say. Pops gestures a hand for me to continue. “When she was here a few weeks ago for the float trip, she tried bringing up the Christmas festival idea again. Went on and on about the energy in the town during tourist season, trying to guilt me into giving it a try for the holiday season.”
“And?” Pops questions.
“And I shut her down again. Told her to stop trying to help, that we didn’t want a Christmas festival and didn’t want her help. I figured with this new company coming in to purchase the old Byers plant, we’ll have secure jobs in Noel again. What would be the point in trying to add some gimmicky festival?” I blow out a breath. “But then last week, I found out that they won’t even begin converting the building until the start of next year. It might be another eighteen months until there are regular jobs.”
The timeline is a detail I haven’t shared with anyone else. People were excited about the prospect of the plant opening back up. I haven’t had the heart to delay their dreams just yet.
Pops is quiet for a minute before responding. “Clark, why are you so dead set against having a Christmas festival?”
I eye him incredulously. “Pops, you knew my dad, my granddad. A touristy Christmas festival is the antithesis of what Noel men have always stood for. I can’t be the one to ruin our family name.”
Pops stays quiet for another beat. “Son, you have no idea how much those Noel men standards cost.”
Now I stare at Pops quizzically. “What are you talking about?”
“I know it’s not upstanding to speak ill of the dead, but your granddad could be a real piece of work. And I say that as one of his closest friends in life,” Pops adds. I take a seat in the rocking chair next to him, anticipating the need to be sitting down for whatever he’s going to say next.
“Bev and your grandma were friends. Good friends. Your grandma would do her cross stitch while Bev would paint, and they’d shoot the breeze all afternoon. So I got to hear the intimate details of how your granddad’s stubbornness soured their marriage.
“Your grandma grew up loving Christmas, before she married your granddad. One year, when your dad was a boy, she planned a small Christmas party for the town. Nothing too over the top, just some Christmas caroling that would end with hot drinks in the town square and a tree lighting. Bev helped her map the whole thing out.”
I’m silent, but I can guess where this story is headed. All signs point to “that didn’t end well.”
“When your grandma shared her plan with your granddad, he blew up at her. Ranted about the upstanding Noel name, the respectability of the town, his disappointment that she would dare plan a ‘circus event’ behind his back.” Pops pauses for a long minute, staring out at the horizon. “Your grandma never was quite the same after that. Lost her spirit, I guess you could say. Made Bev terrible sad.”
I soak in Pops’ revelation. I’d never been especially close with my grandma because she came across rather stoic. It pains me to know that there had once been a more lighthearted version of her I never experienced. Chase leaves his post by Pops to come rest his chin on my knee. I absentmindedly scratch behind his ears.
“You’re regurgitating all the same lines your grandad and daddy ever said about this town and the Noel family name. But far as I can tell, you never much wanted to be like either of them,” Pops concludes with a side eye toward me. He lets me sit with his observation for a minute before adding, “Clara reminds me a little of the old version of your grandma. Creative, kind, soft around the edges but a little spit-fiery underneath. Don’t let these notions your ancestors put in your head ruin your chance at a relationship with such a woman.”
“Pops, this is not about a relationship with Clara. That’s not something I’m in the market for. This is about our town,” I counter.
“Fine then, don’t let your Noel-men stubborn streak get in the way of you doing what’s truly best for the town. Maybe things have been the way they are for long enough, and it’s time to let in some ideas about the way things could be.”