33. Clara
Chapter thirty-three
Clara
“ D o you need me to pick up anything from the store on my way?”
“No, honey. We have plenty of food. Just come hang out with everyone,” my mom responds.
“I’m sorry; I was trying to get ahead on some work since I’m going to Noel next week. I totally forgot to make the strawberry pies,” I say, blowing out a breath. “But I could stop and pick up some other desserts.”
“Care-Bear, stop worrying,” my dad’s voice calls out. Speaker phone strikes again. “The neighbors are making homemade ice cream. We’ll have plenty of sugar. Just get over here and eat before we do fireworks.”
“Dad, it’s illegal to shoot off fireworks in Overland Park,” I chide.
“I mean, technically . . .” His voice trails off.
“Daaad? Need I remind you that you’ve already taken one trip to the emergency room in the past year?”
“I didn’t buy any fireworks, but I can’t be responsible for what other people in the neighborhood have planned.” He sounds smug.
I sigh. “I still feel bad that I’m not bringing anything. I should have set an alarm last night.”
“Clara Jane.” My mom’s voice has switched to scolding mode. “We’re glad that you get to go to the cabin next week. No one is going to go hungry because you forgot the pies. Please, just come straight over.”
“Okay, okay,” I acquiesce. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I arrive at my parents’ house empty-handed, still feeling guilty about it. A proper block party setup spreads from their front yard to the two neighbors on either side. The unmistakable smell of burgers grilling fills the air, along with the lingering scent of the multicolored smoke bombs the kids have been lighting. I greet my parents and their neighbors, fielding questions about work, the cabin adventure, and, inevitably, my love life. Such is the fate of a single adult.
Mom heads inside to bring out a fruit salad now that the food is ready, and I follow her. “Need any help, Mom?”
“I got it, honey. I don’t need any help. You go back outside and enjoy yourself,” she responds.
Her comment pokes the bear of confusing emotions I’ve been burying ever since Clark told me to stop helping people all the time. To go after what I want. “You know I enjoy myself more when I’m helping,” I try to joke. “It’s not a good time if I’m not pitching in somehow.”
Mom cocks her head as she regards me. “You’re allowed to just enjoy yourself sometimes, Clara. Why do you think you have to be helpful in order to have a good time?”
I manically spin the ring on my finger, hoping to divert the panicked energy her question prompted in my mind. Unfortunately, my mom knows my tell, so one glance at my hand has her setting down the bowl of fruit and crossing the room to me.
“What’s going on, honey?”
I chew on my lip. “It’s just something Clark said to me when I was in Noel for the float trip. I can’t get it out of my head.” Mom eyes me, silently urging me to continue. “He basically accused me of pushing to help where I’m not needed instead of doing what I really want to do.”
Mom purses her lips and hums. “Do you think you focus too much on others instead of doing what you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “I’ve never known how to be any other way. I mean, ever since I was a kid, I needed to be helpful to you and dad so that, you know . . .”
I trail off, but my mom looks confused rather than sympathetic. “What do I know?” she asks.
“Never mind,” I attempt to dismiss. “Let’s go back outside and have some food!”
My attempt at being casual epically fails.
“No, ma’am,” my mom says sternly. “You have some explaining to do. What do you mean about needing to be helpful to your dad and me?”
I’m trapped. This is the last conversation I want to have, but I can’t find an escape hatch. The only way out is forward.
I can’t quite meet my mom’s eyes as I explain. “You know, you and dad were always so sad about not being able to have another baby. I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t burdening you, that I could help make you happy.”
Stunned silence fills the room. Why has no one invented a real-life rewind button?! I’d pay good money for that right now.
“Honey, did we say something to make you feel that way?” my mom asks, eyes misty.
“No, Mom; of course, you didn’t. It’s something I put together in my own mind, I think. I hated seeing you and dad discouraged or crying or disappointed. Little-kid Clara just assumed the best way I could help you feel better was to be helpful instead of being needy.” The confession dam has broken, and everything is pouring out unhindered. “And, I guess, there’s part of me that still thinks I need to be focusing on other people’s needs all the time so that . . . so that they’ll need me. And love me. But that’s not your fault—this is all in my own head.”
Mom steps closer and takes my face in her hands. “Clara, I love you so much. And that has nothing to do with any of your actions. It’s because I’m your mother. Because the day I knew you existed, I chose to love you with every ounce of my heart for the rest of my life. You could have been the most rebellious, angst-inducing tornado of a child, and I still would have loved you with my whole being. I will always love you, no matter what you do or don’t do.”
She pauses to wipe a tear from under her eye. “I’m sorry that we inadvertently made you feel like you had to act a certain way to be loved.”
“Mom, it’s not your fau—” I try to interrupt, but Mom cuts me off again.
“I know you think it’s not our fault, and it certainly wasn’t intentional. But maybe we should have hidden our pain from you better all those years when you were young. You’ve always been the greatest joy of our lives, Clara. Simply because you exist—not because you’re helpful or considerate or supportive. I wish I could go back and amplify those feelings in your memory.” She leans in to wrap her arms around me, and I hold on to her tightly.
“Thanks, Mom. I do know that you love me. You and Dad gave me the best childhood. I promise those are the memories I think about most. Clark’s comments just got me thinking about myself in a different way. I’m a little off-kilter, I suppose,” I conclude as I pull back from our hug.
Mom’s head is once again cocked to the side, a sparkle in her eyes. “Maybe you need someone like Clark to help you approach life in a different way. Someone who pushes you to focus on yourself more.”
I roll my eyes. “I already have that someone. Her name is Madison. I just mostly ignore when she pushes me.” Mom raises an eyebrow. “Mom! You’ve never even met Clark! You don’t understand how . . . how . . . infuriatingly contradictory he is.”
A smug smile settles on my mom’s face. “I’m just saying he is the one who finally got you to examine your helping habit. But then also asked you for help with the festival. Maybe he’s the perfect kind of contradiction for you.”
This conversation is decidedly not helping my stomach settle down the Clark moths. Thankfully, my mom knows me enough to see my inner scramble for an escape. She takes the bowl of fruit and walks toward the door. “Come on out when you’re ready, sweetheart,” she calls back over her shoulder. I accept her invitation to stay put for a few minutes, collecting my thoughts.
Let’s be honest—zero thoughts are collected. They’re free-range chickens scattered across the sprawling farmstead at this point. Still, I appreciate sitting in the quiet before rejoining the red, white, and blue chaos outside.
My mom refuses to allow me to lift a finger all evening as we share dinner with their neighbors and watch the unsanctioned fireworks. As though she’s going above and beyond to prove a point—that I don’t have to help all the time. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that she was already in cahoots with Madison and Clark.
The Wednesday after the Fourth of July, I’m keyed up with inadvisable amounts of excitement. Movie marathon day is finally here. Ever since the town unanimously voted to host a “Christmas Fest,” I’ve been anxiously anticipating this moment.
We’ll binge-watch three movies, have a group brainstorm session, then celebrate with a massive crawfish boil dinner. I’m not sure what to think about that last bit, but everyone else is excited, so I’m trying to play along.
Anxiety gnaws at my stomach as I think about seeing Clark today. I saw him when I came back to Noel the weekend before the Fourth of July. We had a strategy dinner with Syd and Davis to plan the Christmas in July brainstorm day, and Clark acted almost normal toward me.
But ever since my conversation with my mom, I’m torn on whether I think contradictory Clark is a good or bad fit for me.
Now that Clark has come around to the Christmas Fest idea, the primary reason behind his rude behavior aimed at me is no longer an issue. However, he still vacillates between acting mildly flirty and mildly grumpy toward me. I’ve decided I have no choice but to guard my heart and conclude that he doesn’t have the same attraction to me that I feel to him.
Because I feel it. Mega-feeling it. I can admit it: my heart is drawn to that gruff, tattooed, towering force of a man like a kid to the candy aisle.
I’m just not going to do anything about it. Having my ideas rejected by Clark when he was adamantly against the Christmas Fest idea stung so badly. I don’t think I could handle it if he rejects me .
Therefore, I’m switching to my helper mindset and staying far away from the Fire Swamp of my feelings for Clark Noel. Who knows what lightning sand or rodents of unusual size might be waiting to take me down?
I head into the Town Hall to make sure everything is ready to go for the movie marathon. Seeing the garland and lights draped on the sides of the room brings a smile to my face. We’ll take short stretch breaks between each movie, with snacks and drinks ready to keep everyone satisfied. Becky is testing out several coffee concoctions she hopes to serve during Christmas Fest, and the Ladies Who Bake Club has a mountain of festive treats to sample. Everyone will be able to vote on the favorites to keep.
The room slowly fills with conversation as people enter and sit down. Ten minutes later, Clark stands up at the front of the room to shush everyone. For goodness’ sake, why does he have to look so attractive?
His appearance is more professional mayor today, dressed in dark jeans and a black button-up shirt. A far cry from his typical tee shirt and baseball hat wardrobe. However, he’s rolled the sleeves up to his forearms and still has on his regular boots, making the look slightly more casual. Also, more handsome, somehow.
I use my notebook to fan myself.
“Welcome, everyone,” Clark announces. “Thanks for taking time off today to join us in planning our first Christmas Fest. Maybe the only one, depending on how things go.”
“Boo!” Syd and Davis heckle from the back of the room.
Clark holds up a hand. “I’m just saying we’ll see how this turns out and evaluate from there. But I’m grateful to see everyone rallying together for our town.” His sincerity and protectiveness over his town make my heart pound harder.
Clark invites me up to speak next. “Please welcome to the stage . . .” He pauses, glancing around. “Well, welcome to the front of the room, Clara Sullivan, the mastermind behind this whole deal.”
I walk nervously to the front as people clap, wishing Clark would stay standing next to me as moral support. But he already sat down in the front row. His facial expression is on the encouraging side of neutral, though. I’ll take what support I can get.
“Thanks again, everyone. Not only for coming to brainstorm ideas together, but for welcoming me to your town,” I begin, surprising myself by getting choked up. “It’s been a true honor to become a part-time resident of Noel,” I add with a smile. Syd cat-calls, making everyone laugh and snapping me out of sappy-mode into business-mode.
“My lovely assistants, Sydney, Emily, and Becky, are going to pass around some note cards and pens,” I announce as they move through the room. “As we watch the movies today, jot down any festival ideas that stand out to you—could be events, decorations, goods or services offered, anything and everything! At the end of the afternoon, we’ll share ideas and figure out what could work here in Noel. And be sure you taste-test Becky’s drinks and the ladies’ holiday treats during the breaks, so we can give them feedback. Now, let the Christmas cheer commence!”
Davis hits play on the first movie while Sydney turns off half the lights. I leave the main area to help Becky prep her drinks. I walk into the kitchen to see Becky pouring syrups into mini measuring cups. If the North Pole had a chemistry lab, this is what it would look like.
“Whoa, how many different drinks are you making?” I ask. “Not that I’m complaining!”
Becky is sheepish as she meets my eyes. “This is seriously my dream come true—the chance to try out all these unique flavor combinations! I’ll have to narrow it down, of course, but today’s the perfect day to throw everything at the wall and see what sticks!”
“Well, why don’t we throw everything in my mouth, instead,” I laugh. “I’m the only taste tester you need!”
I inspect Becky’s note cards with each drink’s ingredients listed. Naturally, she has a traditional peppermint mocha planned, but she has several other festive combinations. There are recipes for spiced gingerbread lattes, maple pecan macchiatos, eggnog frappés, apple cider chai lattes, cranberry white chocolate mochas, and extra-rich hot cocoa.
“That’s it, you’re not cutting any of these,” I joke. “What can I do to help? We have about seventy minutes until the first movie ends.” Becky assigns me the task of setting out the sampler cups on one counter behind the paper tents listing the various drinks. There’s not a lot we can do this far ahead of time. We mostly stand around chatting about how the summer season is going at the coffee shop and sharing excitement for the festival.
Forty minutes later, Clark comes through the door. He’s undone the top button of his shirt, and his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop.
“Feeling a little stuffy in there, Clark?” Becky muses, smirking at him.
“Ugh, I’m about to go home and get a t-shirt and hat,” Clark groans, leaning against the counter next to me. “Dressing up for this was a dumb idea.”
“Whatever, you look very dignified, Mr. Mayor,” I tease, reaching up to tug on the collar of his shirt. Even through Clark’s full beard, I swear I see the hint of a blush on his cheeks. The thought brings a flush to my own. “What are you doing in here, though? You should be out there watching the movie.”
“I can’t take it anymore,” he responds, running a hand through his hair. “Besides, you’re not out there.”
“That’s because I’ve seen all of these movies multiple times. And I already made a list of my suggestions, remember?” I say, ignoring the other possible meaning behind his assertion that he wasn’t watching the movie because I wasn’t out there.
“Boy, do I,” Clark huffs. “You’re getting your Christmas Fest. Don’t make me regret this decision.”
“Actually, I have the perfect idea for a name,” I share excitedly.
“We already have a name. Christmas Fest,” Clark asserts.
“Yes, but since this first year is special, we should have a special name—The First Noel,” I say, bouncing on my toes. Becky awws .
“You’re doing the literal opposite of ‘don’t make me regret this decision,’” Clark says flatly, narrowing his eyes.
“But it’s perfect!” I counter.
“It’s ridiculous. Ridiculously cheesy.”
“Clark, we’re Christmas lovers. Cheesy is the name of our game.”
He groans again and buries his head in his hands, elbows propped on the counter. I smile smugly, knowing I’ve won. Glancing victoriously over at Becky, I see an amused expression on her face as her eyes bounce back and forth between Clark and me.
“Just give me a task to do,” Clark demands. “I’m not going back out there.”
“But this is my favorite of the three movies! All of The Nutcracker references—it’s the perfect Christmas movie,” I gush.
“Wait a second,” Clark muses. “Clara . . . you’re named after The Nutcracker ? You literally have a Christmas name?”
My cheeks burn, but I raise my chin. “So?”
“This explains so much.”
“I come from a long line of Christmas enthusiasts, okay?” I say as Clark throws his head back in a laugh. “Becky, give the man a task, will you?”
Becky sets us both to work steaming milk extra hot as she pulls espresso shots. We mix large pitchers of the various drinks, carefully following her recipes, then pour them into stainless steel carafes to keep them hot.
“What scene is the movie on?” I ask Clark as I twist the lid on the final carafe.
“I told you, I’m not going out there again,” he responds, defiantly crossing his arms.
I roll my eyes. “Fine, I’ll go check, Scrooge.”
“I am not Scrooge. I’m just not Buddy the Elf,” Clark harrumphs.
“Whatever you tell yourself.” I pause to pat his arm as I walk past him and immediately regret it. Well, now I know what my imagination will fixate on tonight. Clark’s insultingly firm biceps coupled with his sandalwood scent.
Shaking off the zing of attraction, I peek my head into the main room to gauge how much time is left in the first movie. Returning to the kitchen, I tell Becky we have about ten minutes. She tests her whipped cream dispenser and triple checks the various sprinkle toppings assembled.
With about five minutes to go, Clark and I start carefully pouring drinks into the sample cups, and Becky follows behind, adding the embellishments. Moments later, a wave of Noel residents floods the room, ready for a jolt of caffeine. I’m delighted to overhear snippets of conversations—excited voices bouncing ideas for the festival from the first movie.
This is really going to work!
Several hours later, I’m standing at the front of the room again, dry erase marker in hand. People are calling out ideas faster than I can write them down.
“Why don’t we have a ‘Santa’s Workshop’ store where people can sell their handmade goods? Pearl’s pottery would sell like hotcakes!”
“I loved all the strands of twinkle lights draped between the poles.”
“I enjoy arranging flowers—I could fill some barrel stands for the poles with some nice evergreen arrangements!”
“We should have some Christmas carolers!”
“And plenty of photo ops with different themes!”
“I think we should have a small Living Nativity scene—make sure to remember the reason for the season.”
“What about a place to write letters to Santa with a cute mailbox?”
“Ooo, a whole craft station for kids would be wonderful!”
My hand is cramping, but my smile is wide as I finish writing down everyone’s ideas. We quickly star the best ones that are feasible to pull off in Noel, and everyone seems intoxicated by the anticipation in the air.
I stand there in front of the townspeople of Noel, scanning their faces as they stand up and converse on the way to the riverside for dinner. I’m positively beaming.
Glancing down at Clark still seated in the front row, I catch him staring up at me with a small smile. He notices my eye contact and drops the sides of his mouth along with his eyes. But not before I saw the warmth in those hazel greens. A warmth that spreads right through me in an already overheated room.
I came into today convincing myself that nothing was ever going to happen between Clark and me. Convincing myself to guard my heart and focus solely on helping the town. But that look in Clark’s eyes is doing a fairly effective job of unconvincing me.