34. Clark
Chapter thirty-four
Clark
W e’re at the crawfish boil, and Junior is showing Clara how to eat a crawfish. She regards Junior with amused affection, and the crawfish with skeptical disgust. Chase is stuck to them like glue, knowing they’re his best chance at a bite of food from the table.
Today’s “Christmas in July” event went better than I expected. Everyone acted genuinely excited about the festival. Even I have to admit there were a lot of good ideas thrown out in the brainstorm session.
Still, it was a tough basket of emotions to sort through. Gratitude to see the people of Noel full of hope. Anxiety about what my dad and granddad would have to say if they were here to see this. Relief that they aren’t here to say anything. Guilt over the relief.
I haven’t experienced this much inner turmoil since the years following the accident. Except maybe with the introduction of Clara into my life.
I observe her as she watches Junior bring the crawfish head to his lips, sucking out the butter and juices. Her attempt at a smile falters, and it’s evident she’s trying her hardest not to gag.
I bring a hand to my mouth to cover my smile. Then I decide to put her out of her misery.
Ambling over to them, I ruffle Junior’s hair and tell Clara, “Looking a little green around the gills there. You’re taking this Christmas thing too seriously.”
She casts a glare my direction, and I can’t hold back a laugh any longer. I hold up the hot dog I’ve been hiding behind my back. “Here. Looks like you could use an alternative meal.”
Relief floods her eyes as she accepts my offering. “Oh, bless you. I’m sorry. I know this is such a cliché city girl move, but I just don’t have . . . that . . . in me.” She gestures toward Junior eating another crawfish, who’s oblivious to Clara’s discomfort.
I chuckle again as Clara takes a bite of the hot dog. “The brainstorm went pretty well, I suppose,” I say. I try not to be affected by the spark in Clara’s eyes or the perfect smile that draws my attention to her mouth. Try and fail.
“It did, didn’t it?” she replies. “People were full of fantastic ideas.”
“You know almost every idea thrown out was already on your original list,” I observe. Her cheeks flush at my admission of having memorized her list, but I don’t try to backtrack the statement. My resolve to keep her on the outside of my internal walls has been waffling today.
“Still, it’s better for it to be their ideas coming to life. Everyone has to own this if it’s going to work,” she says, eyes locked on mine.
“Hey, I’m owning it,” I respond. She raises an eyebrow, and I hold up my hands. “Okay—reluctantly—but I’m still owning it.”
Satisfied, she takes another bite before tearing off a small piece and feeding it to Chase. As if he needed any more reason to follow her around. Clara finishes her last bite and brushes her hands together. “We should probably talk through some of the practical logistics,” she says, turning to face me.
“Why do I feel like I should be grabbing a notepad and pen for this?” I reply.
“You should absolutely grab a notepad and pen for this,” she quips. “And possibly a cranberry-orange scone if there are any left!”
I shake my head but smile. “Why don’t you go raid the dessert table, and I’ll get stationery supplies.”
Clara nods and walks toward the food table, Chase on her heels. I whistle and call him, “Chase! C’mere, boy!” He glances back at me, then up at Clara, then back at me. He whines. “Traitor!” I yell as he follows after her. The smug smile she gives me over her shoulder ignites a fuse of dynamite in my chest. I quickly stride toward my truck before it detonates and I wind up the same love-struck puppy that Chase has become.
Five minutes later, we’re sitting at a secluded picnic table with a legal pad between us. I brush Clara’s scone crumbs off the page before writing a list of logistics to discuss—installation, upfront investment, advertising, and marketing. Chase makes camp between our feet, lying down in the cool grass.
Clara leans toward the page, squinting. “Need your glasses there, ma’am?” I tease in my driest deadpan tone.
She rolls her beautiful blue eyes at me. “Ha ha, Mayor Noel. No, I don’t need my glasses. I just can’t read that chicken scratch.”
I examine the paper. “What? It’s perfectly legible.”
Clara scoffs. “Puh-lease. No one—except maybe you—could read that. Are you sure you didn’t secretly aspire to be a doctor?”
As soon as the words leave her mouth, her sarcastic smirk falls as her lips and eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t mean that, Clark! I’m sorry. That was poor taste in jokes.”
The fact that she would not only be aware of the possible impact of that joke, but also care enough to apologize, evaporates any potential sting from the comment.
“Clara, it’s fine. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Although Junior’s stitches run did get me thinking that we could use an urgent care here in Noel. Maybe I’ll learn that next. A scalpel might make a nice addition to my tattoo.”
My mention of the tattoo sends Clara’s gaze to my arm, and my forearm flexes at the memory of her soft fingers tracing my skin. Her eyes track the movement of my muscles, and suddenly the tension between us is so thick, a butter knife would do the trick. No scalpel necessary.
After what could be five seconds or five minutes, I clear my throat. “Okay. Kick-starting this festival is going to take some capital, but I have some ideas on that front. I’m more concerned about advertising and the logistics of pulling off a big event.”
“Well, I have some ideas on that front,” Clara chimes in. “As you might recall, I work in the print marketing industry.”
“I do recall a certain skeptical friend of yours mentioning something along those lines. A friend who harbors ill feelings toward me,” I reply.
Clara waves a hand. “Mads is over it. You won her over to your dark side.”
I’m genuinely surprised by that remark. “Really? What was it? My charm? My smooth-talking social skills?” I joke.
She laughs, but appears slightly embarrassed. “Ah, don’t worry about it.”
I will absolutely be worrying about it. I’m immensely interested to know what it is that Clara alluded to but isn’t saying.
I attempt to press her on it, but she continues rapidly speaking. “What I mean to say is, I have plenty of connections in the marketing industry, and even some journalist friends from college. I can get word about The First Noel spread far and wide.”
“We are absolutely not calling it that.”
“Oh, we absolutely are.”
I stand, leaning my hands on the table between us. Chase stands up and barks. “I’m still the mayor of this town, and I say we are not calling it that.”
Clara matches my stance. “Well, this festival is my baby, and I don’t think you’re really going to tell me no.”
She’s leaning so close, I can count the freckles across her nose, the flecks of navy blue in her stubborn eyes. A breeze blows a curl across her face, and my eyes follow the movement. Before the rational part of my brain can kick in, my hand raises to tuck the stray curl behind her ear. Her hair is pure silk. The brief contact of my fingers on her neck has me imagining what that satin skin would feel like against my lips.
Warning! Warning!
I abruptly pull back and sit down. Picking up the pen, I write a check mark and Clara’s name next to the “marketing and advertising” point on the list. “Fine, call it what you want,” I mutter under my breath.
Clara slowly sits down, silent. Good going, Clark. You’ve successfully made this the most awkward business meeting in history.
I keep my eyes on the list and off her face as I say, “What about the setup and installation of everything? This is a lot to arrange. Any thoughts?”
I’m making a list of all the available spaces in Noel to use, both empty buildings and outdoor areas that would make good gathering spots. Clara’s still quiet, but I can’t risk making eye contact yet. Chase nuzzles his nose against her hand.
She clears her throat. “My parents could be a good resource on that front. They’ve helped plan a massive Living Nativity event at our church for a decade. My dad would have a lot of pointers on setup and traffic flow. Give me your phone.”
I can’t avoid looking up at her now. “My phone? Why?”
Clara rolls her eyes. “I’m going to put my dad’s phone number in for you. I’ll give him a head’s up that you’ll be contacting him.” I unlock and hand over my phone. She’s typing with a smirk when she adds, “Fair warning—he’s a terrible texter, so you’ll have to call.”
Taking the phone back from her, I see the contact she added. A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“Your dad’s name is Joseph?”
She makes a dismissive scoffing noise.
“Hold on, Nutcracker Clara—your aunt’s name was Gloria, and your dad is Joseph. Don’t tell me your mom’s name is Mary.”
Now she makes an indignant gasp. “No! You’re ridiculous.” The evasive expression on her face negates all the nonchalance in her statement.
“Claraaa . . .” I draw out. “What’s your mother’s name?”
She huffs and crosses her arms. “My mom’s first name is Holly.”
My head drops back with a deep belly laugh. “Ohhh, I couldn’t have made that up if I tried!”
Clara glowers at me but can’t conceal the hint of a smile playing at her lips. “I told you, I come from a long line of Christmas enthusiasts . . . on both sides of my family.”
My laugh settles into a smile. “Well, at least you come by it honestly.”
“Now, if you’re done teasing me about familial traditions beyond my control, I need your help with something,” Clara says.
“Not until you tell me the names of your grandparents,” I counter, unable to help myself.
Clara mimes zipping her lips. “You’ll never crack the safe.”
“Give me five minutes on Google, and I’ll prove you wrong.”
She reaches across the table and softly punches my bicep. “Stop it! What’s gotten into stoic Clark today, huh?”
I’m definitely not answering that.
Thankfully, she continues before I have to respond. “But speaking of grandparents, my request relates to your grandfather-figure.” That quiets me down.
“Pops? What about him?” I ask.
“I want to convince him to make some wood carvings to sell in the gift shop,” she replies. “You mentioned he used to whittle animals.”
I lean back, clasping my arms behind my head. “I don’t know if we could talk him into it. He’s stubbornly refused every attempt Davis and I have made to get him back into his workshop.”
“I have a plan,” Clara says, eyes gleaming. “I just need you to take me to see him.”
Pops attended part of the Christmas in July festivities, but I think the energy of the crowd drained his. Davis drove him home early for an afternoon nap when he was worn out.
I drive Clara to Pops’ house, Chase practically sitting in her lap the whole way. She laughs and gushes in the sweet voice she reserves for him. I’m quiet, mentally sorting through a pro/con list of acknowledging feelings for Clara.
Con: Trusting people enough to let them in close is not my strong suit.
Pro: Clara has proven herself pretty trustworthy.
Con: I don’t like disrupting my social circle comfort level.
Pro: Clara already fits like a missing puzzle piece into my small social circle. A funny, spunky, gorgeous puzzle piece.
Con: I’ll never leave Noel, and Clara’s real life is in Kansas City. Noel is a getaway destination to her.
I don’t have a pro to offset that one.
When we arrive at Pops' house, I knock loudly on the front door. “Pops? It’s Clark. You awake in there?”
A muffled but cranky voice calls back. “Go away!”
I pound the door again, earning a, “What do you want? Can’t an old man have some peace after a long day?”
“Not today, you can’t.”
Clara steps up next to me. “Hi, Pops. It’s Clara Sullivan. I made Clark bring me over here so I could ask for your help with something.”
A few seconds later, the door opens. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d brought Clara along, Clark? I would’ve opened up sooner.”
Clara beams back at him, her smile the hot fudge melting his frosty disposition. “Could we sit out here on your porch?” Clara asks sweetly. “Did Clark tell you he brought me one of your rocking chairs? It’s my favorite place to sit.”
Pops gives a proud smile before responding. “Sure can—let me grab the pitcher of sweet tea.”
“I’ll get it, Pops, you come on out and have a seat,” I say. Then I add lowly in Clara’s ear, “Mentally fortify yourself to drink the sweetest liquid ever created.” She giggles softly, face so close to mine that her breath tickles my neck. I turn away into the house before I do something stupid. Like brush my nose along her jawline, or kiss the skin behind her ear. Like pull her body flush against mine, or any of the other fifty tempting ideas clamoring in my mind.
I listen to Pops and Clara talk about the day’s events as I grab glasses and the pitcher of sweet tea. Joining them on the porch, I pour drinks for everyone before taking a seat. Pops rubs Chase’s head, and I can’t miss the pronounced curl of Pops’ fingers. I don’t know if he’ll even be capable of doing any whittling. The thought makes my heart hurt.
“What can I help you with, Miss Clara?” Pops asks. Clara’s demeanor manages to pull the Southern gentleman out of the curmudgeon.
Clara takes a big swallow of sweet tea, completely hiding any reaction she may have to the overpowering amount of sugar. Then again, I’ve seen the drinks she orders from Becky’s. Maybe this is par for the course for Clara’s taste buds.
“It’s about the Christmas Fest,” she begins. “Have you heard that we’re going to call it The First Noel this year?”
Pops grins at me. “I’m not even going to bother asking how you felt about that.”
“I got vetoed,” I say flatly.
He turns his grin to Clara. “Well, I love it. Don’t listen to this one.”
“Oh, I’m way past listening to this one,” Clara chirps. “And he’s way past arguing with me.”
I’m not sure if Clara is intentionally buttering Pops up, or if this is just her natural people skills at work. Either way, he’s putty in her hands. I think he’d say yes to anything she asks.
I know the feeling.
“One of the main features of the festival will be a gift shop called Santa’s Workshop. Pearl has already agreed to sell her pottery, and two talented high schoolers are going to make some artwork. The Quilt Bunch is sewing several varieties of fabric gifts, and we have someone making jewelry. But I can’t help thinking we need something slightly more masculine to round things out.”
Pops is listening closely as Clara continues, “A while back, Clark mentioned in passing that you used to whittle wood figurines before you got busy with furniture orders. I can’t stop thinking about it. Would you be willing to make some pieces to sell in the gift shop?”
His mouth twists into a half frown as he looks down at his hands. “I’d really like to help ya, Miss Clara, but I’m not sure that I’d make anything people would want to buy.”
“ I’m sure that you would, Pops. If your carvings are a fraction as good as your rocking chairs, people will be fighting to buy them before they’re gone,” Clara asserts. “We have lots of time before the festival kicks off after Thanksgiving.” She leans forward to place a hand on Pops’ arm. “Would you at least consider giving it a try, make a few things and see how it goes? Please?”
Who could say no to that? How did I ever say no to her?
Pops’ face goes soft. “Well, all right. I suppose I could give it a try. My doctor gave me some new medicine to help the inflammation in my joints. I’ll take it for a few days and see if it loosens up the ol’ fingers. I’ll give it my best shot, Miss Clara.”
She thanks him, and then looks over at me with a dancing, victorious spark in her eye. The smile on her face is so full of warmth, a chill courses through me. Today has magnified what I already knew about Clara—she comes most alive when she’s helping other people.
The realization hits like a gut punch. It’s the only “con” on the pro/con list I need to convince myself I have to shut down this pull toward her.
Even though I’ve allowed her in to assist the town, I don’t need help.
My chest aches, wishing I could be a different man than who I am. The type of man who naturally lets others in, accepts help. The type of man who had a healthy family environment instead of a toxic father who conditioned him to never rely on anyone else.
Just for her, I wish I could be that man.
But I am who I am, and she is who she is. We’ll never work together. For her sake, I have to reconstruct those walls she’s slowly broken through.