36. Clark
Chapter thirty-six
Clark
I can see it on my tombstone now: Here lies Clark Noel. Killed by Noel.
The past few months have stretched me outside of my comfort zone so much, I think I’ve surely reached my lifetime allotment of growth zone minutes. I want nothing more than to retreat to my old, quiet routines—complete my handyman jobs, attend to mayoral duties, return home to laid-back evenings with Chase. Make occasional contact with a small handful of friends.
Instead, my life has been a revolving door of people. Townspeople, suppliers, journalists, Christmas enthusiasts. My office and spare bedroom are slowly filling with Christmas decor, a constant reminder of the chaos on the horizon.
I think I’ve developed an ulcer.
On the flip side, I have to admit that preparations are running more smoothly than I expected. Clara’s dad had lots of practical suggestions to streamline the event. He helped me think through logistics that never would have crossed my mind—parking, restrooms, traffic flow. The town is buzzing with anticipation, everyone looking for ways to pitch in. Beau even reached out to ask if he and his family could come back and help with the festival setup.
I’ve spent many a late night sitting alone or with Davis, mapping out ideals and contingency plans. I’ve scoured the websites and social media of every similar event I could find.
And, although I’ll never admit it to anyone, I’ve even watched a few more of those cheesy Christmas romance movies. I’m simply making sure I thoroughly understand what people will be expecting coming in. Chase gets excited every time I settle on the couch with a bowl of popcorn.
The first time I sat down to watch one of the movies, I almost turned it off. A torrent of emotions bubbled to the surface with such force that I couldn’t fend it off. I thought back to my childhood, to all the snide comments my dad would make if someone tried to suggest a town Christmas celebration. I thought about the lackluster holiday memories I carry from my family, which led to a rabbit trail of lackluster family memories, period.
Saying yes to this Christmas festival has conjured competing emotions about my father’s memory. On the one hand, it’s almost liberating to do the one thing he was always so against. He’d made it so clear that I never lived up to his expectations, so why not spectacularly let those expectations down now that he’s gone?
On the flip side, I’ve realized that the part of me hoping I’d one day earn my dad’s approval never truly died. Even after Dad’s death, there’s still that boy inside me wishing that his father would be proud of him. Wishing that he’d regard me the way he always looked at Sam—a competent, successful man he was proud to call a son.
Like the cherry on top of my sundae of conflicted emotions, Clara’s biweekly visits have been their own combination of sweet relief and acute torture. Leave it to Clara to pull off such a contrast. Considering the fact that this festival really is her baby, she’s insisted on sitting down together every time she’s here to go over updates and plans. The conversations talking logistics on her back porch or over dinner at the Deer River Bar leave me craving more mundane, everyday time with her. Denying the craving has become plain painful.
November rolls around, and I’m as prepared as I possibly could be. The weeks leading up to Thanksgiving are spent building and installing as much of the booths and decor as won’t interfere with everyday life. The public areas of town are strung with Christmas lights and greenery, and about 90 percent of the residential houses are lit up before Thanksgiving. Paul and Emily have had a healthy boost to their store’s income, placing bulk orders while still giving the townspeople a good deal on lights and decorations.
The First Noel officially opens the Sunday after Thanksgiving, making Saturday our final walk-through to ensure everything is ready. Clara is spending Thanksgiving with her parents and driving down Saturday morning to be here.
Paul and Emily have invited Pops and me to join them for Thanksgiving dinner. I drive to pick up Pops, making mental notes along the way of a few places that need light strands tightened.
When I knock on Pops’ door, there’s no answer. I call out for him, but the lack of response has me worried. I enter the house, finding it empty. Puzzled, I check upstairs, even though I don’t know the last time Pops attempted climbing the stairs. Finally, I head out back to his workshop.
Pops is deep in concentration, a cardinal taking shape in his hands. I glance around the workshop, shocked to see dozens of animal carvings lining the shelves.
I fight back the moisture in my eyes. Once I have my emotion under control, I knock on the door, trying to get Pops’ attention without startling him while he’s holding a whittling knife.
“You ready to go, Pops?” I ask when he looks up from his work.
“Oh, is it time for dinner already? Guess I lost track of time,” he responds, setting down the cardinal.
I take a few steps in and examine the carvings. There are bears, dogs, cats, and horses. But mostly, lots of birds. I glance over at Pops watching my appraisal of his work.
I’m fighting off emotion again, clearing my throat. “You know, Bev would be really proud of you. She would have loved to see these—I’m sure she’s looking down and smiling.”
Emotion clouds Pops’ face now, his eyes turning foggy. He nods, and then grips my shoulder and adds, “And your grandma would have loved to see all of this. She’d be proud of you. I’m proud of you, son.”
As two stoic men not used to feeling much emotion—much less displaying it—we stand there awkwardly for a beat before turning to walk to my truck.
Despite the extra load on her plate, Emily has still managed to pull off a Thanksgiving feast. Paul deep-fried the turkey, and every comforting side dish is present on the table spread. We pause while Paul blesses the meal, then begin passing plates.
“How are you feeling about Sunday, honey?” Emily asks me.
I swallow a bite of sweet potato casserole. “Honestly? Ready for this whole thing to be over.”
Emily laughs.
“The lack of knowing exactly what to expect is driving me crazy. I wish I knew how many people will show up. I hope this turns out being worth everyone’s time,” I explain.
“Yeah, I can understand that,” Emily responds. “There are a few thousand people who marked interested on the Facebook event page, but it’s hard to know the real numbers of visitors that will translate to.”
“James told me that every cabin is booked solid for the entire three weeks of the festival. There are even a few booked all the way through Christmas,” Paul says before taking a bite of turkey.
“Really?” I ask.
“I’m not surprised. Syd did such a good job decorating—those cabins all look so cute and cozy. Who could resist?!” Emily remarks. “Is Clara still coming down for the first week?”
Mention of Clara catches me off guard, even though I know it shouldn’t, logically speaking. After all, she is the mastermind of this whole thing. For better or worse.
“Um, I assume so? I haven’t talked to her since her last trip here,” I reply, met with a telling hmmm sound from Emily. “What?”
“I just assumed you were keeping closer tabs on her, that’s all,” Emily says. Her attention is diverted to scold her son for hiding his phone under the table, saving me from having to respond.
“We’ll be at the store, but let us know if you need any help with the final setup tomorrow or Saturday,” Paul interjects. He changes the subject to fill me in on Noland’s extended operating hours for the festival. I’m grateful for the diversion away from Clara.
That night, I’m lying in bed, wide awake for hours. Chase has a dog bed on the floor, but at 1:00 a.m., he stands and whines next to me. He nuzzles my hand with his nose.
“You think I need some attention, huh?” I ask, scratching him behind the ears. He reaches a paw up, whining again. “All right, come on up. Just this once.” He jumps into bed and lays down next to me, head resting on my stomach.
I absentmindedly stroke his fur, mind refusing to calm down.
I’m anxious about how this festival is going to go. How many people will come? Will they love it and tell others to visit? Or have we missed the mark? Is this enough of a boost to keep the town going until the pet food facility finally opens up?
What if it fails? What if I’m a failure?
Clara’s face also competes for space in my anxious thoughts loop. I close my eyes and picture her dancing blue eyes. The way the wind catches her strawberry curls. The freckles like constellations across her cheeks, begging to be memorized. The way her full, rose-pink lips twitch when she’s trying not to smile at something I said.
My mind wants to replay a montage of every moment I’ve been near her. From the first day I stumbled into her bathroom, to sitting shoulder-to-shoulder ordering bulk Christmas decorations online last month.
No! I shout to that persistent part of my brain that won’t let her go. It won’t work. We can’t do it.
Frustrated with my lack of control over my thoughts, I abandon my attempt at sleep. Chase follows me as I pad into the living room, pausing to throw a bag of popcorn in the microwave. His ears perk up at the sound, and he preemptively jumps onto the couch to wait for me.
I dump the popcorn into a bowl and join Chase on the couch, turning on the TV. I find the Heartmark Channel, ready to watch another cookie-cutter version of the same sappy love story. In the name of festival research. Not because it makes me feel connected to Clara.
Deciding to make an exception to my “no people food” rule, I hold out a piece of popcorn to Chase. His tail wags, but he considers me with those confused doggie eyebrows. “Go ahead. It’s okay.” He eagerly takes the piece of popcorn from me, then another. “But only this once. Don’t get used to it,” I add sternly.
I watch as a man and woman obviously in love repeatedly deny their feelings for each other. The man finally professes his love and kisses the girl at the end of the movie.
I rub my hand across my chest, heart physically aching as the invisible string tightens.