37. Clara
Chapter thirty-seven
Clara
M y body is practically vibrating with anticipation as I drive into the Noel city limits. The First Noel is finally here, and I’m equal parts thrilled to experience it all and terrified that I talked Clark into something that will epically fail.
As I drive through town, I see the transformation of Main Street from sleepy city street to event destination space. There are temporary booths, photo ops, portable restrooms, traffic signs—all the evidence of a well-planned event. And Christmas decor galore, of course.
“This looks like a real festival!” I exclaim out loud to myself.
I swing by my cabin to drop off my duffel bag before meeting Sydney and Becky in the center of town to go over a final readiness checklist. We walk through the various booths, making a list of any last-minute items missing.
We meet Davis, James, and Clark at the bar for dinner, prematurely toasting to a successful three weeks for the town. After eating, the two couples have to return home to their kids, and I gear up to head back to my cabin.
“Would you want to walk around and see everything all lit up?” Clark surprises me by asking as we walk out into the crisp night air.
“You’re turning the lights on tonight?” I ask.
“Yep. Want to walk through and make sure everything is working before tomorrow,” he replies, sounding perfectly practical.
“Of course, I do!” I reply, bouncing on my toes. I swear a smile flashes across Clark’s face, but he rubs a hand across his beard before I can confirm.
We walk to the center of the action. The temperate climate in Arkansas may not make for picturesque white Christmas scenes, but it’s ideal weather for an outdoor Christmas event. I’m perfectly warm walking around with only a light coat. As we near the main festival square, Clark pulls out his phone.
“I have everything plugged into smart devices that I can control from an app,” he says, then angles toward me with a smirk on his face. “Maybe you’ve heard of this genius invention that allows you to control power switches remotely?”
I roll my eyes and shove him hard. Which only serves to throw me off balance, not Clark. I huff. We stop walking, and he asks, “Ready?” I nod, and he taps the button on his phone.
I gasp as we’re instantly surrounded by the soft glow of thousands of twinkling lights strung from poles, tacked onto buildings, wrapped around trees. I turn a full circle, taking it all in. Strung over Main Street is a huge “Merry Christmas” light display.
The Becky’s Brews stand is decorated with whimsical pink and purple tinsel trees, with her hand-painted menu sign prominently displayed. The Ladies Who Bake stand has a three-foot gingerbread man figure holding a chalkboard list of baked goods for purchase. Traditional greenery and crimson bows are draped under the counter. There’s something for everyone’s taste in Christmas decor.
Although there are no items filling the tables tonight, Santa’s Workshop looks as though Clark enlisted the help of Buddy the Elf to decorate. I can picture crowds streaming through the covered but open area, then making their way to purchase drinks and treats. They’ll be able to take their food down the path bordered by string lights to the picnic area set up along the river. It’s like I’m standing on set of a Heartmark movie.
I’m smiling, but I can’t stop tears from slipping down my cheeks.
“Did it live up to your vision?” Clark asks, breaking the silence.
“It’s perfect. Everything is beautiful. It’s just . . . perfect , Clark,” I whisper, still overwhelmed.
His hands are in his pockets, but his face is pleased. Then again, I don’t entirely trust myself to interpret Clark accurately anymore. “Tomorrow will be the moment of truth,” he muses.
“Not just tomorrow,” I say. “We have three whole weeks of Christmas festivities to look forward to,” I add with a wry smile.
Now I’m positive he smiles back at me as he responds, “Don’t remind me.”
The opening days of The First Noel start off with simmering magic. We decided to kick the festival off on a Sunday, banking on a few slower weekdays to help us get our footing before larger weekend crowds.
Still, even more people have come than we anticipated. Becky’s Brews is a raging success—no surprise there. But that means we have to make a rush order of more syrup supplies to arrive before the weekend.
Santa’s Workshop is teeming with Christmas enchantment. The sight of Pops’ table full of animal carvings brings tears to my eyes. It’s not taking much to bring tears to my eyes this week. The magic of the season paired with the feeling of helping this town come to life has my tear ducts ever-ready to produce moisture.
A friend of Madison’s arranged for a TV crew to come on Thursday to film a short spot for an Arkansas news station. Clark and I guide the crew around the town to get B-roll footage of the Christmas-themed cabins, the town decorations, the Letters to Santa craft station, and the evening festivities. When it’s time to do the on-camera interview, Clark tries to pawn off the job to me.
“This whole thing was your idea, Clara! I don’t want to be on the news. You talk,” he asserts, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed.
“But this is your town, Clark. The city of Noel—this is your family, your history. It has to be you,” I counter equally as adamantly.
He groans. “Fine, but when all the potential visitors are scared away by my face on TV, you’ll be to blame.”
I snort. “Your face isn’t scaring anyone away.” My cheeks heat as I realize I said that out loud. “Just . . . try to smile a little,” I add, trying to breeze over the foot in my mouth.
We find a spot with the festivities perfectly framed in the background, and the reporter asks Clark a series of questions about the festival and the town of Noel. Clark does a stand-up job of looking neutral, bordering on amiable, as he answers. He never mentions me by name, but at one point, he meets my eyes as he talks about “The First Noel” tag line. A hint of a smile crinkles the sides of his eyes.
I hold my breath as I watch him. My thoughts are caught up in all the positive connections I’ve shared with Clark over the past year. Sure, we had our difficult moments too—times when he crumpled my heart. But now, watching him stand in front of a news camera talking about the very festival he was stubbornly opposed to, I’m overwhelmed with affection for this complicated man. Affection I can’t bury anymore.
Late into the night, I furiously type at my writing desk. My mind is playing out scene after scene, line after line of my movie script, faster than my fingers can keep up. Tears blur my view of the computer screen as I write Jack and Renee’s first kiss into existence, when they finally stop avoiding their feelings for each other.
At 3:00 a.m., I type those epic words: The End.
I sigh and lean back, arching with my hands overhead. It’s far from the end—I’ll go through a rigorous edit of the script before I decide if I’m even going to submit it. But finishing the first draft is still a huge accomplishment.
Staring at the screen, my ears tune in to the music playing from the speaker— “The Waltz of the Snowflakes.” I can almost feel the physical hug from Aunt Gloria. Almost see the wide smile on her face, the light in her eyes. Almost hear her soothing voice telling me she’s proud of me.
I look around my cabin with tears in my eyes. “We did it, Aunt Gloria. You made it possible for me to chase this dream.”
And just like that, I know that I’m going to submit this script to Heartmark. I might be terrified to put it out there, to potentially tip my hand to show my interest in Clark. The script might get rejected and never turned into a movie. But I owe it to Aunt Gloria to follow this dream as far as I can take it.