38. Clark
Chapter thirty-eight
Clark
“ C lark, we need more boxes brought over from the storage unit,” Pearl calls to me.
“You mean my office , Pearl?”
“Call a spade a spade; it’s temporarily a storage unit and you know it,” she scoffs back. “Can you run and get some or find someone who can?”
“I got it. Let me finish changing out the trashcan liners at the picnic area,” I call back.
I’ve been running around like a chicken with its head cut off for the past two days, jumping in to fill every job from barista to photographer to garbageman. Nothing could have prepared me for the number of people that have circulated through town this week—and it’s only the first week of the festivities. We’ve easily had as many, if not more, tourists as we do during the height of float season.
The news spot we filmed on Thursday aired yesterday on the Friday morning news, and I swear, every person within driving distance of Noel made their way to town today. Paul and Emily have been placing rushed order after rushed order of more supplies for Becky and the baking ladies, as well as gift wrapping for the gift shop.
Every high schooler in town is now making bank working odd jobs. They’re taking pictures at the photo ops, supervising children as they write and decorate letters to Santa, cleaning up trash, and wrapping gifts sold by the local artisans. The kids who are selling their artwork can’t even man the booth themselves—they’ve been working around the clock creating more to keep the booth stocked.
Beau and Abby are here this weekend helping out. They’d planned on bringing their kids, but my SOS text prompted them to come unattached in order to pitch in where needed. Becky’s been delighted to have Abby’s help in addition to Clara’s with her coffee drinks, and they make much better assistants than I did.
I’m hoping the combination of the Christmas festival, plus the impending factory jobs, might entice Beau to move his family back to Noel. He’s hinted at how much they’ve missed the town, and I spouted off a long list of reasons why they should move back. The energy of the festival seems to be working in my favor on that front.
Although my DNA predisposed me to be opposed to this whole spectacle, I understand it now.
Clara was right.
It somewhat hurts to admit it, but her lack of lording the fact over me has made it easier to acknowledge. She’s been 100 percent beaming and delighted all week, without a hint of “I told you so” energy.
It’s only making it agonizingly harder to keep her at arm’s length. That stupid tether around my heart is beginning to feel like a noose—the more I struggle against it, the tighter it pulls.
But I won’t risk hurting Clara’s heart by letting things progress beyond friendship between us. Being with me wouldn’t be fair to her. Even if I like her—even if I might love her—she deserves a man who needs her. And that’s not me. It won’t ever be me.
Late Saturday night, I open my front door only to be bowled over by a whining, energetic Chase. After a quick trip outside, he comes back in and stays plastered to my side as I heat up some dinner.
“I know, boy. I’m sorry you’ve been alone all week. I’m trying to think of a way for you to come to the festival without getting in the way,” I tell him, stroking behind his ears.
As if she’d secretly wiretapped my house, a text from Clara comes through.