39. Clara
Chapter thirty-nine
Clara
“ H e could be scared to get close to someone again after what happened to his family,” my mom muses from the passenger seat of my car. We’re driving down for the second weekend of The First Noel, and my dad is following in their car. They have to be back for church on Sunday, so they won’t get to see the musical performance tomorrow night or the Letters to Santa send-off. At least they’ll get to see the festival and the parade tonight.
“You sound like Mads. She said the same thing,” I respond. I’ve been trying to honestly share about my complicated feelings for Clark. I’m usually an open book with my mom, but my inability to figure Clark out has made me less confident to talk about how I feel. Being able to focus on the road and not make eye contact has made it easier to open up. Not that she was surprised to hear me admit that I’m attracted to him.
“Well, maybe we’re right, then,” Mom says. “If I’d lost my whole family in one blow, I might be afraid to let someone close again.”
“True. Although, he wasn’t especially close to his family in the first place.” I chew my lip. “I don’t know. Syd told me that Clark’s always been a private person who doesn’t really let people in. Which also makes sense, given his childhood. But he’s let me get close enough as a friend to spend all this time together planning the festival. I mean, he caved and let me plan this festival in the first place!”
I pause, a snowstorm of thoughts swirling. “I know Syd said he likes being alone. But . . . he still seems lonely. Maybe he doesn’t even see it as loneliness. He has this small world of people he feels responsible for in Noel, but an even smaller world of truly close relationships. It’s like he wants life to stay all the same. Never wants anything more.”
Mom is quiet for a beat before responding. “Not everyone has to have a big life. Maybe he’s okay with keeping his world small. Maybe he truly doesn’t care about having more.”
“What if more could be . . . us? And what if it could be beautiful?” Emotion catches my words, and I take a steadying breath. “I guess I just want to help Clark see possibility. He took a risk and let me help the town. And he can see the joy that the Christmas festival has brought to everyone. Why not let me help bring him a different kind of joy?”
At this point, I think my mom knows I’m speaking more to myself than to her. We drive the rest of the way, silently listening to Michael Bublé.
We drop off our bags and my parents’ car at my cabin before driving to the festival parking lot. Positive buzz about The First Noel must be making the rounds because there are almost twice as many people here as last weekend. The town is overrun with crowds and children and Christmas cheer.
I love it.
My parents match my enthusiasm and then some. They buy multiple gifts from every booth in Santa’s Workshop and take pictures at every photo opp. They enjoy baked goods and Becky’s coffee drinks, rounding out the day by cheering on the parade participants.
I’ve been not-so-subtly searching for Clark ever since we arrived, but he hasn’t shown up anywhere. Either he’s nowhere to be found, or he’s actively avoiding contact.
I take my parents to say hi to Syd and Davis at the Letters to Santa tent, where Junior and Addie are busy coloring their letters. Soon, my dad is sitting down beside them, writing his own letter while my mom chats with Sydney.
A throat clears behind me, and I swivel to see Clark. He’s wearing a black fleece jacket, half-zipped to show the hunter-green shirt underneath. His signature baseball cap is turned backward, allowing his shirt to accent the striking green in his hazel eyes. He runs a hand over his beard, drawing my attention to his mouth. Not that it takes a lot to draw my attention to his lips. They’re becoming more irresistible every time I see him.
“Clara—welcome back,” he says. Is he happy to see me? He looks happy-ish to see me? My heart smacks against my chest like a paddle ball.
“I wanted to thank your parents for all their input. We couldn’t have pulled this off without them.”
“Oh.” My heart slowly loses momentum—the missed ball dangling from the paddle string.
Clark steps around me to greet my mom, and my dad stands up to join the conversation. It’s fine. This is good. Of course, he’s grateful for Mom and Dad’s help. I want him to be grateful. This is fine.
After a short conversation with everyone except me, Clark excuses himself. I keep trying to convince myself that everything is fine, but it’s not a very effective pep talk.
Back at my cabin, my parents turn in early, so I sit in the sunroom, marking up edits on a copy of my movie script I printed off. Reading all of Clark’s qualities in Jack’s character only leaves me frustrated by Clark’s recent behavior. Again. I give up.
I make a quick pass checking on each of my plants, testing the soil to see if any need water.
How can I test the soil with Clark? How can I find out what he truly thinks about us?
The next morning, my parents load their car, and we make our way to the festival grounds early. We pop in to see Becky, who hooks us up with large, sugary cups of caffeine. We chase the liquid sugar with cinnamon rolls and scones from the bake shop.
After a few hours, my parents say their goodbyes to make the drive back to Kansas City before dusk. I keep hoping Clark will suddenly show up again, but I hope in vain. Hugging my mom by the car, she whispers in my ear, “Don’t stress about him, baby girl. Keep your heart open and see where it takes you.”
My dad wraps me up in a hug next. “I love you, Care-bear. I know you’re worried, but I have a good feeling about Clark. Keep your chin up.”
I guess that confirms that my mom tattled on me to Dad.
“Thanks, Dad. I love you too,” I reply.
Walking back to the festival, I jump in to help Becky with coffee drinks, giving Syd a break. There’s a steady line of customers the entire afternoon, so I grab dinner from one of the food trucks for Becky and myself. Syd mans the drinks while we quickly stuff our faces with warm panini sandwiches. We spend the first several minutes in silence, both inhaling the sustenance.
“So,” Becky starts. This is definitely one of those uncomfortable “so” remarks where I’m expected to fill in the blanks.
“You and Clark are . . . ?” she asks, taking a giant bite of her sandwich.
“Me and Clark are . . . what?” I respond, taking an equally large bite.
Becky rolls her eyes. “Come on. Everyone has lost the pool already. It’s taken longer than any of us bet it would for you two to get together.”
I inhale too quickly and choke on my half-chewed bite. “Pool? Bets? What the actual heck, Becky?!”
She simply shrugs. “Whatever. It’s obvious to everyone that you two are attracted to each other. Not to mention a great match.”
I stare at her.
“What? Take it as a compliment! We all want you around more. And we all want Clark to be happy. We can put two and two together,” Becky reasons.
I sigh. “Well, maybe you all can put two and two together, but I’m not sure Clark wants to. I’m not sure what page he’s on, or what book he’s even in.” Becky skewers me with a look. “All I’m saying is I don’t know what we are. Or what we’ll ever be. I just don’t know.”
Crumpling my sandwich wrapper, I hope that’s a sufficient signal to end this line of questioning. Becky catches my drift and leads the way to take over making drinks while Syd mans the register.
The Saturday evening show by the dance team and carolers starts in ten minutes, so the coffee line is slowing down as people crowd around the pavilion. I need a moment to clear my head after my brief chat with Becky. I meander away from the crowds.
Are Becky and Sydney right? Are Clark and I a good match for each other? I still can’t figure out if he sees things the same way or not. His messy Magic Eye picture projects a solid “no” at first glance. But the glimpses I’ve seen of the image underneath seem like maybe he does want something more with me.
Is he scared of getting close to someone, like Mom and Mads said? Or is it more than that? Is he afraid of things not working out because we’d be long distance, at least at first? Is he just uncertain of how I feel?
What do I do?
I try to sort through all the rapid-fire questions barraging through my mind. The music from the dance show starts playing in the background, cheers from the spectators mixed in. I should make my way back to the pavilion to watch, but I’m too confused to be surrounded by crowds.
Instead, I turn down a small alley lit by overhead white Christmas lights that I haven’t noticed before. I do a double take when I see sprigs of mistletoe hanging from the strands of lights. There’s a sign at the entrance of the alley that reads Mistletoe Lane .
Ha! So Clark caved. Syd must have convinced him to include this. Or did it behind his back. But even if she set it up without his knowledge, he didn’t tear it down. The thought makes me smile—maybe he’s not as unwilling to change his mind as he tries to project.
Maybe he just needs a chance to make up his mind about us? Maybe I need to give him a straightforward opportunity to say yes or no.
I swivel to leave the alley but bump right into a solid, human-shaped wall. My hands instinctively come up to steady myself, landing smack dab on Clark’s firm chest. The flashback to the first time we met in my bathroom is inevitable.
The positive memories of Clark that first weekend come flooding back. His witty comments through the door, his respectful approach to helping me, the options he brought the next day to give me a choice in fixing the door. The way he took my Tineke, no questions asked—and then researched the heck out of plant care to make sure she thrived.
This is the same man who repeatedly—and harshly—shot down my suggestions as Mayor Noel. Who ruthlessly crumpled my list of ideas. But this man also pulled the crumpled list out of the trash and held on to it for months.
This man took down my Christmas lights to keep me safe and brought a rocking chair so I’d have somewhere to sit on my porch. He opened up to me about the pain in his life, and he challenged me to overcome the pain in mine to chase my dreams.
To top it all off, we’re standing in the middle of the very festival I’d dreamed of and pushed for. Because he loves this town, yes—but, I think, maybe because he also feels something for me?
I have to know. One way or the other, I have to know.
“Sorry, Clark, I didn’t mean to run into you,” I apologize as I take a small step backward. It’s a mild evening, so Clark doesn’t have on his fleece jacket tonight. Just a long-sleeve, navy Henley shirt, clinging to the muscles of his biceps as he fidgets with his hands. He finally puts them in his pockets before acknowledging my apology.
“It’s fine. I was just escaping the crowd for a minute. I took Chase and Pops home and knew I should come back. But my social capacity is shot,” Clark says, then abruptly cuts himself off. Maybe he didn’t mean to admit that, but anyone who knows him the slightest bit would know it’s true.
“Yeah, you might need to hide in a cave for a couple of weeks after this is all over,” I joke. “I know this has been your worst nightmare, but I’m really grateful you made it happen.”
He shrugs, not saying anything else. But the spark in his eyes as he holds my gaze has my insides melting and my courage fortifying.
“Clark, I need to say something to you,” I begin. “It’s not a secret that I’ve struggled to understand you over the past year. We’ve had rocky moments—”
Clark interrupts. “You know I’m sorry about that, Clara. I’ve tried to keep better control over my reactions.”
I place a hand on his forearm, where the sleeve of his Henley is hiding the reminders inked onto his skin. “I know you have, and I’ve already forgiven you for that. And I acknowledge my role in being too pushy. What I was going to say is that we’ve had rocky moments, but we’ve also had some really . . . magical moments.”
Pausing, my eyes bounce back and forth between his, watching for signs of what he’s thinking. He must be a phenomenal poker player. I’m getting zero clues as to what’s happening in that brain of his.
I continue anyway. “Even as a friend, you’ve pushed me to grow in ways that no one else has before. I’d like to think that I’ve maybe played the tiniest role in helping you grow a little bit too. I guess I’m saying that I think that we could be . . . Well, maybe we could be better as Clark-and-Clara than we are as Clark”—I gesture toward him and pause to punctuate my statement. Then I gesture to myself separately—“and Clara.”
He doesn’t respond verbally, but his eyes are still locked on mine. The gold flecks of his irises draw me in. “I just want you to know that I want that. I want to find out if we’re better together.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean onto my tiptoes and wrap an arm around Clark’s neck, gently pressing my lips to his. His beard is softer than I imagined it would be, tickling my chin in a way I could easily become addicted to. My lips have found their missing puzzle piece locked with his.
My heart sings for the two seconds it takes me to realize he’s not kissing me back.
He’s not kissing me back .
An electrician jumping away from touching a live wire has nothing on the speed and force with which I spring back from Clark.
He looks as stunned as I feel. Which is not fair considering I’m the one who just kissed someone who didn’t want to be kissed. Clark’s obvious discomfort only makes me more embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry; excuse me,” I mumble as I dart past him out of the alley.
“Wait, Clara, let’s—”
“Please forget everything that just happened!” I call back over my shoulder, voice unnaturally high. Logically, I know I should attempt to play this cool and walk away as if unbothered. But my heart is both pounding out of my chest and my chest is so tight I think my heart can’t beat. Which should be an impossible combination of biological responses. I break out in a dead sprint toward my car.
Oh my gosh; I am such an idiot. I laid it all out there like we were on the same page, but, boy, was I wrong. We’re not on the same page. We’re not in the same book. Clark isn’t even in a book.
I’m such a fool.
I want nothing more than to crawl into a hole and curl up in the fetal position. No—my one wish would be to take back everything about the past ten minutes, to extract it from Clark’s mind like a lobotomy. Where are the Men in Black with those flashy memory-eraser sticks when you need them?
Every ounce of logic in my brain knows that I’m in no state to drive for hours. In the dark. But the shame of rejection is overpowering all sense of logic.
Not even bothering to stop at my cabin, I speed away from Noel—and Clark—as fast as I can.
I cry the entire drive home.