Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
rowan
“What am I doing? Well, I’m …”
Claire glares angrily as she fumbles her way out of her mom’s invitation to Easter dinner.
“Don’t lie to her,” I whisper, and she groans.
“I’m actually passing through Baton Rouge. But I’m on my way home.”
Her mother’s gasp comes through the phone. “Oh, that’s perfect! You can still make it in time for supper.”
“I would, but I have the dogs with me, and I know how you feel about animals in the house.”
“And I’ve already told you that Frankie and Oscar are welcome here any time,” Mrs. Bergeron replies.
“Thanks, Mom, but really—”
Claire drops off in the middle of her excuse when she realizes we’ve stopped moving. I shift my truck into park and look at her expectantly.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
“Waiting for you to tell me which direction we’re going,” I reply as if it’s a silly question. “You know I don’t have a navigation system in here.”
“Sorry, Mom, can you hang on one second?” She hits the mute button before her mother can answer. “We’re going home,” she tells me.
“Not when we’re already so close to your parents’ house. She’s your mom. She misses you. And you miss her.”
“I didn’t say I missed her,” she grumbles.
“You didn’t have to.” I flash her a warm smile. “Come on. You know you’d rather do this with me.”
Her jaw lowers slightly, which I take to mean I’m right. “And have to explain our weird situationship to them? No, thanks.”
“There’s an easy fix for that,” I drawl, and her breath hitches this time.
“Like you’d even agree to lie to my parents and pretend we were actually …” She shakes her head.
“Who said anything about lying?” I reply evenly.
She opens her mouth, no doubt to shoot down my idea again, but she can’t seem to get the words out.
Each time I leave her speechless, she plants a little more hope within my chest. I think she’s finally realizing that it’s different now, that I can see how hard she’s trying to stuff her feelings for me into a box, and I’m waiting patiently for her to give up and let them spill over.
“Claire? Are you still there?” her mother’s voice calls out from the phone, and she unmutes it to speak.
“Yeah, uh, sorry.” She pauses and swallows hard. “Would it be okay if I brought a friend over for dinner?”
Her eyes dart over to check my expression, so I do my best to look aloof and confident.
Nothing to see here, just my calm reaction to the love of my life bringing me home to meet her parents …
“Of course, sweetheart. Any friend of yours is welcome here.” Her mom’s voice trills with excitement at Claire’s tentative acceptance of her invitation. “It’s not … Jeremy, is it?” she adds hesitantly.
Claire coughs out a laugh. “No. Jeremy and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms these days.”
Her mom hums, and I can’t tell whether she’s disappointed or happy to hear that news. “Well, I guess we’ll see you in a little bit, then. And don’t worry about bringing anything other than your friend, and your fur babies, of course.”
“Oh, um, one more thing. Can you please make sure everything is peanut-free? Rowan’s allergic,” Claire asks.
“Rowan? The cute doctor with the rash … from Nana and Pop’s anniversary party?”
She glances my way again, catching the smile that spreads across my face at her mom’s recognition. “Yeah. It’s kind of a long story.”
Mrs. Bergeron lets out a soft chuckle. “No Reese’s. Got it.”
“Thanks. See you soon.”
She hangs up the phone and silently gestures in the right direction, and I turn the truck around and head toward her childhood home.
“So, why exactly have you been avoiding your family again?” I ask after a while.
“I don’t avoid them. I just … give them lots of space.”
“Fess up, Claire, or I’ll make this super awkward,” I warn her.
“It’s already going to be ridiculously awkward!” she cries out.
“Don’t think I won’t ask your mom to see your baby pictures.”
“Go ahead. I was a cute kid.”
I shoot her a suspicious look before I turn a corner. “And I wonder what your mom will say when I tell her how many times you’ve been to the homestead lately.”
She gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Well, since you wouldn’t tell me the whole story, how was I to know that would upset her so much?”
She lets out a frustrated growl. “There’s no story to tell. My parents just don’t like me all that much, okay?”
“What?” I blurt out incredulously. “Of course they like you.”
“I mean, they love me,” she explains quietly. “It’s not like they mistreat me or anything. It’s just that I can tell I’m not their cup of tea.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “The vibe, I guess. I’m an only child, and my mom wanted me to be her best friend, her little sidekick, but we never really meshed all that well.
I didn’t fit in with the other perfect, preppy girls in school, at ballet class, or on playdates with her friends’ daughters …
I’ve always been too loud, or too silly …
too rough, too muddy. My dad and I got along, but I think he felt guilty about letting me do all the outdoorsy stuff with him because my mom got left out.
She supported me when I picked livestock shows over pageants, but I know she was disappointed. ”
I catch the wobble in her voice by the end of it, so I pull over again and turn to face her. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, forcing me to pick at another one of my old emotional wounds until I cry again?” She sniffles as she tries to shrug it off.
I sigh and reach out to wipe a tear from her cheek.
“Of course. But I’m mostly sorry that you’ve been going around thinking you aren’t the most fun, the most beautiful, the most interesting, and the most compassionate girl in the room.
Because you are, Claire. You’re not too much anything.
You’re just the best and the most at everything. ”
Her chin trembles as she stares back at me, and Frankie and Oscar begin whining from the back seat once they sense her crying. “You have to say that because you’re my friend. You just want me to feel better.”
“No,” I admit with a rueful smile. “The only lies I’ve ever told you were of the omission variety. I mean every word of that.”
“Well, thank you,” she says with a sniff.
“It’s too bad you weren’t around ten years ago to talk me out of switching my college major and basically throwing my life away to follow Jeremy.
Between moving to Camellia with him, not being able to get pregnant, and now my divorce, I haven’t given my mom any reasons to see me in a better light.
And I guess I could have been avoiding her because I don’t want to hear her say ‘I told you so.’ ”
I growl. “Don’t do that, please. Everyone makes decisions they regret later for one reason or another, but you have to forgive yourself. And most of those things weren’t your fault, anyway.”
“Right,” she nods and forces a smile before she turns to reassure the dogs that she’s okay. I’m still suspicious about the pregnancy part, but I figure I shouldn’t push her on it right now.
“For the record, as much as I hate how much you’ve had to endure, I’m a big, big fan of the woman it all helped you to become,” I add, hoping she can sense my sincerity.
“Thank you,” she says more shyly this time, but she keeps her eyes trained on Frankie. I watch her for a moment longer before I veer back onto the road.
“Oh boy,” Claire calls out when we pull into the driveway a few minutes later, presumably because of the extra car parked there. I furrow my brow questioningly. “You remember my favorite feral great-aunt, don’t you?”
I grin. “You mean sweet, old Tante Verna?”
“Better not call her that to her face,” she mumbles.
“What, old?”
“No. Sweet.”
I chuckle as we walk Frankie and Oscar past the well-kept landscaping and the painted lawn ornaments to knock on the door of the Acadian-style home. Claire’s mom swings the door open so quickly that the pastel-colored wreath rattles, and she apologizes as she scrambles to set it right.
“Happy Easter,” Mrs. Bergeron greets us with a nervous smile, ushering us inside before stooping to pet the dogs and subsequently wiping her hands on her white slacks. She and Claire hesitate before they embrace, and I feel guilty when the hug I receive isn’t as awkward.
We’re led through the immaculately decorated home into the kitchen, where Claire’s Aunt Verna awaits us.
I peer around, noticing the somewhat dated but still sparkling clean counters and cabinets, as well as an attached formal dining room.
The table is already set for eight, making me wonder if the room gets much use.
“Well, look what the Easter Bunny dragged in. How’s that trail ride been, cowgirl?” Verna asks with a sly smirk.
Claire glares at her before she leans in to kiss her cheek. “I wouldn’t know. Never did manage to get back on that horse.”
“This ain’t your stud?” Verna retorts before inviting me in for a hug. I stifle my reaction when she punctuates her embrace with a light tap on my backside, but I’m pretty sure Claire notices when my brow shoots up.
“Nope,” Claire replies, trying not to laugh. “You can lead ‘em to water, but sometimes you can’t make ‘em drink, no matter how thirsty.”
“What a shame,” Verna adds, leaning back to continue her perusal.
I clear my throat. “Well, maybe the horse is just worried about coming before the cart.”
Claire’s eyes widen in surprise, and her cheeks flush a shade darker.
“And maybe the cowgirl isn’t looking to get saddled with anyone,” she declares, crossing her arms over her middle.
“That’s too bad, since this horse has been looking forward to giving bareback rides,” I reply without hesitation, making myself blush this time. Claire and Verna both toss their heads back in laughter, while Mrs. Bergeron busies herself with her hosting duties, looking more scandalized than amused.
“Sounds like you’d better get your spurs and your whip ready, Claire Bear,” Aunt Verna continues, and I can’t help laughing, too.
Then Claire flashes me a grateful smile, warming me all over, and I know this is it—the relationship I’ve always wanted.
The banter, the teasing, the inside jokes …
the sound of her big laugh each time I manage a particularly spicy contribution …
It wouldn’t be the same with anyone else, but I could do this with her for the rest of my life.
And from the way she’s looking at me right now, I can tell she wants it, too.
Claire’s dad walks into the kitchen a moment later, and she breaks eye contact to share a hug with him.
I step forward to shake his hand, and we make small talk about our careers and the LSU baseball team’s prospects of winning it all this year.
He’s warm and friendly, but it’s obvious that Claire takes after her Aunt Verna more than anyone.
Mrs. Bergeron pulls a ham from the oven and encourages us to sit together around the dining table as she brings out the sides in separate serving dishes, sighing when she nearly trips over Frankie. Meanwhile, Oscar’s already at my feet, begging for more food.
Claire still looks slightly uncomfortable as we open our fancy napkins and begin spooning potato salad onto fine china, though she seemed much more at ease throughout the casual buffet-style dinner at the homestead, even with so many people around.
My family’s informalities were mostly born out of necessity, but I’ve never appreciated them so much until now.
No one moves to say the blessing, so I bow my head for a moment, making sure to thank God not only for the life, death, and resurrection of His only Son, since it is Easter Sunday and all, but also for the other gifts I’ve been taking for granted lately, like my family, my career, and Claire.
All eyes are on me when I open mine again and finish making the Sign of the Cross over my chest.
“And he’s Catholic, too,” Verna drawls, leaning over to elbow Claire in the side. “Nana ought to love that.”
“She certainly would approve,” Mrs. Bergeron agrees, and I realize that her parents haven’t even revealed their first names to me. “I suppose you’ll think it’s a good thing we had you baptized after all.”
“Wait, you were baptized Catholic?” I ask, turning my head to face Claire so fast that I almost make myself dizzy.
She shrugs. “Not that I know of.”
“My grandparents were very adamant about it,” her mom says quietly, and I swallow hard and try to disguise the way my heart races.
“I don’t ever remember going to Mass, though,” Claire says thoughtfully.
“We felt like the nondenominational church was a better fit for us,” Mrs. Bergeron clarifies with an apologetic smile.
“You may have been baptized by a priest, but I doubt there’s a Catholic bone in your body,” Mr. Bergeron says with a light chuckle.
Tante Verna huffs and shoots me a knowing smirk. “Hmm, I wouldn’t be so sure of that one.”
I clear my throat and scratch the back of my head nervously as Claire’s eyes meet mine, but I can tell she’s struggling not to laugh.
Claire’s dad snorts, and her mom clicks her tongue. “Really, Verna? Do you always have to do that?”
Verna simply waves a bejeweled hand, making her bracelets jangle, but I can see the second Claire’s posture straightens that she’s not going to let this go. I reach beneath the table to place my hand on her lap, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Do you always have to be such a prude?” Claire drops her fork and demands of her mother.
“Claire,” her father calls her name gruffly.
Mrs. Bergeron lifts her chin indignantly but refuses to make eye contact with any of them. “There’s nothing wrong with being modest and appropriate.”
“There is when you’d rather offend your own family than risk saying something a stranger doesn’t want to hear,” Claire insists, and I give her knee a squeeze. She responds by sliding her hand over mine, so I flip it over and interlace our fingers.
“Don’t you want your guest to feel comfortable?” Mrs. Bergeron gestures toward me this time. “I imagine he’s important if he’s still hanging around.”
Claire tries to tug her hand back, but I don’t let her. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.
“Well, to be honest, I’m worried. Rowan, you seem like such a great young man. But …” Claire’s mom trails off when her voice cracks. “I was hoping you’d give yourself a little more time before shacking up with someone else. I don’t want to see you get your heart broken again so soon.”
I tighten my grip on Claire’s hand. “It’s okay,” she whispers to me. “It’s not worth it, right?” And I can only imagine the restraint it’s taking her to stay sitting in that chair.
“You’ll understand one day, if you ever have kids of your own,” her mother adds, and I watch the woman I love deflate before my eyes.