Chapter 4
ALLEGRA AND CLAY
PG FORTE
It’s Christmas Eve. Clay and I had been out doing a little last minute Christmas shopping—which in my case included convincing him to wait on a long-ass line at the charity gift-wrapping booth (“Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll get us drinks?
Do you want cocoa or hot cider?”) so that I could sneak off and pick up the gift I’d ordered for him weeks ago.
Now we’re on our way home, taking the scenic route through one of Oak Creek Canyon’s more established neighborhoods.
You know the kind of place I mean: broad peaceful streets lined with mature trees and picturesque old houses; all of which are lavishly decked out tonight in their holiday best.
I am, too, for that matter. I’m wearing my Santa hat and my candy cane earrings. Jingle-bell bracelets adorn both my wrists. The radio is on and I’m singing along when, suddenly, I see it.
“Pull over!” I gasp, bracelets clanging discordantly as my hands sweep out to clutch at Clay’s arm on one side and the door handle on the other. “Stop the car!”
Clay shoots a startled gaze at me. “What? Why? Are you all right? Is something wrong?”
All reasonable questions, but I’m fumbling with my seatbelt, shaking my head, too impatient for conversation.
“No,” I say as I gnaw anxiously on my lips.
My eyes are fixed on the view in the passenger side mirror, watching as my target disappears into the distance.
“I mean, yes; everything’s fine. Just pull over. Now!”
He does as I ask. Well, sort of. I mean, this is the last night of the “Homes for the Holiday” Christmas lights stroll and apparently everybody in town has come out for a final glimpse, which means finding a parking spot is not as easy as you might think.
So, it’s not his fault that we’re on the next block before he finally locates one.
“I’m going to run ahead,” I say, pushing the door open when he pauses to switch into reverse. “Come and find me.” Which…yeah, he doesn’t take well. Like at all.
“No, wait! Where’re you going?” he says as I grab my bag and jump out of the car. “Allegra!” But I’m already racing down the sidewalk, back the way we’d come, and then up the front walk of the Craftsman-style house that had caught my eye.
And yes, this whole scene is giving Miracle on 34th Street. I know. I watched that movie often enough growing up that I’m well aware of the similarity. But that can’t be helped. Because, just like a very young Natalie Wood, I too have seen the house of my dreams—and it’s for sale!
“Okay, seriously,” Clay scolds a few moments later as he climbs the stairs to join me on the wide front porch. “What the hell? What’s going on, Legs? What’re we doing here?”
“Sorry,” I tell him, thumbing the address into the app on my phone; then sighing in relief as I access the code to unlock the door.
“I just really need to get inside. It doesn’t look like anyone’s here, and I was afraid we were gonna be locked out.
You know, because it’s Christmas Eve and it’s late, and all? ”
“Wait,” he says covering my hand to stop me, just as I’m about to push the door open. “Hold up. What do you mean no one’s here? We’re not breaking in, are we?”
“Omigod, would you relax?” I lift my phone, holding it in front of his face, so he can see for himself. “Of course, we’re not breaking in; I’m using the app. Did you not see the QRC on the sign?”
“No?” he snaps, sounding irritated. “What sign? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Look.” I turn to point at the front yard. “See that big ol’ For Sale sign out there, on the lawn, the one sandwiched between the two inflatable snowmen? How could you miss that?”
“Oh, I dunno. Maybe because I got distracted when my girlfriend jumped out of a moving vehicle,” he answers—completely unfairly, if you ask me.
“Oh, please. We were totally stopped.”
“No, we were totally not stopped. Don’t do that again.”
“Fine,” I say, flashing a smile over my shoulder as I push the door open and step inside. “I’ll try not to. Now, c’mon.”
Inside, the house is everything I’d hoped it would be.
From the hardwood floors to the coffered ceilings and everything in between.
Built-in bookcases and window seats? Check.
Working fireplace with tiled surround? Check.
Vintage glass doorknobs and what appear to be the original muntin windows? Ditto.
“So, I’m curious,” Clay says as he follows me around the house. “Is this just a random impulse on your part, or are you seriously looking to move out of the apartment? Because if you’re not happy… I mean, this is the first I’m hearing of it.”
“Of course, I’m happy,” I reply. “And I guess it is an impulse in the sense that I wasn’t actively looking, but… Well, look at this place! It’s perfect. Don’t you think?”
I mean, sure. I guess…”
He guesses? “Wouldn’t you like a little more space? Room to grow? An actual yard? We could maybe even get a dog.”
“That would be nice,” he agrees reluctantly. “I just…”
“Look, I was on the road for five years, Clay; moving from place to place, living out of a backpack. Now that I’m back home, I’m ready to settle down. I’d like it to be with you.”
“I get it,” he says. “I want that, too.” But does he really get it?
Call me spoiled, but I grew up on vineyards, surrounded by nature and history.
I don’t need a mansion like the one my aunt and uncle live in, but something like my Nona’s house, cozy and quaint, with loads of character and a little plot of land—that’s something my soul just craves.
“It’s a commitment,” I admit. “And if you don’t feel you’re ready for that yet—”
“No,” he replies insistently. “That’s not it. That’s not what I’m saying.”
But he’s not saying anything else, either. In fact, he’s annoyingly silent as we make our way from room to room, replying to my observations with nods or noncommittal grunts.
“So?” I urge, when we’ve returned to the ground floor. “What do you think?”
His expression unreadable, Clay picks up one of the flyers stacked on the counter in the newly remodeled, eat-in kitchen. His mouth tightens as he glances over the information. “It’s a possibility, I guess.”
“Only a possibility?” I repeat in dismay.
“Why? What don’t you like? You have to admit it’s a great location; we’d both be closer to work.
Think about how much more time we’d get to spend together if our commutes were shorter.
” We’re currently living a good twenty minutes down the highway, give or take, and assuming there’s no traffic.
We’re still in the valley, but just barely.
“Is it the style?” I feel my heart sink at the thought, because I love this style of architecture.
It’s what I’m used to. It feels like home.
But I have no idea if he feels the same.
Maybe he wants something different. “Did you want to look at newer houses, something more modern, perhaps? Or maybe bigger?”
“No, that’s not it either.” He shakes his head. “The house is fine. I just worry about getting too attached to…well, things. You know? I mean, if there’s another fire—which there probably will be, at some point—we could lose everything. Again.”
“Well, sure. But…”
“I’ve lived out of a backpack, too. Not for five years, and it wasn’t for fun, but… But sometimes that backpack held everything I owned. Sometimes, I didn’t even have a pack. It was hard. I don’t know if I wanna face that again and I’d hate for you to have to face it, either.”
I reach out and squeeze his hand. I know this is a touchy subject for him.
He was here during the last two fires that swept through Napa; I was not.
He wasn’t just temporarily displaced, his family lost everything and had to rebuild.
Twice. So, this is clearly a big trigger for him.
Which I knew, but maybe I failed to grasp the extent of it.
“I know how much that must have sucked; and I’m so sorry that happened to you, Clay.
But life is always going to be uncertain.
We both know that. Anything could happen.
And at any time. But what’re you going to do about it?
What will be, will be—you know? One thing I know is that no amount of catastrophizing is ever going to be enough to stop it. ”
“Don’t I know it? But—”
“But apartment buildings aren’t any safer, are they? They’re just as likely to catch fire as a house. And probably more at risk if we get hit with another earthquake—which is also bound to happen. But wouldn’t you rather live someplace you loved for even a short period of time than not at all?”
“Maybe,” he says again, obviously still not convinced. “I’m not saying no, but…”
“I can see us living here.” I gesture at the kitchen around us.
“Can’t you? Cooking together. Eating dinner, or breakfast, or whatever.
Having friends over. Decorating for the holidays.
Did you see how pretty it looks all lit up?
And I know we’re happy where we are, but don’t you think we could be happy here, too? ”
Clay sighs. “Of course, I do. But… Well, that’s not the only problem, either. You know this whole neighborhood is out of my price range, right?”
I shrug in agreement. “Okay, sure. Maybe. For now. But I’m not suggesting you buy it all by yourself. We’re a team, aren’t we? And together…well, it wouldn’t be out of our price range.”
This time, he shoots me a look that I have no trouble interpreting.
One that very clearly says, “you mean it’s not out of your price range.
” And, fine. He’s not wrong about that either.
Between the trust fund my dad left me and my one-third ownership in my family’s winery I could buy it myself.
But no matter how perfect this house is, it’s still less than half of the whole, home-and-family dream life I’ve been cherishing. And I want it all.