13. Claire
13
Claire
Questions and Heartaches
I push open the kitchen door, and the aroma of butter and sugar wraps around me. I step into the chaos of flour dust in the air, a delightful mess of bowls, cups, and scattered utensils. Mimi stands in the center of it all, a powdery grin plastered across her face as she sees me.
"Mimi, what in the world are you doing?"
"What does it look like, honey? Baking, of course!"
She chuckles and splatters another dollop of dough onto the counter.
I peek into the massive mixing bowl of creamy yellow and golden flecks. "What kind of cookies are those?"
"Just your basic chocolate chip," she shrugs, scooping out the dough and depositing it onto a waiting baking sheet. "Though, considering the amount of chocolate chips I’ve thrown in, you could say these are more like chocolate chunk cookies."
"Oh,” I nod. “Why are you making them all by yourself?"
“I’m not by myself any longer, am I?” Amusement tugs her lips. “Grab an apron.”
I walk to the corner and don the apron before walking back to her. “I think this is too much for us.”
"Oh, these aren't for us," she declares, giving the baking sheet a satisfied pat.
"These are for the kids at the Shelter."
The Shelter is an orphanage on the outskirts of town where Mimi volunteers regularly.
"You're taking cookies to them?"
"Of course!" she exclaims, her eyes twinkling. "The kids deserve to have something made with love."
These are the sort of things Mimi gets excited about, and an excited Mimi is hard to stop, no matter how difficult the task is.
I wash my hands and roll up my sleeves. “What do you need me to do?”
We work amidst the rhythmic thump of dough hitting the counter and the clinking of spoons against bowls.
“Mimi,” I call with a little smile. “How true is that story that you won Gramps over with cookies?"
She bursts out in a hearty laughter. “There's a reason your Gramps claims my pies are the best in the whole damn country, honey." She winks at me. "And let me tell you, I plan on giving him a bite of these bad boys just so he doesn't forget how lucky he is. He can’t get enough of my treats."
My laughter bubbles as I help her measure out ingredients for the next batch of dough. The image of Gramps, the stoic and often intimidating head of the Carter family, reduced to a man weak in the knees over his wife’s cooking, is somehow endearing.
“So, it’s pies for your Gramps. What is it for your Bob, dear?”
I look up at Mimi, my cheeks flushing under her narrowed gaze. “I don’t know,” I mumble, stirring the batter with a forced casualness.
Mimi chuckles, her knowing smile making my hair stand on end. "You will soon enough. He’s a lucky man, that boy.”
“Lucky?” I avoid her gaze, focusing intently on the batter.
"I’ve seen the way you look at him, dear, the way you worry about him," her voice gentle. "That man makes your heart race."
As if on cue, my heart starts drumming against my ribcage. Eight years since I’ve known Bobby, and I never would have described him as the man who makes my heart race. Had I ever stopped to truly consider what that meant?
"Gramps always said you made your feelings for him known first."
Mimi's smile softens, a glint in her eyes. "Honey," she begins, her voice gentle, "Men can be a bit dense sometimes. They don't always pick up on the subtle hints, the shy glances, the twinkle in your eyes, the hair twirls. Sometimes, they need a little nudge in the right direction."
My cheeks burn even hotter. "A nudge?"
"Exactly. But that's a conversation for another day. Right now, we've got cookies to bake and kids to make happy."
We fall back into a comfortable silence and focus shifts back to the task at hand. However, Mimi's words echo in my mind, a seed of possibility taking root.
Is a nudge all Bobby needs to feel the same way about me?
Ugh! Aren’t kisses enough of a nudge?
The thought gives me hope. But then, there’s a wave of doubt that pushing Bobby means risking everything we've built over the years, and losing my best friend is terrifying.
I’m still battling my thoughts when the kitchen door creaks open and Fiona waltzes in flanked by two other women. They are all dressed for the occasion in pristine white aprons with hair neatly coiffed.
"Mimi!" Fiona’s voice drips with forced cheer. "Just thought I'd bring some extra muscle for your little baking project."
"That's awfully sweet of you, honey." Mimi glances up from her bowl, a smile gracing her lips. "But I already have some help." She gestures towards where I stand stirring a bowl of batter in the corner.
Fiona's smile falters and surprise crosses her features. She turns towards me, her perfectly arched eyebrow raised in question.
"Are you lost?" Her question is laced with condescending amusement. "What are you doing here?"
I grit my teeth. "Came in to see Mimi baking and decided to lend a helping hand. Working and catching up with her alone has been nice."
We stare off at each other and before Fiona can retort, Mimi steps in.
"I think I actually have enough work for you all. Plenty to go around. Fiona, dear, you and your friends can handle the icing while Claire…" she trails off, her eyes twinkling. "Can separate the eggs."
I nod in defeat.
Fiona shoots me a withering look before turning back to Mimi, her practiced smile back in place. "So, what were you talking about?"
"Oh, just reminiscing a bit," Mimi waves dismissively.
“Let us in on it, Mimi.”
Mimi sighs. "It’s about me seducing your grandfather with my baking skills."
Fiona claps. "I’m so glad my mom’s a good cook, too. She definitely must have gotten most of your genes and passed them down to me."
As Fiona prattles on, I try to bury the surge of annoyance bubbling within me. Thankfully, I manage to finish separating the eggs before it boils over. Placing the bowl on the counter in front of Mimi, I receive a pat on the back and a wink.
"Such a quick learner," Mimi declares. "You'll be a whiz in the kitchen in no time, if you just put in the effort, dear."
Fiona scoffs. "As if Claire cares about cooking. She's too busy playing the rebel without a cause to appreciate family traditions."
"At least I don't pretend to love Gramps and Mimi just to get my hands on more family money. You don’t even love your fiancé. Pfft. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” The words spill out of my lips before I can hold them back.
Gasps echo from the other two women and Mimi steps in immediately. "No fighting in my kitchen, young ladies." Her voice is firm and leaves no option for both of us than to go silent. She casts a stern look at Fiona. "You, go cool down in the hallway for a bit. Claire…well, you can help me around the kitchen every night for the rest of your visit."
"But Mimi—"
"You just might enjoy it," Mimi interrupts, fighting back a smile. "It's time you learned and showed Bob what he’s missing out on.”
"We weren’t fighting," I protest weakly.
Mimi raises a brow. "Consider it a favor to your old grandmother. Besides, I'll be right here to help you. You haven’t been home in so long. I could use your company."
With a defeated sigh, I nod curtly. There's no point in arguing with Mimi when she's in this mood. Besides, spending time with her is always full of fun and laughter.
***
I step out of the kitchen an hour later and the murmur of voices from the hallway draws my attention. I’ve not seen Bobby for over three hours, but he may be there. Curiosity piqued, I follow the sound and round the corner into the lounge.
As soon as I walk in, my stomach lurches. Family members are scattered around the room, sprawled on plush couches and nestled in wingback armchairs. A coffee table, with a crystal decanter and delicate glasses placed on it, sits in the center.
Conversations die down abruptly as I enter, replaced by about a dozen watchful stares suffocating me. I realize with a sickening certainty that I’m the object of their scrutiny.
Fiona is also there, perched on the edge of an armchair, a glass of amber liquid in her hand. The clinking of ice cubes in her glass is the only sound in the sudden silence. Her gaze, sharp and accusatory, is fixed on me.
"I overhear snippets of their hushed conversation—my name, mentions of 'unworthy' and 'disgrace'. The realization hits me: they're talking about me, questioning my place in the family.
Before I can even say a word, the door at the opposite end of the room flies open with a bang. Bobby bursts in, his face a mask of fury. He must have overheard their conversation from outside. His eyes scan the room frantically until they land on me. Relief washes over his face, quickly replaced by a surge of anger that darkens his blue eyes.
He crosses the room swiftly, long strides eating up the distance between us. Before I can react, he envelops me in a crushing hug.
"Claire, are you okay?" He growls. His eyes hold a fierce intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. His gaze then darts across the room, landing on Fiona.
The anger in his eyes intensifies, burning with a white-hot fury.
“How dare you?' he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “How dare you sit here and judge Claire? She's twice the person any of you are.” His words cut through the silence, making several cousins flinch.
The room seems to hold its breath under his scrutiny. Fiona, her composure cracking for the first time, is the first to react. She shoots up from her seat, a flurry of movement mirrored by the others as they all shuffle awkwardly towards the exit.
Without waiting for another word, Bobby spins on his heel, his long legs carrying him towards the departing crowd.
“This isn't over,” he calls out as they scramble to leave. “You owe Claire an apology. All of you. I'll teach you a lesson about messing with someone who matters to me!"
I lunge for him, grabbing his arm just before he reaches the doorway. He turns back, his anger momentarily replaced by surprise.
"Bobby, wait," I plead, my voice shaky. "They're gone. It's okay."
His eyes, still stormy and intense, hold mine for a while. "Are you sure you're okay?" His voice is softer now, concern written all over his face. "My guess is Fiona, or one of her minions, purposely 'pocket dialed' me so I can hear the conversation through the phone to provoke some kind of reaction out of me. She's taking this game too far now."
I stare into his face, mesmerized by the swirling blue depths. In that moment, under the weight of his gaze, a new emotion emerges within me — recognition. It is affection, a warmth I hadn't noticed before.
Does he love me? Does he share these same boiling emotions I’ve been battling with whenever I set eyes on him these days?
Taking a deep breath, I decide to take a leap. "Bobby," I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. "Why did you do that?"
The question hangs heavy in the air, nerves getting the best of me.
“What?” His eyes widen, surprise replacing the anger that had been raging just moments ago.
"Everything you've been doing, the way you hold me, the way you look at me…the kisses in private." The words catch in my throat.
A mask dawns his features. "That’s what we agreed on in the contract, isn’t it? We gotta make it believable?"
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. The affection I'd seen, the concern in his eyes–did I imagine it all? Was it just wishful thinking on my part?
This can’t be happening.
"But…"
“I guess I’m playing my part really well.” He shakes his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. “I’m going to see if your brothers wanna head into town to play some pool. Come with?”
His face is cold. Void of any emotion.
How could I be so stupid?
I shake my head. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
He nods and turns towards the door. “See you later then.”
Before I can react, he’s gone, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the room. The silence is deafening around me, amplifying this nagging urge to cry. Shame burns hot in my cheeks.
Was I so desperate for a connection that I misread Bobby's actions, and misinterpreted his concern for romance?
Cringe.
I should write a self-help book: 'How to Lose Your Fake Boyfriend and Embarrass Yourself in 10 Easy Steps.' I'm sure it'll be a bestseller in the 'Oops, I Did It Again' section.
I need a way to forget this as quickly as possible. There’s only one place I can go to bury my head—the painting cottage. I need the familiar scent of oil paints and turpentine and the activity of splashing paint on a canvas to forget the emotional turmoil I've just gone through.
I snap myself out of the embarrassing truth and head out of the mansion.