Once Upon a List (11 page)

 

15.

“I
t's
Christmas dinner
, for God's sake. Please don't do this, butt-face.” Leo stared at his sister, beseeching. “Please. It won't be the same without you. You
have
to come with us to Aunt Billie's house.”

“I'm an adult, Leo. I don't have to do anything,” Clara mumbled, lying beneath her covers in bed. Though it was only late in the afternoon, she was already wearing a long, flannel nightgown, a glaring contrast to her brother's tailored sport coat. And an overt symbol of protest.

Standing at the foot of her bed, Leo shook his head and sighed, his cheeks puffing out with air. “I can't believe you're boycotting the holiday. Who does that? You really want to stay home all alone and miss out on Christmas?
Christmas,
” he repeated for effect.

“Yes. That's exactly what I want to do. If you all will just let me, that is.” Clara realized she sounded as frustrated and melancholy as she appeared. Surviving her first Christmas without Sebastian was turning out to be significantly more agonizing than she'd anticipated. Though she tried her best to block them out, haunting memories of all the jolly holidays they had shared in the past flooded her mind, causing her to feel as if she were drowning, and her wounds were suddenly as fresh again as the glistening snowflakes falling outside her window. She thought about the pink cashmere mittens Sebastian had given her last Christmas morning and how warm and cozy they felt when she slipped her hands through his on the dreamy winter walk they took together shortly after Libby's annual Christmas brunch feast. With the snow gently falling, holding hands, taking in the stunning scenery, and each other, it would have been impossible not to get swept up in the intoxicating, Christmasy romance of the moment—all that was missing was maybe Bambi, a few deer pals, and a blue jay or two to come moseying by singing
Walking in a Winter Wonderland,
and then offer them a thermos of hot cocoa—with marshmallows, of course.

“I told Libby I'm not celebrating Christmas this year. Period. End of story. I just can't do it,” Clara said. “I don't know why that's so difficult to understand.”

“First of all, because it's your favorite holiday,” answered Leo. “You own eighty different Christmas albums that you keep alphabetized, and every December you make your house look like the frickin' North Pole. You live for Christmas. Need I remind you last year at this same time we were tossing back candy-cane martinis in Libby's kitchen and you were trying your best to convince us all to plan a ‘family vacation' to Santa Claus, Indiana?” Known as one of the most Christmasy landmarks in the nation, the famous town filled with passionate Santa fanatics draws in more than one million visitors per year. Each local shop and every single street has a Christmas-themed name (Blitzen Boulevard, Comet's Café, and Rudolph's R.V. Resort), and at its annual “Land of Lights,” all of the residents of the eight-hundred-house neighborhood decorate their homes with over-the-top light displays in what equates to an epic, 1.2-mile-long, brilliantly blinking holiday adventure. No question about it, the people of Santa Claus, Indiana, love Christmas all year long. Jolly ol' Saint Nick has taken over their lives, and it is a spectacle not to be missed. At least, as far as Clara had been concerned.

“Yeah, well . . . a lot's changed since then,” Clara replied in an emotionless tone, as if she were part robot. “I don't get why it's so hard to understand why I'm not celebrating this year.”

“Because we're always together as a family on this night,” Leo emphasized, incredulous. “That's why. It's a tradition that's never been broken.
We celebrate Christmas together
. We open presents and gorge ourselves on holiday brunch together at Libby's, and then we revisit the insanity all over again for dinner at Aunt Billie's. Together. That's how our family celebrates.”

“Don't you get it?” Clara hissed, sitting up in bed. “I have nothing to celebrate! And a major part of my family is gone. You have no idea how this feels. I'm sorry to make a scene, but this is really hard for—” Interrupted by her ringing cell phone, she allowed her thought to trail off as she glanced down at the display screen.

Tightening her jaw, Clara turned off her phone and shoved it aside on her bed.

Leo's eyebrows pulled together. “Let me guess. That was Todd again?”

Clara's eyes squeezed shut as she exhaled. “Please don't say his name. That man's relentless.” Consumed with guilt and shame over sleeping with him, she had been ignoring his calls for the past few weeks, praying the persistent piano tuner would finally take a hint and just leave her alone already. “And for the record, I am not proud of the way I'm behaving toward him.”

“Then why don't you at least speak to the guy?”

“Because just
thinking
about him makes my stomach turn.” Clara shook her head. “I know it's weak—I know
I'm
weak . . . But I just . . . I—I can't deal with him right now. I really can't. My life is complicated enough as it is.
He's
not the one who matters to me.”

Leo directed his gaze down toward Clara's pink carpet. He weighed each word before he spoke it. “I know that,” he began in a tender voice. “And I know how badly you miss Sebastian. I don't blame you. But the truth—”

“Look, Leo,” Clara interrupted, her tormented tone low and gruff, “I do not want to discuss this right now. The last thing I feel is
merry,
and I have no desire to be around people. So please don't make this any harder for me than it already is. I'd rather not ruin your holiday too. Okay?”

Based on Leo's unhappy face, it was anything but okay. “Well, perhaps after you partake of Aunt Billie's super-strength eggnog you won't feel quite so miserable.”

Clara rolled her eyes, not at all surprised that her brother was putting up a strong fight. “I'm sorry and I love you. But my mind's made up.” Hoping he'd get the point, she turned off the light on her bedside table. Then, as slyly as possible, she slipped her pink cashmere mittens beneath her pillow, hoping that her brother hadn't noticed them.

“All right. You've left me no choice,” Leo declared, raising his arms in the dark air. “I was saving this for my closing argument, but . . . Do you
really
want to miss out on seeing Aunt Billie's Christmas sweater? Word on the street is it requires batteries and blinks at two different speeds.” Wiggling his eyebrows up and down, he smiled at his sister, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

But Clara failed to crack a grin. “Jesus! I SAID
NO
, LEO!” she snapped loudly, her fists clenched. “Leave me the hell alone about it!”

Leo stiffened. Unaccustomed to being shouted at by his sister, he looked like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, he remained at a loss for words.

“JUST GO!” Clara added in a nasty tone, taking advantage of his stunned silence, glaring at him. “GET OUT!”

“Fine.” Leo swallowed hard. “Merry Christmas.” With an anguished expression, he slipped out of Clara's bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him.

Clara hated hurting her brother—the most important person in her life—especially on the holiday that had always meant so much to them both in the past. But he'd left her with no other option. She knew damn well that in order to persuade Leo to leave her alone on Christmas she'd have to push him over the edge by mistreating him in a truly offensive manner. Even if doing so felt unnatural and wrong. Even if it pained her more than it did him.

Grief-stricken (for multiple reasons), she decided that she would apologize to him about it first thing in the morning. She just prayed that he'd find it in his heart to forgive her nasty selfishness. Not to mention her pathetic inability to cope.

Clara waited until she heard Libby's car back out of the driveway to allow herself to break down in tears. Sobbing uncontrollably, longing for Sebastian—and for the aching emptiness in her chest to disappear—she removed the pink mittens from under her pillow. Clutching them to her face, she curled up into a tight ball, closed her eyes, and hoped that sleep would come soon.

 

January

 

16.

A
fter accepting all
three
of Clara's humble, heartfelt apologies for ruining his Christmas, Leo had accompanied her to take a look at Judge Bennett's available apartment in the city. Upon being in the bright, open space for all of thirty seconds, Clara concluded it would suit her temporary needs just fine. Alas, it's not as if she was a picky renter, or envisioned a specific mental image of “home.” No. That had been obliterated long ago. It was a quiet place of her own, and that was all that mattered for now.

As her brother had anticipated, the judge cut Clara a generous deal on the monthly rent in exchange for her assurance that she'd keep the one-bedroom condo tidy and looking “happily lived in” for prospective buyers. To this effect, he left behind an empty dresser, two folding chairs, and a Ping-Pong table for Clara to use. “Really, what more do you need than a Ping-Pong table?” Leo had teased on the elevator ride down from the seventeenth floor to the building's elegant, walnut-hued lobby. “Bed, shmed . . .”

Libby, a self-proclaimed “sentimental pack-rat,” had a bunch of items stored in her basement that she was delighted to unload on Clara, including an old, brown corduroy sofa, a full-size bed—which was smaller than Clara was accustomed to, but she had no problem accepting—and a colossal assortment of kitchen supplies. “I appreciate the offer, but I have no need for a collection of fancy butter molds or a hand-operated meat grinder,” Clara tried to convince her mother.

“Take them. Trust me, you
never
know,” Libby adamantly insisted. “And Leo says you have plenty of space in that lovely new kitchen.”

“Is there anything else you want me to load into the U-Haul?” Leo shouted from the top of the basement staircase. He had offered to help Clara move in on the first Saturday of the month since he didn't have court that day.

“Take this.” Libby thrust a clunky, homemade ice cream maker into her daughter's arms.

“Oh gosh, I don't even own a table. I don't think I'll use this. Let me remind you, I have an agenda here. I really don't plan on spending much time in the kitch—”

“Take it!”
interrupted Libby.

“Yes, ma'am!” Clara realized there was no use in arguing with her stubborn mother. Especially when she was holding a cleaver, which she'd received as a wedding gift many moons ago and never used.

Lugging her heavy box of impractical kitchenware, Clara discovered Leo sitting at the dining room table in front of a wrapped present with her name on it. “What's that?” she inquired, surprised.

“A little housewarming gift I picked up for you. Nothing major. Just something I figured you'd probably need.”

Taking a seat, Clara lifted the present. “Leo, you did not have to do this. Especially after how horrid I've been acting lately. You've done way more than enough for me already. I doubt I'm even gonna be in this apartment for very long.”

“It's not a big deal. And for the last time, I have no hard feelings about Christmas. But if you bring it up again, I might have to change my mind.” He smiled at her. “Open it.”

“I can't believe you.” Obliging, Clara tore off a small corner of wrapping paper. She peeked inside and grinned. “You did
not . . .”

Smirking, Leo reminded her, “Hey, it's on your time capsule list.”

“Oh dear. I'm warning you, I'm gonna be rusty. I haven't played this in about twenty-five years.”

“Like I have? The last time we played was probably together. Jeez, already with the excuses.”

“Know what? You may have always won in the past, but I think the tide is about to turn.” Clara ripped off the rest of the wrapping paper, revealing her brand-new, cellophane-sealed game recommended for “children” age three and up. “It's official,” she declared, tapping the box, causing the cards inside to rattle. “The Memory battle is
on
.” Finding matching picture pairs on a commonly shared board of hidden cards had never been her strong suit; however, sooner or later, she was going to cross
Beat Leo at Memory
off her list. Oh yes, she was.

“Dare to dream,” he challenged. “And get ready for some serious card-flipping action.”

It was getting late in the afternoon and they were just about to leave for the city when the telephone rang.

“It's for you.” Libby handed Clara the receiver.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“He didn't say.”

“No
,” Clara mouthed, crisscrossing her arms in front of her body. “I told you, I do not want to talk to Todd.
Please
.”

“It's not Todd.” Libby rolled her eyes, disapprovingly. “And I don't see why you insist on avoiding him like this. I cannot keep making excuses for you when he calls. You're putting me in a very awkward position.”

To Clara's dismay, Todd still had not given up on attempting to reach her. In a recent, rather long-winded message he'd left on her voicemail, he said he had something “important” that he “needed” to tell her. In a subsequent message, he stressed that what he had to let her know “would not take long at all,” and he hoped to hear back from her “
soon
, please.” When he didn't, he resorted to calling her on Libby's main line at the house, which Clara never answered.

“Well, then, who is it? Mr. Franklin?” Clara hadn't spoken with her boss since she left for the Midwest, and she didn't have the energy to feign a sunny front and play “catch up” at the moment. She knew he would be dissecting her tone and every word, judging how “well” or “unwell” she sounded. Then he'd probably report everything back to all of the other Scuppernong associates, who, having nothing better to do, would gossip about her at the water cooler, just as they'd done with “Psycho Erin M.,” who showed up to work one day in the midst of a nervous breakdown wearing cardboard 3-D glasses and carrying a lasso. Waving Libby away, Clara begged her to take a message. “
Please
just do it
. . .”

“He sounds younger than The Beer King. Will you stop behaving like a baby and answer it?” Libby forced the phone into her resistant daughter's closed fist.

Pursing her lips, Clara un-pressed the “mute” button as she rose and trudged defiantly toward the music room. “Hello?”

The last thing she ever expected to hear was the voice waiting on the other end of the line.

“Clara?”

“Yes?”

The man cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. This is Lincoln Foster.”