Once Upon a List (8 page)

Clara forced an artificial smile, assuring him she was fine.

Todd, however, did not appear convinced. “I know your head is like metal, but I think I might feel better if I could check up on you to make sure you're not just trying to set me at ease by
claiming
to be all right.” Raising his chin and grinning at Clara, he eyed her skeptically. “By any chance would you happen to be free for dinner tomorrow night?”

“No, I'm taking a class in the city on gingerbread architecture that lasts until early evening. It's advanced.” Distracted, Clara scanned the foyer for Milk Dud. “And I'm meeting my brother afterward.”

Libby gave her an inconspicuous nudge.

“Fair enough,” Todd said, nodding. “That sounds like fun. How about next Friday then?”

“Is Milk Dud asleep? Where's he hiding?” Clara asked her mother, calling, “Here boy!
Milk Dud!”

Suddenly, she froze.

It dawned on her, better late than never, that Todd had just asked her out. On a date.
A date!
Clara hadn't gone out with another man since before Sebastian, and she wasn't about to set her sights on her mother's Sears catalogue-modeling piano tuner. Sorry, no way. Think again.

But then something most peculiar happened. Out of nowhere, her favorite Walt Whitman poem, “The Untold Want,” invaded her brain.
The untold want, by life and land ne'er granted, Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find . . .
It had been a long, long time since Clara last pondered these familiar verses, which she'd studied as an English major during college. And she'd all but forgotten that when she was starting out in the “real world” after graduation, and then embarking on her new life with Sebastian, they had served as a powerful source of inspiration, reminding her that she was responsible for her own fate. If ever there was a time to re-embrace this theory, it was now, Clara realized, wondering if it was her imagination, or if Todd's front tooth really did just sparkle. Alas, it couldn't hurt to give the man a few hours for one meal, she decided. It's not as if she was agreeing to pick out china patterns. Plus, she could always cancel if she changed her mind. Though it scared her, Clara knew what she had to do.

“Actually?” She tucked her hair behind her ear, taking a deep breath. “I . . . think I am available next Friday.”

“Great,” said a smiling Todd. “How about I pick you up around seven o'clock?”

“Sure,” she muttered, still considering “The Untold Want.”

•
Replace Lincoln's mom's beautiful vase I broke

 

11.

“T
he power of gingerbread should never be underestimated. Gingerbread is
more
than a cookie,” Alfred Guillaume, standing behind a long, stainless steel countertop in the Cooking and Hospitality Institute of Chicago's test kitchen, dramatically declared in his thick French accent. “It is more than a lavish ornament. Gingerbread is
art
! It is a feeling inside here,” he said, touching his heart, bowing his head. “Do you understand what I am saying? Do you
feel
what I say?”

Chef Guillaume's students, transfixed, with eyes open wide and pencils furiously jotting down notes, nodded at the
Time
magazine-dubbed “culinary God” as if he were preaching the gospel and they, his loyal disciples, could not get enough.

“It takes skill and the ability to follow instruction to bake a cookie. It takes
talent
,
passion,
and
soul
to
create
gingerbread architecture. I'm pleased to see you all brought your aprons today, because we will be getting messy on our journey to gingerbread land!” Bursting with enthusiasm, he plunged both hands into a giant mound of flour before him and then wiped them on his traditional chef uniform, laughing like a loon as tiny specks of white sprinkled his mustache. “We must not be afraid to get dirty on our delicious voyage together! And now, everybody up,
s'il vous plaît!
Up, up, up!
Un, deux, trois!”
He clapped his hands, signaling for the class to rise. “Let the gingerbread guide us!”

“L
et the gingerbread guide us?”
echoed Leo when Clara finished recounting the eccentric celebrity chef's wild introduction to the class. “I don't believe you. You're making this up,” he said with a chuckle, turning the glass of Scuppernong Winter Ale in his hand.

“I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried,” Clara assured him. “Chef Guillaume's more than a few buns short of a baker's dozen, but the man's a genius. In my life I have never seen gingerbread structures this intricate before. I still can't believe I actually built one myself. Of course, it's far from perfect. But it's not as bad as I thought it might be
.
”

“I know it's become a challenge lately for you to enjoy anything positive or give yourself credit, but you
do
realize it's not a sin to have expectations, don't you?”

Clara picked up her glass of Merlot. “I'll show it to you after dinner. It's in my car.”

“I'm sure it's outstanding.” Leo grinned. “I'm glad you had fun. I had a feeling you would.”

“I'm
glad you were able to take a night off from prepping for your court case. Nice call to meet here. Despite all of these damn Christmas decorations everywhere.” Clara rolled her eyes. It had been over a year since she and Leo last dined at a restaurant together, and she was especially pleased to be at one of their old favorites, Willie's, a classic Italian steakhouse near the famous Chicago Water Tower, which she'd always fancied due to its unique history. No matter how many times she strolled past the distinguished, Gothic Revival–style landmark, she couldn't resist giving its yellowing limestone a quick pat hello, and it never ceased to amaze her that although all of the city's other public buildings had perished in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, this one, lone structure had managed to persevere. Somehow, through unfathomable devastation, it survived. The rare monument, now aglow with twinkling white holiday lights, had come to symbolize Chicago's fierce drive to continue. And in Clara's mind, it was the picture of beauty.

“Well, Ebenezer, I know how much you love this part of town,” Leo replied.

Picking at her baked rigatoni and meatballs, Clara described the other students in the class, including a large woman named Svetlana who accidentally dropped her gingerbread “jailhouse” on the floor and cried like a baby, and how Chef Guillaume not only autographed Clara's copy of
C Is for Cookie, Bitch!,
but also wrote a thoughtful note in which he referred to her as “My darling Claire.” People had mistakenly been calling her “Claire” her entire life. It used to drive her bananas, but such trivialities no longer even registered on her radar. Clara, Sara, Tara, Tyrone . . . Did it really matter?

When the subject of gingerbread had at last been exhausted, Clara briefed Leo on her time capsule list progress. Showing him several photographs of Milk Dud, she mentioned that she'd stopped at the post office on her way downtown to mail Mrs. Foster's vase, and then oh-so-casually spilled the beans about her upcoming date with Todd, quickly adding, “I'm debating if I should order another glass of wine or switch to Scuppernong.”

Leo put down his steak knife, a look of amusement covering his face. “
Todd
Todd? You mean, piano tuner
I'm-a-suave-Sears-model
Todd?”

Clara nodded.

“That's great news,” he said without a trace of insincerity. He resumed eating. “Todd seems like a good guy.”

Clara was surprised when Leo left the teasing at that and didn't bombard her with questions. She suspected her brother was making a careful effort not to cross the line on such a sensitive subject as dating. His internal moral barometer had always been properly calibrated when it came to pushing her too far, especially lately. Still, for some reason Clara felt the need to spell out her stand on the issue, as if Sebastian was sitting right there with them. And for all intents and purposes, he was. “Trust me, I have no interest in dating Todd, or anyone for that matter. It's just too soon.
Way
too soon . . .” She picked at something on the table with her finger. Then she stopped picking. “But when he asked me to dinner, all—and I mean
all
—I could think about was ‘The Untold Want'—”

“You mean that poem you used to be obsessed with?”

“Exactly.” Clara held her fork in midair and looked at him. “I could not get it out of my head, Leo. It was the strangest thing. And then it made me realize, maybe now is not the best time to be rejecting new opportunities and experiences.”

“I couldn't agree more. I'll have you know you're impressing me here.”

“So, I was thinking that as long as I really am doing this time capsule thing, then
perhaps
it might not hurt to adopt a
‘Now, Voyager'
type of attitude in tandem. Know what I mean?
‘Sail thou forth, to seek and find'?”
She took a small bite of meatball. “It's not like I have anything to lose.”

“I think it's a brilliant idea.” Obviously pleased, Leo extended his bottle of Scuppernong and clinked it against Clara's glass. “Feliz navi-
Todd
!”

“Oh, I knew you had more in you!”

After Leo stopped chuckling and the waitress had cleared their empty plates, he put his hands behind his neck and leaned on the back legs of his chair. “I have an idea I've been meaning to run by you.”

“Shoot . . .”

“A judge I know, terrific man—Judge Bennett's his name—he's relocating to San Diego for work after the first of the year. His condo's been on the market for the last six months, and so far there have been no takers. Now he's in a real jam because irrespective of whether the place sells, he has to be in California sitting behind that bench come the first week of January.”

Clara twirled the ice in her water glass. “I think I see where this is going . . .”

“It's a one-bedroom unit in a luxury high-rise overlooking Lake Michigan. You couldn't ask for a better neighborhood.” Leo watched his sister's expression closely. “If you're interested in checking it out, it could be a nice, short-term living situation. And it would be helping the judge out, so I presume he'd offer you a good deal. The only thing is, it still won't be cheap, and in the event that the place sells, you'll have to vacate immediately. Oh! And it comes unfurnished, so you'd probably need to buy a few things.”

“Does the building allow dogs?”

“Affirmative. The judge has a Maltese.”

Pondering it, Clara stared behind the restaurant's tinsel-adorned bar at the automated Santa Claus waving from his flying sleigh. Rocking his head back and forth as he laughed and waved . . . laughed and waved . . . laughed and waved . . . he seemed to be egging her on in an almost sinister fashion. Clara shifted her focus to her lap. Her sabbatical was not paid, which was fine with her. Still, money wasn't an issue, thanks to Sebastian's sizable life insurance policy. So far, she'd refused to touch a penny of it, for in her mind there was a direct correlation between accepting the money and moving on, farther and farther away from him. Not only did she want nothing to do with the money, the thought of it actually sickened her. However, the concept of continuing to lodge with Libby in her time warp bedroom brimming with the spirit of Swayze was also unappealing. After spending too long together, Clara and her mother had a tendency to clash like mayonnaise and sunshine, and she viewed finding her own Chicago digs as a necessary preemptive strike. Plus, she'd been in town less than a week and already yearned for the privacy and independence she'd long been accustomed to. Alas, sooner or later, she was going to have to dip into those forbidden funds. It was inevitable. And she knew it.

“Okay.” Clara nodded solemnly at Leo, still staring down at her lap. “I guess I'll take a look at it, if possible.”

“Done. I'll make arrangements with the judge.”

Clara hugged her thin arms and began running her hands up and down them. She sighed. Her voice was quiet and low. “Thanks for keeping your eye out for me.”

Aware of her stand on the insurance money, Leo crumpled his napkin into a ball and tossed it at her face, softly adding as it bounced of her nose, “It's all gonna be okay.”

Somehow, when it was her brother saying these words, Clara almost believed it.
Almost.

After paying the bill, Leo walked her to her car. She commanded him to close his eyes while she carefully removed her gingerbread creation from its protective box and positioned it on the backseat. “Hold on two more seconds. I just want to get it angled right for you.”

When she was finally ready for the big reveal, she invited him to take a gander. “Okay. You can open your eyes now.”

“Whoa . . .”
Leo stared at it for a minute, awestruck, while Clara held her breath. “Are you serious? You made that?”

Sticking her hands in her coat pockets, Clara nodded, the frosty night air blowing her hair back. “Guilty as charged.”

“Wow, Clara. I don't know what to say. It's . . . it's amazing! It's the
WATER TOWER
!” Leo glanced behind him at the actual landmark down the block. “It looks
exactly
like the real thing! Only much tastier,” he gushed, gently touching the green gumdrop wreath hanging from a red licorice ribbon on the nougat door as if he were feeling the tender spot on a newborn's head. “Jesus. I'm blown away.”

“Thank you.” Clara's cheeks grew pink. It had been ages since she'd blushed with any emotion. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she actually felt proud of herself. And it made her smile.

•
Build a gingerbread house from scratch (no dumb farty kits allowed!) (and who cares if it's messy! BESIDES LIBBY!)