Chapter Eleven
Clara held a book in each hand—in her left, a big, shiny paperback entitled Training for Your First 5K; in her right, the memoir of an Olympic rower turned rowing coach. The box of books had just arrived, new releases to refill their depleted sports shelves, picked thin now the warm weather triggered so many athletic ambitions.
“This is just weird,” she said aloud. She’d just cut open the carton to find these two volumes on top of the pile.
“What’s weird, Clara?” Margot’s voice came from the other side of the bookshelf.
“Oh, just an odd coincidence.” Clara hefted each book in turn. Both were attractive, with glossy photos of handsome athletes on the covers. The paperback about running was flexible, lightweight, and less expensive. The hardback memoir cost more but offered more substance. She flipped through the pages and stopped at a photo of a muscular rower caught with his body arched backward, straining against the oars, eyes shut, face turned to the sky, as if caught in a moment of passion.
“Someone’s trying to tell me something.” She slid both books onto the shelf.
Margot peeped around the end of the aisle. “My grandmother is a psychic. She says there’s no such thing as coincidence.” She waggled her pierced eyebrows, then withdrew.
Well then, what kind of read do I want? Quick and easy, or long and deep? Clara giggled and returned to her carton of books.
A moment later, the brass bell over the doorway tinkled.
“Got it,” Margot called, and scooted toward the front counter. A moment later she called out, “Clara, visitor.”
Clara closed her eyes and blew out a quick breath, like a track athlete about to sprint. She’d dressed with care, knowing Nick might stop by. She tugged on the hem of her blouse, then changed her mind and tucked it into her jeans, fluffed her hair with her fingers, rotated her shoulders, and finally stepped out of the aisle.
“Hey there.” Doug sprung up from the worn armchair near the front window. Her shoulders relaxed at the sight of his crooked smile. It reminded her of a bashful teenager’s, but his broad shoulders and the shadow of beard across his strong jaw were very grown up indeed. Today he was dressed for work in crisp chinos, a striped Oxford-cloth shirt, and a tie printed with running shoes. Cute.
“Well, hello, Doug. Good to see you again.” She checked her watch. “Weren’t we meeting at six?”
He straightened his tie. “I’m playing hooky.”
Clara arched an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard of a teacher cutting class.”
“It’s my planning period, so I cut out early. Anyway, I just got my teaching assignment for next year: world history. The textbook is pretty dry, so I’m looking for inspiration. We start with the Ancient Sumerians.”
“Sumerians? Weren’t they the ones with the curly beards and the winged lions?”
“Yup. They even put curly beards on the winged lions. Big fans of the curly beards.”
As Clara led him back to the history aisle, she scanned her memory. Did they have any books on Ancient Sumerian art behind the red door? The thought aroused a tingle between her thighs, but it was Nick, not Doug, she imagined helping her search for erotic images from long, long ago. She blew out a long breath and forced her focus back to the present moment.
“I like the way you use art to label the different sections of your shop,” Doug said as they made their way toward the back of the shop. He pointed up at the reclining nude above the red door. What’s in that room, art books?”
Clara’s heart leapt into her throat. She fought hard to keep her voice steady, her tone casual. “Oh, that’s our erotica collection. It’s mostly art books, yes, and some literature, some history.”
Doug whistled. His facial expression remained a mystery because she couldn’t force herself to look at him until they were safely past the erotica collection. Fortunately, he didn’t ask for a peek inside.
“Let’s see, lots of photos in this one.” She reached up to the top shelf for a heavy volume entitled Art Treasures of the Fertile Crescent. It nearly slipped from her fingers, but Doug lurched and caught it. In doing so, he ended up with his chest nearly touching her face. He smelled nice, like Irish Spring soap, her father’s favorite. He held the book above her head for a moment. It would be so easy to reach up, wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. Easy, but not too tempting. Not yet.
“Dangerous work environment.” Doug grinned and stepped back. “Maybe you should wear a helmet.”
“Probably no more dangerous than teaching high school.”
“Naw, our kids are good. It’s the parents I’m scared of.” He carried the book to the low table at the front of the shop and gracefully lowered his long body onto an armchair. “Do you have a minute?”
She glanced around; Margot leaned on the counter, chatting with the only other customer in the shop.
“Why not? Leafing through the books is the best perk of working here.” She scooted a low stool next to him and leaned her elbow on the arm of his chair. How cozy, sitting there together, warmed by the afternoon sun.
He leafed slowly, pointing to the photos. “Curly beard.” Flip. “More curly beards.” Flip. “Bull with a curly beard.”
“Maybe your students can make curly beards out of construction paper?”
“Cute idea. Good photo for the yearbook.” Doug flipped the book closed, peered at the price tag on the back, and whistled.
“Yeah, sorry. Those big coffee table books are expensive.”
“Tell you what, I’ll ask my department chair if we can order it for the library. It’s a beautiful book.”
The sudden reminder of Nick made her shiver.
Doug shifted in his chair and fixed her with his warm blue eyes, crinkled into smile lines at the outer corners. “So, how are your legs after Saturday’s run?”
“Not as bad as I expected, but a little sore. The Epsom salts helped.”
“Stretching helps, too, and getting back on the horse.”
“The horse?”
“Going for another run.”
“Oh, I did. Yesterday morning, in the park.”
“Lucky you,” he said with a wry grin. “I was leading a unit review, not that anyone paid attention.”
“Just one more week of classes, right? Anyway, I’d better get back to it. But I’m looking forward to tonight.”
“Me too.” He stood, then reached down for her hand and tugged her to her feet. Much to her surprise, he pulled her against his chest. She turned her head at the last second to avoid stabbing him with her chin.
“I’m a hugger,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
She stammered, startled but not displeased by the sudden contact. “Right. See you at six, then.”
He released her just as the doorbell tinkled, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Doug turned and loped out, sidestepping around the dark-haired man who stood beside the entrance, his brow furrowed.
Nick.
He squinted at Doug’s retreating back, his full lips clamped together. His ribcage expanded in a deep breath, then he ran his fingers through his shiny black curls before turning to face her. His tight expression softened into a smile.
Compared to their usual outdoorsy Northwestern customers, Nick was a fashion plate. His silky dress shirt skimmed his muscular chest and shoulders, and his soft wool slacks clung to the curve of his powerful thighs. Realizing her gaze had drifted down into the danger zone, Clara forced her eyes upward. With his dark complexion it was hard to tell, but she had the distinct impression he was blushing. She definitely was.
“Nick. So good to see you again,” she squeaked, then cleared her throat. “What brings you here?”
He tilted his head, and one perfect curl flopped onto his forehead. “You asked me to come by, remember?”
Her fingers flew to her mouth. “Oh, right, I did.”
“Did I come at a bad time?” He threw another glance over his shoulder in the direction Doug had gone.
“Oh, no, no. This is a great time.” She called to Margot, “I’m going for coffee. Can I bring you one?”
Margot flashed a wide grin. “Nope. I’m good. You go on. No hurry. I’ll just—” She picked up a rag from beneath the counter. “I’ll dust the books.”
“Right.” Clara tilted her head and regarded her assistant. Apparently, Nick had a similar effect on her as well.
“Do you have time for a coffee?” she asked Nick.
“I’m at your disposal, dear lady.” He crooked his arm and waited. She took it, enjoying his solid muscles beneath her hand, and let him lead her to the café next door.
“My, my, you two are becoming regulars,” Arnie sang out as they passed the counter. “What’s this, the third date?”
Nick gracefully ignored Arnie’s comment and ordered their coffees. Clara sat in one of the squishy armchairs by the fireplace. Nick joined her carrying a tray laden with three muffins.
“Just in case you care to crumble one again.” He helped himself, took a bite, and moaned. “So good.”
Startled by the rawness of his voice, Clara very nearly did crumble her muffin.
Nick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So. Was that your new boyfriend?”
She blinked at him, her mind momentarily blank.
“The guy who hugged you?”
“Oh! Oh, that’s Doug. He’s just…I sort of joined his running club, his and Harry’s.”
“Mmm hmm.” Nick raised one eyebrow.
“Harry’s my clerk. And my friend.”
“Mmm hmm.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Itchy under his scrutiny, she continued to babble. “You could come run with us if you like. On Saturday morning. It’s fun…”
“It’s okay.” He laid his warn, heavy hand over hers. “I’ll stick to the water. Anyway, you wanted to ask me something?”
“Oh…”
Now that her moment had arrived, her courage flagged. But he held onto her hand, and his gentle gaze invited her to continue.
“I wanted to ask you, because you’ve been there…”
He nodded, waiting.
“It’s coming soon, the anniversary, and I don’t know how to get through it.”
“Your wedding anniversary?”
“No, the day Jared…”
“Oh.” Nick released her hand, fisted his napkin, and stared into the distance for a long moment.
“Nick, if you don’t want to talk about this—”
“No, I do. I mean, I wish I had someone to talk to when the first anniversary of Diana’s death rolled around. You won’t believe me, but it caught me by surprise. I kept myself so busy with work and rowing and I just…I guess I was in denial about the date.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his shirt stretched tight over his broad back.
She was hurting him, forcing him to talk about his own hardest moments. She reached out a tentative hand, pulled it back, then swallowed hard and laid her palm on his shoulder. “Nick, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” He sat up and took both her hands in his. “I said you can always talk to me, and I meant it.”
“So, any advice? Because frankly, I’m terrified. I mean, I’m sure it’ll get better eventually, someday, but how do I handle June twentieth?”
Eyes narrowed, he gazed at her for a long moment before answering. “Okay, here’s what I suggest. Have a picnic.”
“Huh?” Was he joking? This was a lousy time for humor.
“The park where we met is a pretty place. Did you and Jared go there?”
“Sometimes.”
“What did he like to eat?”
“Umm…fried chicken.” To her astonishment, she found herself smiling. “He rode so many hours on his bike, he could pretty much eat anything he wanted.”
“All right then. Get some fried chicken, the best in town. Pack a blanket, maybe a journal. You have one of those?”
She nodded. She’d tried writing out her churning emotions in the first weeks after Jared’s death, but journaling only magnified her shock and pain. Instead, she’d kept herself busy in the bookshop in an effort to keep her mind off her grief.
“So, I should go have a picnic…alone?”
“No, with Jared.”
Stung, she pulled her hands from his. “Nick, that’s not funny.”
He leaned in, forcing her to gaze right into his eyes—his dark, liquid eyes with their shimmering flecks of gold. “Clara, I’m serious. Look, you talk to him, right?”
“Right…” She hadn’t admitted that to anyone. “Do you talk to your wife?”
“Diana? Yes. Often.” He reached for his now-cold coffee, took a sip, grimaced. “Some might find it odd, but I know she hears me, somehow.”
“Does she answer you?”
A slow smile spread across his lips. “In her way, yes, she answers me.” He huffed a little burst of laughter. “You know, Clara, you’re the first person I’ve ever admitted that to. I talk to my dead wife. Does that make me crazy?”
“I don’t think so.” Clara reached for his hand. Fingers entwined, they sat together in silence for a long moment.
Finally, Arnie the barista sauntered over with a hot pot of coffee and two fresh cups. “Really, y’all, I appreciate the business, but don’t come over here just to mope and let your coffee get cold. You’re depressing the other customers.” He poured their refills, then sashayed back to the counter, clucking his tongue.
Clara blew on her steaming cup. “So, you think I should, what, spend the day with Jared?”
“Exactly. Talk to him, sing to him, write him a letter, draw his picture, take a walk with him.” He reached for her hand again and, to Clara’s astonishment, pressed her fingers to his lips before continuing. “If Jared could have one wish, it would be for another day with you.”
Clara’s breath caught, and then a ragged cry burst from her chest, sharp as broken glass. She hid her face in her napkin and curled forward, quaking with sobs. Nick’s hand traced soft circles on her back. Even through her shuddering moans, she relished that warm, human contact. He understood.
Wordlessly, he handed her more napkins. When she’d caught her breath and mopped up the worst of the damage, she slowly straightened up.
Nick’s voice lowered to a soft rumble. “You know, Clara, my experience was different from yours. Diana died from cancer. We had those final months to talk through our good-byes. We said…” He trailed off, turned away. “We said so many things to each other. You never got that chance. You still have a lot to say to Jared.”
His message slowly sunk in. She’d been so focused on the pain of talking about Jared, about what could have been, should have been. Talking to Jared would be so much easier.
She sniffled and then squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Nick.”
“My pleasure, dear lady, my pleasure.” He released her hand and sipped his coffee. “And now, I want to ask a favor of you.”
“Of course.”
“I’m hosting a little get-together on Wednesday at my place.”
“In Berkeley?”
“No, the place where I’m staying, near the campus. It’ll be low-key, just a handful of colleagues and their significant others. Wine, snacks, small talk.”
“A professor party?”
He sighed. “Sounds dull, right? But Leo will be there, and the other cultural anthropologists who came down for our ‘professional conference.’ ” His fingers hooked into air quotes. “Anyway, I’d love it if you’d join us. Leo’s told a couple people in his department about your special collection.”
Clara reflected a moment. It did sound dull—except for the part where she got to spend more time with Nick. “Sure, I’d love to come.”
“Marvelous! Here’s the address.” He pulled a pen scribbled on the back of another business card. “Just two blocks from the campus library. Any time after seven.”
“Can I bring anything?”
“Just your lovely self. The woman I’m staying with is a marvelous cook.”
He was staying with a woman? For a moment, Clara wondered if she’d misread his intentions. She’d been so sure he was flirting with her, but perhaps that was just his way—one of those charming guys who flirts with little girls and old ladies and every female in between. Then again, his reaction in the park suggested otherwise.
“Anyway, thanks very much for listening, Nick. It’s so good to talk to someone who understands. But now, I’d better get back to work. I have—”
“A date with the skinny bald guy?”
Her jaw dropped.
“Hey, if he didn’t ask you out, he’s a fool.” He pushed himself up from his chair. “Have fun tonight, lovely Clara. If you change your mind about tomorrow, you have my number.”
She nodded.
“I hope you won’t change your mind, though.” One last lingering glance, and he strode through the door.
She watched the smooth motion of his muscular body until it disappeared from view. Suddenly, a dull cocktail party never sounded so good.
****
Nick sat for a moment behind the wheel of his Karmann Ghia and watched Clara stroll back to her shop. Her slim hips swayed deliciously, and the wind lifted her hair. But she kept her arms crossed over her bosom, as if protecting her center.
He’d answered her summons in hopes of a bit of flirtation, maybe more if he was lucky. But he hadn’t expected this. He felt…He swiped his hand down his face.
Wrung out, that’s how he felt. Two years after losing Diana, it still cost him dearly to talk about the horrible months after her death. And so he seldom did.
But talking with Clara left him feeling lighter, too. She understood—or at least she was on her way to understanding—the process of grieving a great love. They were walking the same path, though she lagged several steps behind. And what he wanted now, more than anything, was her company on the journey.
He rubbed his hand, remembering the soft warmth of her palm in his. Sure, he was attracted to her—very, very attracted to her. Any healthy man would be. What surprised him was his need to comfort her, and how much he dreaded his return to Berkeley. Just eleven more days until his summer seminar.
But Berkeley wasn’t the far side of the moon, and his family lived up here in Oregon. He’d be back soon.
Careful. Go slow. Don’t scare her off.
The strong magnetism between them was undeniable. It shone in her eyes, sizzled in her gentle kiss on his cheek—but another show of lust like the day before might send her skittering away, never to return. Clara’s heart was still fragile. He knew well just how fragile.
In the months after Diana’s death, friends and family urged him to talk through his grief, but after watching Diana waste away to a silent, bony shadow, he just didn’t have the energy.
Nick remembered how his sister came down from Oregon to drag him to a grief group, held his hand as they perched on hard folding chairs in a church basement, listening to sobs and moans and yells and whispers about how unfair it all was. And when everyone in the circle had spoken, when it was his turn to bare his aching soul to those strangers, he just couldn’t. Even with Calista by his side, he couldn’t say a word.
So his brave, beautiful older sister unburdened her heart while Nick sat there stoically, listening to her regrets about how she’d never be an aunt now, never hold his child in her arms.
“It is what it is,” he said aloud. Diana was gone, until they met again someday in the great whatever-comes-next.
But Clara was here. Clara with her sea-green eyes, her blushing freckled cheeks, her shy but knowing smile, with her collection of erotic books locked away, like her locked-away heart. If she gave him a chance, he’d stand beside her while she opened the door.