Chapter Thirty
“Clara, wait!”
She ignored Nick’s ragged pleading and fled back into her shop. Red-faced and weeping, she ran straight to the restroom and slammed the door behind her. The cold water she splashed on her face removed what was left of her mascara. Just as well. Most of it had melted into vertical stripes on her cheeks. She planted her hands on the sink’s rim and stared into the mirror, willing her brow to uncrumple, her chin to stop trembling, her nose to stop running. Eventually, they did.
When she emerged, Margot, Harry, several customers, and even the cat stared at her.
Great.
She threw a quick glance at the front window, grateful to see Nick had moved on, then waved to the assembly. “I’m okay.”
Before their attention brought on another flood of tears, she quick-stepped to the shelter of the screen, dropped into her chair, and rested her throbbing head in her hands.
It was Harry who finally joined her and oh-so-softly laid his hand on her shoulder. He said nothing, just waited for her, with her.
“I wish you were thirty years younger, Harry.” She sniffed into a tissue.
He chuckled and rubbed her back. “Why, darlin’?”
“Because you’re sweet, and understanding, and patient.” She grinned up at him. “And good-looking.”
“Well, I thank you for the compliment, but I should tell you I’m seeing someone.”
“Of course you are.” She sighed. “Women must be pounding on your door day and night.”
“Not exactly.” He pulled up a folding chair and sat beside her, stretching out his long, bony legs. “Besides, I don’t need women, just one special woman.”
“And have you found her, Harry?”
He raised one wiry white eyebrow. “I think so. Maybe. Probably. Time will tell. So, your professor is back.”
She pushed herself upright, wiped her nose. “Did you hear?”
“Not much. But you were really angry, eh?”
“You could tell?”
“Your face went bright red. I figured he either proposed or said something to piss you off.”
She didn’t comment but marveled inwardly at Harry’s powers of perception.
Harry crossed his arms. “So, you this mad at Doug, too?”
“No. No. Doug is sweet.”
“But horny, right?”
She rumpled her brow into a question. Was there any part of her business Harry wasn’t privy to?
“I ran into him at Bluebeard Coffee this morning before work. When I asked him how your date went, he went beet-red, just like my favorite boss.”
“Oh. Curse of the fair-skinned, I guess.”
Harry gave her hand another squeeze. “He’s a good guy. It’s none of my business, of course, but I think he’s a much better match for you than Professor Hot-Pants out there.”
“How so?”
Harry pursed his lips for a moment. “Well, first of all, I know him. He’s good-hearted, kind. He hasn’t been out catting around since his wife left him. Plenty of women in the running club would jump at the chance to date him, but he’s been taking his time.”
Guilt twinged behind her forehead. She’d actually had a hand in rushing Doug, though she hadn’t meant to. “You know, Harry, Doug told me his divorce isn’t final yet.”
“Oh? I thought…” He rubbed his chin.
She wasn’t sure whether he was prevaricating or confused, but she let it slide. “Doug’s going to need more time before he’s ready for anything serious.”
“And you too, eh?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Well then, don’t you let those young men rush you.” He slapped his broad hands on his thighs. “Now, I want to talk to you about something else.”
Harry’s blue eyes were solemn, the dark circles beneath more pronounced than she’d ever seen them.
“Maybe it’s time to think about hiring more help, Clara? After all, Jared used to take care of the administrative duties, right? Now it’s all on you.”
At the mention of Jared’s name, she flinched.
“Hey, I’m sorry, kiddo. That was insensitive of me.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re right. I’ve been trying to do the work of two people, and it’s wearing me out. It’s harder on you too.” She swiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “I still miss Jared every day. I guess I will for the rest of my life. And I’ve been clinging to my routine to keep him close.” A fresh tear slid down her cheek. “Guess it’s not working so well.”
“Oh, hey now.” He pulled her against his side, his embrace warm, strong, solid. She was lucky to have a friend like Harry beside her. She’d really come to depend on him, and on Margot. But maybe it was time to branch out. After all, Margot would graduate in another year, and Harry had mentioned how his bucket list included travel to some far-flung places.
“It’s okay. As soon as we finish the renovation, I’ll put up a help-wanted sign. It would be good to find a few more part-timers.”
But how will I pay them?
He patted her back. “Then you can take some time for yourself. I worry about you, Clara. Lately, you seem so preoccupied.”
She gave him a tight-lipped smile.
“I hope I haven’t made things harder for you by introducing you to Doug. You know, it’s okay if you tell me to butt out of your love life. Only you will know when you’re ready.”
“Oh, no. Don’t apologize. Doug’s a sweet guy. And if you hear of any likely candidates for the shop, please let me know.” She squeezed his arm, surprisingly muscular for a guy in his seventies. “You’re a good judge of character, Harry. And thank you for putting in so many hours lately. You’re my rock, you know.”
****
That night, she woke in blackness, her heart thudding, the sweat-clammy sheets snarled around her legs as if she’d been running in her dreams. A nightmare? She couldn’t remember.
She lay there, listening to the chanting of the crickets and the far-off hum of traffic, searching for some fragment of the dream. Finally, her breathing slowed, and she slid back into a half-dozing state. An image swam up: Jared, sitting on a stone wall. He wore cut-offs and flip-flops, and his favorite Portland Triathlon T-shirt. A light wind ruffled his chocolate-brown hair. Everything beyond him remained hazy, indistinct.
Jared cocked his head, smiled at her, reached out his hand. She boosted herself onto the wall beside him, the rough stones scraping against her legs. She gazed into her husband’s eyes, their familiar deep blue twinkling in the sunlight. She stroked his messy dark hair, then leaned with a sigh against his shoulder, solid and warm.
He clasped her hand, his palm against hers as familiar as the sound of her own heartbeat.
“Hard decision, eh?”
She nodded, her eyes closed. The sunlight warmed her back. Somewhere nearby, the surf whispered in, out, in, out.
“Wish I could help you decide.”
“Please help me, Jared. It’s too hard without you.”
He stroked the hair away from her forehead, his touch whisper-soft. “I can’t, babe. But you’ll make the right choice.”
When she opened her eyes again, she was alone on the wall by the sea. Her surroundings came into focus: the little cottage near Cannon Beach where she and Jared spent their last wedding anniversary. Before her was the flagstone patio where they’d drunk cold beer and dined on fresh crab. Jared’s paperback novel lay on the wooden picnic table. But where had he gone? She peered over her shoulder. Far up the beach, a lone figure retreated, fading like a shadow.
She leapt to her feet, reached for him. “Wait! Talk to me!”
The shadow turned. “I’m always with you, Clara. Nothing changes that. Be happy.”
The wind picked up, blew stinging sand into her eyes. She rubbed them…
And found herself in her own bed, curled up on Jared’s side, hugging his pillow. Sunlight streamed through the window, right into her eyes. She winced and checked the alarm clock: past eight already. Clutching the sheets to her chest, she sucked in a deep breath, bracing herself. Jared’s nighttime visits usually left her shaken, grieving, but no tears came now. Somehow, this dream had left her calm, even comforted.
As she drove to work, his words echoing in her memory. “I’m always with you…You’ll make the right decision.”
****
“Over there. No, not the—yeah. Dining room.”
Nick had never seen such an industrious crew. Four men with limited English bustled into the house and back to their truck, toting heavy cartons and furniture like worker ants carrying grasshopper parts. At this rate, they’d be unloaded and gone by the afternoon. Good. He had plans for this place tonight.
“Can I help?” he asked Ivan, the crew boss.
“No, sir. You sit.” The burly, red-faced man pointed to the sofa they’d just deposited opposite the flagstone fireplace. “Is better we do.”
Ivan handed him the clipboard with the bill of lading. “You check number, okay? Is faster this way.”
“Twenty-seven!” Tran called out, only his legs visible beneath the huge carton he carried.
“Office, please.”
The wiry little man chugged up the stairs. Nick whistled. He was pretty fit, but he had nothing on these guys.
Might as well relax now. There’ll be lots of lifting to do later. In the interest of time, Nick had elected to do the unpacking himself.
Would Clara like this place? Would she even consent to cross the threshold? He shook his head, ran a hand through his messy curls. Of course she would. He’d been stupid, rash, carried away by strong emotion like a love-struck teenager, but he’d told her the truth yesterday. And he’d stayed away from her shop, her apartment, though he nearly had to staple his shoes to the floor to resist the urge to run to her, to explain, to cajole.
Clearly, the lady was having none of it. He hoped, after twenty-four hours to cool down, she’d be more receptive to his next approach.
“Thirty-six.”
“Um, garage.”
His phone pinged in his pocket: a text from Lydia—???
He answered—Not yet.
—Stay strong. She likes you.
—Thanks again.
—Happy to help. Good luck with the Ducks.
It took a lot of courage for him to call her, after over a year of separation, and he was surprised at how readily she’d agreed to make the drive from Portland. Despite the mess their brief liaison caused, he still held a lingering fondness for Lydia, still felt protective of her. And seeing her pregnant touched something in him, a nagging sense of loss.
This house would be perfect for kids, once he cleaned up the thorny mess of blackberry vines swallowing the yard. There was room for a child’s bedroom—two, even, and plenty of indoor play room in the spacious living room. The kitchen was big enough for homework and messy baking projects, and the porch would be perfect for decorating at Halloween. He pictured a pair of kids thundering up and down the staircase, sliding on the wide wooden bannister.
He sighed and closed the door on those pointless fantasies. There are chances you miss, and he’d missed his shot at being a father. But he wasn’t giving up on Clara, not without a fight. And if it had to be a long, protracted siege, so be it.
“Forty-two!”
“Kitchen.”