Claire dabs her tears with a napkin. “It happened Thursday...maybe soon after I saw her. What if I’d stayed longer?”
Elle grasps her hand across the table. “You can’t blame yourself for this. It had nothing to do with you.” Her eyes narrow as she studies Claire’s face. “Talk to me; what is it?”
“She said some strange things about my mother, stuff that happened before the accident.”
Elle listens as Claire shares details of her session with Dr. Marsha, the newspaper clipping from the accident, and her grandfather’s final communication.
“What do you make of it?” she finally asks. “Do you think I’m just paranoid?”
Elle shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s weird—all of it. I can’t believe she was your mom’s therapist, too. Who do you think wanted to see her?”
“I don’t know, but I think Dr. Marsha did. She suggested I drop the subject with Grandpa and not worry so much over what he was trying to tell me. She said to tell him I’d stopped investigating. And I was going to, but…” She grabs her napkin. “I didn’t have a chance. But damn it, I should have. I should’ve stayed with him every second!”
Elle calls for the check then focuses on Claire. “Listen to me. Grandpa Gil knew how much you loved him, and he loved you just as much. Nothing you did or didn’t do could change that. You hear me?”
Zola greets them when they arrive at her grandparents’ place. Noting that Grandma had turned the heat up, Claire removes her coat and oversized sweatshirt.
“My God, Claire...” Elle gapes at her body. “You look fantastic. What have you been doing?”
“Nothing, really...” She feels an odd mix of discomfort and thrill as Elle follows her to the kitchen. Is she really that much thinner? It shouldn’t matter, she reminds herself; it doesn’t.
Grandma left a note on the kitchen table:
The spare room is set up for Elle. Food in the fridge if you’re hungry. A package arrived for you, on the dining room table. Good night and welcome, Elle.
Walking to the dining room, Claire spots a white box with a familiar sticker—Elmer’s, Mom’s favorite candy shop; hers, too.
“Ooh, are those from Elmer’s?” Elle exclaims. “Let me at them.”
“I doubt they’re vegan.” Clutching the box, she tries to hide her unease.
“Chocolate doesn’t count—it’s a bean.”
As Elle lifts the lid and reaches for one, terror rises in Claire. Elle removes a note card from the box and reads aloud: “‘Dear Claire, I know your mother enjoyed these and thought you might, too. Thinking of you and CC and looking forward to seeing you soon. Love, Dr. Malcolm Campbell (your grandpa’s cousin).’ Malcolm... Have I met him?”
“I doubt it. I’m not sure if I’ve met him. He sent my grandma those violets, too.” She nods toward the bouquet.
“He seems nice. And it sounds like he was close to your mom.” Elle’s eyes widen. “Maybe he knows more about your parents’ accident, and whatever your grandpa was worried about. If he’s at the service tomorrow, you could ask him.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
As much as Claire longs for answers, she fears what she might find out.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Claire looks out the window, pleased to see fluffy snowflakes with the morning sun—like nature’s confetti, a celebration for Gramps. Today they will bury and commemorate him. Though it took hours for her to fall asleep, adrenaline and thoughts of Grandpa’s service keep her mind sharp, focused.
After taking Zola outside she joins Cynthia and Grandma in the kitchen.
“Did Elle arrive all right?” Grandma asks. Sipping tea, she wears a touch more makeup than usual and a powder blue shawl that accentuates her eyes.
“She did,” Claire says. “She’s still sleeping—probably jetlagged. You look pretty, Grams. Is that a new shawl?”
“No, but thank you, dear.”
“Did you find your package?” Cynthia asks, filling Claire’s teacup.
“Yes. Grandpa’s cousin Malcolm sent chocolates from Elmer’s. I loved that place when I was a kid.” She blows on her tea, takes a cautious sip. “Grandma, have I met this cousin Malcolm?”
“Yes, when you were a baby.”
Claire wants to prod further but knows it isn’t the time. She finishes her tea then wakes Elle, figuring she’ll want time to prepare for the funeral.
“Didn’t I just go to bed?” Elle mumbles from beneath the pillow she uses to block the sun. Today it shines brightly. For Grandpa, Claire thinks.
“It probably feels that way. I kept you up past your bedtime last night, remember?”
“Shut up, you didn’t.” She sits up slowly.
Claire heads to her room to change. She pulls on a sweater dress she hasn’t worn in ages then stands before the mirror, sensing that her reflection is gaping at her rather than the opposite.
Elle taps on her door. “Hey, you in there?”
“Yeah, come in.”
“Cute dress, but...a little big, isn’t it?”
Elle is right. The dress hangs over her frame like a muumuu on a child. “Terrific. It’s all I have to wear.”
“Do you have a needle and thread? I adjust clothes for models all the time. They’re always way smaller than the samples.”
After a short bout of Elle pulling, snipping and pinning the material she turns Claire toward the mirror. “Well? Do you like it?”
“I do...” Whoever you are. The more she stares at her image, the more removed she feels, as though her soul is housing a stranger. Perhaps this is about losing Grandpa; perhaps his absence is causing countless subtle differences she’s yet to consider. She even looks different.
She turns to face Elle, who appears somber. “What’s wrong?”
“I wanted to apologize for making such a big deal about your weight loss. I think I’ve spent too much time around emaciated models. Are you...all right? You’re beautiful no matter what your size. I just want you to be healthy.”
“Thanks, hon. So do I.”
At noon they meet a few of Grandpa’s closest friends at the local cemetery where Pastor Jones shares a short message, reads scripture and prays. The marble casket has little effect on Claire. It holds Grandpa’s body, not his spirit.
During the pastor’s closing words she watches a flock of birds soar across the sky. There you are, Gramps. She escorts Grandma to the car and drives to the church.
Church bells ring as she pulls up to the venerable building, its white surface lustrous in the midday sun. During the burial service Grandma stands proudly, holding Claire’s arm. She now appears mouse-like in the passenger seat, hands trembling as she fumbles with her seatbelt.
“Can I help?” Claire asks.
“I can do it, thanks dear.”
They walk arm in arm to the chapel, Grandma’s shrunken stature between Claire and Elle forming a perfect ‘M.’ Photos supplied by Claire line a table outside the sanctuary: Grandpa as a child; a dapper groom beside his Snow White-looking bride; a victorious fisherman holding a prized walleye; and as a father, holding Claire’s mother.
They take seats in the front row while Cynthia plays “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desire.” The bustle of people makes Claire anxious, as though onlookers are staring at her and Grandma, the pitiful survivors. She focuses on the program instead, wishing the service would begin.
“Is that Hank?” Elle whispers.
Claire turns. “That’s him.” He stands in the doorway, near Sykes.
Catching Hank’s eye, she smiles; already, his presence brings comfort.
Two men in their early sixties stand at the rear of the sanctuary, both tall and square-jawed, like Grandpa. Undoubtedly his cousins, and one of them, most likely, Malcolm.
Pastor Jones approaches the pulpit. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Gilbert Andrew Adolfsson. Though Heaven has a fine new member, here in Hastings and among all who loved him, Gil will be sorely missed.” He leads the congregation in �
��Amazing Grace,” then gives a brief sermon that ends with scripture and a story.
“In Luke, chapter nine, verse sixteen, the lord takes five loaves and two fish. He and his disciples go on to feed not a few, but a throng of people. Sounds like Gil, doesn’t it? Whether or not he caught fish, he swore he had plenty to feed thousands!” Laughter ripples through the sanctuary. “And when he did make a big catch, he made sure we all knew of it. Especially when he made his greatest catch of all—his beloved Cecelia. We can all learn from the selfless love the two of them shared, through tragedy, triumph and decades of daily life.”
Everyone understands his reference to Claire’s mother. Elle squeezes Claire’s hand while Grandma stares straight ahead, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Gil’s legacy will live on forever in our hearts. May the lord bless you and keep you. Amen,” the pastor finishes. “Now, as Gil would say, it’s about time we eat! Please join us in the fellowship hall for a meal in his honor.”
Pastor Jones prompts the front row to stand as the recessional hymn begins. As Claire turns, her eyes lock with those of a striking man—one of the two she guessed to be Grandpa’s cousins. Now closer up, she sees that he’s tall, dressed in a classy, pinstriped suit and seems healthy for his age. Is it his stick straight posture? The shock of thick, white hair? Perhaps it’s the glint in his eyes—like Gramps’, only brighter... Malcolm?
He smiles, tips his head down subtly as if to greet her or extend his sympathies. She smiles back.
In the fellowship hall Claire and Elle load plates with potatoes, rolls, salad and fish—healthy, for a Hastings meal.
“If you take these, I’ll grab our drinks.” Elle hands Claire her plate.
Claire heads for a corner table. As she sets the plates down and turns to look for Grandma, she nearly bumps into someone.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I—you didn’t.” The man she observed in the sanctuary. “Are you Malcolm?”
“Yes. And you must be Claire.”
Why is she blushing? “I am. It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard…about you.” She suppresses the urge to flee, torn between looking into his eyes or at the floor.
“We’ve actually met before,” he says. “You were just a baby then.”
“You knew my mother,” she blurts, more of a statement than a question.
“I did, I’m grateful to say. Quite the young woman she was. I can see that you take after her.”
“Thank you.” His piercing eyes seem to burn into her skin.
“Well, I didn’t mean to keep you. I just wanted to offer my sympathies. I hope you received the—”
“Chocolates!” Claire interrupts. “I did, thank you. They were my favorite when I was little. Mom’s, too.”
“I was hoping you’d inherited her tastes. I think I’ll go check on your dear grandmother. CC agreed to let me take her to dinner tonight. Say you’ll join us.”
“Sure. That’s kind of you.”
“Wonderful. I’ll see you around seven.”
Claire’s skin feels cold, her insides heated, as he walks away. She can’t shake the feeling that she’s seen him before, possibly knows him. But he just confirmed what Grandma said: they haven’t interacted since her infancy. Something in his eyes... His voice... As he turns to face her from a distance she realizes she’s been staring. Caught again, eye-to-eye, anxiety bubbles up inside her. He smiles. She blushes yet again and darts her eyes away.
Elle approaches with Styrofoam cups. “I figured we could use the caffeine. You okay?”
“I just met Grandpa’s cousin Malcolm. He did know my mom.”
“That’s good news, right? Are you going to talk to him about...”
“I’m planning to. Grandma and I are having dinner with him tonight.”
“Great. I told my folks that I’d be sleeping in my old room tonight.” She waves at her parents across the room.
As Elle turns to look around for Malcolm, Claire grabs her arm. “No, don’t!”
“What’s wrong?” Elle asks.
“Nothing! I mean, I think nothing... This might sound crazy, but something about Malcolm sort of...freaks me out.”
“How do you mean?”
How does she mean? Other than a strange familiarity, she can’t put a finger on it. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing. Maybe I’m just nervous about learning the truth.”
“You’ll be fine, hon.” Elle gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze.
As Hank approaches, Claire yearns to rush into his arms and stay there—for good. She contains herself instead, making formal introductions.
“The Elle?” Hank asks, hugging her.
“In the flesh. And I hate to admit it, but the stories? They’re pretty much all true.”
Soon Claire is lost in hugs and condolences. As the crowd thins, she finds Grandma at a table with Pastor Jones and his wife. “How are you doing, Grams?”
“Oh, fine. Lovely service, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” Claire hugs her, aware that the “loveliness” of the service encompass only thin margins of her grandmother’s mind. “What do you say we go home and rest some before dinner with Malcolm?”
“That’s a good idea, dear.” Claire helps her with her coat then walks her to the car. She notes a drop in temperature, wondering if she’d feel less anxious about dinner with Malcolm if it was summer.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Claire swaps her funeral attire for jeans and a sweater then heads to the restroom to freshen up before dinner. Glancing at the mirror she observes her pale, drawn reflection. A strange look lingers in eyes that she does not recognize as her own. Get over it, she tells herself. You’re just tired. She pats her cheeks, adds a spray of perfume then heads downstairs with Zola.
Jovial laughter fills the air as she approaches the kitchen. Grandma and Malcolm sit at the table sipping tea, chatting like old friends. Before Claire can say a word, Zola growls.
Claire signs hush. “No, quiet.” But the dog continues, her nostrils flaring, teeth bared. Claire forces her to sit. “Sorry, my dog isn’t always big on strangers, especially men.”
“It’s all right,” Malcolm says. “She’s just doing her job.”
Claire smiles. “Most people assume she’s a he when she does that.”
“That beautiful creature? I can see her femininity. Feminine can mean strong, you know.”
“I’ll take her upstairs.” She pulls Zola’s collar and practically drags her up the stairs. Closing her bedroom door, she tries to ignore the continuing growl.
“Sorry about that,” Claire says, returning to the kitchen. She notices that Grandma is wearing the same blouse and shawl she had on at the memorial service. Malcolm looks dapper in a sweater and slacks. “Should I change?”
“No, it’s casual,” Malcolm replies. “Besides, you look lovely. Much like your mother.”
Claire holds her breath, wondering whether Grandma will lash out at him at the mention of Mom.
“She does, doesn’t she?” Grandma said, tears glistening in her eyes.
Too stunned by Grandma’s warm reaction to reply, Claire suggests they leave for the restaurant. Outside, she watches Malcolm and her grandmother climb into the front of a small black Porsche. Deeming it a snooty car choice, she squeezes into the narrow backseat. Grandpa would never approve.
They quickly arrive at the Mississippi Belle restaurant, the popular Hastings eatery that caters to fresh-off-the-boat fishermen, mom-and-pop families and formal affairs simultaneously. A breeze from the Mississippi sweeps tiny bits of ice against their faces as they walk toward the entrance.
Stepping inside, Claire salivates at the scent of fish ‘n chips—her childhood favorite. Your metabolism has grown up, she reminds herself. Order a salad.
“I haven’t been here in ages,” Malcolm says as they take seats in a tall booth. “Why don’t we share a bottle of wine? What do you say, CC? Or would you prefer tea?”
“Wine would be nice,” Grandma replies. “One glass.”
Malcolm orders steak, Grandma the grilled snapper and Claire a Caesar salad, dressing on the side.
“I see you haven’t inherited your grandfather’s hearty appetite,” Malcolm says.
“How well did you know Grandpa?” she asks.
“We were best friends back in the day. But you know how we men are: competitive. He won Cecilia’s heart, didn’t he?”
“Wow...I never realized.” Claire’s heart sinks as Grandma returns his smile.
Did Malcolm and Grandma date? Nausea fills her stomach. Her thoughts continue to whirl as Malcolm speaks of his work as a surgeon and instructor, the chemistry between him and Grandma intensifying. Is she imagining it?
As she pokes at her salad, she notices Malcolm staring at her. “Is something wrong?”
“Sorry, it’s just that you remind me so much of your mother. She left the dressing off her salads too. The best part, if you ask me.”
“No she didn’t,” Claire snaps, immediately feeling foolish. “It seemed to me she loved salad dressing.”
Perhaps love was a bit strong—but what does he know? When Grandma leaves for the ladies room, her discomfort around this man escalates.
“Claire, I have something I’d like to discuss with you,” Malcolm says. “Privately, if that’s possible.”
Her throat goes dry. “Uh, sure. Can I ask what it’s about?”
“It’s about…well, you, actually.” He pauses. “And your mother.”
Her heart thuds in her chest. Calm down—isn’t this what she’s longed for? Details about Mom? Were you the one she met the day she died? What do you know about the accident?
He reaches across the table with a photograph: Mom holding a newborn. It must’ve been taken shortly after Claire was born.
“Where did you get this?” She snatches it from his hand.
“She never told you, did she? I delivered you, Claire. I performed her C-section.”
In Her Shadow Page 15