by A. C. James
“Clara, wait…”
And she didn’t look back.
Chapter 4
The Purple Notebook
“‘Bout time you came home,” her grandfather said as he reached for his glasses.
There wasn’t much Clara could say in her defense as he began reading one of the poems in the purple notebook she’d brought him. So she didn’t say anything. Instead she flipped through the channels while he skimmed through the poetry.
“This is good.”
“Really? I wrote it forever ago,” she said, absently flipping past a spaghetti western before she ended up being subjected to watching it with him.
“Say…do you mind if I hang on to these?”
Clara couldn’t help smiling. She knew exactly why he wanted to keep them. “Sure. Take them. I don’t need them anymore.”
It’s not like I’m a writer.
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
He nodded. “I’m glad you came to see me. I haven’t seen your sister since Thanksgiving.”
She couldn’t tell him that her sister was going through a divorce. And why upset him anyway?
“Mom said they’ll be busting you out of here on Christmas.”
“What are we having for dinner anyway?”
“I think Mom said we’re having ham.”
He looked pleased when he nodded.
“You should’ve done something with this.” He tapped the notebook with his index finger.
“With poetry? That’s a niche market.” That was the agent in her talking.
“Doesn’t matter when you’re good.”
She wouldn’t argue with her grandfather and tell him how many good manuscripts she’d rejected. They weren’t looking for just good. Besides, it wasn’t poetry that she’d wanted to write. Moving to New York and becoming a writer had been her dream. After all, that’s how she’d ended up working for Mark and then becoming his partner. He’d read ten pages from her manuscript, but he’d offered her an internship instead. Clara had thought it was her way in. She’d never intended it to become a fulltime gig or planned on putting her writing aside.
“I have to go, Grandpa. I need to pick up some stuff from the store for Mom.” She kissed his cheek and handed him the remote.
He nodded.
Just as she was about to walk past the nurse’s station on her way out, a curvy redheaded nurse with a wide smile stopped her. “You’re Mr. Parker’s granddaughter?”
Clara smiled. “Yup.”
“Your grandfather really has a way with words.”
Clara laughed. “Yes, he certainly does.”
“I just loved that poem of his. He’s really talented. Is he published?”
Clara shook her head.
“I’ve got a brother who works at a university, and they have a journal that publishes this sort of thing. Wouldn’t it be nice if your grandfather got to see his writing published? I mean, it’d be a shame not to share something so wonderful.”
Clara hardly knew what to say to her, but her smile faltered. “Yes, it would be a shame. I’m sure he’d love that.”
Maybe the nurse said something after that about how she’d tell her grandfather and look into it, but Clara wasn’t really sure. All she’d heard was it’d be a shame not to share something so wonderful playing on mental repeat as she made her way toward the lobby. She was so focused on that one thought that she wasn’t really paying attention to what she was doing when she knocked into someone and her purse spilled onto the floor, its contents clattering across the tile.
“Here, let me help you.”
Clara tilted her head toward the strong masculine voice booming above her.
“It’s you. The elf,” Clara said.
The man from the airport laughed as he held out his hand to help her up.
Heat rose to Clara’s cheeks. “Sorry, you’re just the last person I expected to see here.”
She ignored his outstretched hand and began picking up the randomness that filled her purse.
That’s strange.
She paused before shoving the green leather book back in her bag. Clara didn’t remember putting it in her purse, but she must have because there it was on the cold gray tile. So she stuck it in her purse and pushed herself off the floor. Still, she could have sworn she’d left it in her suitcase back at the house.
“I’m visiting someone in need of some holiday cheer.”
“You’ve probably come to the right place.” Clara always hated nursing homes—something about the smell.
“Some of them aren’t as lucky to have family like you coming to see them.”
“True. I was just here to see my grandfather.”
“Fulfilling his Christmas wish,” he said.
Clara laughed. “Well I don’t know about that, but I figured I’d give the nurses a break. He’s been keeping them quite busy. But I have to go.”
“You have a Merry Christmas.”
“You too,” Clara said and she turned toward the lobby.
“Oh, I will. I love this time of year. Christmas wishes really can come true, Clara. Sometimes even the ones you don’t wish for.”
Clara stopped in her tracks and swung around, but the man was gone again. How did he manage to keep disappearing into thin air? She must be cracking up.
* * *
Clara had finished putting away the groceries and was sitting cross-legged on her bed with the green leather book spread open in her lap and pillows piled behind her for support.
She didn’t know what she was doing exactly. It wasn’t like some idea or inspiration had hit her, but just the act of sitting with a pen in her hand and the book that had seemed to appear out of nowhere felt like coming home.
Just for fun she’d jotted the words ‘Make a Wish’ at the top of the page. She almost giggled at what she wrote next:
1) Mark will miss me so bad that he’ll have blue balls.
Oh, that was bad, but she couldn’t help herself. Okay, seriously…
2) Grandpa will find someone closer to his age.
Who am I kidding?
2) Grandpa will find someone closer to his age.
2) Mom won’t be too hard on Lacy when she hears about the separation.
But what about you? What do you want?
3) I want to be a writer.
Somehow the very act of writing that down made it all the more real. Maybe it was the nurse at Springbrook who’d liked her old poem talking, but it felt good to admit it. Mills & Parker was a boutique literary agency. Mark took on non-fiction and literary fiction while Clara handled all the genre fiction that Mark couldn’t stomach. Maybe that’s why he’d turned his nose up at her manuscript with his remarks that her writing was strong, but wasn’t quite right.
Yeah, maybe not right for you. Pompous prick.
She reached for the wine glass on the nightstand and took a long gulp. A few more and maybe she’d have the liquid courage to call Mark and give him a piece of her mind.
“Clara, are you ready?” Lacy yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
“Be right down.”
When Clara got to the foot of the stairs, Mom and Dad looked up from the TV. “Wow, you look beautiful, baby girl.”
Clara blushed as she shrugged into her black wool coat. “Thanks, Dad.”
She was wearing a black sweater dress and a pair of Adirondack wedge heel boots that matched.
“Okay, we’ll see you later,” Lacy said.
Clara kissed her dad on the cheek and hugged her mom on the way out.
“You girls have a good time,” her mom said.
“We will,” Clara said.
They piled into Lacy’s crossover and Clara rubbed her hands in front of the heater. Thankfully, her sister had left the car running. “Where are we going anyway?”
Lacy grinned. “You’ll see.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for telling me that Angelina works at Springbrook now.”
“Oops.
”
“And that her brother likes to stop by to bring her lunch, but I’m betting you already knew that.”
Lacy laughed. “Not always, but most of the time, he does bring her something to eat. So I take it you saw Luca?”
“What were you thinking, Lacy?”
Lacy’s voice turned serious. “That you two were meant for each other even if you’re too stubborn or too chickenshit to admit it.”
Clara didn’t say anything and her sister turned on the radio. She got lost in thought until Lacy pulled onto Main Street and Clara admired the lighted displays that had every shop in Overlook emanating a white glow that reflected off the snow.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah.”
“It hasn’t changed at all.”
“Do you ever miss it?” Lacy asked.
“Sometimes,” Clara admitted.
Lacy parked across the street from a restaurant called Amanti, Sogni, e Trattorie di Pasta.
“This place must be new,” Clara muttered.
“It’s been here about two and a half years. They have the most amazing food.”
“Well, they must with a name I’m sure most people can’t pronounce. Man, what a mouthful.”
Lacy had a funny look on her face. “It’s certainly something. Come on, it’s cold out here.”
They crossed the street and Lacy held the door open for her. A hostess greeted them. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Larson. Lacy Larson—table for two.”
The hostess seated them at a table over by a window that looked out onto Main Street, which was lit up with Christmas decorations. She handed them menus and said a server would be around for their drink order.
Clara looked up from the menu. Just when she’d figured out what she wanted, Clara spotted him. She grabbed her sister’s arm from across the table. “Oh, Lacy. You didn’t.”
Luca had popped through a set of double swinging doors from the kitchen. He’d stepped behind the bar when suddenly his eyes locked with hers. He smiled in a way that made her go all gooey. They stared at one another across the crowded restaurant and it seemed like time was moving in slow motion. She couldn’t breathe. He nodded at her and shoved something in his pocket that she couldn’t see from so far away. Then he grabbed a bottle of wine from behind the bar along with two wine glasses and started toward their table.
Clara glared at Lacy. “I swear I’m going to freaking kill you.”
Lacy grinned. “Can we eat first?”
Chapter 5
Lovers, Dreams, and Pasta
Luca had seen ‘Larson’ listed in the reservation book earlier that afternoon. But he wasn’t sure if Lacy or her husband had decided to bring a date. Greg had brought someone he was seeing here just last week.
He couldn’t say he was really surprised that Lacy had pulled this crap on her sister. He’d known Lacy almost as long as he’d known Clara. And Lacy had never understood their breakup, but of course that had been Clara’s doing. Clara had always doubted they could make a long-distance relationship work. He figured Lacy had decided to meddle and give her sister a taste of what she was missing.
He couldn’t help the grin splitting his face as he made his way to their table. Clara looked a little pissed. And then she rested an elbow on the table, propping her head in her hand as if ignoring him or blocking the view would make him go away.
Not this time, Clara. You won’t get rid of me that easily.
She didn’t know it, but she didn’t stand a chance. He’d have her in his arms—no, in his bed—by the end of the night. He’d let her walk away once, and it was the worst mistake of his life. They’d drifted away from each other, a slow erosion that had taken her to New York and left him in Overlook. He couldn’t leave Angelina to take care of their father on her own. In his gut, he knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. It hadn’t made it any easier to let Clara push him away, but he’d let her go anyway. Still, it wouldn’t have been fair to ask her to stay, and he’d done his share of pushing her away too.
And so he’d lost the woman he loved.
Never again.
He’d thought he would have to give up on his dream too. The trattoria would have looked less out of place in New York, but this was his home. It always would be. Surprisingly, his prices and the amazing food proved to be a hit in a town that didn’t really have anything to offer in terms of Italian other than two pizza delivery places. Since the day he’d opened these doors, they’d kept coming back for more.
Now Clara had come back into his life and he wanted more. He wanted the rest of the dream. Ah, fuck. Clara looked so damn sexy. She had legs that just wouldn’t quit.
His palms itched. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair and find out if it still smelled like lilacs. She’d picked the menu back up and was pretending to read it, but it wasn’t working. She glanced sideways at him and he could barely contain his laughter. Luca reached their table, set the bottle of wine on it and placed a wine glass in front of each of them.
“Hello, Clara.” He nodded. “Lacy.”
Lacy giggled.
Clara put the menu down, folded her hands on the table, and shifted in her seat. When she did the whole table shook.
“Owww.” Lacy glared at her sister.
He knew Clara had kicked her under the table. Hell, the two of them had been at this since they were kids. God, how he’d missed this feisty woman.
“Would you like some wine?” Luca asked.
“Oh, yes, please,” Lacy said.
Luca pulled a corkscrew from his pocket and opened the bottle. He poured their wine, but his eyes never left hers. There was so much he wanted to say, but they’d talked themselves out of enough. Tonight wouldn’t be about the complicated mess they’d made. There’d be plenty of time to figure that out after he’d had her—a few times—just for good measure.
“Luca…I didn’t know,” Clara said, giving her sister a pointed look and gesturing toward the restaurant.
Luca grabbed her hand. She tried to snatch it back, but he held it firmly. It was soft yet firm, and felt so right enclosed in his.
“Shhhh, don’t. Let me take those.” Luca grabbed the menus.
“Hey, I wasn’t done with that,” Lacy said.
“I’m going to make you both something special.”
“Luca…”
He shook his head. “Later. We have all night.”
* * *
Clara started shaking her head, but he was already walking away. She wanted to crawl under the table. One thing Clara knew for sure was that she couldn’t trust herself when it came to him. Just being in the same room with him, let alone him leaning over the table as he poured her wine, standing a little too close, had sent shockwaves coursing through her. She didn’t need the wine…he was intoxicating.
“Why, Lacy? Just why?” Clara took a sip of her wine. It was good.
Then she took another sip.
Lacy sighed. “I’m sorry, but I had to show you this.”
“Show me what?”
“Amanti, Sogni, e Trattorie di Pasta. Do you know what it means?”
“I don’t do Italian.”
Lacy snickered. “Actually…”
“Oh, shut up. You’re not freaking funny.”
Lacy’s expression turned serious. “Well, do you want to know what it means or not?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I looked it up. He named it for you, Clara.”
Clara put her wine down.
“It means lovers, dreams, and pasta. In fact, I’m willing to bet I’m not the only one sitting here tonight that knows it,” Lacy said.
Clara glanced around the crowded restaurant. Her sister had a point. Overlook was really good at one thing. Gossip.
“It’s fitting,” Clara said, and took another sip of wine.
Lacy raised an eyebrow.
“I kind of like it,” she said with a wistful look.
“Oh, no. I know
that look.”
How many times had they stayed up all night talking about their dreams? The future? And it had often started over a bowl of pasta. Clara took in the place. Tables topped with white tablecloths filled the large expanse and the walls on either side were red brick. There was no clichéd Sinatra blaring, but the place was far from quiet. Clanking forks and laughter filled the restaurant with life as everyone enjoyed their food. There was a semi-secluded dining area to the left of the bar and to the right were double swinging doors that led to the kitchen.
“It’s just…it’s like he always used to talk about,” Clara said.
“Do you regret it?” Lacy asked quietly.
Clara looked down at her hands. “All the time.”
“Then do you mind telling me why you walked away from someone who’s obviously crazy about you?”
“It’s not that simple. We’d always talked about him moving to New York and going to culinary school while I was at Columbia University.” Clara sipped her wine. “We never counted on his dad getting sick.”
Still, Clara had understood his choice. It seemed like his dad had gone from stage one Parkinson’s disease to stage three faster than anyone had anticipated. He had to stay, and it almost felt like he’d pushed her away maybe because he didn’t want her to stay for him and he knew how much she wanted to get out of Overlook. She would’ve stayed if he’d let her. Even if the quilting, her family, and this small town smothered her, she wanted to be there for him. And maybe she should have told Luca that the only time she’d really felt alive was with him. She’d left her heart here, even if she’d gone to New York, but that was then and this was now.
Lacy nodded. “I’m sorry, Clara.”
“Don’t be. I wanted…a career, and when I got that internship there was no going back. You can’t ever go back…”
But God how I want to.
She couldn’t bring herself to say it. She’d wanted to be a writer and had failed so miserably. Luca had done precisely what he’d set out to do and she was happy for him, but it killed her to know that she’d given up on so many things. Clara had majored in English, minored in history, but instead of writing she’d been helping other books find homes and find readers. Mark had been telling her for years that her writing would be so much stronger if she would only go back and get an MFA in Creative Writing. But after years of reading manuscripts by those graduates she’d found that often they were mechanical, predictable, and fit into a cookie-cutter mold that won Mark’s stamp of approval. She preferred raw stories filled with emotion. You could always teach writing, but natural storytelling that sucks you in and compels you to read without stopping until you reach the end was a rare thing to find.