by Claire Adams
"No, I've got it. Easy," I said, but the turkey platter wobbled in my hands.
He smiled and stepped around me to gather up the big bowl of mashed potatoes and another of stuffing. He hooked the gravy boat with two fingers and carried it all like it was nothing.
"Heavenly," Ford said. Then he amended his comment. "The dinner. Everything smells heavenly."
He put the bowls and gravy boat down on the table and reached out to help me with the turkey. When our fingers brushed, I felt like a jolt of electricity scrambled my muscles. The turkey tray wobbled again, and between the two of us, we set it down with a heavy thunk at the head of the table.
"Everything alright in there?" my father called from the living room.
I looked up to see everyone watching us with curiosity and amusement. Lexi wore a dangerous, calculating smile, and I flashed her a warning look that she ignored. "Yes, fine, I think you might have underestimated the turkey this year, Patrick," I said.
Everyone laughed, and my father gestured for our guests to file into the dining room. "Go big or go home. I hope you've all brought your appetites," my father said.
"Wow, Clarity, you and your dad really outdid yourselves this year," Lexi said with a speculative twinkle in her eye.
My father beamed. "It's been a few years since we did the full Thanksgiving spread, so I'm glad you think it looks good. Clarity's been working hard. She even tracked down a candied yams recipe for Ford."
My cheeks flared. "You mentioned it to our lecture class one day before your presentation," I said.
Ford smiled at me. "I'm glad to know someone is listening," he said.
"Clarity's good like that," Lexi said. "When she is interested in someone, she notices everything."
Ford cleared his throat. "Well, she hasn't noticed that I've been trying to talk to her since I arrived, but now that I have her attention, I can finally say it."
My vision clouded and closed in around the edges. "Say what? Now?"
"I have a letter for you," Ford pulled a narrow, white envelope from his pocket and addressed the entire table. "It's from Wire Communications. My teaching assistant opened it, but I promise I did not read the contents."
I sat down hard in my chair as everyone clapped. "Why? What?"
Ford's lips quirked up at the corners. "I thought you would like to read it yourself. I imagine it has something to do with the internship you expressed interest in. Very competitive, very real world experience. Remember?"
"How did you get it?" I asked.
My father gestured for us all to sit, and Ford slipped into his chair and met my eyes. "It was sent to my office. I believe the owner wanted me to see it, so I could present it to you personally."
A hardened, gray glint flashed through Ford's eyes at the mention of the Wire Communications owner. I didn't understand why he would be so annoyed with having to pass along the letter. Unless he had never intended to come to our Thanksgiving dinner. Unless he was hoping to avoid me in social situations for the rest of my schooling at Landsman College.
"Well, aren't you going to open it?" my father asked. His hands paused next to the carving knife, and I knew I was holding up dinner.
I slipped the heavy stock, embossed stationary from the envelope and read out loud. "Ms. Dunkirk: It is our pleasure to announce that you have won the coveted position of Wire Communications Journalist Intern for the coming summer months... How is this even possible?" I asked Ford.
He watched me carefully, an inquisitive squint around his eyes. "They most likely noticed your excellent writing skills and your proven track record of hard work and perseverance," he said.
"Hear, hear!" Lexi broke my confusion with her raised glass.
"Thanks," I laughed, "but this is so surreal. I never sent in my application."
My father reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "I meant to tell you, darling. Remember how you wanted help proofreading your cover letter? Well, it was flawless, so I gave it to my friend at the donors’ dinner."
"Wesley Barton?" Ford asked.
Jackson almost knocked over his water glass. "Sorry," he said, but Alice shushed him with a glance.
"No," my father said, not noticing anything was wrong. "Michael Tailor told me he was happy to do me the favor. He said he had an in at Wire Communications. Not that I think you needed a leg up, but I wanted to make sure you had a good chance at getting what you want. I'm so proud of you, Clarity."
I was caught by the scowling exchange between Ford and Jackson. The mention of Wire Communications and especially Wesley Barton wiped away Ford's polite smile and made Jackson sit up rigid in his seat. I couldn't tell if their distaste was personal or professional, but either way, it made me uneasy.
Luckily, before my father could see their furrowed expressions, Lexi spoke up again. "Let's give thanks to the people that see what we want and help us get it." She smiled at me and slid her eyes to stare at Ford then back to me. "Here's to your future happiness."
I tucked the letter under my chair cushion and shook my head. "Here's to a happy Thanksgiving and the biggest turkey we've ever had!"
Everyone clapped while my father stood up to carve, but the conversation circled right back around to my internship.
"From what your father says, you've been planning this internship and this trajectory since you were a senior in high school," Polly said.
"That's not unusual," Damien said. "I knew since childhood that I wanted to be a sculptor."
"Yes, but this is different," Lexi said. "Clarity's always wanted to write, but she decided in high school that journalism was the only way to make a decent living at it."
Damien scratched his chin. "What happened to the writing?"
"She didn't take my class freshman year," Jackson spoke up.
His wife swatted his arm. "Not everyone decides their future the same. In high school, I loved ballet, but it would have made a terrible career choice for me. I'm too short," she told Lexi.
Lexi, who was of comparable height, laughed. "I wanted to be a tight rope walker, but my parents never got on board with the whole, join the circus idea."
"You know, it's not too late to change your mind," Ford spoke up. "If creative writing is what you truly love, you shouldn't make it second best. I've seen your short story, remember? You have an eye for details and an ear for language that really engages the reader's senses."
My father stopped loading mouthwatering slices of turkey onto a serving plate. "Fiction?"
I glared at Ford and would have kicked his shin if our table wasn't so wide. "It was just a short story. No big deal," I said. "And I didn't plan on showing it to anyone else."
Lexi narrowed her gaze. "You gave it to Ford instead of me?"
"Does anyone want more wine?" I asked.
My father laughed. "Clarity, I don't know why you are always dismissing your love for creative writing. A lot of people pursue it as both a passion and a career. It is possible to do that, you know."
Ford looked apologetic. "The skills I mentioned are key for both fiction writing and journalism. The choice is yours."
"I'm just glad you have found a creative outlet. Under all the pressures of college courses, it's nice to have a way to let off a little steam," my father said.
We handed around dishes, and everyone filled their plates. I hoped the conversation would turn to the delicious food. "Please take as much as you'd like. There's plenty more in the kitchen. Maybe I should grab the other basket of rolls right away."
"I can," Carl stood up and strode into the kitchen.
Lexi beamed. "Creative writing is a great outlet, but I'm pretty sure that dating is better. No offense to anyone here, but Clarity has plenty of years to spend quietly typing stories in the future. Now is the time she should be having a little fun."
I groaned and topped off my wine glass.
"I agree," Alice said. "It's no good to go from solitary studies to a solitary pastime. There is definitely something to be said for finding someone tha
t dares you to try new things."
"I suggest you find yourself an older man," Damien said.
I choked on my wine. "What?"
"Why?" Ford asked.
"She is clearly searching for inspiration." Damien winked at me, and Ford shot his friend, Jackson, another dark look.
Jackson swallowed a large bite of turkey with gravy and said. "I'd love a chance to look at your short story now that the cat's out of the bag. I always need more people in my advanced creative writing class, and from what Ford has said, I'm sure you would fit right in."
I stabbed a green bean and glared at Ford again. "I think Ford might have spoken out of turn and exaggerated a bit."
"No," my father said. "Ford's as honest as they come. Is that the reason you had to leave journalism and dive into academia?"
"That's a whole other story," Ford said with a grim line to his mouth.
"You know," Polly spoke up, "I've been meaning to talk to some of the creative writing students about creating prompts for my artists. I love the intersection between description and illustration."
"Ah, a crossover of the disciplines. It would be interesting to merge the painters with the sculptors and challenge them with the written word." Damien smiled at me. "What do you think, Clarity? Would you be willing to create characters to challenge the art students?"
"She's busy," Ford said. He looked up and took a swig of wine. "Clarity's also on the school newspaper. It's not a big staff, and I'm not big on people poaching my students."
"Speaking of inspiring the art students, I've been trying to convince Carl to pose for your sculpting class," Lexi said.
Carl shook his head and continued to eat. "Not my thing. Just like dating's not Clarity's thing."
I could have kissed him. "Thank you, Carl. I'm happy to consider my journalist internship, and I think that's about all I can handle at the moment."
"You're too shy for your own good," Lexi said.
"Clarity's not shy, she's discerning," Ford said.
Everyone glanced his way again, but this time he kept his eyes steady on me.
My father chuckled, "Takes one to know one, eh?"
Alice nudged Ford. "He's definitely discerning too. In fact, I think that's why he's not dating either."
"Really? That's interesting," Lexi said.
I considered throwing a roll at her head but instead made one last, desperate attempt to change the subject. "I hope everyone saves a little room for dessert. My father's made an amazing pecan pie."
"My favorite," Ford said, and his smile returned as the conversation moved on.
Chapter Ten
Ford
I shoved my food around my plate, annoyed with myself. I had made such a spectacle out of Clarity's internship letter. Then I had tried to compliment her on her writing. I had completely forgotten she asked me to keep it a secret.
I stabbed a piece of turkey and dragged it through the thick, creamy gravy. At least everyone's responses had been enthusiastic and encouraging. Maybe she'd forgive me.
"I'd like to take credit for the whole meal," Clarity's father leaned over to me, "but really all I managed on my own was the gravy."
I smiled. "What about the pecan pie?"
"She did it. I arranged the nuts on top and put it in the oven," he whispered.
Clarity caught us whispering. "That's not true. You handled the turkey."
"Judging by the size, I'd say that's a lot," I joked.
Clarity smiled at me and my appetite came back. I wolfed down two helpings of everything and thirds of the candied yams. When I looked up from scraping my plate clean, her emerald eyes locked onto my face.
The pleasant swelling I felt was from more than the food, but then my stomach dropped like a lead ball. I needed to tell her about Libby. I couldn't go on waiting for the other shoe to drop, not with Clarity always in front of me.
I tried to help her with the coffee, but she declined. I got up and made it as far as the kitchen door before she reappeared with dessert. Then everyone adjourned to the living room, and I couldn't get up and follow Clarity without everyone seeing me cross the room.
"Look, snow!" Lexi cried.
Everyone heaved themselves out of their comfortable seats and found places by the frosted windows. Clarity hung back and disappeared into the kitchen again, and I saw my chance. I stepped back and spun on my heel to follow her, but when I got into the kitchen, she was gone.
"I hope it's enough to make a snowman tomorrow," Lexi said.
I heard Clarity reply, "Always the optimist," and realized she had come full circle through the kitchen and back out to the foyer. I got the distinct impression she was trying to avoid me.
I marched up behind Clarity and her friends, but Lexi's speculative look stopped me short. I could lie and say it was about class, but I had a feeling that wouldn't fool anyone.
"We better head out before it gets too deep," Polly said.
"Oh, that's too bad," Patrick said. He clasped her hands. "I was hoping we could play Pictionary."
Polly laughed and kissed his cheek. "Thank you for a wonderful Thanksgiving feast, Patrick. Clarity, you did an amazing job. Please, please think about writing something for my art students."
"It's a great idea," Patrick said, "I'll keep on her about it."
Damien shook hands with everyone then kissed Clarity's cheek. "Charming. Thank you."
I hung back and scowled as the handsome sculptor winked at Clarity, then curled an arm around Polly. They waved and headed out into the snow. Lexi and Carl were not far behind them. She squealed as she danced around Carl until he picked her up and twirled her.
"Coming, Ford?" Jackson asked me.
"Nah, I'm going to help clean up a little. It's the least I can do."
Alice raised an eyebrow at me. "You're planning to walk home in all this snow?"
I laughed. "It's only an inch. I think I'll make it."
"Well, the least you can do is call Jackson when you get home so he doesn't have to worry," she said. Alice kissed me on the cheek and thanked the Dunkirks.
While Patrick and Clarity waved, I slipped back into the kitchen and filled the sink with soapy water. I dumped the silverware in as Clarity came into the kitchen.
"You really don't have to do that," she said.
"Let the poor man," her father said. "We're not about to kick out a guest for trying to help."
Clarity reluctantly joined me at the double sink and started scrubbing the salad dishes.
"It's the least I can do for announcing to everyone about your short story," I said.
She sighed. "It's fine. You made my dad happy, that's for sure."
Patrick chuckled. "That's right. Now all you need to do for me is convince her to let me read it." He ducked back into the dining room to gather the rest of the plates.
"I'm really sorry, Clarity. I screwed up everything I was trying to say." I took a deep breath. "I really need to talk to you."
"Polly left her reading glasses. I'll have to take them to her tomorrow," Patrick announced from the doorway.
I wanted to come clean to Clarity about Libby, but all I got the chance to do was wash dishes. Clarity worked beside me, polite but quiet.
"So how did those candied yams stack up?" Patrick asked. He put the last of the dishes on the counter next to me. "I suppose nothing can be as good as the food in your memories."
"Better," I said. "Thank you."
A rosy hue touched the top of Clarity's cheeks. "No problem."
"Oh, darn, I bet there are more empty glasses in the living room," Patrick left again.
I nudged Clarity. "It was really sweet of you to make those especially for me."
"I didn't, I mean, I did, but I was trying to …" Clarity puffed out a flustered breath and tried again. "You're welcome."
I looked at her from the corner of my eye and had to smile. "You're blushing," I whispered.
Clarity's cheeks burned brighter, but she nudged me back. We pressed back and forth
in a playful skirmish, and my heart soared. Whatever strict lines she had drawn for herself shifted whenever we were together. The thought of freeing her from all her restrictions, seeing her shake off her inhibitions, was all-consuming.
I wanted Clarity, all of her.
"Careful, you're dripping soap on your shoes," Clarity whispered with one more flirtatious nudge.
I flicked the soap off my hands and leaned on the counter so I could study her pretty face. Her wide, emerald eyes flickered with nerves, but she didn't step back or look away. The look between us crackled with electricity.
"I really am sorry for outing your writing. You came to me in strictest confidence."
She smiled. "It's alright, you were nice enough to give me feedback."
"So you didn't mind coming up to my office to, ah, discuss your short story?" I asked then held my breath.
"Not at all," Clarity said. Her voice was like velvet. "Especially since you were so nice to walk me home under the maple trees."
"I hope you'll let me read your writing again sometime," I said. I reached out to brush the soft hair from her neck and froze.
Her father strode back in to the kitchen. "I'm so glad you convinced Clarity to start writing again. She used to write fairy tales and mysteries and all kinds of stories when she was a little girl, and I loved every single one of them," he said with a proud smile.
Clarity straightened up and stepped away. She kept her back to her father and scrubbed at the next stack of plates. "That was back when I was a little kid, Dad. I'm twenty-two now, an adult."
Her eyes flickered to mine, and the heat went straight to my core. I tore my gaze away from her and cleared my throat. "I'm sure it's hard for you to see, Patrick, but your daughter is a very mature woman."
Patrick chuckled. "A fact that worries me every day. I wish she could go back to being that carefree child making up stories for fun. She stopped writing after her mother left, and it was such a shame."
A plate slipped from Clarity's hand and disappeared back into the soapy sink. She plunged her hand into get it, and I reached in to give her hand a hidden squeeze.