by Robin Gold
“What happened?” asked Leo.
“You didn’t accidentally forget to pick anything up, did you?” Libby cringed, adding some autumn leaves to the cornucopia on the table in the center of the foyer.
“Of course not.” Clara practically bounced in her shoes. “But I did accidentally make out with a gay man!”
“Excuse me?” Leo’s eyes bulged. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Billy Warrington!” Just saying his name made Clara smile. “Oops! I mean, William Warrington. He goes by William these days.”
“Are you serious? You saw Billy Warrington?” Leo confirmed, slack jawed. “And he’s gay?”
“Quite! He’s married to Hans.”
“Oookay.” Libby attempted to follow along. “And, just to be clear . . . you kissed this gay William who’s married to Hans?”
“Yes! Can you believe it? I really did it!”
“And . . . this is a good thing?” Libby rubbed her brow, squinting.
Clara paused to consider it for a moment. She was unable to comprehend the strange phenomenon herself. “Yeah. I suppose, somehow, it is.”
“I’m not sure I understand”—Libby shrugged—“but you seem happy about it. Remind me to send you to Foodthings more often.”
Suddenly, Leo’s eyes lit up with understanding. “I know what this is about,” he declared, shocked. “Holy cow. I—I can’t believe you really did it!”
“I know!” Clara agreed.
“Kissing Billy Warrington was the very last thing on Clara’s time capsule list of things to accomplish by age thirty-five,” Leo explained in a matter-of-fact tone to their puzzled mother. “Billy was her fifth-grade crush. He had an awesome mullet that drove girls wild.”
“William,” Clara corrected.
“I see.” Libby placed a candle inside of a freshly polished silver votive.
“Out of nowhere, there he was . . . standing directly in front of me in the check-out line. I didn’t even know it was him! One minute I was reading the tabloids about the poor little unicorn-girl who sawed off her own horn, the next minute I was chasing William down for a kiss,” Clara slowly recalled, as if the words she was choosing to describe the baffling sequence of events were stuck in molasses. “It all happened so fast. I—I didn’t mean to do it. It’s not like it was premeditated . . . I don’t even know what came over me! Honestly! I’ve never done anything like this before in my entire life! I guess I just figured why not? I mean, it was on my list. And I’ll probably never have the chance to do it again,” she rationalized. “Somehow, it just happened.”
“Well, it looks like you can officially cross Kiss Billy Warrington off your list.” Leo handed Libby some more candles.
“I can, can’t I?” Clara twinkled. She picked up two small pumpkins from the ground. “Need an extra hand decorating?”
A look of pleasant surprise crossed Libby’s face. “You want to help?”
• Kiss Billy Warrington (Clara + Billy = TRUE LOVE FOREVER!)
7.
Laughter wafted throughout the convivial dining room, where two long tables of dear family and friends carried on spirited conversations while partaking of the bountiful Thanksgiving buffet and endlessly flowing wine. Guests punctuated the leisurely meal with toasts to their hostess and one another, though all of these sentiments were lost on Clara, whose exhilaration from yesterday’s gay kiss had long since worn off. Staring down at her watch, her focus remained on the second-hand crawling at a frustrating turtle’s pace ever so slowly around the dial.
“Excuse me everyone.” Aunt Billie, Libby’s inebriated older sister, stood up. She tapped her knife against her almost empty wine glass. “If I may add just one more thing.” She hiccupped, tilting slightly to the side. “All hail the mighty Turducken! We’re not worthy!”
An enthusiastic round of “Hear hear!” followed.
Leo, seated beside Clara, shot her a look. “Oh boy, here we go,” he muttered under his breath in her ear. “Think we better cut Aunt Billie off?”
Clara just shrugged, grateful to no longer be the focus of attention.
Earlier, a stir regarding her diminutive appearance had ensued among the murmuring party attendees. It had been over a year since Clara last donned her navy cocktail dress, which she’d haphazardly tossed in her suitcase. When she slipped it on shortly before guests were due to arrive, she discovered, to her dismay, the elegant garb that once did all the right things for her body—highlighting her long, muscular legs, shapely waist, and rounded bosom—now appeared to be several sizes too large, as if it belonged to a stranger. And for all intents and purposes, it did.
Clara frowned at her reflection in her bedroom’s full-length mirror. It looked to her as if she was draped in an ugly tent, rather than the beautiful, designer-label frock that had cost her an arm and a leg. Though, it had been well worth the price to see the dazzled expression on Sebastian’s face the first time she wore it to the opera. “Have mercy,” he’d uttered, awestruck and attempting to hide his growing erection. From that point on, it was known between them simply as “the boner dress.” Banishing such agonizing memories from her mind, Clara clutched her arms around her chest, as if to cover the gaping hole in it. Then, she did the only sensible thing she could think of: call for Libby.
Frightened by the piercing shriek, Libby, dressed in diamonds and a stylish gray suit, literally came running. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Slowly pivoting around from the mirror to face her mother, no words were required for Clara to explain her obvious dilemma.
“Oh. I see.” Libby exhaled, absorbing the image of her daughter standing before her, lost in excess fabric, fragile and ghostly white, like a delicate porcelain doll with cracks.
“It’s the only nice thing I packed.” Clara cast her brown eyes downward, their once fiery glow now extinguished.
Libby dashed away and returned several moments later holding a basic black dress. “I shrunk this in the wash. It’s nothing fancy, but it should hopefully do the trick for tonight.”
Smiling weakly, Clara allowed her navy gown to crumple to the carpet as she reached for the impromptu alternative.
Libby stifled a gasp, observing her daughter’s bony, exposed form. “Here”—she swallowed, trying not to stare—“let . . . let me zip that in the back for you. Careful now, lift up your hair for me.”
Clara didn’t move.
“Sweetheart? Can you lift up your hair for me, please?”
“Oh, sorry.” Clara did as her mother asked.
“ ’Atta girl.” It was as if Libby was speaking to a lost child, rather than a grown woman. After adjusting the dress while Clara stood there like a limp puppet, she finally grinned. “Okay! There we go. What do you think?”
Clara sighed. “That I’d like for this night to be over,” she mumbled, daunted by the idea of having to interact with forty party guests—of having to remember to look interested, to nod or smile at appropriate intervals. She knew it was not going to be easy.
Libby examined her with a growing expression of concern. After a minute, she took a deep breath. “You know, I always miss your father more on Thanksgiving. Every year. Without fail. It’s just how it goes,” she confessed in a soft tone. “Are you thinking about Sebastian?”
Clara’s chest ached with crushing emptiness at the sound of his name, at the idea of spending her first Thanksgiving in ten years without him, at the impossible realization that she would not hear his infectious laughter around the holiday table that night. Or ever again. Her thoughts turned to last year’s jovial Thanksgiving meal during which, fancying herself a stand-up comedian, she had told a dirty and absolutely hilarious lawyer joke, captivating the attention of everybody in the room and bringing the house down. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what specifically the joke was about. But she recalled with shocking clarity
Sebastian’s facial expression—the way his dimple in his left cheek creased, how he closed his eyes—as he threw his head back in laughter and slapped his hand against his thigh, struggling not to spit out the cranberry sauce that was in his mouth as the room erupted. The joke had been such a hit, in fact, that Clara, shamelessly hamming it up, took a bow and teased, “Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen! I’ll be performing here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waiter!”
Later that night in bed at Libby’s, while discussing their favorite parts of the evening, as they often did, she and Sebastian had laughed about it all over again. What a truly fantastic holiday it had been . . . To answer her mother’s current question, when was she not thinking of Sebastian? Looking away from Libby, Clara nodded, fighting back the tears that had been threatening to flow since she woke up that morning. “This dress is nice.” She forced herself to focus on it in an effort to avoid spiraling deeper into depression. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”
When the last bite of pumpkin pie had been swallowed, and a round of potent aperitifs had been poured for those who weren’t full enough to burst, the guests retreated to the music room for the evening’s main attraction: Libby’s annual medley of her most notorious jingles.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Leo stood before the clattering group, his cheeks rosy from wine. “The tryptophan will soon take effect, so, without any further ado, it is my pleasure to introduce, for one night only, the incomparable Libby Black!”
The room erupted with merry, boozy applause, and somebody lounging in a club chair whistled.
“All right, everyone, you’re familiar with the old drill by now.” Libby handed her glass of cognac to Leo, taking a seat at her beloved Steinway. “You all know the words, so everybody’s invited to sing along. And don’t be shy! Dignity be damned!”
“You’re a star!” bellowed Aunt Billie, petting her sweater’s puffy cornucopia appliqué, which suddenly lit up and began blinking.
“You might want to be a little shy.” Libby winked like an experienced lounge singer. At last, her fingers landed where they most belong, and began tickling the ivories, starting off the show with a slow and romantic, “With a cheeseburger in my hand . . . I’ll show you the promised land . . . At Burger-In-Your-Car . . . Everywhere that you are . . .”
Normally, this whimsical tradition pleased Clara to no end, for the comforting sound of the piano and the sound of her mother’s voice were one in the same in her mind, and never failed to lift her spirit or make her heart swell. However, haunted by Sebastian’s ghost, it would have taken a miracle to accomplish this feat.
After an especially peppy polka for Pepto-Bismol, Libby took her performance down a notch, playing the poignant and tender salt-free seasoning jingle for which she was awarded her first Clio. Swaying dramatically on her piano bench with her eyes closed, she crooned, “So I’m cooking with So-Not-Salt, because I love you, yes I dooooo”—some of the guests chimed in—“my life would mean nothing if I didn’t have youuuuuu . . .”
Tears slid down Clara’s cheeks.
When Aunt Billie, seated beside her on the Oriental rug, glanced Clara’s way, her bloodshot eyes filled with fear. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, leaning toward her.
“Nothing,” Clara whispered back, her limbs splayed in the extremity of her grief. “Why?”
“You’re crying,” answered Aunt Billie, gently placing her hand on top of Clara’s.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. What’s the matter?” Aunt Billie hiccupped again.
Confused, lost in the numbing haze, Clara slowly touched her cheek with her free hand. Her fingertips felt the warm, wet tears that she was unaware were falling.
Bowing her head, Clara allowed a single teardrop to land on Aunt Billie’s hand, which she held on to a little bit tighter.
“It’s okay, love. Shhhh . . .” Aunt Billie soothed. “Look!” she whispered a bit too loud. She tapped her puffy cornucopia appliqué. “Pretty lights! Like Broadway!”
8.
The early morning sun beamed its gleaming brightness through the kitchen window, prompting Clara, immersed in the Saturday Chicago Tribune, to switch seats at the kitchen table to avoid a bothersome glare.
“What is this, musical chairs?” Leo inquired.
“Is it always so damn sunny in here at this hour?”
“Only when you’re present.” He buried his nose in the entertainment section. “What’s that pasty chef’s name who you love so much?”
“Who? Alfred Guillaume?”
“Bingo. Check it out.” He flipped the paper around so that it was facing Clara and pointed to a large black-and-white photograph of the popular French chef, appearing under the headline, “Move Over, Santa. Celebrity Chef Storms Into the Windy City!”
“Let me see.” Clara snatched the paper away from Leo and began reading. She gasped. “Wow. He’s teaching a one-day-only intensive class on advanced gingerbread architecture at the Cooking and Hospitality Institute of Chicago.”
“Advanced gingerbread architecture? Sounds like it requires an engineering degree. What is that? Like a Frank Lloyd Wright cookie?”
“It means constructing houses and other edible edifices out of tasty spiced dough,” Clara replied, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. It dawned on her just then that she hadn’t baked a single item since Sebastian’s accident. Although she used to wear it all the time, she didn’t even know where her apron was.
“Ah, like on your time capsule list of things to accomplish,” Leo said. “How did you phrase it again? Build a gingerbread house without using a stupid farty kit?”
“Something like that.” She soaked up the article.
“You don’t hear farty enough these days.”
“Listen to this.” Clara read out loud: “Receiving rare, one-on-one guidance from Chef Guillaume—world-renowned pastry master and Oprah-endorsed author of the bestselling how-to book C Is for Cookie, Bitch!—each student will create their own unique, delicious, and 100 percent edible holiday gingerbread house guaranteed to wow even the grumpiest Scrooge. A scrumptious, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity not to be missed! Register now!” She put down the newspaper. “Wow. How great . . .”
“Do it,” Leo suggested nonchalantly, leafing through the sports section.
“Do what?”
“Register for the class. You’re obviously gaga for Chef Guillaume. You’re a terrific baker. And the subject clearly interests you. You just said it sounds great.” He gestured quotation marks.
“I’m not gaga.”
“Seriously.” Leo selected a muffin from the breadbasket on the table. “It sounds like you would really enjoy this class.”
“Yes,” agreed Clara. “But it’s two weeks from today. I have to be in Boston the Friday before for work. Even if I wanted to register, it’s not feasible.”
“So take a couple days off. Hell, take more than a couple days off. It’s not as if you’re exactly invested in your career at Scuppernong at the moment. You said so yourself the other night,” Leo reminded Clara. “Besides, Mr. Franklin urged you to take a sabbatical. This could be just what the doctor, or, in this case, The Beer King ordered.”
“Yeah. I don’t think so.”
“Think about it,” he persuaded. “You don’t have anything else concrete or pressing keeping you in Boston right now. What if you were to take him up on his offer and spend some time back home?”
“Oh please. Right. Why? So I can make a silly gingerbread house from scratch and then cross that off my time capsule list too?”
“Why not?”
“Perfect.” Clara sipped her coffee. “While I’m at it, why don’t I just go ahead and do everything else on my list until it’s all crossed off?”
“I think that’s an excellent idea.”
Clara shot her brother a look implying he might be stark-
raving mad. “I was kidding. Only kidding . . .”
Slowly, and with emphasis, Leo met Clara’s bemused gaze with an expression void of humor. “I wasn’t. You need a plan of action—something to help get you out of this horrible rut you’re in. Sure, it might sound a tad unconventional, but it’s no more farfetched than some of the other methods you’ve tried to overcome your grief. This could actually be worth consideration.”
Clara stared at Leo, dumbfounded. “My God . . . you’re—you’re really serious, aren’t you?”
“Completely.”
“Oh, come on, Leo. I’m not in fifth grade anymore. I’m not ten.”
“No, but I’ll tell you something. I just saw your eyes light up as if you were when you were reading that article. For a brief minute there, you weren’t”—he searched for the correct word—“lifeless.”
Clara winced.
“I’m—I’m sorry.” His face flushed with guilt. “I’m not trying to be cruel.”
“I know.” Clara sighed, closing her eyes, neither asleep nor really awake. She was just so damn tired of it all. She forced a quivery, unnatural chuckle. “Hell . . . Might as well call a spade a spade . . .” She looked down at her lap, as if saddled with some bleak, terrible shame, quietly confessing, “I feel lifeless. Actually? Dead is more like it. And apparently there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Jesus, Clara.” Leo’s face tensed at her resignation. “What would Sebastian do if he heard you say that?”
She gave a weak, dismissive shrug. “Doesn’t matter . . . He’s gone.”
“It does matter!” Leo, visibly shaken, pounded his fist on the table. “I know for a fact he’d tell you that you’re not dead—not at all. So you have to do whatever it takes for you to stop feeling that way. Even if it means building a fancy cookie house!” Leo inhaled a deep breath. When he spoke again his tone was softer, yet even more intense. He looked Clara directly in the eye. “You know as well as I do it would have destroyed Sebastian to see you like this.”