by Robin Gold
“Uh . . . Isn’t this a bit hasty?” Libby cautioned, stepping forward. “You’re certain he’s the one? Don’t you want to look at any others? A dog with two ears perhaps?”
“Nonsense.” Clara nuzzled the wiggling puppy’s head. “That’s what makes him special.”
Dumbo howled and licked her nose.
“Well, I’d say he likes you! Yes he does!” beamed Jane. “I’m delighted. We were concerned that because of his trauma, people might view him as damaged goods and disregard him.”
Clara understood this theory all too well.
Libby narrowed her eyes. “Suffering a trauma does not render one damaged goods,” she stated emphatically, accessing her inner Bette Davis and placing an authoritative hand on her hip.
Jane gulped.
And Clara, crouching down to pet Dumbo, managed to tear her focus away from her new pet long enough to smile up at her mother.
Libby shot her a quick wink. “Pack him up,” she instructed the guilty-looking employee with a sweeping arm gesture. “He’s coming with us.”
When Clara asked if it would be all right to change his name, Jane stroked the dog’s back and said, “Of coursey wourse.”
“You hear that, Milk Dud?” Clara kissed her new puppy’s paw. “Let’s go home.”
• Have a pet dog (who cares if it sheds! BESIDES LIBBY!)
10.
Clara collected her coat and purse from the front hall closet. “I hate leaving you!” she said to Milk Dud. “Mommy just needs to take care of some very important business. I promise I’ll be right back.”
Milk Dud barked, jumping at her heels.
“Shhhh! Quiet now; Libby’s trying to work.” Clara nuzzled his head. “We don’t want to get in trouble for disturbing her.”
“Not to worry.” Libby entered the foyer. “The Kleenex jingle I’m working on isn’t due until after Christmas. My granddog can make all the noise he wants.”
Clara was sure her ears were betraying her. “Granddog?”
“Got a problem with it?” Libby’s eyebrows arched skyward. For someone who claimed not to care for dogs, she certainly took a natural and instant liking to Milk Dud, spoiling the scruffy beagle with expensive gourmet kibble and a boatload of new toys that squeaked, rattled, and bounced, creating a symphony of racket that Clara tried her best to stifle. “Now scram. If you don’t get going soon, the stores will all be closed before you get there.” Libby scooped Milk Dud up into her arms. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”
To Clara’s surprise, earlier that day Libby had offered to dog-sit while Clara tended to the second point on her time capsule list: Replace Lincoln’s mom’s beautiful vase I broke. Leaving Boston with a ruthless singleness of purpose, she’d set a goal of accomplishing at least three list items during her first week back in Chicago in order to start her mission off on the correct foot. It was as if she needed to prove to herself that this wacky, unconventional plan of hers wasn’t just hogwash, that it might actually work, and she possessed inside the necessary heart and resolve to see it through. Having been faithless for so long, an initial speck of belief was required to fuel her internal fire and propel her forward. Thus, Clara was determined to find the perfect vase and cross a big, fat line through said task on her list before Chef Guillaume’s gingerbread class tomorrow. “You’re positive you don’t mind keeping an eye on Milk Dud?”
“Don’t be silly,” insisted Libby, stroking his remaining ear. “He’ll keep me company while I wait for Todd to come fix the piano. The damn middle C key’s sticking. I hope it’s not serious.”
“Todd the Tuner to the rescue again. I swear you should put that man on retainer. All right, I’m out of here.” Clara kissed her mother and Milk Dud goodbye. “Wish me luck. I’m crossing my fingers I can find something that resembles Mrs. Foster’s vase.”
Once upon a time, Lincoln Foster and his family lived down the block from the Blacks on Broadview Lane. They moved to Sarasota when Lincoln and Clara were both fifteen, at which point they lost touch with each other, despite the fact that they’d always shared a close friendship growing up, even during their awkward teenage years, when hormones set in and relations between blossoming young men and women tend to become complicated.
Oh, did those two have a knack for getting into trouble together! They were nine years old and playing “Olympics” in Lincoln’s living room, when Clara, “a two-time, gold-medal-winning gymnast from Yemen,” accidentally double-cartwheeled into an antique, hand-blown glass vase that had belonged to Lincoln’s great-great-grandmother. His mother came running when she heard the commotion, and upon discovering the broken shards of pearly, iridescent glass scattered about the carpet, she began to sob.
Although Clara, frightened, had known Mrs. Foster for years, she recalled looking at her more or less for the first time. She’d seen Libby shed tears on rare occasion—usually something involving her father, like on what would have been his birthday, or their wedding anniversary. But never had she witnessed an adult other than her own mother cry before. And it gutted her. Prior to this, it hadn’t yet sunk in that grownups had real feelings too—that they were fragile, and human, just like herself. Who knew? Seeping with guilt, she instantly recognized this experience would leave an indelible mark in her memory. And she was correct.
Mrs. Foster forgave her right away, acknowledging, “Like it or not, accidents happen, and all we can do is move on.” But Clara’s remorse thrived. For a long time, she considered destroying the vase one of her biggest regrets. Even bigger than the summer Sun-In scandal that turned her hair green, or “Garbonzogate,” when Leo dared her to snort a chickpea, resulting in a panicked trip to the emergency room to have it surgically removed from her nasal passage before it entered her brain.
“You don’t sell any others? Possibly something about twelve inches tall, five inches wide, and pear-shaped with a delicate pearl or opal-type finish?” Clara asked Greg, the pint-sized Pottery Bin employee who smelled like Chanel No. 5. Clara recognized the fragrance because she used to wear it when Sebastian was alive and she actually bothered to spray on perfume. It always made her feel glamorous. It also didn’t hurt to know that her fiancé adored the way it smelled on her. Clara recalled the time he attended a week-long podiatry conference in San Francisco. Neither of them had been happy about having to spend seven whole days apart (translation: an eternity). Late one evening while he was gone, Sebastian called Clara from his hotel room to wish her good night, which was something he always did when he was out of town, no matter how late it might have been. Clara could tell immediately by the sound of his voice that something had him down. “I just rode the elevator up to the twenty-third floor, where my room is, and there was a woman going to the penthouse who was wearing Chanel No. 5.” Sebastian sighed. “I don’t know. It sounds silly, but it’s been a long couple days. I was already missing you to begin with. Smelling that scent just made it even worse.”
Though Clara didn’t like hearing the sad longing in his tone, she couldn’t help but feel touched by the sweet sincerity of his response to her signature fragrance. “Oh, love,” she replied sympathetically, “I’m sorry. I wish it would have been me on that elevator.”
“So do I,” said Sebastian, adding, “I wish you were here with me in my room right now.”
“Well, that definitely makes two of us,” Clara confessed. And an hour and a half of nonstop conversation later, they finally hung up the telephone.
“Well, why don’t you be more specific about the vase you’re looking for?” Greg teased Clara as he patted his stylish, side-swept bangs, ensuring they were in place. “I’m sorry, but this represents our entire inventory of vases. Unfortunately, what you see on this shelf here is what you get.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Clara sighed, trying her best to tune out the Christmas carols playing merrily in the background. Hark go the bells, damn fucking bells . . . S
he’d already heard that song twice that day. Ignoring the holiday was becoming harder and harder.
Leaning in toward her, Greg lowered his voice to a whisper. “This is so deviant of me, but have you tried looking at Crate & Basket yet? We’re not supposed to say the C-and-B word here. Shhh! Don’t tell!” He raised an index finger to his glossy lips, kicking his right leg up behind him.
“I was there earlier today. They didn’t have what I’m looking for either,” Clara said, moderately amused. “Thanks anyway, though. It looks like this ridiculous wild goose chase of mine is officially over.”
Jutting out his bottom lip, Greg pouted.
Clara trudged out the door empty-handed yet full of frustration. After searching five different stores, she was starting to think it would be easier to locate a new kidney than a vase that even came close to resembling Mrs. Foster’s. What a pain in the rear this stupid search was turning out to be. Considering it was probably the thought behind the gesture that counted most, she pondered plodding back inside the C-and-B word’s competition and purchasing any old vase, when suddenly she heard a high-pitched voice shouting at her.
“Hold up, buttercup!” Greg, wearing an oversized, lilac cashmere scarf, galloped toward her, his hair-sprayed bangs not blowing in the breeze. “You looked so blue when you left, I just couldn’t take it! Two words: Frank’s Antiques. It’s on Ridge Road next to the diner. Tell the old dear Greg sent you. Toodles!” And with a flip of his hair, he spun around and sashayed back into the store.
Clara had never heard of Frank’s Antiques, but she was familiar with the only diner in River Pointe and drove directly there.
The cluttered, musty-smelling shop was the size of a matchbox, and covered from floor to ceiling with what appeared to be mostly old junk. When Clara mentioned the name “Greg” to Frank, the portly Native American proprietor with waist-length gray hair, he kissed the top of her hand and assured her that he had exactly what she was looking for. “That would be lovely, but I must tell you, sir, at this point, I don’t have much hope.”
Examining her, Frank touched the long, turquoise amulet hanging from a weathered suede rope around his neck. “Well, then you’ve come to the right place.” His smile was wide and sincere as he disappeared behind a crimson curtain into a back room.
Not likely, Clara thought to herself, staring at an old banjo with a bright-colored donkey painted on it. She couldn’t imagine what type of person would own such a monstrosity. Undoubtedly, someone with an unusual affinity for mules or with a mental illness.
Frank returned a few minutes later, huffing and puffing, holding a pearly white vase. “Here you go. From Switzerland. One of a kind.” He handed it to Clara, eyeing her closely.
She inspected it, judging its weight in her hands.
“Well? What do you think?”
“I—I think it’s perfect,” she answered, amazed. The vase was smaller and more square-shaped than Mrs. Foster’s had been, but it was gorgeous and would certainly suffice. Clara stared at Frank, shocked. “I can’t believe it! How much does it cost?”
“Seventy-five dollars. But for you?” The Native American man grinned, forming deeply indented dimples in both cheeks. “The Greg Special: fifty dollars. Make it sixty and I’ll throw in the beautiful banjo.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Clara replied, tickled by his generosity. “And much appreciated. I’ll take it. Uh, just the vase, that is.” She returned it to him.
Frank nodded and began wrapping it in old newspaper.
Feeling the need to make polite small talk, Clara leaned against the dingy glass countertop covered in fingerprints. “With all due respect, I was positive I was wasting my time. Positive. I had no hope when I walked through your door.”
Frank stopped wrapping to scrutinize her.
Clara wasn’t sure why he was staring at her so intensely, but it was impossible for her to dismiss his penetrating gaze. “What?” she finally asked, shifting positions on her feet, self-conscious. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s like I tell my other customers like you. Hopeless is all up here.” He raised an index finger to his head and tapped it a couple of times.
Then he resumed packaging the vase. “Nobody wants that banjo.”
Clara rummaged through her purse for her time capsule list, placed it on the countertop, and used her red pen to cross off Replace Lincoln’s mom’s beautiful vase I broke. “Well, I’ll tell you something. You just made my day.”
“Oh.” Frank smiled again. “You did that all by yourself.”
Clara glanced at her watch.
“In a hurry?”
Libby had given her Mrs. Foster’s Florida address earlier that day, and Clara couldn’t wait to get home, write her a letter to accompany the vase, and bring the package to the post office before it closed. She was also eager to return to Milk Dud, whom she already missed. “I’m a bit pressed for time,” Clara confessed.
“Then I won’t keep you.” Frank placed the vase in a used shopping bag and handed it to her. “I can tell you’re on an important mission.”
“Actually?” She looked at Frank, surprised by his insight. “I am.”
“Come back soon when you have more time,” he said, grinning. And then, maintaining eye contact with her, he slowly lifted his finger to his head and tapped it again.
Clara couldn’t quite identify what it was exactly, but there was something different and curious about him. Perhaps it was the simple kindness of a stranger, or maybe it was something deeper, but she left the antique shop feeling a little bit lighter.
Rushing through the front door of the house, Clara trumpeted to Libby, “Mission accomplished!” and crashed right into Todd, literally bouncing off the hunky piano tuner’s chiseled chest and against the heavy oak door. “Oh my God! I didn’t—I didn’t see you there,” she shrieked, grabbing her head with both hands, thankful she left the vase in the car. “I’m sorry!”
“No, I’m sorry! Are you okay? That wasn’t just your head that made that awful thwack. Was it?” Todd looked terribly concerned. He also looked like Prince Charming from Walt Disney’s animated version of Snow White, minus the tights.
“I’m fine. Fine.” Clara could feel the back of her stinging scalp beginning to throb. “Don’t worry, my head’s like metal.” She had no idea why she just said that.
“Todd, I’m not sure if you remember my daughter, Clara.” Libby closed her arm around Clara’s waist. “She just moved back from Boston.”
“Temporarily,” Clara added, seeing stars. “I’m in town on business.”
“It’s nice to bump into you again,” Todd replied, grinning at his pun, which Clara failed to catch. “Uh”—he cleared his throat—“are you positive your head is okay?” He touched the side of Clara’s arm.
Clara forced an artificial smile, assuring him she was fine.
Todd, however, did not appear convinced. “I know your head is like metal, but I think I might feel better if I could check up on you to make sure you’re not just trying to set me at ease by claiming to be all right.” Raising his chin and grinning at Clara, he eyed her skeptically. “By any chance would you happen to be free for dinner tomorrow night?”
“No, I’m taking a class in the city on gingerbread architecture that lasts until early evening. It’s advanced.” Distracted, Clara scanned the foyer for Milk Dud. “And I’m meeting my brother afterward.”
Libby gave her an inconspicuous nudge.
“Fair enough,” Todd said, nodding. “That sounds like fun. How about next Friday then?”
“Is Milk Dud asleep? Where’s he hiding?” Clara asked her mother, calling, “Here boy! Milk Dud!”
Suddenly, she froze.
It dawned on her, better late than never, that Todd had just asked her out. On a date. A date! Clara hadn’t gone out with another man since before Sebastian, and she wasn’t ab
out to set her sights on her mother’s Sears catalogue-modeling piano tuner. Sorry, no way. Think again.
But then something most peculiar happened. Out of nowhere, her favorite Walt Whitman poem, “The Untold Want,” invaded her brain. The untold want, by life and land ne’er granted, Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find . . . It had been a long, long time since Clara last pondered these familiar verses, which she’d studied as an English major during college. And she’d all but forgotten that when she was starting out in the “real world” after graduation, and then embarking on her new life with Sebastian, they had served as a powerful source of inspiration, reminding her that she was responsible for her own fate. If ever there was a time to re-embrace this theory, it was now, Clara realized, wondering if it was her imagination, or if Todd’s front tooth really did just sparkle. Alas, it couldn’t hurt to give the man a few hours for one meal, she decided. It’s not as if she was agreeing to pick out china patterns. Plus, she could always cancel if she changed her mind. Though it scared her, Clara knew what she had to do.
“Actually?” She tucked her hair behind her ear, taking a deep breath. “I . . . think I am available next Friday.”
“Great,” said a smiling Todd. “How about I pick you up around seven o’clock?”
“Sure,” she muttered, still considering “The Untold Want.”
• Replace Lincoln’s mom’s beautiful vase I broke
11.
“The power of gingerbread should never be underestimated. Gingerbread is more than a cookie,” Alfred Guillaume, standing behind a long, stainless steel countertop in the Cooking and Hospitality Institute of Chicago’s test kitchen, dramatically declared in his thick French accent. “It is more than a lavish ornament. Gingerbread is art! It is a feeling inside here,” he said, touching his heart, bowing his head. “Do you understand what I am saying? Do you feel what I say?”
Chef Guillaume’s students, transfixed, with eyes open wide and pencils furiously jotting down notes, nodded at the Time magazine-dubbed “culinary God” as if he were preaching the gospel and they, his loyal disciples, could not get enough.