by Robin Gold
“It takes skill and the ability to follow instruction to bake a cookie. It takes talent, passion, and soul to create gingerbread architecture. I’m pleased to see you all brought your aprons today, because we will be getting messy on our journey to gingerbread land!” Bursting with enthusiasm, he plunged both hands into a giant mound of flour before him and then wiped them on his traditional chef uniform, laughing like a loon as tiny specks of white sprinkled his mustache. “We must not be afraid to get dirty on our delicious voyage together! And now, everybody up, s’il vous plaît! Up, up, up! Un, deux, trois!” He clapped his hands, signaling for the class to rise. “Let the gingerbread guide us!”
“Let the gingerbread guide us?” echoed Leo when Clara finished recounting the eccentric celebrity chef’s wild introduction to the class. “I don’t believe you. You’re making this up,” he said with a chuckle, turning the glass of Scuppernong Winter Ale in his hand.
“I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried,” Clara assured him. “Chef Guillaume’s more than a few buns short of a baker’s dozen, but the man’s a genius. In my life I have never seen gingerbread structures this intricate before. I still can’t believe I actually built one myself. Of course, it’s far from perfect. But it’s not as bad as I thought it might be.”
“I know it’s become a challenge lately for you to enjoy anything positive or give yourself credit, but you do realize it’s not a sin to have expectations, don’t you?”
Clara picked up her glass of Merlot. “I’ll show it to you after dinner. It’s in my car.”
“I’m sure it’s outstanding.” Leo grinned. “I’m glad you had fun. I had a feeling you would.”
“I’m glad you were able to take a night off from prepping for your court case. Nice call to meet here. Despite all of these damn Christmas decorations everywhere.” Clara rolled her eyes. It had been over a year since she and Leo last dined at a restaurant together, and she was especially pleased to be at one of their old favorites, Willie’s, a classic Italian steakhouse near the famous Chicago Water Tower, which she’d always fancied due to its unique history. No matter how many times she strolled past the distinguished, Gothic Revival–style landmark, she couldn’t resist giving its yellowing limestone a quick pat hello, and it never ceased to amaze her that although all of the city’s other public buildings had perished in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, this one, lone structure had managed to persevere. Somehow, through unfathomable devastation, it survived. The rare monument, now aglow with twinkling white holiday lights, had come to symbolize Chicago’s fierce drive to continue. And in Clara’s mind, it was the picture of beauty.
“Well, Ebenezer, I know how much you love this part of town,” Leo replied.
Picking at her baked rigatoni and meatballs, Clara described the other students in the class, including a large woman named Svetlana who accidentally dropped her gingerbread “jailhouse” on the floor and cried like a baby, and how Chef Guillaume not only autographed Clara’s copy of C Is for Cookie, Bitch!, but also wrote a thoughtful note in which he referred to her as “My darling Claire.” People had mistakenly been calling her “Claire” her entire life. It used to drive her bananas, but such trivialities no longer even registered on her radar. Clara, Sara, Tara, Tyrone . . . Did it really matter?
When the subject of gingerbread had at last been exhausted, Clara briefed Leo on her time capsule list progress. Showing him several photographs of Milk Dud, she mentioned that she’d stopped at the post office on her way downtown to mail Mrs. Foster’s vase, and then oh-so-casually spilled the beans about her upcoming date with Todd, quickly adding, “I’m debating if I should order another glass of wine or switch to Scuppernong.”
Leo put down his steak knife, a look of amusement covering his face. “Todd Todd? You mean, piano tuner I’m-a-suave-Sears-model Todd?”
Clara nodded.
“That’s great news,” he said without a trace of insincerity. He resumed eating. “Todd seems like a good guy.”
Clara was surprised when Leo left the teasing at that and didn’t bombard her with questions. She suspected her brother was making a careful effort not to cross the line on such a sensitive subject as dating. His internal moral barometer had always been properly calibrated when it came to pushing her too far, especially lately. Still, for some reason Clara felt the need to spell out her stand on the issue, as if Sebastian was sitting right there with them. And for all intents and purposes, he was. “Trust me, I have no interest in dating Todd, or anyone for that matter. It’s just too soon. Way too soon . . .” She picked at something on the table with her finger. Then she stopped picking. “But when he asked me to dinner, all—and I mean all—I could think about was ‘The Untold Want’—”
“You mean that poem you used to be obsessed with?”
“Exactly.” Clara held her fork in midair and looked at him. “I could not get it out of my head, Leo. It was the strangest thing. And then it made me realize, maybe now is not the best time to be rejecting new opportunities and experiences.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I’ll have you know you’re impressing me here.”
“So, I was thinking that as long as I really am doing this time capsule thing, then perhaps it might not hurt to adopt a ‘Now, Voyager’ type of attitude in tandem. Know what I mean? ‘Sail thou forth, to seek and find’?” She took a small bite of meatball. “It’s not like I have anything to lose.”
“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” Obviously pleased, Leo extended his bottle of Scuppernong and clinked it against Clara’s glass. “Feliz navi-Todd!”
“Oh, I knew you had more in you!”
After Leo stopped chuckling and the waitress had cleared their empty plates, he put his hands behind his neck and leaned on the back legs of his chair. “I have an idea I’ve been meaning to run by you.”
“Shoot . . .”
“A judge I know, terrific man—Judge Bennett’s his name—he’s relocating to San Diego for work after the first of the year. His condo’s been on the market for the last six months, and so far there have been no takers. Now he’s in a real jam because irrespective of whether the place sells, he has to be in California sitting behind that bench come the first week of January.”
Clara twirled the ice in her water glass. “I think I see where this is going . . .”
“It’s a one-bedroom unit in a luxury high-rise overlooking Lake Michigan. You couldn’t ask for a better neighborhood.” Leo watched his sister’s expression closely. “If you’re interested in checking it out, it could be a nice, short-term living situation. And it would be helping the judge out, so I presume he’d offer you a good deal. The only thing is, it still won’t be cheap, and in the event that the place sells, you’ll have to vacate immediately. Oh! And it comes unfurnished, so you’d probably need to buy a few things.”
“Does the building allow dogs?”
“Affirmative. The judge has a Maltese.”
Pondering it, Clara stared behind the restaurant’s tinsel-adorned bar at the automated Santa Claus waving from his flying sleigh. Rocking his head back and forth as he laughed and waved . . . laughed and waved . . . laughed and waved . . . he seemed to be egging her on in an almost sinister fashion. Clara shifted her focus to her lap. Her sabbatical was not paid, which was fine with her. Still, money wasn’t an issue, thanks to Sebastian’s sizable life insurance policy. So far, she’d refused to touch a penny of it, for in her mind there was a direct correlation between accepting the money and moving on, farther and farther away from him. Not only did she want nothing to do with the money, the thought of it actually sickened her. However, the concept of continuing to lodge with Libby in her time warp bedroom brimming with the spirit of Swayze was also unappealing. After spending too long together, Clara and her mother had a tendency to clash like mayonnaise and sunshine, and she viewed finding her own Chicago digs as a necessary preemptive strike. Plus, she’d been in town less t
han a week and already yearned for the privacy and independence she’d long been accustomed to. Alas, sooner or later, she was going to have to dip into those forbidden funds. It was inevitable. And she knew it.
“Okay.” Clara nodded solemnly at Leo, still staring down at her lap. “I guess I’ll take a look at it, if possible.”
“Done. I’ll make arrangements with the judge.”
Clara hugged her thin arms and began running her hands up and down them. She sighed. Her voice was quiet and low. “Thanks for keeping your eye out for me.”
Aware of her stand on the insurance money, Leo crumpled his napkin into a ball and tossed it at her face, softly adding as it bounced of her nose, “It’s all gonna be okay.”
Somehow, when it was her brother saying these words, Clara almost believed it. Almost.
After paying the bill, Leo walked her to her car. She commanded him to close his eyes while she carefully removed her gingerbread creation from its protective box and positioned it on the backseat. “Hold on two more seconds. I just want to get it angled right for you.”
When she was finally ready for the big reveal, she invited him to take a gander. “Okay. You can open your eyes now.”
“Whoa . . .” Leo stared at it for a minute, awestruck, while Clara held her breath. “Are you serious? You made that?”
Sticking her hands in her coat pockets, Clara nodded, the frosty night air blowing her hair back. “Guilty as charged.”
“Wow, Clara. I don’t know what to say. It’s . . . it’s amazing! It’s the WATER TOWER!” Leo glanced behind him at the actual landmark down the block. “It looks exactly like the real thing! Only much tastier,” he gushed, gently touching the green gumdrop wreath hanging from a red licorice ribbon on the nougat door as if he were feeling the tender spot on a newborn’s head. “Jesus. I’m blown away.”
“Thank you.” Clara’s cheeks grew pink. It had been ages since she’d blushed with any emotion. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she actually felt proud of herself. And it made her smile.
• Build a gingerbread house from scratch (no dumb farty kits allowed!) (and who cares if it’s messy! BESIDES LIBBY!)
12.
Clara closed her closet door with more force than she’d intended. “Why did I agree to this? This is a terrible idea. The last thing I want to do right now is have dinner with Todd.” She said his name as if it were laced with poison. “I don’t even know the man. He probably has herpes. And I left my brown boots in Boston!”
“I have a pair of tan, high-heel boots that you’re welcome to borrow,” Libby offered in a calm tone, keeping a safe distance from Clara in the hallway outside her bedroom. “And Todd does not have herpes. Why would you say such a thing?”
“I don’t know.” Clara moped across her room. “Why would I tell a complete stranger that I’d have dinner with him? If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in top form.” She slumped into the chair at her mirrored vanity. “I hope Todd likes ponytails because I’m not doing my hair for him.”
“You haven’t done your hair in close to a year. And you’re acting ridiculous. Todd is not a stranger. He’s a perfectly lovely, herpes-free gentleman and you’re going to have a wonderful time if you’ll just change your attitude and relax.”
“Know what would be perfectly lovely?” Clara snorted. She didn’t wait for Libby to answer. “Staying home and watching a Golden Girls rerun on TV with Milk Dud.”
Reclining on Clara’s bed with his new friend, Natalie Marissa, Milk Dud raised his head as if on cue, listened a minute with his remaining ear up, and then put his head back down between his paws.
“And why are you lurking in the doorway like a perp?” Clara demanded.
“Because I’m afraid to get any closer.” Libby had never been one to lie. “And I’m sorry to have to point it out, but you are using Betty White as a form of escape.”
“What?”
Exhaling, Libby entered the room with caution, walking on eggshells toward her daughter. Standing behind her, she placed a hand on Clara’s tense, bony shoulder, locking eyes with her reflection in the mirror. “I can vividly remember how it felt going on my first date after your father died. His name was Warren Noble. He took me to Chung’s Chinese Palace.” Libby smiled, recalling the event. “I was sure it would be a disaster. It felt like I was doing something deceitful and wrong. Like I was violating a sacred code . . .” She scrutinized Clara’s reaction to what she was saying. Then she shrugged. “In my mind, I was cheating on your dad. I was nervous and conflicted—”
“And?” Clara impatiently pressed, fingering a bobby pin. “Did your date with Warren turn out as badly as you expected?”
“Yes,” her mother said, nodding. “It did.”
Clara got up and began pacing. “Great! Thank you for sharing.”
“At first,” Libby stressed, “thanks to a rancid sweet and sour shrimp. I tossed my fortune cookies right there at the table. I even got some on poor Warren’s bolo.” She shook her head at the memory. “But you know what happened after that?”
“Warren required therapy for the rest of his life?”
“Hey. Watch your tone. It broke the ice,” Libby said slowly. She paused to make sure Clara was paying attention. “I was so humiliated that I stopped worrying and feeling guilty about your father, and I started to actually enjoy myself. The next thing I knew, Warren and I were getting on like wildfire. We even went out again.”
“Really?” Standing still, Clara wondered why she had never heard this story before.
“Really.” Libby smiled. “I only wish I’d figured it all out sooner. The point is, eventually, Clara-pie, I realized it was not a crime to spend time with another man. It wasn’t even a crime to care about another man. But it was a crime to hole myself up in a room with my piano and deny myself the chance at companionship or love. Your father wouldn’t have wanted that for me. Not in a million years.” Tenderly cupping Clara’s chin in the palm of her hand, she looked her deep in the eyes. Her next words were spoken in the gentlest of tones. “Sebastian wouldn’t have wanted that for you either.”
Although it made her heart sink, Clara knew her mother was right.
Libby ambled back toward the doorway. “I also realized one should never order shrimp on a date. Never. On that note, can I interest you in a glass of wine to take the edge off? I could certainly use one.”
Clara nodded. “Yes, please. I think that’s probably a good idea.”
Clara stared at her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t remember the innocence and excitement that once coursed through her veins when she sat in this very same spot as a teenager preparing for a big date, wondering if perhaps that evening she might get a hickey or go to second base—or, if she was lucky, both. She couldn’t really feel life before Sebastian as something she’d once lived. It seemed light-years away, almost like a dream. It reminded Clara of a line spoken by Satan, the miserable fallen angel, in John Milton’s epic poem, “Paradise Lost”: We know no time when we were not as now.
Still staring in the mirror, deep in thought, Clara sighed. Considering Libby’s anecdote, she removed her ponytail holder, gave her limp hair a good shake, and picked up her brush. Then, feeling badly for behaving like a herpes-hating handful, she thanked her mother before she disappeared down the hallway. And it wasn’t the wine for which Clara was grateful.
“Look!” Clara squealed. “It’s a mariachi band!” She pointed at the three musicians dressed in traditional, silver-studded charro outfits with wide-brimmed hats weaving their way toward Todd’s and her table. “I love mariachi music!” She clapped her hands with delight.
Clara wasn’t sure how Todd had managed to score a table on a Friday night with such short notice at Mantequilla, the hottest Mexican restaurant in town. The last she had heard, it took months to secure a reservation at the renowned, vibrantly colored cantina with
a private telephone number and secret celebrity entrance in the back. When Todd first mentioned that’s where they’d be dining, Clara had immediately wished she was on better terms with Tabitha, a true Mexican food aficionado and celebrity gossip fan, so that she could call her up and tell her all about it. She hadn’t spoken to her estranged best friend since she left for Chicago, but she knew Tabitha would have been chomping at the bit for details. Clara might not have been certain how Todd was able to breeze through the exclusive door at Mantequilla, but she was certain that the fresh pomegranate margaritas they were drinking were muy, muy deliciosa. “Let’s order another round,” she suggested. “These puppies are fantastic!” She slapped her palm against the table, causing their shared basket of tortilla chips to jump. “Hey! Did I tell you I just got a new puppy?”
Amused, Todd ran his fingers through his thick, brown hair. “You did mention ‘The One-Ear Wonder’ a couple of times. I’m looking forward to meeting this Milk Dud . . .”
“That’s my favorite candy.” Clara drained the last sip of her margarita. “What’s yours?”
“Are you sure you’re up for another round?” Todd peered at her from across the table as if he wasn’t quite positive this was a wise idea. “I’m wondering if perhaps we should get some dessert instead. My old college buddy Luke is the executive chef here and sweets are one of his secret strengths. He makes a vicious vanilla flan. Any interest in splitting one?”
Tilting her head to the side, Clara mulled it over. “Mmmmm . . . no thank you. I’m stuffed from the carne asada. Oh, and that guacamole! Guacamooooole,” she repeated. “That’s a fun word to say. Talk about green ecstasy in a bowl.” She let out a soft little satisfied moan. “I vote for another margarita.”