Once Upon a List (18 page)

Clara had no idea if he was awake, or if he was asleep, or if perhaps he was floating somewhere hazily in-between, like herself. All she knew was that it was becoming harder and harder, and harder, for her to keep her heavy, drooping eyelids open.

And then, without battle, she let them sink shut again.

Drifting back to sleep with her lips curled upward in the faintest of grins so slight it might have even gone undetected at first glance, Clara voyaged forward, without having to command herself to.

•
Run a race (10K like Dad used to run? Find out what a K is!)

•
Help others through charity like Libby (donate time if I'm poor when I'm old)

 

26.

L
ater that day, Clara found herself absentmindedly turning the pages of
Morse Code for Dummies
without having processed a single word of what she'd just read. She had tiptoed out of Lincoln's apartment at the crack of dawn to take Milk Dud for his morning walk before his impatient whimpering woke Lincoln—still curled up on top of the sofa-bed—out of a sound sleep. Now, lazing on her couch, flipping another page, barely glancing at it, she wondered what he was doing. Was it odd that she hadn't heard from him yet? Was it odd that she would think it was odd that she hadn't heard from him yet? Was that a faint scent of sandalwood soap she'd detected on his body when it was nestled around her? His body had felt stronger and more muscular than she would have thought. Not that she had actually ever given it any thought before. Turning over two pages that were stuck together without realizing it, she couldn't help but reflect on what a strange sensation it had been to wake up wrapped in Lincoln's arms. Not “strange” in a negative way, but rather, in more of an unexpected, bewildering way. A way that felt peculiarly natural, inspiring Clara to pause and consider her old friend. The fact that she was even contemplating him—the same dork who secretly ate glue and had taught her how to moonwalk many moons ago—when she was supposed to be mastering Morse code, gave Clara yet another jolt of surprise.

She closed the thick, yellow manual and sighed, placing it down on her new glass coffee table. Slowly but surely, the judge's condo was beginning to look and feel more and more like home. Rising from the couch, she grabbed her cell phone off the Ping-Pong table and dialed her brother's number. “Sunday Family Dinner” at Libby's house had become a standard, weekly event—or “wonderful, new tradition,” as Libby liked to call it—and Clara and Leo usually drove to River Pointe together on Sunday afternoons. In the mood for company, Clara hoped he'd feel like picking her up and heading north a bit earlier than usual. “Sounds good,” Leo confirmed. “I'll be at your place in about twenty minutes. Oh! I have to tell you something important before—”

“Sorry, can you hold a second?” Clara interrupted as her Call Waiting beeped. But, observing that it was Lincoln, she changed her mind. “Actually? Gotta go. See you in a few!”

Switching lines, she greeted Lincoln with an intentionally relaxed, “Hello?”

“Clara James.” He sounded refreshed and chipper. “How's my race mate doing today?”

“Not bad. And you?”

“I feel like a new man. I slept like I was in a coma. I never even made it under the covers, if you can believe it. Except”—his tone grew more serious—“I'm afraid I owe you an apology.”

“An apology? What for?” Clara wondered if he was referring to their accidental cuddle session. After all, Lincoln was in a committed relationship, and she had a sneaking suspicion Meg would probably prefer it if her boyfriend avoided intimately spooning other women, with the exception of Sue (who, at 67 million years old, was not exactly a threat).

“For conking out like a narcoleptic while you were here—not to mention during
Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?
Brilliant movie, by the way,” he added, sheepishly admitting, “I can't believe I did that. Clearly, my hosting skills require some honing. I didn't even get a chance to thank you properly for cheering me up last night.”

“Please. Don't be silly.” Clara had lost count of how many different times and in how many different ways he'd done the same for her in the past five months. She was just happy that for once, she could return the favor. “There's no need, Link. If anything, I'm grateful to you for convincing me to get off my butt and run that race. I needed the experience. I have to say, it really opened my eyes,” she confessed.

“I know what you mean,” he agreed. “It never ceases to amaze me how we can just go about our standard business and forget to notice the most obvious things. The things that are right in front of our faces every day.” He exhaled a contemplative sigh. “I suppose sometimes it takes a certain incident to really capture our attention and help us see things differently. And, of course, we also have to be ready.”

“It's so true,” Clara agreed wholeheartedly, though it soon dawned on her that she wasn't certain what specifically Lincoln was alluding to. “Wait. You mean, like other people's pain and suffering?”

There was a pregnant pause on Lincoln's end. “Exactly.” He cleared his throat. “So, what time did you and Milk Dud take off last night, anyway?”

“Oh, not too late. A little before midnight,” Clara fibbed, assuming, based on the fact that he had to ask, he was clueless that she'd quietly maneuvered her way out of his full-body embrace—holding her breath, careful as could be not to wake him—at six o'clock that morning. She had stopped, however, for a few moments to stare at him, lost in thought, before she slipped out the front door

“Well, I owe you a rain check, during which I promise to remain fully conscious.”

She chuckled. “Much appreciated.”

“Are you free for dinner on Tuesday? I've been craving Syn-Kow.”

“Sure,” Clara responded, perhaps a bit too quickly. And then, for some reason, she did something she hadn't done before. She immediately asked, “Should we invite Meg?”

“Well, I'd say yes . . . but, apparently, she'll still be in Minneapolis.” Lincoln's tone revealed surprise and a minor hint of frustration.

“Oh, I thought you mentioned she was coming back today.”

“That was the original plan. But she left a message earlier when I was in the shower saying that her trip was unexpectedly extended and now she's not flying back until Wednesday. It's strange. I know Meg has work tomorrow and Tuesday. I tried returning her call, but she didn't pick up.”

“Huh.” Clara shrugged, speculating, “Maybe she didn't hear her phone ring.”

“I don't know. She has it with her 99 percent of the time. But that reminds me.” Lincoln changed the subject, his voice lifting with enthusiasm. “How did the Brachiosaurus answer the telephone?”

“Ummm.” Clara pondered the riddle for a few seconds, bracing herself for its punch line. “I don't know. I give up.”

“It
didn't,
” he said, laughing. “The telephone wasn't invented until 1876.”

“Oh, Lincoln.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln. What am I going to do with you?”

I
t was a sunny, breezy afternoon—eighty degrees outside without a cloud in the sky—and Clara and Leo had opened up all of the windows in his car, rather than turn on the air conditioning, during their scenic ride north to River Pointe. “Shit!” Clara snapped in an instant frenzy as soon as Leo turned into their mother's driveway. For there, thirty yards away, was Todd. Carrying his cumbersome box of piano tuning tools, he had just exited the house, and was taking his own sweet time walking toward his Porsche, which they were about to pull up directly beside.

“Shit!”
echoed Leo, cringing—a telling sign that indicated he knew he was about to get in trouble. Stomping his foot on the brake, he slowed the vehicle to a crawl, a nervous expression crossing his face as he turned and made eye contact with his panicking sister. “Don't kill me. I
tried
telling you Libby had a piano emergency when we were on the phone earlier, but you hung up on me before I could finish my sentence!”

“Shit, shit,
shit,
Leo!” Clara whispered in a frantic effort to evade the handsome Sears model. Having sex with him—possibly with Cheez Whiz—was regrettable enough, but the way she'd cruelly dodged him ever since, behaving like an immature teenager, was what really turned her stomach, creating a nasty storm of guilt inside her. “Why didn't you tell me while we were driving here, butt-face?!” She punched Leo in the arm. Quickly, her heart banging in her chest, Clara slid her body down the tan, leather seat, curling into a tight ball on the ground, praying she wouldn't be seen.

“I'm sorry. I completely forgot. You had me all distracted, talking about last night's
unintentional”
—he gestured quotation marks with his fingers—“sleep-over party.” Leo blamed her in a hushed tone, putting the car in park.

“It
was
unintentional!” Clara peeked under the rubber floor mat, debating whether it might be a good place to hide.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What are
YOU
doing?! I can't face him!” she scream-whispered, begging, “Turn the car around! Please!!!”

Suddenly, Leo forced a loud, fake cough. “Hi,
Todd,
” he said in a most affected manner, attempting to signal to his would-be-invisible sister that the piano tuner was standing right beside her door, peering down at her with a curious expression.

“How are ya?” Todd nodded at him.

“No complaints.” Leo stalled. “
Noooo complaints
. Beautiful day we're having . . .” He tapped his hands against the steering wheel.

Feeling Todd's gaze on her, knowing full well that she was busted, Clara looked up at him, forming a strained, guilt-drenched smile. “Hi . . . Todd,” she said, giving a little wave.

“What are you doing down there?” he asked.

“I . . . was just . . .” She said the first ridiculous thing that popped into her head. “ . . . Searching for my contact lens. It shot out of my eye.”

“Need a hand?” he offered.

“Oh, no thanks,” Clara resumed a normal, upright position in the passenger seat, adjusting her pretty white camisole and smoothing her tousled hair. “That's all right. I don't think I'm gonna find it.”

“Yeah, I don't either,” agreed Leo, withholding the fact that Clara was blessed with twenty/twenty vision.

“Okay.” Todd shrugged.

“We were just about to head to the store to buy some . . .” Again, Clara, a pathetically unskilled improviser, went with the first ridiculous thing that popped into her head. “ . . . Cornish hen.”

Leo, who'd been busy picking his cuticles, turned his head and looked at her.

“We're having a big family dinner,” she elaborated to Todd.

“I know,” he said. “Your mom fried up enough chicken for the whole block. The house smells terrific.”

Clara swallowed hard. “We always like to have Cornish hen with our chicken,” she explained, drowning in her lousy lie. “Double fowl.” She gave him a thumbs-up.

Seeming to recognize that three was a crowd, and enjoying watching his little sister squirm, Leo turned off the ignition. “I'd better go ask Libby how many hens we should buy,” he announced, opening his door and slipping out of the car, adding with a dramatic eye roll, “You know how she gets when we're low on hen. I'll be right back.” He dashed toward the house.

“See you soon,” Clara called out to him through a phony smile and slightly gritted teeth. “
Very
soon!”

After Leo was gone, she hunched her shoulders to her ears and grinned uncomfortably again at Todd, who had set his toolbox down on the pavement and appeared to be waiting for her.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

“Uh, sure.” Clara reluctantly stepped out of the vehicle, shutting the door behind her. “What's up?” she said in an overly chummy fashion, standing a few feet away from Todd with her hands shoved deep in her jeans pockets.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.” He stared at her, seeming to anticipate some sort of explanation.

“What do you mean?” She played dumb, trying to calculate her next move and block the haunting mental image of Todd sitting in his tight, Santa Claus-themed briefs at his white piano, crooning a tender Meat Loaf ballad.

“I know it was a while ago that we went out, but I left you more messages than I'm proud of, Clara. You had to have gotten some of them.”

With her heart racing, Clara closed her eyes, trying to concoct a believable reason for why she never returned his calls. But she knew there wasn't one. Perpetuating this childish game of cat and mouse suddenly seemed futile and mean. Realizing it would be tactless to present another transparent lie, Clara accepted that she had backed herself into a corner—an undignified, shameful corner. And the only way out was the truth. No more fibs. No more excuses. No more Cornish hens. It was time to come clean.

She took a deep breath. And then, lifting her focus from her sandals, Clara looked Todd directly in the eye, solemnly confessing, “The truth is . . . I didn't call you back because I was acting like an idiot. A
supreme
idiot. The way I've avoided you isn't fair, and it isn't nice, and I sincerely,
sincerely
apologize, Todd.” She paused, searching his face, hoping to glimpse some sign of forgiveness. “I should have just been honest with you from the start,” she acknowledged softly. “I'm so sorry. I know I've hurt your feelings.”

Todd did not look her in the eye. “Well, I have to admit, I
was
a little offended when you told me I was acting
reTodded.
”

Clara gasped, horrified. “I didn't!” She took a necessary moment to process this information.
“ReTodded?”
she winced. “Really?”

Todd nodded. “Apparently my name is a lot of fun when you're intoxicated and pretending you're still in Boston.”

Appalled, Clara covered her face with her hands. “There's nothing I can say to justify my behavior. I just . . . I guess it comes down to the fact that I wasn't ready to sleep with you. Or
anybody,
for that matter. It honestly has nothing to do with you,” she assured him. “It's about my own”—she searched for the appropriate description—“complicated issues.”