Once Upon a List (16 page)

 

April

 

23.

I
t was an overcast Sunday afternoon and for the third time since Clara had moved into Judge Bennett's condo, his real estate broker had politely requested that she and Milk Dud vacate the premises while he hosted an open house. With the exception of a young couple who had wanted to purchase the home—but put in a ridiculously low bid—there had been no serious takers, and the increasingly disillusioned judge had mentioned to Clara that the marketplace was so grim he was contemplating lowering the price in order to make a sale “and just get it over and done with already.”

After meeting Lincoln for an early morning jog along a scenic—but miserably uphill—path in Grant Park known as “The Mountain”—their third training session that week in preparation for the upcoming 10K Race to Beat Cancer—Clara and Milk Dud drove straight to River Pointe. Though her whole body ached from struggling up The Mountain and she'd have preferred to go home and collapse, Libby had invited her and Leo over for a good old-fashioned Sunday supper, and Clara figured she'd spend the day catching up with her family and hopefully unearthing Leo's damn recorder, which still remained MIA.

When Clara arrived at the house, she discovered a note from Libby in the kitchen saying that she and Leo were out running errands and would be back later. “Perfect,” Clara mumbled to Milk Dud, grabbing a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. “Let's find this thing quickly before your grandma gets home and has another conniption fit about me destroying her backyard. What do you say?”

Milk Dud barked and licked his rear end in approval.

Collecting the trowel from the gardening shed near Maple Manor, Clara returned to the scene of the crime. Or, at least, to what she crossed her fingers, toes, and spleen was the scene of the crime. No matter how hard she tried to recall exactly where she'd buried Leo's instrument, her mind continually drew a blank, increasing both her frustration level and resolve to find it. Determined, she pushed up her sweatshirt sleeves, crouched down on her hands and knees, and got to work.

She dug.

And she dug.

Then, she dug some more.

Two full hours passed without her realizing it.

It hadn't rained in a few weeks, and as a result the ground was hard and dry, rendering digging more of a physical strain than it had been during Clara's last ill-fated hunt for buried recorder. Her knees were beginning to throb and a painful blister had formed on the palm of her hand where she gripped the trowel. Concentrating fiercely, she had just formed her thirteenth crater of the day to no avail. “Dammit!” she cursed, tossing the trowel aside. “Ridiculous . . .” Short of breath and perspiring, she wiped her brow with the back of her hand, smudging a gray streak of dirt across her forehead. Her aggravation peaking, fighting the urge to scream, she knew that she needed to take a break.

Sitting cross-legged, leaning back against the sturdy tree that housed Maple Manor, Clara unscrewed the cap off her water bottle and took several big gulps. Then, inhaling a deep, calming breath, she ran her fingers through her hair, leaving behind little particles of dirt in her locks. Milk Dud plopped himself down by her side, resting his chin on her thigh. She gave his head an affectionate pet. “I had no idea how hard this would be,” she told him, dejected. “No idea . . .”

The sun was beginning to set, and Clara noticed that the moon had already surfaced in the eastern sky, glowing vibrant white and almost full. She had always loved it when both the sun and moon simultaneously graced the sky. It reminded her of two dear old friends who don't see each other often getting together for a visit. Taking another sip of water, Clara's thoughts turned to Sebastian. If only he could have been there too, relaxing by her side, staring at the sky with her. She often fantasized about sitting on a park bench with Sebastian, gazing up at the moon and stars together. He'd put his arm around her and she'd inch a bit closer to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. If she closed her eyes and focused hard enough, she could practically feel his tall, sturdy body next to her and smell the musky, masculine scent of his cologne. Such a minimal, easy wish it was . . . Some people fantasized about possessing superhero powers, or achieving world peace, or making millions of dollars—owning fancy cars and mansions, circumnavigating the globe in a private plane with a hot tub and a British butler named Ronaldo who wore a tuxedo and catered to their every whim. Not Clara. Her ultimate dream was so much simpler. Yet it was impossible. Shaking her head at the cruelty of it all, as if to keep herself from falling too deep into melancholy longing with all her heart for something that would never be, her thoughts instead floated to something new.

For the first time ever, she imagined what her life might have been like to be someone else. A whole new person. Someone who never met Sebastian. Someone less ambitious to climb the corporate ladder, perhaps an English teacher at a community college or a grocery clerk, or maybe the wife of a cattle rancher in a small, rural town in the middle of Nebraska. Someone whose entire existence wasn't centered around the endless struggle to accept her soul mate's death and move on. Someone who hadn't the faintest clue about the all-consuming, bottomless depth of inconsolable grief. Clara let out a soft, dreamy sigh, considering how wonderful it would be to have the chance at a “regular” life. To wake up in the morning and make oatmeal with raisins, read the newspaper, get dressed, head off to work, and not even once think about her dead fiancé—because she didn't have a dead fiancé. How exhilarating and freeing it would be to actually be able to really “live” life and just be normal! The word “normal” resonated in her mind. God, what she wouldn't have done to experience “normal.” Yet, Clara feared that she would never again know the truly amazing sensation of “normal.”

Fantasizing about this enticing, grief-free life as someone else—where happiness was not only real, but also possible for her too—Clara eventually drifted off to sleep.

 

May

 

24.

O
ne Monday morning in early May, Clara received an e-mail from her boss, Mr. Franklin, with the subject line “IMPORTANT” written in capital letters. She immediately felt a strange sense of doom—even before opening the message.

Though they'd maintained a cordial e-mail correspondence with each other since Clara's sabbatical began, they had spoken on the telephone only once during March when Mr. Franklin called to inquire whether she had any idea when she might return to work. Clara doubted that The Beer King, a sympathetic and considerate man, had realized it was the first anniversary of Sebastian's death. Nor did she doubt that he had heard the sadness in her voice, which was hoarse from weeping. Having just hung up the phone with Sebastian's grieving parents in Cape Cod moments before her boss called, Clara was in no mood to discuss business—or anything, for that matter. The whole day had been a relentless
mean moment,
and for once she couldn't help but allow herself to think that nobody—
nobody
—should have to live with the kind of devastation she had suffered, and continued to endure. All Clara wanted to do was just be by herself and not feel like she had to feign strength by putting on a brave face, or apologize for her emotions, including self-pity. She had no desire to hear about how the other Scuppernong account executives were stressed out and overworked from the added pressure of handling Clara's accounts in her absence. “I wish I had an exact answer for you, Mr. Franklin. But the truth is, I'm not sure yet when I'll be back,” Clara, clutching the photo of Sebastian and her dancing at the black-tie Boston Philharmonic gala
,
had told her boss
,
sniffling. “Do you think it would be all right if we continue this conversation via e-mail either later today or tomorrow? You kind of caught me at an inopportune time.” Probably sensing her distress, The Beer King had obliged with a reluctant sigh.

Double-clicking on his “IMPORTANT” message, Clara opened the e-mail and read:

Clara,

I hope you're well. Are you available today for a call? It's urgent. Please let me know at your earliest convenience when works best for you.

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Worried about the “urgent” matter and whether it spelled trouble for her as she feared, Clara decided she best call Mr. Franklin straight away, so she grabbed her phone and took a seat at the Ping-Pong table.

“Good afternoon. Oops! I mean, good
morning
.” A bubbly temp filling in for Mandy, The Beer King's usual assistant who was out with the flu, answered his direct telephone line. “Mr. Franklin's office.”

“Hi, this is Clara Black calling for Mr. Franklin, please.”

“Ms. Black! I have heard so much about you. I know Mr. Franklin is dying to talk to you! Can you hang on a sec? He just went to the bathroom. He had steak and eggs for breakfast,” the temp shared under her breath. “Need I say more?”

“Uh, no thank you,” Clara responded.

“Oh look! There he is! That was sure quick,” the temp whispered into the phone. Then, forgetting to press the “hold” button, she alerted Mr. Franklin, “I have Clara Black on line one for you. She doesn't sound too depressed or whacked out to me. Although, what do I know? Poor thing . . . On a separate note, I think I might've accidentally broken the fax machine. It keeps jamming, and there was some smoke coming out of the top in the paper thingy area, but I poured water on it.”

“Not
again
,” lamented Mr. Franklin. “I'll deal with it later. Patch Clara through to my office, and hold all calls. I'm closing my door.”

Hearing the frustration in his voice, Clara imagined how his lips were probably tightly pursed, and how his chubby, round face had most likely turned a spooky shade of red, as was customary when he lost his patience.

“Clara, my dear!” Mr. Franklin greeted her cheerfully several moments later. “How are you?”

She wanted to answer,
“I'm not too depressed or whacked out,”
but thought better of getting a poor temp—who probably needed the money—in trouble, and instead told her boss that she was “doing all right.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” he responded. “Because to put it mildly, you are terribly missed around here!”

“Well, I miss you all too. I got your e-mail and wanted to get back to you about it immediately.”

“I appreciate that, Clara. I hope you'll forgive me for jumping directly to the reason for this call.”

“Of course.” She prayed his next words wouldn't be “you're fired.”

“We need you back!” The Beer King announced. “The Account Executive team is under extraordinary pressure. We have the new light beer entering the market in a few months and have already increased our number of vendors by over ten percent in anticipation of its release. Based on Ron's latest East Coast forecasts, those numbers should continue to rise. We've also got offers in from establishments in California and Colorado, and have drawn up plans to expand west. In short, the A.E. team's plate is spilling over and it's starting to negatively affect their performance and morale. I can't have that.”

Clara squeezed her eyes shut. “I'm sorry about this. I feel terrible that I've added to the team's workload when things are so hectic.” Releasing a guilty sigh, she still hoped the next words out of his mouth wouldn't be “you're fired.”

“I don't want you to feel terrible. I want you to feel like returning to work,” he declared. “And I want the old, alert, talented, capable Clara Black that I originally hired back. Not the one who left after Thanksgiving.”

Alas, what Clara wouldn't have given to become the “old, alert, talented, capable Clara Black” again. But, like her fiancé, that person was gone forever.

“You know that despite your road bump, Clara, I still believe you can and
will
be an excellent asset to Scuppernong. That said, you've been on sabbatical for a long time now, and I need a more precise sense of your plans for the future so that I can accurately and effectively manage the company's.”

“Um . . .” She hesitated, panicking. “Well . . .” She wasn't quite sure how to respond.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Mr. Franklin continued, “I promised you would always have a home at Scuppernong, and I am a man of my word. However, due to the fact that I may need to hire an additional account executive to cover increased business, there's a chance that you may not have a place working on the A.E. team.”

Gnawing at her nails, Clara felt her pulse rate quicken. She had been so singularly focused on tending to her time capsule list, giving it one last shot—like “final call” at a bar—to get her life back on track, she hadn't really had a chance to dedicate much thought to her job. Consumed with more pressing issues, the truth was, thus far, her career hadn't registered as a top concern or priority, despite her fondness for her boss, which precluded her from lying to him. And so she told him that although she knew this was not the answer he was looking for, and she hated inconveniencing the A.E. team, the fact remained that she was not prepared to identify a precise date when she would return to work.

“Well, I can respect that, Clara. And, in turn, I hope you can respect what I'm about to say.”

Oh, boy. Here it came. Clara, sitting collapsed in her folding chair with her forehead resting on the palm of her hand, thought to herself,
“Hit the road, Jack. You're fired.”

“I cannot continue to ask your overburdened colleagues to cover your accounts without them knowing there's an end in sight. I'm willing to give you another six weeks to hash out your own personal game plan, but after that, if you're still unable to let me know when you're returning, I'm going to hire a new account executive. I have a business to run here. This isn't personal.” Mr. Franklin paused, presumably for Clara to respond.

But Clara, well aware that The Beer King's threat was not personal, remained tongue-tied. This was the last topic she'd been prepared to consider when she'd woken up that morning; yet she knew Mr. Franklin's demand was fair. Sooner or later, this was music she was going to have to face.

“Clara? Are you still there?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I'm—I'm here.”

“Here's my non-negotiable proposal,” Mr. Franklin continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “On June fifteenth you and I will speak again, at which point you'll either identify a firm date when you're returning to work, or officially surrender your position. And, like I said, if you choose option two there will always be a job available for you at the company. I just can't guarantee on what level.” Mr. Franklin paused again. “Do you have any questions?”

Talk about regressing, Clara shuddered. She wondered why anybody in their right mind would agree to a demotion at a company they'd worked at for years. Especially when they'd previously been the top candidate for a director of sales promotion and there were rumblings of a vice-president position in the “not-too-far-off future.”
Great
, she thought to herself.
Just great
. . . Following the helpful AA mantra Lincoln had introduced her to, she was still concentrating on “making it through the day, the hour, the minute . . .” In no way was Clara prepared to plan her future—assuming she had one, which, at times, she sincerely doubted. Making a critical, long-term career decision at this juncture felt premature—unreasonable, even. It was all too much to think about. Deciding she'd cross that bridge
if
, not when, she came to it in June, Clara answered Mr. Franklin honestly, telling him in the most professional-sounding voice she could muster, “No, I don't have any questions.”

“Well, I'm sorry it's come to this, Clara. We're understood, then?”

“We're understood,” she confirmed, a worried look pinching her face as a new, heart-pounding sense of alarm about her future set in.

L
ater that evening, Clara met Leo after work outside on the grand, white cement staircase of Chicago's Cook County Circuit Courthouse. Refusing to divulge details of the surprise he had planned, he'd promised her an evening she “would not soon forget.” With her mind still reeling from her anxiety-inducing conversation with The Beer King, Clara had considered canceling on her brother at the last minute, but she realized doing so would only incite him to speculate and worry more about her. Something Clara definitely did not need. Thus, she decided it would ultimately be easier to just rise above it and be a trooper. Besides, she was a fan of surprises. At least, in most cases.

“Hi there.” Leo, dressed in a handsome navy suit and tie, greeted her with a hug. “How was your day?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don't ask.”

“What's wrong?”

Clara sighed. “The Beer King gave me an ultimatum this morning.” She provided her brother with an abbreviated version of the stressful phone call as they began walking toward a mystery location, which he said was not too far away.

“Well, the upside is you don't have to make a final decision right now,” Leo, ever the rational optimist, pointed out. “You have time to think this through and figure out what you really want.”

“True,” Clara reluctantly agreed. “But let's not talk about this anymore. It gives me a headache. What I
really want
is to know what the surprise is. Tell me.”

“Sorry. My lips are sealed.” He smirked. “All I'm willing to say is that you are going to love it. I don't like to brag, but it's semi-genius.”

“Oh,
come on!
This isn't fair. Can't you at least give me a little hint?”

“What would the Nestlé Quik bunny say? Where's your patience?” Leo milked the suspense for all it was worth. “Okay. Fine,” he acquiesced. “I
will
reveal one last thing. We're meeting Ava at the rendezvous point.”

“Ava?” Clara perked up. “That's exciting. So does this mean that things are becoming more serious with you two? Has she decided if she's coming to the Wisconsin Dells with us? How come she didn't meet us on the steps?” Clara asked, referring to the fact that Ava was a courtroom stenographer who often worked on the same cases as Leo.

“Who knows, we're still feeling it out. No. And she took the day off from work. Does that cover all of your questions?”

“No. Where the heck are we going?!” Clara demanded with her fists on her hips.

They continued walking for a while, discussing Leo's latest case, until eventually, Clara noticed a massive crowd of people funneling into the new sporting arena that was home to the Chicago Blackhawks ice hockey team.

And there, before her eyes, was a dazzling, jumbo, lit-up sign, flashing,
“Robots On Ice.”

“No way!” she gasped, as if Patrick Swayze in the flesh was standing before her with his perfectly muscular arm extended in an enticing invitation to dirty dance. “Are you serious? Are we seeing
ROBOTS ON ICE?”

Grinning, Leo bowed, making a grand, sweeping gesture with his arms. “Welcome to your surprise.”

“Wow.” Clara blinked, her mouth hanging wide open. “I don't . . . I don't know what to say.
Robots? On ice?
”

“Indeed. What do you think?” In a swift move, he removed two VIP tickets from his jacket pocket, waving them in front of Clara's flabbergasted face.

“I think it's stupendous,” she said, beaming, still trying to wrap her brain around the enchanting concept of figure-skating robots. “I've always wanted to see the Ice Capades!”

“I know, silly. It's on your time capsule list. Why do you think we're here?”

“Well, but where's Ava?” Clara searched the crowd for her.