Ford cleared his throat. "Well, she hasn't noticed that I've been trying to talk to her since I arrived, but now that I have her attention, I can finally say it."
My vision clouded and closed in around the edges. "Say what? Now?"
"I have a letter for you," Ford pulled a narrow, white envelope from his pocket and addressed the entire table. "It's from Wire Communications. My teaching assistant opened it, but I promise I did not read the contents."
I sat down hard in my chair as everyone clapped. "Why? What?"
Ford's lips quirked up at the corners. "I thought you would like to read it yourself. I imagine it has something to do with the internship you expressed interest in. Very competitive, very real world experience. Remember?"
"How did you get it?" I asked.
My father gestured for us all to sit and Ford slipped into his chair and met my eyes. "It was sent to my office. I believe the owner wanted me to see it, so I could present it to you personally."
A hardened, gray glint flashed through Ford's eyes at the mention of the Wire Communications owner. I didn't understand why he would be so annoyed with having to pass along the letter. Unless he had never intended to come to our Thanksgiving dinner. Unless he was hoping to avoid me in social situations for the rest of my schooling at Landsman College.
"Well, aren't you going to open it?" my father asked. His hands paused next to the carving knife, and I knew I was holding up dinner.
I slipped the heavy stock, embossed stationary from the envelope and read out loud. "Ms. Dunkirk: It is our pleasure to announce that you have won the coveted position of Wire Communications Journalist Intern for the coming summer months ... How is this even possible?" I asked Ford.
He watched me carefully, an inquisitive squint around his eyes. "They most likely noticed your excellent writing skills and your proven track record of hard work and perseverance," he said.
"Hear, hear!" Lexi broke my confusion with her raised glass.
"Thanks," I laughed, "but this is so surreal. I never sent in my application."
My father reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "I meant to tell you, darling. Remember how you wanted help proofreading your cover letter? Well, it was flawless, so I gave it to my friend at the donors’ dinner."
"Wesley Barton?" Ford asked.
Jackson almost knocked over his water glass. "Sorry," he said but Alice shushed him with a glance.
"No," my father said, not noticing anything was wrong. "Michael Tailor told me he was happy to do me the favor. He said he had an in at Wire Communications. Not that I think you needed a leg up, but I wanted to make sure you had a good chance at getting what you want. I'm so proud of you, Clarity."
I was caught by the scowling exchange between Ford and Jackson. The mention of Wire Communications and especially Wesley Barton wiped away Ford's polite smile and made Jackson sit up rigid in his seat. I couldn't tell if their distaste was personal or professional, but either way, it made me uneasy.
Luckily, before my father could see their furrowed expressions, Lexi spoke up again. "Let's give thanks to the people that see what we want and help us get it." She smiled at me and slid her eyes to stare at Ford then back to me. "Here's to your future happiness."
I tucked the letter under my chair cushion and shook my head. "Here's to a happy Thanksgiving and the biggest turkey we've ever had!"
Everyone clapped while my father stood up to carve but the conversation circled right back around to my internship.
"From what your father says, you've been planning this internship and this trajectory since you were a senior in high school," Polly said.
"That's not unusual," Damien said. "I knew since childhood that I wanted to be a sculptor."
"Yes, but this is different," Lexi said. "Clarity's always wanted to write, but she decided in high school that journalism was the only way to make a decent living at it."
Damien scratched his chin. "What happened to the writing?"
"She didn't take my class freshman year," Jackson spoke up.
His wife swatted his arm. "Not everyone decides their future the same. In high school, I loved ballet but it would have made a terrible career choice for me. I'm too short," she told Lexi.
Lexi, who was of comparable height, laughed. "I wanted to be a tight rope walker but my parents never got on board with the whole, join the circus idea."
"You know, it's not too late to change your mind," Ford spoke up. "If creative writing is what you truly love, you shouldn't make it second best. I've seen your short story, remember? You have an eye for details and an ear for language that really engages the reader's senses."
My father stopped loading mouthwatering slices of turkey onto a serving plate. "Fiction?"
I glared at Ford and would have kicked his shin if our table wasn't so wide. "It was just a short story. No big deal," I said. "And I didn't plan on showing it to anyone else."
Lexi narrowed her gaze. "You gave it to Ford instead of me?"
"Does anyone want more wine?" I asked.
My father laughed. "Clarity, I don't know why you are always dismissing your love for creative writing. A lot of people pursue it as both a passion and a career. It is possible to do that, you know."
Ford looked apologetic. "The skills I mentioned are key for both fiction writing and journalism. The choice is yours."
"I'm just glad you have found a creative outlet. Under all the pressures of college courses, it's nice to have a way to let off a little steam," my father said.
We handed around dishes and everyone filled their plates. I hoped the conversation would turn to the delicious food. "Please take as much as you'd like. There's plenty more in the kitchen. Maybe I should grab the other basket of rolls right away."
"I can," Carl stood up and strode into the kitchen.
Lexi beamed. "Creative writing is a great outlet, but I'm pretty sure that dating is better. No offense to anyone here, but Clarity has plenty of years to spend quieting typing stories in the future. Now is the time she should be having a little fun."
I groaned and topped off my wine glass.
"I agree," Alice said. "It's no good to go from solitary studies to a solitary pastime. There is definitely something to be said for finding someone that dares you to try new things."
"I suggest you find yourself an older man," Damien said.
I choked on my wine. "What?"
"Why?" Ford asked.
"She is clearly searching for inspiration." Damien winked at me and Ford shot his friend, Jackson, another dark look.
Jackson swallowed a large bite of turkey with gravy and said. "I'd love a chance to look at your short story now that the cat's out of the bag. I always need more people in my advanced creative writing class, and from what Ford has said, I'm sure you would fit right in."
I stabbed a green bean and glared at Ford again. "I think Ford might have spoken out of turn and exaggerated a bit."
"No," my father said. "Ford's as honest as they come. Is that the reason you had to leave journalism and dive into academia?"