She knew without looking at the card that they were from her father. Or rather that her mother had sent them using her father’s credit card. Some women regularly received flowers from suitors, but Clara wasn’t one of them.
No. With the recent exception of infirmity, she garnered bouquets not for her allure, but for graduations and birthdays. Even the occasional bittersweet Valentine’s arrangement that smelled equally of freesias and pity.
She no longer indulged the girlhood fantasy of poetry accompanying her roses. So when she did glance at the folded greeting tucked behind petals, the signature made her hand fly to her racing heart.
C—Your mom left me a voice mail saying you were in an accident. She seemed to think I was taking care of you, so figured I could at least send flowers. Hope you’re back on your feet soon. See you at the end of August. Love, E.
The word love struck her right between the eyes. She knew Everett didn’t mean it romantically. He’d surely signed the card without thinking. The way she often scribbled out a missive to her great-aunt Barbara. But still.
She’d waited fourteen years for those four letters.
“Love.” The word got even better when she said it out loud.
Her mother had ignored her express wishes and called Everett directly to check up on her. The physical distance between L.A. and Greenwich did nothing to dim Lily Wheaton’s tenacity.
Her stomach flip-flopped as she hunted for a vase. Everett would return in just over two weeks; there was a chance he’d see their last breath. An unfamiliar knot formed in her belly. She’d almost forgotten about Everett.
And she had one person to thank.
Clara didn’t owe Everett any loyalty, obviously, but at the same time, surely when he returned things would change. Josh would move out, for starters. Why did that idea hurt?
She frowned. Surely, Everett coming home was good? Clara would finally have the chance she’d come to California for . . . but at what cost? Her days of plotting perfect lighting, nostalgic activities, and figure-flattering outfits felt so far away. Like plans that belonged to another person entirely.
With no vase in sight, she settled for a pot and arranged the bouquet to the best of her ability on the windowsill. Josh’s flowers had already claimed the space on her nightstand.
She removed the rubber gloves and wandered into her bedroom. After several minutes of hunting, Clara found her Everett-snaring accessories in the closet, behind the raincoat she hadn’t touched since she’d arrived. She carried the small hatbox out to the back porch. A trip down memory lane would remind her why she’d risked so much for the one that got away.
Settling herself in an Adirondack chair with peeling paint, she pulled out a handful of photographs. Her thumb snagged first on a shot of her and Everett from peewee soccer, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. He had mud spattered across his cleats and shin guards, while Clara’s uniform remained suspiciously pristine.
Everett had always picked her in gym class, even though everyone gave him a hard time. They were a pair. A foregone conclusion. Until they weren’t.
She’d been so excited to come out here and renew their bond, but now she realized she was nervous about Everett’s return to L.A. For better or for worse, when Everett left her on his doorstep, she’d had to write her own destiny for the first time. No one could have imagined she’d like freedom so much.
There were definite benefits to anonymity. The people here didn’t immediately link her surname to the library or the wing at the hospital like people she met back east. No one said, Oh yes. Of course I know your father or Such a shame about Oliver’s insider trading snafu five minutes after bumping into her.
In L.A., Clara had her own identity. The future wasn’t carved in granite.
“Mosquitoes are gonna eat you for dinner.” Josh came out carrying a citronella candle.
“They do love me,” she agreed. He really was unusually thoughtful. The familiar notebook under his arm told her he’d come home straight from the set.
“It’s late.” He frowned. “You should be in bed.”
“You have to stop mothering me. I’m totally fine. I could cartwheel right now.” Assuming she’d ever learned to cartwheel.
Josh pulled up a second chair next to hers. “What are we looking at?”
She handed him the box of images. Sure, they contained evidence of several awkward phases, but Josh had already seen her stripped bare both emotionally and physically. She had nothing left to hide. Her heart hammered . . . reminding her of all the things she’d taken “off the table.” Fine. Almost nothing.
The night had that unique summer energy when the air grows heavy and sparkling. When each breath in feels like freedom and the sky seems so glad to be rid of the sun it sighs in relief. If Clara wasn’t careful, an evening like this could get her tipsy on its potential.
“Look at you.” Josh lingered over a headshot from second grade. “Man, you look exactly the same. What kind of seven-year-old wears sweater-vests?”
Clara smiled sheepishly. “I picked that one out myself.”
“Of course you did.” He flipped her a shot from the middle school debate team. “I like those bangs.”
“My mom loved that haircut. Even though I clearly don’t have enough forehead to sport fringe.” Clara wrinkled her nose. “It took me until eighth grade to stand up to her and demand to grow them out. There’s a distinct headband phase in there if you keep digging.”
“Wait, this one is the best.” Josh passed her a faded Polaroid. This one featured Clara posing with a huge oak tree, exposing her terrible teeth pre-orthodontia. “I had a gap too.”
“No way.” Josh had a perfect grin complete with dimples.
“Oh yeah.” He moved to light the candle with a matchbook from the pocket of his faded Levi’s. “Huge gap. I thought it had personality with a capital P. I cried when I got braces and it closed up.” Josh dug for more pictures. “Now wait a minute.” He tapped the image with his thumb. “Who’s this babe?”
Clara glanced at the image and then stared out into the darkness of the backyard. “That’s my mom.”
“You have her eyes.”
But not her tiny waist or perfect poise. Not her patience or her self-control.
“I’ve never seen another pair your shade of slate.”
Clara shifted in her seat. No one ever mentioned the color of her eyes.
“She didn’t know the picture was being taken or she would have said it was undignified. See?” Clara pointed to her mother’s bare feet. In the photo, Lily stood in the kitchen drinking a glass of iced tea with the sun setting behind her.