1. Clara

1

CLARA

T he Christmas season in Silverbrook sparkled from every corner of town. I hated having to leave the bright shops downtown, even for a minute, though visiting my mother took priority. Kicking snow from my boots, I twisted the doorknob, calling out as I entered, “It’s me, Mom.”

Heat licked over my skin and I shed my heavy winter coat, scarf, hat, and gloves while stepping out of my boots.

“Clara?” Mom’s voice came out quivery and weak.

It sent my heart dropping all the way to my toes, but I forced out a smile. “No, Mom. It’s your other daughter.”

Her laugh—dry and brittle as it was—brought my pulse back to normal. “Wise ass.”

“You know it.” I took in the small stack of dishes piled in the sink and the slightly unpleasant scent in the air. I’d clean up once I saw Mom. Brushing a hand over my hair to tame the frizz, I stepped over the pile of newspapers Mom loved reading when she couldn’t sleep and headed into the living room.

Mom sat in the corner of the couch, her thin legs drawn up beneath her and a thick blanket over her chest and arms. She shivered even as I stood there. “Can you turn the heat up another degree? I’m freezing.”

I was sweltering, but I’d only be here for an hour or so and was more than willing to suffer if it made her feel better. “Sure. Do you want some tea?” I motioned back at the kitchen. “I brought cookies.”

“Those shortbread cookies from Holly Jolly?” Mom’s eyes sparked and she shuffled her legs around, putting her feet on the floor. “I might be able to eat a cookie.”

Should I ask her now about coming to live with me? I could promise her tea and cookies all hours of the day and night, but it would be a lie. I still had to work. But I wanted her closer to me, where I could pop in anytime without the long drive. Seeing her like this hurt me in ways I never thought possible. She’d once been a robust woman, thick in the chest and hips like me. Now she resembled a scarecrow with tufty hair and limbs that quaked.

Stubborn old woman would refuse to live with me. Mom loved her independence and had raised me to be the same.

“When’s Bridget coming?” I concentrated on fixing the tea how Mom liked it and opened the tin of cookies.

She took one between her thumb and forefinger and raised it to her nose. Once bright eyes dulled by chemo and radiation closed as she inhaled. “Remember when we used to stay up on Christmas Eve and eat a whole tin of these?” She broke it in half, then into quarters, then pinched off a crumb-sized piece and set it on her tongue.

Tears burned and threatened to lock my throat.

“Yoohoo, I’m here.” Like me, Bridget simply walked into the house. Her giant black bag thumped to the floor, and she flew across the room to hug me. “Look at you. Lord, it feels like forever since I saw your face. How’s the new job?”

“Amazing.” Bridget always knew how to pull Mom out of a funk. Seemed she had the same knack for me. I angled a darting glance at Mom. “How is she?”

Mom continued breaking the cookie into tiny pieces, her head jigging back and forth in her version of a food dance.

Bridget shifted her hand in a rocking motion. “Still some bad days. Very weak. But the treatment has been working and she seems better this time. Her reaction wasn’t as strong. And she’s eating, which is great.” Bridget squeezed my shoulders in mutual grief. She loved Mom, and I couldn’t have asked for a better caregiver.

I had to ask, even though I knew the answer. While Mom inched another bite of cookie onto her tongue, I set her tea by her elbow and joined her at the table. “You know, I get tins of cookies like every week. They arrive at the house like clockwork. If you moved in with me, you’d have an endless supply.”

Mom stilled, her lips puckered around the cookie. “Clara, honey, I don’t like having this conversation.” She sighed, the sound as breathy and weak as ever, but the ferocity in her eyes and the sudden scowl gave me hope. “This is home.” She swept a hand out.

I followed the motion and ignored the way her veins spiderwebbed beneath her fair skin.

“All our Christmases through your childhood were spent right there.” She pointed at the living room, where a small Christmas tree twinkled with clear lights. It was the only decoration in the house. Mom couldn’t handle a real tree with her treatments, but between me, her, and Bridget, we’d managed the little three-foot artificial thing covered in red ornaments.

All my childhood photos lined the walls. No matter how often I pleaded for her to take them down, she always shook her head and insisted they stay.

“Your father and I used to sit on the couch and watch it snow.” The quiver returned to Mom’s voice. “He loved the snow.”

That familiar ache settled behind my breastbone, the longing to know my father, to have more memories of him instead of the scattered fragments that might not even be real. The single-bedroom home had a cozy feel to it that I’d never accomplished at my own house. Mom had always kept the place spotless, and she would now if she could manage to walk across the room without getting dizzy and almost passing out. Maybe I should move back and take care of the house.

Mom pointed at me. “Don’t you even. I know that look. You’re not moving back home. You have a nice house, a great job, and you love living in the middle of everything in Silverbrook. If you try to move in here with me, I’ll disown you.”

That was the mom I’d missed the most. Grinning, I took a cookie from the tin and popped it into my mouth. “Bet you couldn’t stop me.”

“Bet I could.” She’d find a way. Mom always did. Before I could respond, she continued, “This place has all my memories. They sustain me. When all I feel like doing is sitting on the couch and staring at the walls with memories for company, it’s this house that comforts me.”

Yeah, I could see her point.

Bridget refilled our teacups. I’d finished mine without realizing and thanked her with a nod and a tight smile.

“I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me.” She patted Mom’s shoulder before making her way down the short hallway to Mom’s room, where she’d set up the medical equipment and anything else Mom might need through the night.

“You can get rid of that damned portable toilet,” Mom shouted over her shoulder. “I’d rather shit myself.”

Bridget’s laughter trickled back into the room.

Mom huffed. “Treat me like an invalid.” She pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders.

I didn’t bother hiding my laughter. “It’s a wonder Bridget puts up with you.”

“Bridget loves me.” She pushed the cookies across the table. “And so do you or you would quit trying to get me to live with you. I appreciate the offer, Clara.” Her eyes reddened. “You have no idea how much I appreciate it, and that you come see me when you can.”

“I wish I could come by more often.” It was the only hiccup to me moving downtown. I’d rather be closer to Mom, but I’d bought my house before her diagnosis and her medical bills drained us both. I had nothing left in the bank for another move.

Mom patted my hand, her fingers icy and stiff, before she pulled back into the blanket. “I’m okay here. Leaving this place would kill me.”

“Don’t say that.” I lurched to my feet. “Don’t talk about dying.”

I could joke about a lot of things. My dry humor helped me through a lot of tough shit, but hearing her mention death rattled me to my bones.

“Sit down.” The heat kicked on, and she lowered the blanket down around her shoulder while picking up her teacup. Mom tapped a fingernail onto the table and eyed me over her teacup. Once my butt hit the chair, she smiled. “Do you remember the winter your father took you ice skating?”

I hid my wince. That was one memory I knew to be true. “I sucked.”

She nodded, but her earnest expression kept the anger at bay. “You fell down so many times I was sure your teachers would come after us for child abuse. But you loved it. Every time you fell down, he’d scoop you into his arms and spin you around.”

I could almost feel the wind in my hair, the taste of ice on my tongue. I remembered Dad’s smile more than anything. His features had blurred over the years until I’d resorted to looking at his picture to spark my memory. “He told me I had to find my ice legs. I thought he meant I’d turn into a princess or something.” I patted my chest. “This figure was not meant to be princess material.”

“No, my darling.” Mom winked. “You’re more queen material.”

“Damn, you’re quick today.” I snapped my fingers and did a little hip sashay. “Where’d all this come from?”

“I was flipping through some old photo albums this morning.”

Ah, that explained the mix of melancholy and snark that made Mom famous. I’d inherited her snark, thank God. “I’m glad you have all your pictures. The offer to digitize them still stands.” I’d offered last Christmas, even promised to get her one of those fancy frames.

“I like them the way they are.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “You can’t feel the nostalgia on a screen.”

True. To each their own. “Okay. I have a memory. I think it is, anyway. Did Dad ever take me to a hockey game?”

Mom’s smile stretched wide. She threw her head back and laughed with such gusto I worried she’d snap in half. “Just once. He swore he’d never take you again.”

“So I really did stand up on the bleachers and shout at the players that they needed to be nicer to each other?” I returned the lid to the tin of cookies and slid it to the center of the table where Mom could reach them later. “I’d hoped that was a dream memory.”

“You did more than that.” You found a whistle and blew it so many times the referees threatened to have you both kicked out.” Mom wiped tears from her eyes, chuckling so hard her shoulders shook and dislodged the blanket. “You’re something else. Always have been. It’s why I know you’ll be okay out there.”

My heart pinched.

Mom’s laughter cut off, and she yawned. “Mercy, I’m exhausted.”

I helped her to her feet and walked her down the hall. She almost always needed a nap after a visit.

Bridget met me at the bedroom door and between the two of us, we helped Mom into bed and covered her with a thick layer of blankets.

“I’ll come back soon.” I kissed her cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you, squirt.” Dad’s words in Mom’s voice, the best I could ever hope to hear from the man I’d lost so long ago. I refused to lose her too. Not yet. I’d do everything in my power to make sure she had the best care, no matter what it cost me. I said goodbye to Bridget and made my way home. The drive was a blur of memories tangled with thoughts of how I could get another helper to care for Mom. Should I pay for a housekeeper or see about better treatments for her cancer?

By the time I pulled up to my white house with its blue shutters, I’d almost worked myself into a frenzy of tears. I shot a look at the gray sky where snow clouds loomed and hurried inside, my steps crunching on ankle-deep snow with every step.

I needed comfort food, maybe a good cry with a sappy movie, and a nap on the couch. There was nothing better for a lazy Sunday than that combo. Once I’d put all my outerwear away in the closet, I turned on the oven and pulled a pizza from the freezer. Not as good as Marcello’s Italian place down by the florist shop, but it would do. I’d grab a slice from Marcello’s at lunch tomorrow…if I had time.

It was going to be a crazy day. I’d left a stack of notes on my desk to tackle first thing in the morning, and there were a few projects in need of a personal touch. I might just be a junior architect with a few months under my belt at the company, but I knew how to finesse a plan.

The kitchen was already clean, but I wiped down the gray granite and put my coffee cup back in the cabinet for tomorrow. Deafening silence wrapped around me, a far cry from Mom’s laughter and the constant creaking of her house as it settled. Mine was new, modern, with all the sleek polish and curved edges I loved. But the emptiness poked at me. I should look into getting a dog. I’d been telling myself that for years but never committed.

Sinking onto the edge of a kitchen chair while I waited on the oven to heat, I scrolled across my social media. Nothing new except a few likes from random dudes. A notification popped up from my work email. I hesitated. Surely it could wait until tomorrow. If it was an emergency, someone would call. Still…what if? Against all practical judgment telling me to wait, I clicked over to my email. Three names on the cc line snagged my attention and I almost choked on my own spit.

Alexander Thorne. Liam Davies. Ethan Moore. Three men who took tall, dark, and handsome to the extreme. What the fuck was my name doing on an email alongside theirs? It looked so small and puny there. Clara Perry. Heart in my throat, I thumbed over their names without opening the email. I’d nicknamed them the Silver Foxes, something I would never, ever admit to their faces.

My phone pinged, this time with a text message from an unknown number. What the hell?

I clicked it open, my stupid curiosity always getting the better of me, and almost sucked my tongue down my throat as I read the text message.

Clara, this is Alexander Thorne. I’d like you to meet today for lunch to discuss an upcoming project. If you’re free to meet, there’s a reservation at Tinsel Tandys for 4 p.m.