Honeysuckle Love (23 page)

She plopped everything on the living room floor and withdrew the few grocery items from the plastic bag. She planned to make BLT’s for dinner, and walked into the kitchen to light candles and heat the stove. It had become so habitual that Clara wondered if paying off the electric bill even mattered anymore. The only real difficulty came about at night when the cold set in, a piercing chill that caused the girls to shake violently, hold each other in a cluster ball of goose bumps and chattering teeth. They practically slept on top of the fire.

Thankfully Beatrice came inside without Ms. Debbie. Clara let Beatrice watch the sizzling bacon while she sliced a fat beefsteak tomato.

“Will you sit with Evan at my play?” Beatrice asked, keeping her eyes glued to the juicy slices of meat hissing in the pan. She licked her lips.

“I didn’t think about it,” Clara responded. The thought alarmed her. She really didn’t want to sit with his family, introduce herself and then have to lie about why her parents weren’t there. “A cruise,” she could hear herself saying, and Evan looking at her in disbelief.

“I probably won’t,” Clara decided walking over to the stove. She flipped the pieces over and listened as the hissing registered a higher, more urgent note.

“Why not?” Beatrice pressed. “He’s your boyfriend now.” She giggled with glee as she looked up at her sister. She suddenly flung her arms around her sister’s waist, Clara’s hand outstretched to keep the greasy spatula away from Beatrice’s face. “Oh Clara! I just knew you two would become boyfriend and girlfriend!

“Oh you did, huh?” Clara asked smiling.

“Oh yes!” Beatrice continued. “Evan is so in love with you. He has a passionate spirit like me, remember? Remember he said so?”

Clara nodded, her brain stuck on the word “love.”

“Are you going to marry him? I hope that you do, Clara. I want you to marry him.”

Beatrice looked up at her sister, her large blue eyes sparkling with the hope that children have for a magical future where anything is possible and is always underlined with happiness. Clara looked down at Beatrice.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, and took the bacon off the stove.

Chapter 13

Beatrice’s play was at seven o’clock. Three days before Thanksgiving. Ms. Debbie insisted they have dinner with her. In fact, she required that they stay the entire day and night, and for the first time, Clara did not argue. She couldn’t pass over the offer of a roasted turkey with all the trimmings, and she certainly wouldn’t make Beatrice go without it. Clara found it strange that her heart ached more for her mother during this holiday than her own birthday.

She never remembered a Thanksgiving when her mother wasn’t in the kitchen cooking. The smells—the delectable smells of onions and celery sautéing in the pan. Rich oysters frying. Oh, the oysters, Clara remembered. Mixed into the homemade stuffing. She would always hunt for them with the serving spoon when the stuffing was passed, her mother yelling at her to leave some for others. The oysters were a rare, expensive treat. Something Clara only saw on the table at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

She could see her mother in an apron looking pretty and important. It was important, the things her mother did in the kitchen, because she was feeding them. A basic human need met with love and skill. This year, it would be Ms. Debbie in the kitchen, hustling about, sautéing and frying and roasting and baking. Clara demanded she help, and Ms. Debbie did not argue.

“I was going to ask for your help anyway,” Ms. Debbie said as she, Clara, and Beatrice drove to the school that evening.

Beatrice sat in the backseat dressed in her Switzerland costume. Clara went to Goodwill and found matching windbreaker pants and jacket she thought could pass off as a ski outfit. It was pink, Beatrice’s favorite color. She went to three other thrift stores until she stumbled upon an old diving mask and thought she could cut off the rubber nose part. It could work—makeshift ski goggles—propped atop her sister’s head. They already had winter gear including boots, toboggans, scarves and gloves.

Clara curled Beatrice’s hair with her curling iron over at Ms. Debbie’s house, Beatrice looking adorable with the ringlets poking out from under the cap on her head. Clara even discovered an old croquet set in the shed and used two mallets as ski poles. She unscrewed the ends and attached paper discs she cut out of poster board. With Beatrice’s blond hair and blue eyes, she looked the perfect picture of a Swiss skier.

Evan found them immediately when they entered the auditorium.

“Clara, I want to introduce you to my parents,” he said when he approached her. “They’ve been wanting to meet you ever since I told them we’re dating.”

“Dating,” Beatrice echoed, and giggled. Evan pinched her lightly on her upper arm.

“Hey Bea,” he said. “I like your costume.”

“Thank you,” she said shyly. Clara looked at her perplexed. Beatrice was never shy about anything.

“So may I?” Evan asked addressing Clara.

Clara’s heartbeat ramped up. She knew she’d have to meet them eventually.

“They don’t know anything about my situation, do they?” she murmured.

“No,” he said. “God Clara, I would never say a word.”

Clara was relieved and let him lead her to his parents, who were sitting in the third row. Ms. Debbie went to find seats, and Beatrice disappeared out the side entrance of the auditorium.

“Oh, I forgot to wish her luck!” Clara said watching as the door closed behind Beatrice.

“She knows you meant to wish her luck,” Evan said, taking her hand. Clara pulled away.

“No,” she said.

“Why?” Evan asked.

Clara blushed. “I just don’t want to hold your hand when I meet your parents. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Okay,” Evan replied, but he didn’t understand.

Two very attractive people with very straight teeth and very proper manners said hello to Clara and extended their hands to her, each in turn. They asked her to join them, but she told them she was sitting with her grandmother. She glanced at Evan who gave her an encouraging wink. She hated lying, and she especially hated the idea of lying to her boyfriend’s parents whom she just met. She hoped they wouldn’t ask about her parents, but they did.

“Did your parents come tonight, Clara?” Mrs. Morningstar asked.

“Um, well my parents are divorced,” Clara replied. She fidgeted with her fingers.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Morningstar said. She was clearly embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” Clara replied. “And my mom isn’t feeling well. So that’s why I came with Grandmom.” She was certain Evan’s mom could hear straight through her lies.

“Well, tell your mother I hope she feels better. Perhaps I’ll get to meet her someday?” she asked.

Clara smiled. “Mmhmm,” was all she could say.

“And you’re a junior, Clara?” Mr. Morningstar asked.

“Yes sir,” Clara replied. She really didn’t want to talk to Evan’s father, fearing he was silently scrutinizing her kicked lateral. A part of her wanted to scream at him, “Oh just say it already! Tell me I need braces!” but she didn’t.

“And Evan says you have a job?” he asked. Clara wasn’t sure where this was going.

“Yes sir,” she answered.

“I think that’s fantastic. Just fantastic,” Mr. Morningstar said. “Kids need to work. It’s good for you, not relying on your parents to buy you every single thing you want.”

Clara grinned. The man had no idea.

“And I bet you are one responsible lady with your money, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Okay Dad,” Evan groaned.

“Yes sir, I am,” Clara replied enthusiastically. She knew she was being a smartass and didn’t care. “I even help with the bills,” she said and watched Mr. Morningstar’s face light up.

“My God, what a wonderful, responsible girl!” he cried, and Clara wanted to give him a kicked lateral.

Clara said goodbye and started walking off. She heard Mrs. Morningstar say, “Oh, I like her, Evan. So much better than that Amy girl,” and Evan reply, “Mom, will you stop please?”

Beatrice was the best soloist of anyone on stage. She convinced Clara that everyone in the audience wanted to apply for citizenship and move to Switzerland immediately after listening to her song. Her little voice rang true, clear and strong, as she rode the up-down melody. Clara later joked that Beatrice sang about the three C’s: Celts, concordance democracy, and cash. That about summed up Swiss culture in Clara’s opinion, and she tried hard not to laugh when Beatrice mimed slalom skiing down a hill at the end of her solo. The audience loved it, a few in the crowd even jumping to their feet to demand an encore. Clara never felt so proud of her little sister.

“
That
was your sister?” Mrs. Morningstar asked Clara after the play. She looked at Beatrice and grinned. “You’ve got a singing career on your hands. Did you know that?”

Beatrice smiled widely. “That’s exactly what my teacher said!”

“Well, your sister and grandmother must be so proud,” Mrs. Morningstar went on.

Beatrice furrowed her brow and opened her mouth to reply.

“Wasn’t she great Grandmom?” Clara asked Ms. Debbie as she put an arm around Beatrice, squeezing her hard. Beatrice looked up at her, Clara’s eyes pleading, and she finally understood.

“The best!” Ms. Debbie replied. “God, I have the most talented, the most beautiful, the most imaginative granddaughters in the world!”

Clara tried hard to keep from rolling her eyes.

In the car ride home, Clara spoke. “Laying it on thick, huh?” she asked Ms. Debbie.

“Well, is there anything wrong with talking you up to Evan’s snobby parents?” Ms. Debbie asked.

Clara grinned. “They aren’t snobby. Maybe a little condescending, but not snobby.”

“Oh,” Ms. Debbie replied. “And here I thought that meant the same thing.”

Clara chuckled. “I’m sorry I lied. I felt I didn’t have a choice.”

“Clara, you can call me your grandmother anytime,” Ms. Debbie said.

Clara turned on to their street with Beatrice’s song playing in her heart.

***

“This is my prized possession,” Evan said, pulling the guitar out of its case.

It was the first week of December—a Wednesday afternoon—and Clara was in Evan’s basement sitting with him on the couch. Beatrice had gone home with Angela to work on a science project and told Clara not to pick her up until eight. She had been invited to stay for dinner, and Clara was happy she didn’t have to cook. She never cooked when Beatrice was away. It wasn’t important to feed herself.

“It’s really pretty,” Clara replied. She didn’t really know what to say since she knew nothing about guitars. Evan laughed.

“Yeah, it
is
pretty,” he agreed. He looked at her, then set the guitar down. “I won’t even have to explain in words,” he said as he got up and walked over to the other side of the room. He picked up another guitar off of its stand and went back to her. He settled himself on the couch and placed the instrument on his lap.

“Just listen,” he said, and strummed a G chord. The guitar sounded the chord, light and almost uncertain. Hollow, Clara thought.

Evan placed the guitar on the floor and then picked up the other—his “prized possession.”

“Now listen,” he said and strummed the same G chord. This time the sound resonated in the room—rich, dark and deep—and Clara thought the guitar must have been fashioned in the oakiness of a wine cellar amidst racks and racks of aged reds.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said. She wanted to reach out and touch the shiny wood, so smooth and slippery.

“It’s a Martin D-35,” Evan explained. “Hands down the best guitar ever made, period.”

“I won’t dispute that since I don’t know a thing about guitars,” Clara replied. “It looks expensive.”

“It is,” Evan said. “And no, my dad did not pay for it. You know how many hours of giving misguided book advice to people it took for me to get this thing? I’ve been saving up forever.”

He started strumming then picking—warming up his fingers, Clara thought.

“I’ve been practicing a song for you,” Evan said as he played some scales. “I know that’s super cheesy, but if you want, I’ll play for you.”

“Please,” Clara said blushing. She settled back on the couch and closed her eyes. She wanted to be transported and hoped Evan was skilled enough to do it.

He began, the opening sounding like a Spanish tune. He worked his fingers over the strings so fast that Clara couldn’t help but sit up and gawk. How could he make his fingers move so quickly, so assuredly over the strings? So crisp and concise. He didn’t falter, never strummed a muddied chord, never picked a wrong note. It was more than skill. It was a gift.

When he finished, she sat there silently.

“Did you like it?” Evan asked. There was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“It was beautiful,” Clara replied dazed. “So beautiful.”

Evan breathed a sigh of relief. “I wish I could say I wrote it. I didn’t, but I have written a couple of songs. They blow compared to the one I just played.”