Читать книгу Santa's Playbook - Karen Templeton - Страница 8
ОглавлениеNostalgia swelled through Claire the instant Isabella shoved open the door to the storefront studio, releasing a cloud of steam heat permeated with the tang of rosin and sweat, Miss Louise’s too-sweet perfume. For her entire childhood, this was the scent of Saturday mornings, and it made her smile.
“Um...we can’t stay,” Juliette said after Bella raced into a dressing room overflowing with squealing little girls.
“Oh, I know.” Because the presence of parents and such, except at recitals, tended to either make little Pavlova wannabes painfully self-conscious or turn them into obnoxious show-offs. “I just want to say hello. For old time’s sake.”
“Meet me outside, then?”
“You bet.”
Because when an opportunity plunks into your lap, you take it. Of course, Ethan could simply be misreading Juliette’s natural friendliness for machinations of the matchmaking kind. Certainly the idea had never occurred to Claire, even after the girl invited her for breakfast. But if Ethan’s hunch was right, then the sooner this was all put to rest, the better. For everyone’s sake.
Especially Ethan’s, Claire thought as the girl wandered off to window-shop, and Claire remembered the pressure Mom’s well-meaning friends had put on her after Claire’s dad died to get out there and date again. As well as her mother emphatically telling them to mind their own business, Norman was irreplaceable, end of discussion.
So obviously that’s how it was for some people—you only got one shot at love, and when it was over, it was over. True, Ethan was a lot younger, and she knew widowers were more likely to remarry than widows. But still. Bad enough the poor guy had to endure the merciless flirtations of every unattached female teacher at Hoover. So if Juliette was trying to set him up... So wrong—
“Oh, my God—Claire Jacobs?”
Green eyes sparkling over powder-caked cheeks, Miss Louise floated across the worn wood floor in pink ballet slippers and a wispy chiffon skirt probably older than Claire. After a brief, fierce hug, bloodred lips pursed as the redhead gave Claire a once-over that would make a Mafia goon cringe. “What on earth are you doing here, doll? I thought you’d blown this joint years ago.”
“I had. But I’m back. Teaching up at Hoover. Drama and English,” she said to the woman’s raised, insect leg–like eyebrows.
“You don’t say?” Her sharp gaze darted over a dozen spinning, chattering little girls. “Which one’s yours?”
“Isabella. But only for this morning.”
“Bella, yeah. Little blonde toughie. Love her to bits.” Miss Louise lowered her voice. “So sad about her mommy, but the kid seems to be doing okay. So...wait a minute...” Her eyes sidled to Claire’s. “You and her daddy...?”
“No,” Claire said, laughing, and the microthin brows arched again. “Long story, I’m only pinch-hitting. Anyway, figured I’d say hi.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder. “How long’s the class?”
“Forty-five minutes.” Her mouth curved. “You can still do a double pirouette?”
“Ha! Like I ever could!”
Miss Louise grinned, then patted her arm. “Hey, we have an adult class on Wednesday evenings. Lots of mommies who took ballet when they were kids, now they want to lose the baby weight.” Smirking, she glanced at Claire’s midsection. “Couldn’t hurt, right?”
“It’s the vest, I swear!”
“Whatever,” she said, walking away. “Ten bucks a class, starts at seven on the dot...”
Okay, so maybe she’d put on a few pounds since she moved back, Claire thought on a sigh as she left the studio. And maybe—she saw Juliette staring at something in the window a few stores down—there were more important things to worry about.
She hustled down the street, which in three weeks would be all gussied up for Christmas. Right now, though, despite all the redbrick fronts and colorful awnings and pretty black iron benches—the little town was nothing if not determined to survive the plague that was urban sprawl—between the stripped-bare maples and barren planters lining the curbs, it was kind of blah.
And fricking freezing, the stiff river breeze ripping right through her vest. She dug her hat out of her pocket and crammed it over her curls, but that wasn’t going to help her soon-to-be-numb butt. In contrast, Juliette—who was hardly dressed like a Laplander—seemed totally unfazed by the bitter wind, her streaked hair whipping around her face as she stared.
“Wh-whatcha l-looking at?”
She pointed. “Aren’t they the cutest things ever?”
“They” being a pair of fluff-ball kittens, one gold, one gray, wrestling in a shredded paper nest in the window of the local adoption shelter’s adoption center.
“Omigosh...” Suddenly her bum didn’t feel so cold. “Adorable.”
“Dad said maybe Belly could have a kitten for Christmas, if she promises to take care of it. Meaning I’ll probably end up doing it. Like I do everything else...” She gave her head a sharp shake. “Sorry,” she mumbled, still watching the kittens. “That sounds terrible.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Claire said gently, steeling herself for wherever the conversation might be headed. “It sounds like somebody who’s got a lot on her plate these days. Totally understandable.”
“Except it’s not even true, not really. Yeah, okay, so sometimes it does feel like that, but it’s not like Dad doesn’t do more than his share. Speaking of having a lot on his plate—he’s got his teaching, and coaching, and making sure the boys don’t, like, destroy the house. Or themselves,” she added with a little smile, then sighed. “And it’s not like I mind cooking. Actually, I love it. And we got this new washer/dryer set last year, it’s so awesome, it does everything but fold. And Baba helps, too, when she can. Except there’s only so much she can do. Because she’s, like, sixty...” Juliette looked over, her brow knotting at Claire’s gotta-keep-the-blood-moving jig. “You cold?”
“A l-little, yeah.”
“There’s that tearoom over there, maybe we could get some hot chocolate or something while we’re waiting?”
“You’re on.”
The two-bit diner Claire dimly remembered from her childhood had morphed into something very quaint and prissy, but the hot chocolate came in enormous mugs with a mountain of whipped cream, so she was good. She would have been even better with one of the pastries winking at her from underneath the gleaming glass dome on the counter, but remembering the brutal look Miss Louise had given her hips, she passed.
“That was so nice, you offering to take Belly to dance class,” Juliette said, focused on her mug as she swiped a napkin over her whipped-cream mustache. “I’m sure Dad appreciated it.”
“No biggie. Glad I could help.”
“So it was a good thing we ran into each other at the estate sale, huh? And then you taking me home? Like...it was fate or something.”
Claire’s lips twitched. “Serendipity.”
“Exactly.” Juliette leaned forward, her eyes all blue fire, and Claire thought, And here it comes. “Don’t you ever think that things happen for a reason? Sometimes, anyway. Like there’s some big plan for each of us, if we can only see it?”
Claire sat straighter in her chair, a pink, curlicued confection that was hell on her back. “I certainly think life presents...opportunities,” she said carefully. “But being open to opportunity is very different from seeing something that’s not actually there. Or trying to make something happen.” She met the girl’s gaze dead on. “No matter how right it might feel to you.”
The girl sagged back in her own chair, hugging her mug to her chest. “Dad said something, didn’t he?”
“Even if he hadn’t, I would’ve figured it out on my own.” Eventually. Maybe. Juliette snorted. “So you have been trying to fix him up?”
“No! Well, okay, sort of. I mean...” She blew out a sigh. “What’s wrong with wanting him to be open to the possibility of getting married again? Or at least having a girlfriend.”
“Because that’s for him to decide, sweetie. Not you. Sometimes, when someone we love isn’t...around anymore—”
“Mom died, Miss Jacobs. It’s okay, you can say it. She died. And it sucks, and we were all miserable, and I know Dad still is, but...” She shook her head. “I know it sounds like I’m only thinking about myself, but I’m not, I swear. The extra work’s not that big a deal, and like I said, I’m cool with cooking. And I love my brothers and sister, even when they’re being pains. Except, for one thing, I’ve only got three more years before I’m gone. Because I’m so not sticking around for college. Not if I can help it. And for another...”
Juliette set her mug back down. “You didn’t know Dad before. When he was happy. I’m not saying he acted like a clown all the time or anything—that’s not his style—but at least he smiled, you know? I mean, for real. Eyes and everything. And laughed... Omigosh, his laugh... It was insane.”
Claire took a sip of her drink. “Having a hard time picturing that.”
“I’m having a hard time remembering it. Which is so sad.” The girl sighed, then scooped up a blob of whipped cream with her finger, poked it in her mouth. “I do remember, though, how he used to look at Mom when she didn’t know he was watching, and he’d, like, glow. Seriously. Like he’d struck gold or something. And that feeling... You’d walk into the house, and you’d just feel it, that glow. Like everything was okay. And it’s not there anymore.” She looked up, tears brimming. “And I can’t believe that’s how it’s supposed to be for the rest of our lives. Especially the rest of D-Dad’s.”
“Oh, honey...” Claire reached for the teen’s hand, her heart aching in spite of herself. Yes, the thought niggled that the girl might be manipulating her—or trying to—but something louder said that wasn’t what was going on here. Whether Claire fully understood or not Juliette’s reasons for confiding in her, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that the child really was hurting, and for her dad more than for herself. That put a whole different spin on things, one she wondered if Ethan even realized. “Your heart’s in the right place, wanting someone to fill the gap in your lives. Especially your dad’s. But as I said, you can’t force these things to happen. If you father’s not ready—”
“But how does he know that if he won’t even try? It’s been more than three years already!”
“And I know, for you, that feels like a long time. For your dad, it might feel like no time at all.” She let go. “You know, not every kid in your situation is down with getting a new parent. In fact, many are absolutely horrified by the idea—”
“And you don’t think I’m not? Hey, I devoured fairy tales when I was little—all those wicked stepmothers?” She shuddered. “Serious nightmare material. So yeah, while I think things would be much better if Dad found someone else...” Her face pinked. “I don’t totally trust him to pick for himself.”
A startled laugh popped out of Claire’s mouth. “So you’ve decided to prescreen applicants for the position?”
“Seemed like a good idea.”
“And I’m on your short list.”
“Well...yeah,” Juliette said, and Claire laughed again.
“Why?”
“Because you’re sane?”
“Spoken like someone who clearly doesn’t know me very well.”
“Oh, trust me. I know from insanity. Not to mention desperation. At least you don’t go around shoving your boobs in guys’ faces.”
Claire smiled. “This is true. But, honey, I’m not your mother—”
“Duh, I know that—”
“No, what I mean is... Okay, let’s get real. Setting aside the fact that I’m no more interested in your dad than he is in me—”
“And maybe if you guys got to know each other—”
“Juliette—stop. Even if, by some very, very slim chance, your dad and I hit it off, it takes a special person to take on a ready-made family. And trust me, I’m not that person.”
“But—”
She lifted a hand to stop whatever the girl was about to say. “Four kids? And while I might be able to fake it with girls...your brothers? No way.”
“But...you obviously like kids—”
“I love them. Teaching them, though. Not raising them. I was an only child, honey. I’m doing well to keep a cat and two houseplants alive. Sweetie,” she said, “whatever’s best for you guys... It’ll happen. When it’s supposed to and without your...help. After all, your dad picked your mom on his own, right?”
Finally, the wind seemed to go out of the girl’s sails. “Guess I hadn’t thought of that.” Then she sighed. “But it’s so...hard.”
“I know, honey. Really.” Claire glanced up at the clock over the counter, dug her wallet out of her purse. “And we need to pick up your sister.”
Juliette fell silent after that. Until, right as they reached the dance studio, she said, “Can we at least be friends?”
“Of course! You need someone to talk to, I’m here. But you need to tell your dad your matchmaking days are over. Because he doesn’t need to worry about that on top of everything else. Deal?”
“Deal,” Juliette said on a gusty sigh as her little sister burst outside, and she squatted to hug her.
So, whew, done, Claire thought after she took the kids for burgers and shakes, staying in the car after driving them home. But listening to Isabella’s giggles as they ate, Juliette’s too-grown-up observations about her world... It hadn’t exactly been horrible.
And you know what else? Seeing the little one streak to her father, who was outside raking the last of the leaves, watching him scoop her into his arms, his eyes glued to hers as she relayed every detail of the past two hours... Having someone like that in her life might not be so horrible, either. Except there were way too many ifs and buts and excepts attached to that thought to even go there. Because if Claire had learned anything from her over-before-it-began marriage, it was that serious relationships required at least a certain level of self-sacrifice—something she didn’t seem very good at.
And this man—he glanced over with a nod and mouthed Thanks, and she nodded back before putting the car in Reverse—after what he’d been through?
Whatever he needed, Claire definitely wasn’t it.
* * *
Juliette fell back on her bed, making poor Barney jump, then pick his way across the rumpled Marimekko comforter to slather Juliette’s face with sloppy kisses.
“Stop, stop!” she squealed, trying to squirm away from the wriggling dog. Sprawled on the extra twin bed a few feet away, Rosie Valencia, her bestie since forever, laughed her not-exactly-small butt off.
“Get her, Barney!” Rosie cheered, which only made the stupid dog lick faster. “Maybe you can wash away that rotten mood.”
“Why does everybody keep saying that?” Juliette said, shoving the dog off her chest to haul herself upright in the field of giant red-and-hot-pink flowers. She’d thought this was the coolest bedding ever when she’d been ten and Mom had surprised her with the makeover that banished the cutesy Winnie-the-Pooh stuff of her childhood. And it wasn’t that she hated it, exactly. But it was time for a change, maybe.
The dog flopped over, baring his pink belly. Sighing, Juliette obliged, which of course made him crunch forward to madly lick her hand. “I’m not in a bad mood,” she muttered.
“Uh-huh.” Rosie swept her nearly black hair over her shoulder as she shifted on the bed, her math book open on her lap. Pale green eyes, eerie against Rosie’s dark skin, met Juliette’s. Like her, Rosie was also the eldest. Only she had six siblings. All boys. As crazy as it got here, it was ten times worse at Rosie’s. “So you gonna tell me why you’re pissed, or what?”
Even two days later it still stung that she had to admit Miss Jacobs was right—that whatever was gonna happen, or not, Juliette couldn’t influence it one way or the other. Unfortunately, this flew in the face not only of everything Mom had ever said about people being in charge of their own destiny, but of Juliette’s naturally impatient nature.
Something she doubted Rosie, who was the most laid-back person ever, would understand. The upside to this was that nine times out of ten Rosie was like “sure, whatever” about pretty much anything Juliette suggested. Theirs was definitely a symbiotic relationship. But being from a family in which everybody apparently lived to some ridiculous age—she had a great-grandmother who was like a hundred and five, yeesh—Rosie couldn’t possibly understand the huge honking hole inside Juliette that only seemed to grow larger every day. Instead of closing up, like you’d expect. Like she’d hoped.
“It’s just...stuff,” she said, grabbing her own math book and loose-leaf binder from the foot of the bed, smacking both open. “I’ll deal. So...what did you think of the cast choices for the holiday play?”
Some Dr. Seuss version of A Christmas Carol. Hysterical. And it had a gazillion parts, so lots of kids could be in it. Even if for only a few minutes. Like her and Rosie. Because lead roles only went to juniors and seniors.
“They all sounded okay during the read-through, I guess,” Rosie said. “Although I’d like to swat that smarmy smile off whatshername’s face.” Juliette smiled, knowing exactly who Rosie meant. Amber Fortunato. Big hair, bigger boobs, Daddy owned a BMW dealership. ’Nuff said. “But her boyfriend? The dude who’s playing Scrooge’s nephew? What’s his name?”
Juliette’s cheeks prickled. “Scott Jenkins?” she said, staring really hard at the first problem. She’d paid attention in class, honest to God, but she still didn’t get it.
“Yeah, Scott. He is so frickin’ cute. I could totally lick ice cream from those dimples. And those blue eyes... Le sigh.”
Honestly. Whatever popped into Rosie’s head slid right out of her mouth a second later. Juliette might be impatient, but she wasn’t impulsive. She did think things through before she said/did them. Mostly.
“He’s a junior,” she said, still staring at the book. Still blushing. “Out of our league. Not to mention, hello? Amber?”
“Please. I give that two weeks, tops.” Rosie tilted her head. “And you do know your face is about the same color as those flowers, right?”
“Shut. Up.”
“So you should totally ask him out.”
Juliette’s eyes slid to Rosie’s.
“Okay, so in two weeks. When my prediction proves true.”
“Right. Because even if Scott didn’t laugh in my face, Dad would kill me. And then him, for accepting. Then me again, to make sure I got the point.”
“So what if he asked you out? You know, after he and Amber split and he’s all looking for someone to heal his wounds and stuff.”
Juliette sighed. Because as much as she hated to admit it, that particular fantasy had crossed her mind a time or twenty. But still... “Slightly different order, same outcome. We’d both be dead. You know I can’t date yet, Rosie. Not until I’m sixteen. And in any case...” She glared at the book again. Nope, not making any more sense than it did five minutes ago. “I’ve got too much else on my mind right now.”
“Like what?”
“Like passing geometry, for one thing.”
“So get a tutor. And for another?”
Juliette blew a slow breath through her nose. Yeah, Miss Jacobs had said she could talk to her anytime, and Juliette knew she meant it. But when, exactly, would that happen? At school? And anyway, their previous conversation hadn’t actually solved anything, had it—?
“Jules?” her dad said, knocking at the partly open door. His face looked pinched, like always. “Dinner’s ready in ten minutes. You staying, Rosie?”
“If it’s okay...?”
“Carmela brought over a tuna casserole. There’s enough for half the town.”
Rosie giggled. “I’ll ask my mom, but sure. Thanks.”
Dad left the door ajar like before, the floor creaking underneath the carpet as he walked away. Rosie’s eyes cut to Juliette’s before she leaned forward and whispered, “Is your dad okay? He looks exhausted.”
“So it’s not my imagination.”
“No... Oh. You’re worried about him, huh?”
Juliette supposed it was normal for a kid who’s lost a parent to worry more about the one who’s left. So she nodded, then basically repeated what she’d said to Miss Jacobs on Saturday—with a few adjustments to cover her butt—and Rosie got this totally understanding look on her face, a lot like when she’d heard Juliette’s mom had died, and she’d come right over and they’d hugged for like ten minutes, crying their eyes out. Rosie might have her shallow moments, but they’d been friends for so long for a reason.
Her friend sighed. “I can’t imagine how Papi would cope without Mama. Speaking of which...” She dug her phone out of her purse, texted her mother. “She’s, like, his life. And yeah, she says I can stay. But...I have...to help with the dishes.” She rolled her eyes, then texted a two-letter reply, returned her attention to Juliette. “You do know you can’t fix this, right? That it’s your dad’s life?”
“Pretty much what Miss Jacobs said—”
“Omigod—” Rosie sucked in a breath, then lowered her voice. “Please don’t tell me you tried fixing up them up? God, Jules, Miss Elliot was bad enough, but Miss Jacobs? Seriously?”
“Okay, setting aside that we all agree I shouldn’t be trying to fix up Dad with anybody—”
“Ya think?”
“—what’s wrong with Miss Jacobs?”
“Her? Not a thing. She’s one of the coolest teachers ever. But have you met your father, chica? He’s a good man, don’t get me wrong—and he’s a hottie, too—”
“Jeez, Rosie, boundaries.”
“Hey. These eyes, they know what they see. But I can’t imagine two people more wrong for each other. Don’t forget, I remember your mom. She and Miss Jacobs... Like two different species. Think about it—she’s all bubbly and goofy and whatnot, and your dad’s...not. And neither was your mom. Get real, Jules—”
“It’s okay, I’m over it. My matchmaking days are done.”
“You swear?”
Juliette crossed her heart. “It’s just...” She flopped back on the bed again. Barney belly-crawled over to lay his chin on her stomach. “It’s Christmas coming, you know? Mom... She loved everything about it, practically turned herself inside out to make sure it was great. The baking, the decorations, the way Christmas carols were always playing...”
“I remember. This was always, like, the coolest house on the block.” Rosie snorted. “My poor mom, she does well to remember to buy those sucky grocery store cookies. Not that the boys care—if it’s sugarfied, they’ll eat it.”
“Same here,” Juliette said with a tight grin, then blew out a shaky breath. “Even after I figured out Santa wasn’t real, Mom still made it magic somehow. Sure, I can make cookies and decorate and put on those old CDs and stuff. Except it’s not the same. It’s like...” She turned to Rosie. “Like she took the magic with her.”
“I get why you think that, Jules,” Rosie said, her eyes all kind. “I do. But to say the magic died with her?” She shook her head, hard, making her curls shiver. “That’s stupid.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s true. I mean, sure, your mom might’ve expressed the magic, but it’s not like she owned it or anything. Because it’s all around us. In all of us—”
Dad called them for dinner; her friend pushed her books aside, then hoisted herself to her feet, brushing cookie crumbs off her expansive chest. “My abuelita always says, the more you try to tell the universe what you want, the harder it is to see what the universe is already trying to give you. We don’t have to make stuff happen. We only have to let it.”
“Wow. Deep.”
“Hey, I’ve been listening to this crap my entire life. It was bound to come out of my mouth eventually.”
Juliette laughed. Rosie could make her as mad as all get-out, but she could always make her feel better, too. And deep down, she knew Rosie—or her grandmother—was right: she was going to have to be patient. To trust. And okay, to maybe dig a little deeper to find the magic inside herself, or at least to look harder for it. But as they went down to the kitchen, and she saw the strain tugging at her dad’s mouth, heard the flatness in his voice, it occurred to her that, if she were still little enough to believe in Santa, she knew exactly what she’d ask him for.
