She tries to hide her smile when the recollection of the last time I spoke those exact words to her sounded through her ears. She woefully fails. A touch of a smile graces her lips when she turns down my invitation with the maturity of a woman much older than her. “Thank you. But I have to return to work.”
With her eyes exposing the honesty of her reply, I bow out of the contest with a curt nod of my head. You win some, and you lose some, but as long as your objectives remain strong, you can always fight another day.
After waiting for Isabelle to enter Harlow’s bakery, I gesture for Clara to continue toward the restaurant she made a reservation at earlier this week.
She watches me staring in the direction Isabelle went for several long seconds before she eventually pushes off with a huff. “You’ve always been known for your charity work, Isaac.”
Although her statement is authentic, I board multiple charities both in the United States and abroad, my jaw still tightens with annoyance. She wasn’t referencing the millions of dollars I donate each year. She was ridiculing Isabelle. The recognition has me wanting to cancel our plans immediately. I wouldn’t hesitate if Cormack weren’t my closest confidant. Instead, I remember that love is not about possessions or what the other half brings to the table. It is about appreciation and the freedom to feel without fear of prosecution.
“No, thank you,” I say to the maître d attempting to take my coat upon arrival at Embers. “I do not intend to stay long.”
My reply falters Clara’s stride, but it does little to settle her barefaced expression. So many people in the world grow up believing they are owed something. Whether time, appreciation, or respect, they fail to understand that they’re not automatic givens. Clara is one of those people. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth before it was cruelly ripped out by the same man who shoved it in there, but instead of endeavoring to process the reason for her father’s arrogant superiority, she has spent the last several years recreating his footsteps, unaware that the more she tries to emulate him, the further she pushes her siblings away.
When we arrive at our table, I unbutton my suit jacket before taking a seat. “I have a meeting with my real estate broker after this, so I can’t stay long.”
Clara is far too regal to let someone brush her off with the tactless excuse I just used. “Would that have been the case if Isabelle had accepted my invitation?” When she sees the truth in my eyes, shetsksme. “I don’t understand, Isaac. Love is not a renovation show. You have far more to lose than a dodgy rebuild.”
After hitting her with a stern glare, warning her she’s stepping over the line, I signal for the waiter to fill my cup with a steamy hot brew. I need something in my hands to stop them from balling, and since it’s too early for whiskey, I must rely on coffee.
Clara places her hand over her mug before the waiter can add cream or sugar, then shoos him away with a wave of her hand. The baguette diamonds in her tennis bracelet bounce rainbow hues across the table when she brings forward the storm clouds that usually precede rainbows. “You have no reason to feel threatened about an equal counterpart, Isaac. No rules state that the rich can only pursue the poor. Even your mother agrees with me.”
“You’ve been speaking with my mother?” My words are more growls than the punchy reply I was aiming for.
Clara takes a sip out of her coffee before nodding her head. “Of course. She’s rather concerned about you, as am I. We’ve never seen you like this. You’re usually more controlled, rational, and—”
“Miserable?” I interrupt, my tone clipped. I haven’t spoken to my mother in months, so I’m not only pissed to be the focal point of her conversation with Clara, but I am also downright frustrated.
“If misery means being respected, revered, and admired, then yes, miserable.” Clara rolls her eyes as if I am acting as childish as she is. “Look at the attention you have now. Every eye in the room is on you, both male and female, yet you only acknowledge the ones not worthy of your time.”
When I stand to my feet, needing to leave before I show her I still have the vicious tongue she so desperately craves, her hand shoots out to seize my wrist. She doesn’t apologize, withdraw her comment, or plead for forgiveness, she clutches onto the one thing she knows will never leave me—my remorse. “I’m being evicted from my apartment in New York at the end of next month. Sophia’s medical bills are outside of my means, so I fell short on my last couple of payments. Your mother helped me with the legal ramifications as much as she could...” She bats her eyes at me. “Then she suggested I reach out to you.”
Sophia is the younger sister of Victor Remy, a boy from the wrong side of the tracks Clara once loved. He was killed in a motorbike accident not long after Clara’s eighteenth birthday party. The horrific accident saw Remy’s sister placed into an induced coma. On the agreement that Clara followed her father’s rule book to the wire, her father funded Sophia’s medical expenses. When Clara’s grandfather died and the Attwood family fortune was left to Cormack instead of Clara’s father, he cut off all ‘unnecessary expenses.’ That included Sophia’s medical expenses.
Back then, Clara refused to accept my help, and with my money tightly controlled by locked-in investments, I suggested she reach out to Cormack for help. As far as I was aware, Cormack stepped up to the plate, so I’m a little lost as to why Clara is struggling.
Cormack is exceptionally generous with the allowances he assigns his siblings. If they were reasonable with their spending, they wouldn’t need to work a day in their lives. After taking in Clara’s tennis bracelet for the third time this morning, I ask, “I thought Cormack was helping?”
While licking her painted red lips, Clara folds her right hand over the expensive luxury circling her wrist. “He was.” She waits a beat. I’m unsure if the delay is to get her story straight or to weaken the croakiness hindering her usually smooth voice. It may be a combination of both. “But I’ve been doing it on my own the past couple of years.” All isn’t forgotten about her earlier comments, but I do respect her when she says, “Remy’s accident was my fault, so it’s my responsibility to make sure his sister is taken care of.”
“Remy was involved in a traffic accident, Clara. It was no one’s fault.” Since Victor was also Remy’s father’s name, everyone called Remy by his middle name.
Clara peers up at me with her big blue eyes out in full force. They’re glossed with tears, but she’ll never let them fall. I haven’t seen her cry once in the years I’ve known her. “I could say the same to you, Isaac.”
I could argue that our losses are vastly contradicting—Remy died three weeks after his fight with Clara, Ophelia died the same night as ours, but the last time we had a conversation like this, it went for over two hours and ended when Clara attempted to kiss me. It was fortunate even in the woes of remorse, my astuteness was very much present that evening. Clara’s lip didn’t get to within an inch of mine before it dawned on me what she was hoping to achieve. She handled my rejection well, then the following morning blamed it on the wine she had consumed at dinner. Things have been somewhat amicable between us since then.
After squeezing my hand, Clara switches our heated conversation to a plea, “I wouldn’t ask this of you if I had anyone else to turn to.”
“Cormack has been a little tough on you in the past, Clara, but I don’t see him ever leaving you defenseless. It isn’t in his DNA.”
I retake my seat so we don’t create a scene when Clara notches her voice up a couple of decibels. “But he doesn’t understand what we’ve been through, Isaac. Nobody understands what we’ve been through. The grief. The remorse. The inability to move on with only half a heart.” She gives me an all-too-familiar look before adding, “It isn’t easy putting yourself out there for scrutiny when you don’t recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror.” When she scoots her chair closer to mine, we gain even more nosey gawkers. “I’m only myself around you because you understand why my insides aren’t as shiny as my outsides. That I’ve been hurt more than I’ve been loved. Everyone else sees a shell, Isaac. An empty, hollow shell.”
I hate how easily she can read me, how she can tug on my heartstrings like no one else, but I also wouldn’t wish what we’ve been through onto my worst enemy. Anger is easier to express than grief. It’s a cloak that protects you from the hurt, bitterness, and fear that comes with loss. But eventually, you have to recognize it for what it truly is.
Angerisgrief.
I’m only just learning that. Clara still has a little way to go.
Against the judgment of my gut, I speak four words Clara has been dying to hear from me for years, “What do you need?”
