Page 4 of My Darling Clementine

“Your father was my client for many years before we grew close enough for me to bring him home to meet my family. When he met my An, he tried calling him Antony … how many times?” He smiled at his lover with a twinkle in his eye.

“Twice,” said the younger man, smiling at Jim. “The first time I corrected him. The second time I sent him home without dinner.”

“You did what?” Clem almost choked on her whiskey.

“Well, it’s rude, isn’t it?” An sipped his drink, then placed it on a table. “A person tells you how they wish to be addressed, it’s rude to call them anything else. I don’t allow rude behavior in my house.”

Clem laughed loud, and long. “Oh,” she said, wiping her eyes, “I’d have given anything to see his face when you did that.”

“He looked like I kicked him in the ass,” said An, sailing out of the room. “I’ll check on dinner. Jimmy will entertain you while I’m gone.” He paused at the door and turned back, fixing Clem with a mock-severe look. “The other rule of the house; no talking business unless it’s by appointment and even then, I disapprove.” He waved and disappeared.

Jim laughed. “It was after Tom apologized to An and got used to his ways, that he began talking about you as more than his only child and sole heir, Clementine. He shared stories of your various escapades.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

An walked back in the door, swooped up his drink, and downed a large gulp, making Clem smile. “Charles insists he needs another twenty minutes before dinner is served. He won’t be rushed, temperamental.”

He shrugged. “We’ll have to amuse ourselves until then.” An leaned forward with both elbows on his knees, cradling his drink. “Tell us about yourself, Clem-entine.” He sipped, then winked. “And don’t leave out the good parts, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s Clem,” she laughed. “Don’t make me throw you out of your own house.” She laughed again when An nodded.

“With those muscles, you could,” he said with a grin, looking her up and down. “Go on, Clem.”

“Not a lot to tell. I’m twenty-three and named for my young, beautiful, accomplished mother who died in childbirth.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” said An.

“Don’t be. I never missed her. But after church every Sunday for the first fifteen years of my life I stood before a granite tombstone with my name inscribed upon it in silent penance, waiting while my father prayed and left flowers.” She sipped her drink to keep her throat from closing. “I imagined it was my grave, and I would feel trapped underground in a coffin, unable to get out. That always ended with me wondering about the state of decomposition of my mother’s body.”

Clem sighed. “Every single Sunday morning he wept, and every single Sunday night I stayed awake as long as possible to avoid my nightmares. On my fifteen birthday I announced I was an atheist, and refused to attend church any longer.”

“I never thought about it, but people named for the dead stare at their own tombstones…” Jim shivered. “I don’t think that ever occurred to your father,” he said.

“No, I doubt it would. Except for that hour every Sunday, he was too busy building the Daily Journal to pay attention to anything else. I heard him explaining to my governess once that girls are a whole other animal, and he had no idea what to do with one. I remember thinking, “Ah, that explains it.” She laughed. “It didn’t, of course, but at least he paid for any lessons or tutoring I wanted.”

“That’s something. What did you want to learn as a child?” An’s kind eyes searched hers.

Clem finished her drink, set it down, and leaned back. “I enjoy sports, and learned to swim, ski, sail, fish, shoot, and ride horses, none of which he ever saw me do.” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. “Those kept me busy over school holidays, and I won a few awards.”

“Where did you go to college?” An shook his head and frowned when Jim elbowed him. “What?”

“Dad thought higher education was wasted on women.” Clem watched Jim refill his drink. “He believed females of the species lack the ability to tell truth from opinion, fact from fiction, and are not trustworthy to run a business, or anything larger than a household. Which he made me do when I graduated from the Boston Finishing School for Young Ladies.”

Clem heard a discrete clearing of the throat.

“Ahem.”

Turning, she saw a very tall, slender man standing in the doorway, whisking an apron from around his waist. He did not look her in the eye, and she wondered how much he’d overheard.

“Dinner,” Charles announced, “is served.” He glanced her way, but his face gave nothing away.

Given the strange day, accepting company, and excellent whiskey, she decided she just didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, she spoke about her life without censoring herself.

Over a delicious meal, Clem regaled them with stories of her father trying to marry her off. “He had me hostess several large affairs at our house, assuring me one of the young university students he invited would sweep me off my feet. None ever did. After each party he’d nag me to live up to his expectations of what a proper woman should be.”

“Ouch,” said Jim. “That must have hurt.”

She couldn’t find the words to express the depth of pain those post-party lectures inflicted. Even a little support would have meant so much. Clem shrugged.