Page 5 of My Darling Clementine

“I decided to earn his respect in his own language, under his own terms. I studied poetry at finishing school and won a few awards, and I’ve read everything he ever wrote, even papers he published before I learned to read. Raised on ink and newsprint, I wrote articles to get his attention, stories of interest in the field I knew best, sports.”

She sighed. “When I gave him the first, he set it aside ‘to read later, when I have time’ and never did. So, I sent the next ones off to other papers. At first I used my full name, Clementine Dennison, and received nothing but rejections. Then I sent the same articles to other newspapers using only my initials, C.L. Dennison, and they sold.” She shook her head.

An looked up, admiring dark eyes gleaming. “That’s quite an accomplishment; most can’t do it. I couldn’t. It must have been very gratifying to tell him.” He offered a charming smile. “Your father always was a stubborn old fool, and I loved him very much. You remind me of him.” His eyes teased. “Tell me, what did Tom say when you told him his competitors bought your work?”

Clem wiped her lips, then set her napkin on her lap. “His exact words were,” she paused and gazed at the ceiling, “A few students are coming for tea tomorrow. For God’s sake, wear something feminine and make sure there’s enough cake.”

An gasped, but neither man said anything.

Charles entered the silence, carrying a silver tray with three thick slices of chocolate cake for dessert. He began clearing away and serving.

As he set a plate of delicious-looking cake before An, the younger man started snickering. He tried to squelch the giggles, but couldn’t quite manage it. Squirts and spurts of mirth escaped around the hand he threw over his mouth.

Jim raised a bushy gray eyebrow, trying to maintain an attorney’s decorum. But as Charles placed a plate before him, An broke into open guffaws, and so did he. “I’m sorry, Clem,” he said, gesturing at the desserts. “The timing...” He shared a glance with An, and the two laughed even louder.

Clem looked at both of them, then smiled at Charles as he set the last piece before her. “It looks delicious, thank you.” With a nod of thanks, she misquoted Marie Antoinette, “Let them have their cake and eat it, too.”

“Indeed, sir, uh, ma’am…” Charles scanned her outfit and then her face. “Sir,” he decided with a nod before exiting with the dinner dishes.

“Another one who is discreet.” Clem nodded at Jim. “You know how to surround yourself with the right people.”

“It’s a skill I’ve cultivated for my own good.” James Burdock, Esq., grinned. “You will, too.” He looked at An, who nodded. “I speak for both of us, Clem. You’re welcome here anytime.” He smiled at his lover across the table. “I only keep legal secrets from An for his own good, and he knows nothing about you except what Tom told us during his visits.”

“But now you are our friend,” interrupted An.

“We understand the image you’re maintaining,” Jim grinned, “and will only use the words him, he, and his unless you tell us otherwise.”

“In our eyes, you’re a man as different from them as we are,” An nodded out the window, “just in a different different way.” He winked. “Live and let live, right?”

Clem didn’t expect the rush of tears in her eyes. She faked a cough, grabbed her handkerchief, and wiped her eyes and mouth. “For the last three years, except for Dad, no one else has ever known, guessed, or even wondered, and in a single day, four men have learned my secret.” She shook her head in wonder. “And I don’t know how to feel about that, or any of the news you’ve given me today, Jim.”

“You need familiar surroundings,” advised An, taking a bite of cake. “Accept the news for what it is.” He shook his head at her. “No, Jimmy didn’t tell me anything about your inheritance, it’s not my business. But he did tell me you’re staying in a hotel, and I can tell you’re in shock. That’s when you need familiar things around you. Go home, Clem, and let the past help you sort out your present while you plan for your future.”

She didn’t feel ready to face the emptiness of her childhood home, filled with memories of a lonely life, always full of adults telling her what to do, but no parents. She sighed and nodded. “Sound advice.” Going through her father’s things would help her figure everything out.

Except it hadn’t.

Chapter two

Going Home

Following An’s advice, Clem had picked up the house key from Henry the next morning and spent the early afternoon rambling around the old home. It didn’t feel as empty as she expected, everything still where she left it last, nothing essential had changed. Someone aired the place out, made up her bed, and stocked the cupboard, making the place feel like home, and welcoming. She settled back in.

An was right. Having her own belongings around her, she felt rich in a way she hadn’t since leaving home. She looked around her childhood room. There were her ice skates, the old notebooks with her first poems, skis, and boots. Her father changed nothing. He left all her things just where she left them. Inside the closet she found every dress, skirt, and shirtwaist left behind. Clem would burn those, even if they were beautiful and tailored for a woman as large as a man. Too bad she didn’t know any other women that big.

An flitted through her mind. But maybe a man just the right size to be a large woman?

Clem went through her father’s wardrobe, picking out the best pieces. They wouldn’t suit a miner’s life, but she would need a gentleman’s clothing once she hit a rich claim and became an important businessman in San Francisco. She bought an expensive bottle of wine, then spent an entire evening trying pants, jackets, hats, shoes, gloves, and other accouterments on in different combinations, modernizing, and creating several looks from what he had. The next day, she went shopping with some of her inheritance and purchased fine shirts and underwear to go with them.

Books and papers lay in stacks in every room of the large house, gathered without apparent rhyme or reason. She received a note from the Boston Library explaining that her father agreed to donate his collection of every issue of the Boston Daily Journal, which they’d like to collect as soon as possible. But the weekly editions, like everything else, lay scattered in various rooms, his collection in serious disarray.

It took time to sort through the clutter of a human life spent writing. She started in his bedroom and every week moved to another room, sorting the BDJ issues into chronological order. Over twenty years of publications, only two were missing — the ones her articles appeared in. It was the ultimate insult to injury.

She threw herself across her childhood bed, lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. God damn him! Those articles were good. She shook her head. They were good. Why wouldn’t he admit it?

Clem might have completed the Tom Dennison Collection of his Boston Daily Journal, she owned several copies of the removed issues, but she left it missing the parts with her in it, just as her father left her out of his life.

She sighed as a whimsical thought hit her. She should move to France, change her name, and write about her affairs with women. With the money she banked mining gold, and her annual fifteen percent of the newspaper’s profits, she could move to Europe.