Day 21 - The Photograph
Clara woke to a message from Jack.
No artifacts today.
She stared at it.
Then:
Excuse me?
You heard me.
You have become very authoritative.
Closed-toe shoes at ten.
Clara smiled.
That sounds suspiciously like an artifact.
It isn’t.
What are we doing?
A pause.
Something new.
Clara looked at the box on the dining table.
For once, she did not open it.
At ten, Jack was waiting outside Mercer Works with coffee.
Clara looked at his truck.
Then at him.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s literally an answer.”
“You said closed-toe shoes.”
“Shop first.”
“For what?”
Jack handed her coffee.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m an editor.”
“I've noticed.”
They went inside.
Theo was not there.
No one was.
The shop was closed for the day.
Jack led her to a bench near the windows.
On it sat two pieces of walnut.
Clara frowned.
“No.”
Jack smiled.
“Yes.”
“I am not making furniture.”
“You are making one thing.”
“I have no skills.”
“That has never stopped anyone from having fun.”
Clara stared at him.
“Still bitter about the ash caption?”
“Deeply.”
He handed her safety glasses.
“Put these on.”
She did.
“This is humiliating.”
“You look great.”
“Liar.”
“Little bit.”
Jack had cut two small rectangles of walnut.
Same size.
Smooth.
Simple.
“What are these?”
“You’ll see.”
“That phrase has a low success rate.”
Jack handed her a pencil.
“Write something.”
“On the wood?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Whatever you want.”
Clara looked at him.
“That is far too vague.”
“I know.”
“Intentionally?”
“Yes.”
She stared at the blank walnut.
No prompt.
No date.
No inherited sentence beginning:
This Christmas, I want to remember...
Just space.
That felt more difficult.
Jack was already writing on his.
Clara tried to look.
He covered it with his hand.
“Absolutely not.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Write your own.”
She looked down.
Then wrote:
What happens next?
She stared at it.
Too obvious.
She almost erased it.
Jack said:
“Don't edit.”
Clara looked up.
“You understand nothing about my profession.”
“I understand enough.”
She left it.
Jack took the piece from her.
“What now?”
“Now you make it permanent.”
“How?”
He showed her a small wood-burning tool.
Clara stepped back.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I will ruin it.”
“Probably a little.”
“That is not encouraging.”
Jack smiled.
“I’m right here.”
There it was.
Simple.
Not I’ll do it for you.
Not you won’t make a mistake.
Just:
I’m right here.
Clara took the tool.
Slowly, badly, she traced the letters.
They were uneven.
One line burned deeper than the others.
The question mark looked slightly drunk.
Clara hated it.
Immediately.
Jack looked over.
“Perfect.”
“It is objectively not.”
“It looks made by a person.”
“That is an insult to people.”
He laughed.
Then burned his own words into the second piece.
Clara tried again to look.
He blocked her.
“You are terrible.”
“So I’ve heard.”
When both pieces were finished, Jack drilled a tiny hole near the top of each.
Clara understood.
“Ornaments.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“That’s almost sentimental.”
“Don’t tell Theo.”
Jack threaded leather through hers.
Then handed it over.
Warm walnut.
Her uneven letters.
What happens next?
Clara turned it over.
Blank.
“What's on yours?”
Jack held it behind his back.
“Later.”
“Jack.”
“Later.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I dislike surprises.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t stop you?”
“No.”
Interesting.
They went to lunch.
Nothing special.
A small café near the river.
Clara had soup.
Jack stole half her bread.
She objected.
He ignored her.
Afterward, they walked.
No agenda.
No landmarks chosen for emotional significance.
Just streets.
Cold air.
Coffee.
People doing last-minute Christmas shopping.
At a corner, Clara saw a shop window filled with ceramic houses.
She stopped.
Jack nearly walked into her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at the tiny houses.
One had a crooked chimney.
Another had a painted green door.
Jack stood beside her.
“You like them?”
“No.”
He waited.
Clara smiled.
“Yes.”
“Thought so.”
“They’re ridiculous.”
“Correct.”
She went inside.
Bought one.
Green door.
Jack said nothing.
Which somehow made it worse.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop.”
“I’m just observing.”
“What?”
“You buying something for your Chicago apartment.”
Clara looked at the little ceramic house.
“That is where I live.”
“I know.”
“No subtext.”
“None.”
“Good.”
Jack smiled.
“Very.”
She hated him a little.
Outside, Jack took out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Hold still.”
“No.”
Too late.
Click.
Clara stared.
“Delete that.”
“No.”
“Jack.”
“You look nice.”
“I’m holding a shopping bag and soup is probably still on my coat.”
“That’s what makes it good.”
“That is not how photography works.”
“Says the magazine editor to the man holding the camera.”
“Exactly.”
He looked at the screen and smiled.
Clara reached for the phone.
Jack held it above her head.
“That is juvenile.”
“Effective.”
“You’re taller. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Clara started laughing.
Actually laughing.
Not elegantly.
Not controlled.
Jack lowered the phone.
Click.
She heard it.
Stopped.
“No.”
Jack looked at the image.
Then at her.
“Oh.”
That changed his face.
Clara noticed.
“What?”
He turned the screen toward her.
She looked.
And went quiet.
It was a good photograph.
Not because she looked younger.
She didn’t.
There were lines beside her eyes.
Gray visible at one temple.
Wind had destroyed her hair.
Her mouth was open mid-laugh.
She looked forty-seven.
Completely.
She also looked happy.
Not posed.
Not composed.
Just there.
Clara stared.
“I like that.”
Jack smiled.
“I know.”
“How?”
“You stopped trying to look good.”
She looked at him.
“That could have been phrased better.”
He laughed.
“You know what I mean.”
She did.
The photograph reminded her of Henry's Christmas 2001 picture.
Clara laughing.
Jack looking at her.
At twenty-two she had thought it unusable.
At forty-seven, she understood.
Sometimes the good photograph was the one where nobody had prepared.
Jack sent it to her.
Clara saved it.
Then, after a moment, added it to Favorites.
Jack noticed.
“High praise.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
They kept walking.
At some point their hands found each other.
No discussion.
No significance assigned.
Clara liked that best.
She was beginning to understand that intimacy did not always need explanation while it was happening.
Sometimes explanation could wait.
This was new information.
They ended up at North & Main.
Clara bought a gift for Naomi.
Jack bought a book for Sophie.
They argued about whether books counted as acceptable Christmas gifts when you didn't know what else to buy.
“They always count,” Clara said.
“Lazy.”
“Books are never lazy.”
“Gift cards are lazy.”
“Correct.”
“Books can be gift cards with opinions.”
“That sentence is offensive.”
Jack smiled.
She liked how easy they were now.
Which remained dangerous.
Ease could become fantasy if they let it.
They still had geography.
Work.
Lives.
A flight in five days.
That had not changed.
Clara knew that.
She also refused to ruin a good afternoon by forcing it to answer a question that belonged to next week.
Growth.
Possibly.
Back at Mercer Works, Jack handed her his ornament.
The second walnut rectangle.
Clara turned it over.
His burned words were straighter than hers.
Naturally.
It read:
Not yet.
Clara looked up.
“What does that mean?”
Jack smiled.
“You wrote a question.”
“Yes.”
“I wrote the answer.”
She looked again.
What happens next?
Not yet.
Clara laughed.
“That is deeply annoying.”
“I know.”
“Also not technically an answer.”
“Best kind.”
She held both pieces together.
Question.
Answer.
Or maybe not answer.
Room.
That was what they had lacked when they were young.
Room.
For uncertainty.
For separate lives.
For time.
She handed Jack his.
“Yours.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“You keep both.”
“Why?”
“Because you asked the question.”
Clara looked at him.
“And?”
“And I’m not keeping the answer.”
Her chest tightened.
That line could have been too much.
Somehow it wasn’t.
She slipped both ornaments into her coat pocket.
The shop was getting dark.
Only a few lamps remained on.
Clara stood near the front windows.
Jack locked the back door.
Then came toward her.
Slowly.
No joking now.
She knew.
Finally.
He stopped a foot away.
“Clara.”
“Jack.”
“I’m going to ask this like an emotionally functional adult.”
She smiled.
“Ambitious.”
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
There it was.
No assumption.
No almost.
No twenty-three-year-old version of either of them.
Clara looked at him.
“Yes.”
Jack moved closer.
Still enough time to change her mind.
She didn’t.
The first kiss was gentle.
Almost careful.
Which lasted perhaps three seconds.
Then Clara put a hand against his chest and kissed him again.
Less careful.
Jack laughed softly against her mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She kissed him again.
Twenty-four years disappeared for approximately half a second.
Then returned.
Good.
She did not want to be twenty something.
She wanted this.
Jack now.
Clara now.
All the years between included.
When they finally pulled apart, Jack rested his forehead against hers.
Clara was smiling.
“So.”
“So.”
“That was not nostalgia.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Yes.”
They stood there another moment.
Then Clara said:
“You realize this makes everything more complicated.”
Jack smiled.
“Everything was already complicated.”
“Fair.”
“And we're not solving it tonight.”
Clara looked at him.
“No.”
There.
Growth again.
She was getting suspicious.
Jack drove her home.
At the porch, they kissed again.
Less momentous.
More enjoyable.
Clara liked that too.
She opened the door.
Turned back.
Jack looked pleased with himself.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You had a look.”
He laughed.
Her mother’s phrase.
Again.
Clara smiled.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Then he added:
“Check your email.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Why?”
“Goodnight, Clara.”
“Jack.”
He was already walking away.
Inside, Clara went upstairs and opened her email on her laptop.
One message.
From Jack.
Subject:
DECEMBER 21
Attached:
the photograph.
Not the laughing one from the street.
A different one.
She opened it.
Clara stood in the shop by the front window.
She had not known he took it.
She was looking down at the two walnut ornaments in her hands.
Soft light.
Workshop behind her.
No pose.
No performance.
Jack’s message contained one sentence:
Thought you might want evidence that something happened this December that had nothing to do with twenty-four years ago.
Clara stared at the photograph.
Then saved that one too.
She went downstairs to the dining room.
The box sat where it had all month.
She opened it.
Postcards.
Receipts.
The cassette.
Letters.
Photographs.
History.
Then she closed the lid.
Not permanently.
Just tonight.
She placed the two new ornaments on top.
What happens next?
Not yet.
Present tense.
Then she noticed the airline reminder.
A notification at the top of her phone.
UPCOMING FLIGHT
Chicago — December 26
Five days.
Clara stared at it.
The old version of her would have immediately begun solving.
Schedules.
Options.
Lists.
What did the kiss mean?
What did Jack expect?
Should she change the flight?
Should he come to Chicago?
What happened in January?
Instead, Clara swiped the notification away.
Not because those questions did not matter.
They did.
Very much.
But tonight had been good.
And she was finally learning that something good did not have to prove it could last forever before she was allowed to enjoy it.
Tomorrow:
JANUARY
The kiss was the easy part.
Tomorrow comes the conversation they once failed to have:
Chicago.
Holloway.
Work.
Distance.
What neither will give up.
And whether two people can want each other without immediately demanding a sacrifice.