Chapter 9 - Christmas Eve Without Him
The card was dated five years earlier.
That made no sense.
According to everything we'd learned, Samantha and Jonathan's recent relationship began months ago.
Yet Samantha had sent something to our house five Christmases earlier.
Jonathan brought the card to Eleanor, not to me.
That was progress, I supposed.
He didn't use it as an excuse to appear at my apartment.
I met Eleanor at a restaurant the following afternoon.
She handed me the envelope.
My maiden name was written on it.
Clara Bennett.
Not Clara Hale.
Inside:
Clara,
You don't know me.
Jonathan and I were friends a long time ago. There are things about him I think you should know before you marry him.
If you want to talk, call me.
Samantha.
A phone number followed.
I stared at the date.
Three months before my wedding.
“She tried to warn me.”
Eleanor nodded.
“But I never saw this.”
“No.”
“How did Jonathan get it?”
“He says he found it hidden inside an old cookbook.”
I laughed bitterly.
“He intercepted it.”
“Probably.”
I called Samantha.
She answered immediately.
“You found the card.”
“Yes.”
“I wondered if you ever got it.”
“What were you going to tell me?”
“About the forty thousand dollars. About my mother. About the way Jonathan manipulated the paternity story.”
“Why didn't you try again?”
“He called me.”
Of course.
“He said you'd read it and wanted nothing to do with me.”
I closed my eyes.
Another door he'd closed before I knew it existed.
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes.”
Then Samantha added, “I should have tried harder.”
Maybe.
But I wasn't interested in assigning her responsibility for saving me from a man I had chosen to marry.
“Why did you reconnect with him this year?”
“He apologized.”
“For the past?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him.”
“I wanted to.”
We both understood that sentence now.
After the call, I sat with Eleanor.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That I could spend the next ten years discovering new lies.”
“You could.”
“Or I could stop.”
She nodded.
I had believed closure meant obtaining every answer.
It didn't.
Sometimes closure meant deciding there were answers you no longer needed.
I put the card back into the envelope.
“I'm done investigating.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Good.”
That December, nearly one year after the mall, I went Christmas shopping again.
With Eleanor.
Same mall.
Her idea.
“Exposure therapy,” she called it.
“Retail therapy,” I corrected.
The giant Christmas tree stood in almost the same place.
For one second, I remembered Jonathan and Samantha.
The red coat.
The charcoal cashmere.
The dropped bag.
Finally.
Then the memory passed.
It didn't own the building.
It didn't own Christmas.
It didn't own me.
Eleanor bought Richard a ridiculous sweater.
I bought my mother perfume.
We stopped for coffee.
Then I saw Jonathan.
Across the atrium.
Alone.
He saw me too.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he approached slowly.
He looked healthier.
Not magically transformed.
Just steadier.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Eleanor stood.
“I'll get another coffee.”
She left us.
Jonathan smiled faintly.
“She's still terrifying.”
“Yes.”
We sat.
He told me he had continued therapy.
He had changed jobs.
He no longer worked with Richard's foundation.
He had apologized to Samantha without asking for reconciliation.
He had written Rebecca a check for the remaining money he'd taken years earlier.
None of that earned him me.
But I was glad he'd done it.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
I thought.
“Yes.”
His eyes dropped.
“Good.”
“And you?”
“Learning.”
That was probably the most honest answer.
He reached into his coat.
For one absurd second, I expected another envelope.
Instead, he placed something on the table.
The old charcoal cashmere coat button.
I stared.
“The coat finally fell apart,” he said.
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Good.”
“I deserved that.”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
Then he grew serious.
“I loved you, Clara.”
“I know.”
“I didn't know how to do it without trying to own the outcome.”
“I know that too.”
“I am sorry.”
This time, I didn't need evidence.
“I know.”
We sat silently.
Then he stood.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Jonathan.”
He walked away.
I watched him disappear into the crowd.
No longing.
No rage.
Just sadness for something that had once mattered.
Eleanor returned carrying three coffees.
“Three?”
“Richard is coming.”
I looked around.
“Here?”
“He claims we cannot be trusted with his presents.”
I laughed.
Five minutes later, Richard appeared.
But he wasn't alone.
A man walked beside him.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Around forty.
I recognized him from foundation meetings.
Daniel Mercer.
An attorney who volunteered with one of our housing programs.
He smiled when he saw me.
“Clara.”
“Daniel.”
Eleanor suddenly became very interested in her coffee.
I looked at her.
“No.”
“What?”
“You planned this.”
“I planned nothing.”
Richard coughed.
Daniel looked confused.
I started laughing.
For the first time, the possibility of someone new didn't frighten me.
It didn't mean I was ready.
It simply meant my future was no longer a locked room.
That evening, I returned to my apartment.
There was a package outside my door.
No return address.
My body tensed automatically.
Old instincts.
I carried it inside but didn't open it.
I called building security.
They checked the camera.
The package had been delivered by courier.
Legitimate.
I cut the tape.
Inside was a red jewelry box.
My stomach tightened.
I opened it.
The necklace.
The same diamond design Jonathan had bought for Rebecca.
Then Samantha.
A note rested beneath it.
Clara—
Oliver's college account didn't need this much help.
I sold the original months ago.
This isn't that necklace.
Turn it over.
—Samantha
Confused, I lifted it.
The pendant had an engraving on the back.
Not Jonathan's name.
Not Samantha's.
Mine.
Three words.
CHOOSE YOUR OWN LIFE.
I smiled.
Then I noticed another piece of paper beneath the note.
It wasn't from Samantha.
It was an invitation.
Christmas Eve.
Eleanor and Richard's house.
At the bottom, Eleanor had written:
Bring anyone you want.
I reached for my phone.
My thumb hovered over Daniel's name.
Before I could decide, a message appeared from him.
Apparently Eleanor had gotten to him first.
Christmas Eve. I was told there may be terrible sweaters and burned dinner rolls. Want company?
I stared at the message.
Then I typed:
Yes.
Three dots appeared immediately.
May you like
Daniel was writing back.
And then my doorbell rang.
