The Best Gift

by Markham, Wendy

  “No, I’ll stay here. I wish you would, too.”

  “I just want to see it for myself. I know we’ve only lived here for a few months but I feel like it’s home.”

  “So do I, but . . .” She toys with the sash of her white terry cloth robe. “Just please tell me again that you’re going to be super careful down there.”

  “I’m going to be super careful down there.”

  “And you won’t go near any buildings with cracked foundations.”

  “No cracked foundations.”

  “And there might be downed live wires—”

  “I’ll only step on the downed dead ones.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  “Because if you’re this worried about me, I can just imagine how you’re going to be every time our kid walks out the door.”

  She shakes her head, smiling faintly, though her green eyes remain troubled. “I can’t help it. I love you. I just want to make sure you come home safely.”

  Struck by the unexpected quaver in her voice, he leans back in to give her a tight hug.

  “That’s all anyone ever wants, isn’t it?” he tells her. “We just want the people we love to come home safely every time they leave us.”

  Releasing her, he could swear he sees tears in her eyes.

  “Clara—are you crying?”

  “No.” She wipes a telltale trickle from her cheek, admitting, “Yes. I don’t even know why. It’s probably just hormones.”

  Probably. He sat up late last night reading the book from her drawer, and learned all about the havoc a pregnancy can wreak on a woman’s body and soul.

  Suddenly reluctant to leave her in this fragile state, he says, “I don’t have to go into town if you don’t want to be left a—”

  “No! No, you should go. You should definitely go. I’ll be fine. Just be careful.”

  “I will. Hey, don’t forget to charge your cell phone just in case.” Yesterday, hers had only one battery bar—typical—and the battery had gone dead by last night.

  “Just in case what?”

  “In case there’s a problem with the regular phones again. They might be working on the lines if there’s been damage and—”

  “I promise I’ll find it and charge it.”

  “You don’t even know where it is?” He sighs.

  “I’ll find it. Go. I love you.”

  She all but pushes him out the door and closes it behind him.

  Drew shakes his head, then shrugs and heads to the car.

  If this morning has been any indication, they’re in for a real roller-coaster ride between now and next summer.

  But you’ve always liked roller coasters, he reminds himself, knowing he wouldn’t trade this experience for anything.

  He tunes the car radio to the local station, KSFL, hoping for a news update. Instead, he hears an annoying commercial punctuated by sleigh bells, a ho-ho-hoing Santa, and a helium-inhaling elf voice-over.

  The drive into town takes about ten minutes along a winding coastal road dotted with yellow signs warning of S curves. Driving through the fog, Drew glimpses the usual landmarks: majestic stands of old-growth redwoods, the jutting Harriman overlook high above the sea, a pebbly stretch of beach where fat seals lounge atop boulders like bloated tourists on poolside chaises.

  Most of the houses that dot the highway are obscured from view by fog and evergreen foliage, so there’s no way to gauge the destruction.

  At last, a series of commercials on the car radio finally give way to the news.

  “The quake registered more than five on the Richter scale,” an announcer states. “It caused widespread damage and some injuries, but fortunately no casualties have been reported.”

  Thank God for that, Drew thinks, guiding the car along a steep decline. It could have been worse. Much worse.

  Still, as the road slopes into the final hairpin leading into town, he braces himself. Both the Internet and television news—both of which were up and running again by late yesterday afternoon—featured sobering camera footage and countless photographs taken in the hilly area east of San Florentina.

  “Some older houses suffered significant structural harm,” the radio report continues, “but most newer construction appears to have been spared due to revised building codes in recent years.”

  Drew is all too familiar with those codes. The first time he and Clara met with Reese Janson, the architect who designed their home, they asked him if it could be made “earthquake proof.”

  “Earthquake resistant, yes,” Reese replied. “But there’s no such thing as earthquake proof.”

  He went on to caution them that a two-story home would be more vulnerable than a single story.

  But Clara had grown up in a small apartment and longed for a “real” house with a stairway leading up to bedrooms. And Drew’s childhood home, a tall Victorian, had withstood the Great 1906 San Francisco Earthquake, along with another century’s worth of seismic activity.

  In the end, they opted not to change their plans, and the architect promised to make their home as stable as possible.

  Maybe Drew should give Reese Janson a call to let him know he did a great job of it.

  Driving into the heart of town, he’s heartened to see that all appears normal, with the exception of orange cones marking some gaping pavement cracks, and teams of workmen hammering plywood over shattered plate-glass windows at a couple of businesses.

  Drew parks in a diagonal spot alongside the town square, near a trio of tall pines strung with cheerful Christmas lights. Stepping out of the car, he hears evidence of repairs: the whir of a buzz saw amid steady hammering.

  As he walks along the sidewalk toward the row of shops, the buzz saw stops abruptly and music reaches his ears.

  Christmas carols have been piped over the town’s PA system to entertain Main Street shoppers throughout the season—yet another quaint touch that charmed Drew and Clara when they first visited just over a year ago.

  Bing Crosby is singing about a white Christmas, and Drew is instantly carried back to another time and place.

  This time, thank goodness, it really is a memory—and one of his favorites: his first date with Clara.

  It was on Christmas Eve, three years ago. He took her to The Nutcracker ballet in New York.

  She seemed a little detached at first, and his heart sank. He’d only seen her a few times, but it was enough to know he was interested.

  More than interested, really.

  The moment they first met, it was as if something clicked into place. He experienced an immediate connection to her and he now knows that she felt the same way. But she hid it pretty well. He found out why after the ballet that night.

  It turned out that she had recently heard a woman’s voice filtering from his apartment out into the hall as she passed his door, and immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  When he explained that he’d been watching the old movie White Christmas on the night in question, and the female voice she’d heard had belonged to Rosemary Clooney, Clara was adorably embarrassed.

  He kissed her on the cheek when he left her at her door that night, fighting the strange instinct to grab her in a passionate embrace as if they were already lovers. Not that he’d never been physically attracted to a beautiful woman before. But what he felt toward Clara seemed as powerfully emotional as it was physical, and that made no sense. He barely knew her.

  On Christmas morning, while he was out walking on the Lower East Side, he came across the vintage snow globe in a store cluttered with castoffs. It seemed familiar to him when he first saw it—maybe because he’d seen a similar one somewhere in his life, or maybe because the dark-haired angel reminded him of Clara.

  On an impulse, he bought it for her. Then—on an even more brazen impulse—he decided to stop by and give it to her right then.

  As he handed over the gift-wrapped package, he was suddenly sure it
was a bad idea and that she’d wonder why on earth he was presenting her someone’s old junk.

  But—miracle of miracles—she seemed overjoyed.

  Well, she is an actress, he remembers thinking at the time, watching her rapt expression as she gazed at the snow globe, listening to the tinkling rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  But he soon realized that her reaction was genuine. She really did love the gift, and she really was touched by his gesture. She invited him to share Christmas Day with her family—and, basically, they haven’t been apart since.

  Remembering how anxious she was when he left the house today, he instinctively quickens his pace.

  Don’t worry, he tells her silently. I was home for Christmas and I’ll be home the day after, too . . . and the day after . . . and the day after. . . .

  I’ll be there, like I promised.

  Drew stops short.

  I’ll be there, like I promised. . . .

  He isn’t just thinking the phrase; he can actually see the words—can see himself painstakingly writing them on a piece of paper, using a fountain pen.

  He closes his eyes.

  It’s part of a letter, written on stationery, and it begins Dearest Clara . . .

  He’s positive he’s never written to his wife before, other than e-mail. In fact, he’s also positive that he hasn’t handwritten a letter in years—probably not since his mother used to stand over him making him write thank-you notes for birthday presents.

  But if he ever did write a letter to anyone—even Clara—he probably wouldn’t start it with an old-fashioned sentiment like Dearest.

  “Drew!”

  He looks up to see a familiar face—though it takes him a minute to place it.

  Steve Mifflin, from the men’s basketball league that plays on Sunday mornings in the high school gym. Drew joined after they moved in, figuring it would be good for his health—and for meeting the locals.

  He’s just stepping out of Scoops, the ice-cream parlor, carrying a white paper bag.

  “Hey, how’s it going, Steve? Everything okay at your place?”

  “Could be better. A piece of sculpture fell on my daughter Heather’s foot.”

  “Oh, no.” Drew hasn’t known him for long, but he’s already well aware that Steve’s three girls are the center of his world. “Is it broken?”

  “No, but she’s hurting. I came out to pick up some more Advil for her—and a big rocky road hot fudge sundae. Ice cream always helps, right?”

  “Yeah, and not just little girls. Maybe I’ll bring my wife some ice cream, too. She talks about this place.” And now he knows why she’s been coming here so often. Ice-cream cravings.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Not hurt in the quake or anything like that. Just . . .”

  Pregnant.

  Suddenly, he’s dying to say tell someone. Anyone, even a random acquaintance on the street.

  But Clara made it clear she doesn’t want to tell anyone yet because she’s worried something is going to go wrong with the pregnancy.

  Maybe they should rethink that plan. They’ve been through enough. Nothing’s going to go wrong now, and the sooner they can start sharing their joy, the better.

  “Well, I’ve got to get home,” Steve tells him, car keys in hand. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the gym?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  There it is again—I’ll be there.

  Why does he feel like he’s seen that before, in writing, in his own hand?

  You haven’t.

  So stop dwelling on it. It’s just one of those things.

  As he steps into the ice-cream parlor, a bell attached to the door jingles pleasantly.

  Whoa—where did that come from?

  An old-fashioned soda fountain counter lined with round chrome-sided stools seems to have replaced the glass-fronted serving case along one wall.

  But in the blink of an eye—literally—it’s gone, and the case, filled with tubs of ice cream, is back where it belongs.

  Frowning, Drew looks around at the whitewashed walls, chalkboard menu, and several wrought- iron tables and chairs—all of them empty on this chilly December day.

  The owner, a middle-aged man named Paolo, comes in from the back room, cell phone against his ear. “No, I have another customer. . . . Yes, really . . . I’ll call you back in a few minutes. . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . I have to go, Diana, goodbye.”

  He hangs up and shakes his head at Drew. “My wife. You’d think we haven’t seen each other in years, she has so much to say to me. It’s been, maybe, a few hours.”

  Seeing the twinkle in the man’s eye, Drew pushes the strange soda fountain hallucination out of his head and smiles back at him. “What are you, newlyweds?”

  “Newlyweds! That’s a good one. No, we’ve been married for twenty-three years.” Paolo points to the gold band on Drew’s left ring finger. “You?”

  “Almost two.”

  “Years? Now who’s the newlywed? Listen, I’ll tell you a little secret. The first year or two, you’re still getting to know each other. There are still some surprises. Good ones. Bad ones, too. You clash a little . . . or a lot.”

  “Sure.”

  “But if you can still wake up every morning now, look at the same woman, and say you’re happy, you’ll be happy forever, because it gets better and better.”

  Not for everyone, though. Plenty of people split up well into a marriage. Like Clara’s parents.

  “Trust me.” Paolo wags a finger at him. “I’m right.”

  Drew, who gets the feeling this isn’t the first time Paolo has uttered that particular phrase, says, “I hope you are.”

  “Always. Ask my wife. Do you have any kids yet?”

  Again, Drew is tempted to spill the glad tidings to a virtual stranger. He’s never going to last another five weeks with this secret.

  “Uh, no kids yet.”

  “Good. Don’t rush.”

  Terrific.

  “Why not?” Drew asks, undaunted. “We love kids.”

  “Who doesn’t? Kids are great. But they change everything. Diana and I, we have five. But we waited a couple of years before we had them. We made sure we had plenty of time to just enjoy being together. Capiche?”

  “Capiche.”

  That’s the thing about small towns, Drew thinks, amused, watching the man pile scoops of French vanilla into a plastic bowl for Clara’s sundae. You come in to buy an ice cream, you wind up with a stranger telling you his life story.

  But that’s Paolo’s story . . . not Drew’s.

  He and Clara are more than ready to have a baby now. They’ll still have plenty of time to enjoy being together.

  All the time in the world.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clara always had a good rapport with her high school physics teacher, despite the fact that she wasn’t exactly his star pupil. Far from it.

  Still, she was surprised to find that he actually remembered her when she first contacted him three years ago. She figured it was because she had become, as he put it, “a big movie star now.”

  But later, she realized it was because they were meant to reconnect later in life, bonding not just over a mutual interest in time travel, but over cancer, of all things. Years ago, Mr. Kershaw’s only child, Bianca, had overcome impossible odds to survive a childhood brain tumor. After Clara’s own diagnosis, he was a tremendous source of support and comfort, never doubting that she could—and would—beat the disease.

  Now, as she dials his telephone number, she wonders if she’ll even find him at home in his rent-controlled Upper West Side apartment. Retired and long-divorced, he usually spends the holidays with his daughter and her family.

  But he answers the phone with a cheery “Hello?”

  “Mr. Kershaw, it’s Clara.”

  “Clara! I was just worrying about you. I saw on the news last night that there had been a big quake out there yesterday. Is everything all right?”
/>   “We’re fine. I mean, it was scary, but, you know, we survived.”

  This one, anyway.

  “You’re living right there along the San Andreas Fault, aren’t you?”

  “I sure am.”

  “A precarious place to settle, to say the least.”

  “I know. But my husband grew up near here and . . . well, I guess I wasn’t really all that worried about earthquakes until now.”

  “I’ve never experienced a quake before, and I’ve always been fascinated, given my field of study. What was it like?”

  “One minute, you’re standing on solid ground, and the next, without warning, it’s been pulled out from under you, and there’s nothing sturdy to grab on to.”

  “That sounds terrifying.”

  “It is.” She hesitates, wishing she could voice her true fear. Then she asks, “What if yesterday was only a foreshock?”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “I have to admit that based on my research into whether strength heterogeneities along the fault influence rupture growth, it would seem that the paleoseismological—”

  “Hey, did you forget who you’re talking to?” Clara cuts in, amused despite her malaise.

  He chuckles. “I’m sorry.”

  Grabbing a pen and paper, she says, “Hetero—what?”

  “Heterogeneities—you’ll recall, an element of earthquake physics. We did cover the topic back when you were in my class.”

  Jotting down notes, she murmurs, “I’m sure we covered a lot of things that have slipped my mind over the years.” Or at the time they were being discussed in the first place.

  “Suffice to say that according to an August 1984 report in the Bulletin of the Seismological Society of America, forty-four percent of the strike-slip earthquakes in the San Andreas system were preceded by immediate foreshocks defined as having occurred within three days and ten kilometers of the main shock; thus, following the Bayes’ theorem, the conditional probability of—”

  “Mr. Kershaw?” she interrupts, scribbling away. “Plain English?”

  “Sorry. Let’s see . . . unfortunately, the field of earthquake physics has not progressed as dramatically as many other sciences over the last few decades. The only way to determine whether a seismic disturbance is the main shock or a foreshock of a larger event is in retrospect.”