“I think you’re right. My friends all wanted to play house and make clubs to keep the boys out, but I used to go plinking in the woods, aiming at squirrels. Once I hit a bird and knocked it to the ground, and then I cried for three hours.”
“I hit a raccoon once, and I swear its family came after me,” he said. “For weeks afterward, every time I was outside in the dark, six or seven sets of beady red eyes tracked me around the yard. I was scared for my life.”
Clara laughed. “My mother hated the gun. She took it away and bought me a bike instead, saying at least maybe I’d burn off some calories if I was riding it. I just think she was worried I’d shoot—”
She stopped short, horrified. Not even kicking herself under the table was going to help.
His smile was slow, honey spreading across a warm biscuit. “That you’d shoot your eye out, kid?”
She covered her mouth with her hand. Around it, she said, “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, keeping the smile, but his right hand wavered toward the sunglasses. At the last minute, he veered toward the fork, touching the tines gently. “A Christmas Story is a great movie. One of my favorites. Right up there with Say Anything.”
Clara sighed, touching her bottom lip. “Oh, yeah. When Lloyd Dobler holds up the boom box and he plays….” She trailed off again in realization. “You set me up. You totally set me up.”
“I did.” Lincoln nodded firmly. “‘In Your Eyes.’ That was pretty easy.”
Clara had absolutely no idea what to say.
Lincoln continued, “I actually used that trick once when I was young and extra stupid. Went to a girl’s house and held the stereo over my head and played that song, as loud as I could.”
“Oh, God. She must have swooned.”
“Her father sicced the dogs on me. One got a bite of my rear. I still have the scar to prove it.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice. Clara took a brief moment to think about what his scar looked like. She sipped her water.
“The funny thing is I thought it would work. I thought she’d fall for me. But instead she never came outside. And now,” he said, “I’m going to hastily change the subject before I tell you every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.”
Tell me every single one.
“What about that bike your mom gave you?” he said. “I loved my bike.”
Hers had been red and white, with red streamers on the handlebars. She’d wanted it so badly and had loved it for the first few weeks—until she’d realized her mother had considered it an exercise machine. “I hated that thing more than I hated math homework.”
“Why?” he asked. “My bike felt like a friend to me. A pal. When my dad drove up from Oakland every summer to dump me at my aunt’s house while he went on whatever geological trip he’d planned with his environmental group, I made him strap my bike to the roof. He tried to buy me a used one to leave up here in Snow Creek at Weezie’s so he wouldn’t have to bother every year, but I wouldn’t let him do it. It was that bike or no bike at all.”
Raul arrived to take their order. Clara ordered the steak with fries, with ranch dressing on the side. “And a Coke,” she said. She only allowed herself the real thing once a month—down from two or three a day— and boy, did she love the taste of it.
As Raul walked away, Lincoln smiled. “That’s nice. I like a girl who eats real food.”
Huh. That was funny. No one, not one person had ever said that to her when she was overweight. A couple of years ago, in fact, she’d ordered a sundae here, at this same table. Raul had been her waiter, and had raised his eyebrows and stared, as if giving her a second chance to change her mind. Now, she refused to not eat when she wanted to. When she’d been heavy, she would always order a salad. She’d watch friends eye her plate with confusion, hating every moment she tried to make the wilted lettuce last.
Now, guys said this to her. She wondered if she’d gone out with them when she’d been fat, if she’d ordered the same thing, if they would have said the same thing. Having not dated at all, she wouldn’t know.
But she doubted it.
Of course, Lincoln had no idea what she looked like. Did he?
“Did your aunt describe me to you?”
“No,” he said, shifting his weight and leaning back against the booth.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “It’s not important.”
Whoa. What a concept. Her looks weren’t important because he couldn’t see her. “Good God,” she said. She could be ugly as sin, and he wouldn’t care. It was a thought that should have felt liberating. It didn’t.
“Okay,” Lincoln said, moving his water glass to the side. “What is it?”
“I’m so sorry,” said Clara. And she was. But maybe she shouldn’t be here at all. “Why did you ask me out?”
“Because you’re the first woman I’ve enjoyed talking to in this town since I got here a month ago.”
“How many women have you actually spoken to? There are like twenty of us under the age of seventy in Snow Creek. And I think most of those are married.”
He tilted his head to the side. “There are a few. Enough.”
“What did I say?” Clara felt silly, but kept speaking. “That you liked?”
He looked down and then up again. She could almost convince herself that he was looking right at her, except for that slight softness of focus.
Lincoln said, “That story about the man learning to knit for his wife. For his son.”
“It’s a good story,” she agreed. “So you have no idea what I look like.”
“Nope.”
“You can’t see light and dark?”
“I can see one hundred percent of nothing.”
Clara thought about maybe ordering something stronger than a Coke when Raul came back. “What do you think I look like?”
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
Clara laughed. “Well, now I know you can’t see.”
“So tell me then. You have me at a disadvantage here. Obviously.”
“Wait,” she pushed. Her line of questioning felt dangerous, and somehow wrong, and still she went on. “You tell me what you think I look like.”
“Fine,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “But you asked for it.”
She crossed her legs under her and took a deep draw on her soda. “Go.”
“You’re a brunette.”
She was. “That’s practically a fifty-fifty guess.”
“Your hair is long.”
“Two for two.” Her hair was her best feature, she’d always thought. Two years ago, even girls who looked sideways at her in the grocery store asked her what conditioner she used. Clara had left it loose tonight, curled slightly at the ends, and now she swept it over her shoulder.
“You have green eyes.”
That was a more impressive guess. “Are you sure you didn’t ask your aunt? Or Raul?”
He held up his hand, palm out. “Swear.”
“Okay, three for three. Go on.”
“You’re medium height. Maybe five-six? Five-seven?”
“You can tell by where my voice is when I’m standing.”
Lincoln shrugged. “You learn to use the tools at your disposal.”
“All right. And?”
“Your body style is…curvy.”
Clara sucked her lips in for a moment. Then she said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean you have a few extra pounds in all the right places.”
She bit her straw.
“What? Am I wrong?”
What if she could use this? As a test? It was the ultimate tool, after all. She could find out what he really thought, how he really felt about her as a person, leaving her looks completely out of the equation. Was it fair, to lie to him? Of course it wasn’t, and Clara felt guilty for having the thought.
But it was just too good an id
ea. She would never have this chance again.
“I’m fat,” she said.
“Ah,” said Lincoln.
“I’m two hundred and ninety pounds. I’ve been losing weight, though, and I’ve already lost twenty pounds.”
He nodded. “But your feet are kind of smaller than normal, I think, and you wear bright pink toenail polish.”
Hold on a second. He was supposed to get up and run out screaming. Or at least yell for Raul to come escort him out of the restaurant, now that he’d been tricked by her voice.
“Am I right?” he asked, leaning toward her.
Clara had forgotten to answer him. “Yes. You’re right. Small feet. Pearl Queen Pink nail polish.”
“And you’re right-handed.” He looked so pleased with himself.
Clara reached for her soda again. “You can tell by where I place my glass.”
“This is fun,” he said. “I told you, I’m good at this.”
“You don’t mind? Not even a little bit?”
“What, being blind? Hell yeah, I do. You think I’m one of those people who think this is the best thing that ever happened to me? No way. I loved being a firefighter. Running into burning buildings is the pretty much the most exciting thing a human being can do.”
Clara almost dropped her glass. “No…I meant—you don’t mind that I’m fat?”
“Why would I? Big girls are sexy. I’ve always been attracted to a girl with something to hang onto.”
“Are you pulling my leg?”
He looked confused, his brows drawing together over the scar. “I thought you said you were big.”
“Well, yeah. I’m overweight. By a lot.” The lie felt terrible in her mouth, but she needed to prove a point. What the point was, she wasn’t really clear, but it was important. She set her glass down and clenched her hands into fists under the table.
“And I said I like that. Was that the wrong thing to say?”
“I’m just—” she started.
Raul brought their food. Clara stared at her steak. Lincoln touched the bun of his hamburger and then, lightly moving his fingers across the plate, picked up a fry. “I’ve always thought it was crazy a lot of men don’t appreciate a real-sized woman. I’ve been in love twice, and both women’s heart were as big as their bodies. Big, and warm, and real. I know this is just a date and all,” Lincoln paused. “But you telling me that about yourself is like you giving me a Christmas present.” He turned his face to the window. “Is it snowing yet?”
“It is,” Clara said, even though only a few flakes were starting to float down. “The snow is heavy now.”
***
“I’d love to walk you home,” Lincoln said at the end of dinner, after they’d shared a piece of chocolate cream pie. “But the logistics are a little unwieldy in terms of me then getting back to my aunt’s place. I walked here, but I know the route.”
“That’s easy,” said Clara. “I’ll walk you, then.”
The night was cold and getting colder rapidly. Raul had said something about a storm moving in fast, and the snow was getting serious. Clara’s heel-clicks were muffled on the sidewalk, the night quieter than usual. A single car eased past with a low shoosh, its headlights smeared against the now thickly falling snow.
Lincoln touched her arm gently for guidance. She shivered.
“You’re cold,” he said.
It wasn’t that.
But she responded lightly, “You must be freezing. Who walks around in a leather jacket in a snowstorm?”
“A dumb-ass. Either that or someone trying to impress a girl, I guess.”
She held her elbow out at almost a right angle, desperate for him not to touch her side. Would he know, just by her the size of her arm? That she’d lied to him? “I’m not sure how I should….”
“Just let me know if we’re coming up on a step up or down. Otherwise I’ll just follow your body.”
Her body. God in heaven, how she wanted him to follow her body.
The snow globe atmosphere of Main Street was in full effect as the flakes came down faster, twirling and dancing, gathering in clumps and then blowing sideways in gusts. Books and Crannies glittered with the tiny fairy lights Jessica had hung, and Magic Baubles looked hauntingly lovely, its windows glowing with an otherworldly golden light.
“One step down here, to the street.”
Lincoln followed her smoothly.
But even though she was in front of him, Clara knew he was leading.
Who could have guessed that a man’s touch on her elbow could undo her like this? Even though she shivered—this time because of the cold—her insides were melting as if the temperature was in the triple digits.
“We’re just passing the Mitten Inn,” Clara said. Was it rude to fill him in on where they were? Did he know already?
“I remember how they used to do it up at Christmas. Does Mr. Cornelius still look like Santa? Even in July?”
“His belly is getting rounder by the year, and he’s pretty proud of his beard.”
“Ah.”
Clara glanced at Lincoln in the low light of the streetlamp. What was that look on his face? It looked like…hope.
He went on, “Does Mrs. Cornelius still string the entire outside of the inn with, what do you call it, that green stuff?”
“Garlands? Yep,” she said, slowing slightly in front of the old Victorian. “There are white doily snowflakes in all the windows, and you can see the Christmas tree in the parlor through the lace curtains. And apparently she’s still piping the smell of homemade bread into the air.”
Lincoln sniffed the air appreciatively.
Clara brushed the snow from the top of her head, wishing again she’d remembered her hat. “She once told me she runs three bread machines at a time to make the guests happy.”
“They still do the Fezziwig Ball?”
“They live for it. Are you going?” She kept her voice light, as if the words were unimportant. As if they didn’t take all the bravery she had.
Lincoln stopped walking, his hand dropping from her elbow.
Alarmed, Clara said, “What? What is it?”
“I want to see you again,” he said quietly. “Is that okay?”
A thicker flurry made the night sky even more silent. It was still a week until the Christmas Eve Fezziwig Ball at the inn, but not a creature was stirring. Not right now.
“Yeah,” Clara said. “That’s okay.”
“Good. I want to take you to the ball. And you know what else?” His eyes met hers—she could swear they did. In your eyes, I am complete.
“What?”
“I’m going to kiss you now.” It was a warning. A promise. In your eyes, the light, the heat.
“Yes,” she breathed. Finally.
Finally, a kiss she wanted, desperately. A kiss she knew was right, on a perfect, silent night.
Without hesitation, Lincoln put his hand behind her neck, proving he could somehow tell exactly where she was. He pulled her to him, his mouth fitting to hers.
Lincoln’s kiss was practiced, but there was something else in his touch, a certain skittering gentleness—he was nervous, almost as nervous as she was, and this knowledge buoyed her. Clara’s lips were as greedy as his. He kissed her hungrily, and she met him, matched him. Her breath dissolved against his heated lips so that she felt a crackle of ice when their noses met. A light laugh—his? Hers? She couldn’t tell.
He put his other hand to her cheek, tracing his fingers down to her chin, her neck. Goosebumps rose along her skin as his hand skimmed her side, down, down….
To where her waist dipped in.
He pulled away abruptly, leaving her standing open-mouthed in the snow, his frown as deep as the scar between his eyes.
“Lincoln, I—” she started.
Mr. Cornelius barreled out the front door of the inn. “Lincoln Miller, is that you? Well, damn my eyes, son, it’s good to see you. And who’s that with you? Knittin’ Clara? It’s too cold out here for you two. T
hey say the storm’ll be here soon. Come in, come in! The missus has the cider mulled and she’s experimenting with a fudge recipe for next week.”
Lincoln’s smile look strained, and Clara reached a hand forward. But he stepped another foot back and said, “Would you mind giving me a lift home, John? Clara, too, of course.”
“N-no,” Clara stuttered. “I’m practically there.”
“Of course I’ll drive you both! Safer than slippin’ on the ice!” boomed Mr. Cornelius, tugging on his beard as if he could make it grow faster.
“Lincoln, I’m so sorry,” said Clara miserably. And before Mr. Cornelius could stop her, she fled, trying her best not to slip, her beautiful, strappy heels too cold and thin for snow.
***
A week later, Clara hadn’t seen Lincoln even once.
Weezie had come back to the store on Thursday with several balls of yarn to return, but her nephew hadn’t been in tow. “He’s up the mountain, now that the blizzard’s cleared. Skiing. Hope he doesn’t break his neck. He should be back in time for the ball, though. Hey, you should give him a call. Young things like you would dance nice together.”
Clara had mumbled a demurral, keeping her eyes on rearranging the pattern books, as if they weren’t in perfect alphabetical order already.
Peggy had been in, too, the next day. “I saw you,” she said accusingly.
“What?” Clara re-twisted a skein of Malabrigo laceweight that a customer had undone.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. Walking past the tattoo parlor, day before the storm. I was working on my husband’s skull trilogy, and I saw you and him.”
“Oh, yeah? Really?” Clara knew that Peggy's husband's full back tattoo had been done for years, and any time he and Peggy spent together at the shop wasn’t time with the needle. Not with teenage kids at home.
“Whatever.” Peggy ran her fingers through her wild red curls. “Spill. What’s his stitch holder like?”
“Excuse me?”
Peggy laughed. “Or should we call it his cable needle?”
Clara lifted her chin. “It was just another disastrous date in my list of many disastrous dates. Men suck.”
“Oh, honey. No, they don’t.”
Love on Main Street: A Snow Creek Christmas Page 31
