Not too much. A shot. Sure, she’d already taken two tonight, but she could handle that much fine without risk of driving impaired. Eileen opened her backpack and removed the flask. She pulled a swig and let the liquid rest for a moment, sitting cold on her teeth, burning hot on her tongue. She remembered again what Mr. Knutsen had said: documents.
She stowed the flask in the glove compartment and, for the second time that night, she crossed her fingers.
Only then did she swallow.
EIGHT Claire
Claire had reached her limit. Christmas radio had been piping from the minivan speakers for two hours, and in that space of time the station had broadcast not one, not two, but three variations of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” It was enough to drive anyone up the wall—even a patient Exceller like Claire.
She had said nothing for a long time. In fact, Eileen and Claire hadn’t spoken since Claire had returned to the van with her packed Vera Bradley tote, and they’d driven into the silent night.
If they spoke to each other, they would fight. That was inevitable. So the sisters had wordlessly agreed to keep the peace. Eileen drove and Claire sat scrolling through Instagram, avoiding the urge to double-tap any of Ainsley St. John’s posts from the last week. Occasionally, she glanced out at the green-gray landscape of I-5: fields and mist and overpasses, illuminated by streetlights, and beneath it all, the music of Christmas.
When Claire had first found Mr. Knutsen’s letter in Eileen’s room two days ago, she’d been stunned. She wasn’t a scavenger; she didn’t normally snoop through Eileen’s things while taking out trash. But the words OPEN IMMEDIATELY in bold red had been conspicuous. They’d caused Claire’s fingers to itch. So much so that, for the first time in years, Claire did something rash. Unplanned. She’d opened the envelope, she’d read the letter, and she’d promptly called Mr. Knutsen, attorney-at-law.
The lawyer had been hopelessly vague, informing Claire that his client had given him strict instructions: Claire would get her own letter and explanation when she turned eighteen, not before. Meantime, she could calm any expectations she had about earning fast money; the house could not be sold until Claire’s little sister inherited. Only then could the siblings decide what to do.
The phone call had deflated some of Claire’s hopes. Though Claire earned a decent wage from her Etsy shop, her current college fund was barely enough for moving costs and maybe books. For the rest of her expenses, she’d been counting on student loans. And student loans were for students, not for college rejects who simply wanted to flee their awful hometown. Claire needed actual money if she was going to get out of Emmet. For one moment, she’d hoped the inheritance would be that: a direct answer to her problem. But as it turned out, whatever money was to be made wouldn’t come her way for another four years.
That night Claire had gone to bed as she had the six nights before—bitter and helplessly confused. None of her plans had come to fruition, and not even this mysterious inheritance could help her achieve them.
Then, yesterday morning, Eileen had walked into the house and left that folder in the kitchen while she used the bathroom. It had been pure chance: Claire had heard the kitchen door slam, which reminded her she was hungry, and she’d abandoned her Etsy work for a snack. That’s when she’d found the folder, and she hadn’t been able to resist. She’d grabbed it, looking through its contents, taking quick photos on her phone, like a trained spy. Then she’d returned to her room to reflect.
Her plans hadn’t worked. And this house? She didn’t see how it could help her in the here and now. But Claire reached a conclusion—one that had been brewing inside her since her time in that purgatorial post office: This situation was precisely what Harper Everly called a “golden moment.”
You only got so many golden moments in your life. They might strike you as nonsensical, or even as distractions on your path. But golden moments were where true growth and personal innovation occurred. Take, for example, Abraham Lincoln, who lost his senate race before becoming president. Or Bill Gates, whose first business flopped before he went on to found Microsoft. Or Michael Jordan, who’d been cut from his high school basketball team before becoming … well, Michael Jordan.