throaty blast of laughter. “You’re worried about leftovers?”
“Among other things,” Claire mumbled.
“Trust me,” said Kerry, “Bonnie and I are happy to have you. You don’t know what it means to me to have Leslie here. And you girls turning out to be her and Mark’s kids—well, it’s a lot. Not exactly a Christmas miracle, but a Christmas … something.”
“Shock?” Claire offered.
“Understatement,” Kerry replied.
“We must’ve thrown things off-kilter,” Claire persisted, unable to bat off the need to have her apology heard. “I’m sure you had plans, and you didn’t know you’d have to, like, stop us from breaking into Uncle Patrick’s house. I should have been honest when you picked me up last night. I feel really bad about that.”
“Why?” Kerry asked. “If I were in your shoes, I would’ve lied too. Anyway, you girls were on an adventure. You didn’t know who to trust.”
“I guess that’s true,” Claire said weakly. “I just feel … silly. There was nothing in that house for us. It was only a house. I got caught up in the drama, you know? It’s not every day you find out you’ve got a mysterious uncle who left you his fortune.”
“Very Charles Dickens,” Kerry agreed.
Claire turned her attention to the dish towel, folding its terry cloth edges together, hanging it on the oven. She didn’t want to stop talking to Kerry, but she wasn’t sure she could ask what she wanted. She wasn’t even sure she knew what the question was.
“Claire. You okay?”
Claire continued to look at the towel, tracing its yellow floral pattern and damp green fringe. “You said something last night. That it was hard to live in Rockport. Do you still think that? I mean, why wouldn’t you stay in Portland?”
“I told you,” said Kerry, “Bonnie likes the coast.”
Claire looked up. “Simple as that?”
“I didn’t say it was simple. You’re going to find intolerant people anywhere, though. Bigots, homophobes—they don’t have a monopoly on small towns. It isn’t fair, dealing with people’s bad behavior, but you also can’t let it stop you from living your life. So you choose the place you like best, and with any luck, you thrive. That looks different for everyone, and it can change. I needed to live in Portland in my twenties. These days, I enjoy Rockport. There are people here who knew me as a little girl, others who grew up with me. It’s not for everyone, but I find some satisfaction in being neighbors with people who know my dirt.”
“People who know you’re not perfect,” Claire murmured.
“Who said I’m not perfect?” Kerry deadpanned.
Then a smile burst across her face, and Claire laughed.
“Look,” Kerry said. “There’s no one way to do life right. That’s the one thing I can tell you for sure. Anyone who says different? Well, they’re full of shit.”
Claire nodded unwillingly. Because this meant destruction. Walls she had built high in her head and heart—smooth, pristine—were showing their cracks. And the words Don’t plan for failure seemed so trite.
It wasn’t Settlers versus Excellers. Who could be the judge of that?
Claire thought of a girl her age named Leslie, with no parents and with a boyfriend on trial, scared out of her mind. She thought of the guts it would take to get on a witness stand and tell the truth, to leave for God knew where and start a new life.
That wasn’t settling, even though anyone on the outside—Harper Everly, especially—would call her mom a settler, through and through.
Claire had done that, hadn’t she?
“Oh, gosh. Anything I can do to help?”
Claire looked up, startled by the sight of Mom herself in the doorway. Though she was smiling, her eyes were rimmed red.
“Uh-uh, good timing,” Kerry said, winking at Mom.
“We finished everything up,” said Claire.
When Mom’s eyes met hers, Claire had a sudden, reckless thought: What if there had been a spell over that house in Emmet? A curse, like the one Mom had said was on 2270 Laramie—one that drove apart the Sullivan girls, banishing them into dark, lonely corners.
A curse that had lifted, because Mom was looking at her.
“You and Kerry probably have a lot more to catch up on, huh?” Claire spoke nervously, stepping away from the counter and heading for the door.
As Claire passed over the threshold, Mom grabbed her hand. She gave it a single pulse and said, “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” Claire said back, and she escaped to the den with tears gathered in her eyes. She remained in the hallway, out of sight, listening as Leslie and Kerry