Finding Clara: Clara Adventures, #2

By Mary Ann Tippett

Clara forgets to remember a lot of things, but she clings fiercely to the memory of Florida, her real home. With best friends Bonnie and Jimmy filling her lapses with Zumba and happy hour tea, Vermont's Milton Manor senior living is almost bearable. Her new friend, Axel, is also a gem, stopping by often to run her errands.

 

But then ousted tenant Willie, who tried to kill Clara's dog, starts lurking around the Manor once again, and the gossip over Clara's rule-flouting becomes more intense. When her son begins colluding with Bonnie and Jimmy, questioning her every decision, she's had enough.

 

She doesn't know who she can trust, including herself. But one thing she knows for sure — she will escape Milton Manor if it's the last thing she does. 

 

Book 2 in The Clara Adventures Series

120 pages

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Ann Tippett
• Release date: Aug 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781775388371

Mary Ann Tippett

MARY ANN TIPPETT is a writer living in Ottawa. She has a Doctor of Jurisprudence degree from Indiana University. Other published novels include Clara & Pig and Pairs With Pinot. For more information, visit her blog at www.maryanntippett.ca

Book preview

1

Clara has no idea why she is on a bench outside a drab cement building from which people of all ages, shapes, and sizes dribble out. She crosses her arms, noticing the tremble in her hands. Her throat tightens. Where is she? Why is she here?

Clara remembers some things better than others. The code for Milton Manor’s front entrance: three-two-three-four. She knows that like the back of her hand. She knows the gossip circle that holds court just inside that entrance. She suspects they talk about her. Nevertheless, she says hello on her way back from walking her dog, Pig. She’s polite, if nothing else.

She can remember the circle members: the meddlesome one, such a nosy-nelly type she is; Potato, who reminds her of an uncle she once had, but less smart; and Braids, the quiet one—she’s more of a nodder than a howdy-do-er. Their names are a blank, but she knows who they are.

Jimmy often sits among them. She knows his name. He drives a Kia and orders pancakes with real maple syrup at the diner. Jimmy and Bonnie are her best friends. Bonnie from across the hall. Bonnie who makes her laugh. Bonnie who fills her apartment with eyelid art, shockingly beautiful patterns she paints from inside her eyelids.

Other things, though. She’s either forgotten them or lost their place in her mind. Peter’s kids, for example. Of course, she remembers Peter. A woman doesn’t forget her own son. Even if he did drag her to Vermont so he could keep an eye on her, only to ditch her later. His grown boys need him more than she does, she supposes. Her only grandkids.

Clara huffs, dismissing the jab in her chest. No matter. She pats her heart consolingly. She’s going back to Florida any day now. Jimmy and Bonnie will make sure of that.

As to why she now sits on a bench beneath a Milton Community Center sign … that’s a puzzle at the moment.

The day is pleasant enough. Warm, not too hot. Trees lining the sidewalk guard their emerald leaves, letting gold ones float away. Near the parking lot, robins hop through the grass attentively. A sapphire sky beckons above it all. She’s here for a reason. That feels clear. The mystery of why she’s here frightens her. This too shall pass, she thinks, unclenching her hands and sitting on them.

Two young boys and a girl, all with curly black hair, spill out of the Community Center’s doors, giving Clara a start. She’d almost forgotten the chaos surrounding young children. She remembers now, adding that to the list of what she knows. The three kids giggle and dart about in circles, trying to tag each other.

A man with sunflower-yellow hair bursts through the doors, guffawing. Who’s it? Who’s it? he jokes, streaking after one and then another, swiping at them. Is it me? He swipes at the girl who does a last-minute U-turn, hair flying, beside a bush, evading his grasp. It’s definitely me! he cheers.

Last one to the car is a rotten egg! His taunt stops all three youngsters in their tracks. They aim themselves toward the parking lot as their fair-skinned dad, cheeks puffing with effort, chases after them. His hands wave above his head. I’m going to get you, he teases. Clara watches them nearly collide with an older gentleman in their collective panic to reach a jalopy of a van.

Clara tries to picture being married to such a man. Neither of her husbands were the play-with-the-kids type. David, her ex, expended all his energy at work. He was kind enough to Peter but didn’t have a clue when it came to sports, Cub Scouts, or anything else other dads did with their sons. Clara had to learn that role herself. She didn’t mind it so much, but she can’t quite remember if she was a fun mom or not. A sense of fatigue settles into her shoulders as she tries to remember.

And her dearly departed Max. Well, he was either working, away on business, or at the golf course when it was Clara’s weekend with Peter.

Truth is, I would have liked one of those types of husbands, Clara thinks, picturing her young self on a front porch drinking lemonade, watching her husband lead Peter and the neighbor kids in a game of softball.

Pssshh, she hears Liz snort. You’ve never been the lemonade mom type and you know it. How would you know, Liz? Clara retorts. You didn’t come into my life until those days were long gone. I know because you liked the working kind of husbands. The serious ones who made money and kept food on the table and didn’t shrug their shoulders when the electric bill came. Liz points to the green van with peeling paint now leaving the parking lot. A gaggle of arms extruding from open windows. Those kinds of dads? Liz says. They make their wives feel like uptight nags. You would have hated that. Well, I guess now I’ll never know. Clara says.

Never know what?

Clara didn’t see him stop before the doors, the man now gesturing to an unoccupied stretch of bench beside her. He seems harmless. His full head of hair, gray as fog, matches a blazer and pants that look like they’ve never seen an iron. What’s that? A T-shirt under his blazer? Clara narrows her eyes at the fellow now blocking her view. His pinched face loosens into a simper.

Private conversation, Clara huffs. She listens for Liz’s sassy response and finds she’s faded away.

Turning her gaze back to the man, she shrugs in resignation. He’s no fashion plate, but probably not a murderer. It’s a free country. She gestures to the bench the man so peevishly covets.

His laugh sounds like a cough. Clearing his throat, he holds out his hand. I’m Axel.

Clara frowns and pats his hand instead of shaking it. This isn’t an interview, honey. Have a seat if you like.

He laughs in response, which again sounds like a cough. I bet you break a lot of hearts. Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out a packet of cigarettes. Mind if I smoke?

Clara smiles. She has broken some hearts. And she appreciates a fellow who sees it. I’m Clara, she says, taking the cigarette he offers and letting him light it.

They smoke together in silence. Clara forgets the vice-like grip her forgetfulness had on her stomach. Then Axel speaks again. I’m new here in town. It’s nice sitting here with you.

Clara exhales a plume of smoke, enjoying the smoothness that covers her nerves and the attention of this kind man. Remembering that she is polite, if nothing else, she says, I live at Milton Manor, apartment 344. She switches her cigarette to her other hand and offers him her hand. Stop by any time.

Axel shakes her hand, his thin lips widening into a pleasant grin. Thank you, Clara. I appreciate that.

There you are! Bonnie rushes out of the building, nearly tripping as she wraps her arms tightly around Clara.

She’s wearing her black catsuit, which jogs Clara’s memory. Zumba, right. I’m here for Zumba! Clara exclaims.

Bonnie extricates herself from the hug, letting her hands find her hips. Why did you run off like that? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Her hands flail about wildly. I’m a nervous wreck.

Clara remembers the frizzy-haired lady who played loud music and tried to teach her the salsa, which sounded a lot like Mexican food. If that’s Zumba, I’ll zoom on out of that class any time I like. Clara turns to Axel. I took ballet lessons for ten years. And I can tell you, that Zumba class is something, but it is not dancing.

Bonnie’s face changes from thank-god-I-found-you to what-do-you-think-you’re-doing. Do you know this gentleman? Bonnie’s scrunched nose implies disapproval.

Don’t be rude, Clara says. This is Axel. She drops her cigarette butt on the sidewalk and smushes it under her foot. He’s new here.

2

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