Page 114 of Clara Knows Best

“Dibs,” Clara said at once, and Eve grinned at her. “I’ll be right back!”

She slid out of the booth and caught sight of him talking briefly to the bartender. He was wearing a dark, collared shirt and he looked dangerously handsome, but something was wrong, she thought. He didn’t just look serious this time.

He saw her and gave her a dull nod of recognition that just about broke her heart. Why did the man look so tragic?

“Jesse,” she said as she reached him, and she put her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Hug me back.”

He obeyed, and surprised her with an uncomfortably tight squeeze.

She leaned her head back to look at him. “Your eyes.”

“Fine,” he said.

The DJ started playing a slower song, a tacky remix of a Frank Sinatra classic, and she grabbed his hand. “Dance with me.”

“No, I don’t want to dance,” he said instantly.

“It would be cruel of me to insist,” she said, “but you do owe me one. From Valentine’s Day, remember? Come on.”

She half-dragged him to an open spot on the dance floor, and then she stepped close and placed his hands on her waist for him.

“Now we can keep hugging without looking like a couple of weirdos,” she explained.

“Why would I want to keep hugging you?” he asked, gripping her tightly.

“Try it and find out,” she suggested.

He sighed—it was just a massive imposition—but he dragged her closer and his arms slid around her again. She reached up and stroked the hair at the back of his neck, and his head fell forward, all the way to her shoulder.

He was not all right.

The grief that radiated from him threatened to swamp her, but she hoped illogically that she could absorb some of it.

So she petted his hair with one hand and kept the other on his shoulder blade in case he tried to escape. But he didn’t try to escape, and his arms remained locked around her so snugly that she began to have real hope that she was comforting him a little.

When the song ended and was immediately succeeded by one with a much faster beat, Jesse let go of her. “No more.”

“Let me buy you a drink,” she requested.

He looked down at her. “You’re crying,” he accused. “What the heck are you crying for?”

“I don’t know; you tell me,” she retorted, annoyed by the harshness of his tone.

“Ididn’t make you cry!”

“I’m not crying,” she lied, wiping one eye carefully. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”

He scowled at her, but followed her to the table where Liesl and Eve were again discussingFiddler’s opening night.

They both greeted him cheerfully, and he answered with a subdued, “Hey,” as Clara pushed him into the booth and slid in after him.

She scooted right up against his side and he put his arm up behind her on the frame of the booth.

“Long day?” Liesl asked with sympathy.

“Yeah,” he said, and didn’t elaborate. “How was the musical?”

So the women discussed the production some more, and no one pressured him to participate. The waiter brought his Jack and Coke and he kept one hand on the glass, but Clara was pretty sure he never took a drink of it.

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