Page 8 of Clara Knows Best

“Fine,” Clara relented, somewhat reluctantly. “If you’re going to peer-pressure me into it, a hundred bucks. But I get to ask him, not you.”

“Of course. Do your worst.”

“Why do you think he’ll go?” she asked curiously.

“It’s not easy for a man to say no to a beautiful twenty-four-year-old.”

“That depends on the man,” Clara objected. “And the twenty-four-year-old.”

Her mother was unruffled. “In a vacuum or in any context.”

Clara was taken aback by this simplistic attitude; to Jesse, thecontextof their familial history would far outweigh any physical appeal she might have. “Okay. Kind of an old-school take, but I get it. Well, you’re going to lose a hundred bucks.”

“We’ll see.” Dr. Wilder tossed the last folded undershirt back into the laundry basket. “Are you making swans?”

“Nope, just this rectangular shape,” Clara said, holding up a napkin she’d been working on, “but it has like, these diagonal pockets for silverware or greenery or whatever.”

“Oh, that’s cool. You’re not going to get my wedding china out, are you?”

“Nope,” she said again. “Don’t want to hand-wash it.”

“Smart girl.”

Clara finished the rest of the napkins and put out the flatware and glassware, feeling her mother’s gaze on her the whole time.

Jesse might not have any sympathy for the marathoner with the bad knee, but Clara did. Grace Wilder was the type of person who couldn’t stand to sit still for long and didn’t want to be a burden, and although her friends dropped by pretty regularly bearing food and gossip, she was quietly going out of her mind with cabin fever.

Clara just hoped Jesse’s visit would ease some of the boredom.

She snapped a few angles of the table to post later across her social media accounts (#familydinner #tablescape). “I’m done, I guess. Want me to take that laundry?”

“Yes, please, Clara. The table looks great.”

“It’s fun to decorate this house,” she said, stacking the laundry baskets and lifting them. “Anything looks good when you have high ceilings and nice woodwork.”

“It isn’t just the house. I took pictures of all the Christmas decor you put up so I can duplicate it next year. It looked like a magazine spread.”

“I think that’s called ‘mom goggles.’”

Dr. Wilder gave an inelegant harumph.

Clara put her parents’ laundry away and then headed up to her own room to pack a bag for later. When she returned to themain floor, the men had come inside, the Jim Wilders had just arrived, and the old house was full of voices again.

“So, Jesse,” her Aunt Liesl asked him over dinner, “are you nervous about starting your new job on Monday?”

Everyone laughed; they all knew he was vastly overqualified to work in a small-town GP’s office.

“A little,” he admitted. “I’ve never had a patient who knew me when I was a kid.”

“There won’t betoomany of those,” Dr. Wilder promised him.

“Clara and Yoli run the place,” Aunt Liesl told him. She was a warm, capable woman, naturally blonde and slightly overweight from sampling her own cooking. “Just do whatever they tell you and you’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t know Clara was working there,” he said, looking at her.

Clara was surprised that her mother had not mentioned it to him when they’d arranged for him to take over for her. “The office manager moved away a few months ago, so I’m filling in. Yoli’s your tech, and she’s good. She’s been working for Mom and Dr. Pike for years.”

“But there’s no nurse,” he said, looking back at her mother. “Right?”

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