“Nothing. Plus, the majority of the pieces of paper are white. I don’t know that white mulch is a popular look.”
She paused and he had the notion that she was dejected. When she spoke, the tone in her voice told him his instincts had been correct. “You’re right. From the pictures I’ve looked at online, it’s a stunning property. I’m sure it’s important that it’s kept in tip-top shape.”
A pinprick of shame caused him to shift positions. “Well, honestly, I could probably do better on that front.” But the truth was, keeping the property the way it should be would require more help than just Myrtle and Cecil, and he didn’t want anyone other than them coming beyond the gate. And so in the time he’d been living there, the place had continued to fall to disrepair.
The further truth was, he liked her idea. Not because he would execute it—he did not piddle around in the garden—but because it spoke to a sweetness that only added to her charm. And she’d obviously spent time considering her answer, which meant she’d thought about him during the week and he couldn’t help liking that knowledge.
“Tell me about yourself, Clara.”
"There's not a lot to tell. Midwestern girl. I've been dancing since I was four. My"—she cleared her throat and Jonah heard her back slide up the rough stone—"dearest dream came true when I was chosen to join the New Orleans Ballet. We'll be performing Swan Lake in a couple of months and I was lucky enough to get a role. I'm one of the swans. It's a dream come true," she repeated, though her lackluster tone made him wonder if that was true.
"Then why do you sound so sad about it?"
Clara released a surprised sounding breath. "I . . . I'm not sad. It's a . . ." Her words faded away and he again heard the fabric of whatever she was wearing slide against the stone—in a downward motion this time. "My father, he has Alzheimer's. He raised me by himself on a bus driver's salary. He sacrificed so much so I could dance. He never missed a show—never. He was always there, with a single red rose after each performance. All the money for lessons, and then for shoes, costumes . . . When I was fifteen, I landed a big part in the local ballet theater. I was so proud, but it'd been a rough year. There had been a strike where my dad worked and he didn’t get paid for a couple of months and . . . I remember waking up early one morning and hearing him just coming home. I got up and looked out the window and saw him taking a pizza delivery sign off the top of his car. My fifty-five-year-old dad had taken an extra job delivering pizzas so he could pay for me to dance in that show. I never mentioned it and neither did he, but I never forgot."
She inhaled a sudden breath and then a small sniffle. Jonah’s chest tightened. There was something about hearing of Clara’s sorrow that brushed over every ache in his own heart. "Sorry," she uttered.
"For what?" Jonah asked softly.
"For . . . oh, I don't know. Getting emotional. You don't even know me."
That was the thing though. He sort of felt like he did somehow, or at least . . . he’d learned things about her he could have only learned after knowing someone in person for much longer. Was it because a different level of honesty existed when you didn’t meet and talk face to face? Or is it her? “That’s what we’re doing though, right?”
“Yes,” she said, and he could tell she’d turned her head so her mouth was closer to the crack in the wall on his left.
He lifted a finger, tracing around that small crack. He almost felt foolish, but she had no way of knowing and so what did he care?
"So," he said, after a moment, "your dad, who sacrificed so much for you to dance, won’t see the payoff for all that sacrifice."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, that's it. He has moments of clarity, but they're so few and far between now. He didn't even know me when I left, and it’s been weeks since I heard his voice on the phone and even then, he couldn’t place me, and God, it hurt. I should have told him more often how much I appreciated his sacrifice and that I realized how hard he worked for me. I never really got a chance to say goodbye even though he’s not really gone. And"—she paused for another small intake of breath—"it breaks my heart, Jonah. It kills me inside."
Jonah was silent for a beat, taking in her words. "I’m sorry, Clara. It must have been so hard to leave him."
"It was. I wanted him to come live here, but he insisted on staying in Ohio. It was one of the last wishes he spoke to me, and I really think he wanted to give me wings. But, some days I feel like I should quit all this and go back to him, to spend what remaining time he has left enjoying those last few lucid moments, even if there are only a handful left. Instead, I'm here—"
"Doing exactly what he'd want you to be doing, Clara. He'd want you here. I don't know your dad, but I'd bet anything he'd tell you that you're exactly where he wants you to be. Honor the sacrifice he made by dancing your heart out—for him. He wouldn't have wanted anything more than that.”
Clara let out a soggy-sounding laugh and her voice was closer again. “You’re right. Thank you, Jonah. Thank you for saying that. I needed to hear it. You have no idea—”
The sound of a car approaching and then the squeaking of brakes met Jonah’s ears right before the rustle of Clara standing. “My ride is here. I have to go.”
Her ride? “Okay. Hey, it was nice to talk to you.”
“You too.” She paused and Jonah found himself holding his breath. “I gave you my idea about the notes—failure that it was.” Jonah opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong. He’d liked her idea, but she let out a small laugh, continuing on. “But you didn’t fulfill your part of the deal. You were supposed to impart some historical information.” There was a teasing tone in her voice and his lips tipped.
“No, I guess I didn’t, did I?” She seemed to be waiting. He heard her breath ghosting through the crack in the wall right at his throat. “If you wanted to come back, I could—”
“Great. Next Sunday, then.” There was a smile in her voice and when she spoke again, it was from farther away. “Goodbye, Jonah. Have a great evening.”
He walked quickly to where he thought the car might be parked on the other side of the large barrier between them and brought his good eye to one of the larger slits in the rock. He couldn’t make her out well. He only had the vague image of a slim body in a white top and honey-blonde hair blowing sideways as she jogged toward the vehicle. Away from him.
He didn’t want to feel dissatisfied with the short amount of time he’d had with her, but he did. He did.
CHAPTER FIVE
He’d brought her peace—Jonah, the man behind the wall. The wish collector. Clara executed a perfect grand jeté, hitting her spot and coming to a standstill as one of the male dancers performed center stage.
That feeling of peace she’d been thinking about continued to surround her like a warm blanket. Yes, she thought. Yes! This is where her father would want her to be, nowhere else. Dance your heart out, Jonah had said, and that’s what she would do.
How funny, she mused. That had been her original wish—to find peace concerning the situation with her father. And she had. In one single moment, Jonah had found a way to grant her greatest desire.
She smiled to herself as she began moving again, the other dancers fluttering across the stage along with her. She’d called him the wish collector, but perhaps he had the ability to grant them too. At least in her case.
“Clara,” Madame Fournier said as Clara was exiting the building, her duffle bag slung over her shoulder. “You danced beautifully today.” She smiled, thin-lipped, an underwhelming display of expression, but Clara’s heart soared nonetheless.
“Thank you so much, Madame Fournier. See you tomorrow.” She grinned, letting the door swing shut behind her.
It was already seven p.m. and Clara had the sudden urge to go to the weeping wall, to call out Jonah’s name, to tell him about today and how he’d helped her beyond measure with a few heartfelt words. But of course, that was silly. They barely knew each other. He wouldn’t want her showing up at his house—even outside—without first being invited. After all, wasn’t he sick of all those people coming by randomly all the time as it was? Friends occasionally showed up unexpectedly, but they weren’t really friends? Were they?