T HE FIRST SNOW OF THE year comes just before midnight.
A hot summer that stretched into fall is probably the reason for our constantly changing winters.
It's almost definitely not the government like Donald tried to claim.
Dove was so irritated by him that at the last town meeting she made everyone sit through a twenty-minute YouTube video about global warming changing weather patterns.
Flo, of course, was uninterested in Donald and Dove's varying ideologies because she was furious that we wouldn't let her buy snow machines last year. This was the kind of disaster she was hoping to mitigate, she claimed.
We're counting the absence of snow as a disaster these days.
"Our visitors expect it," she emphasized when it was unseasonably warm on Halloween. "We're the home of the magical winter wonderland experience!"
It's a quote from an article about Fraser Falls last year. Flo loved it so much she added it to the welcome sign as you drive into town. Recognition and praise have prompted her to dream up bigger and better goals, and I suspect weather manipulation might be one of them.
I'm behind the bar in the Hungry Fox, wiping down a counter that's already clean and trying not to look like I'm watching the door.
Tommy's in an unnervingly good mood (mainly because he has been able to successfully twirl bottles tonight without dropping any of them), so much so that he actually invited me to come and stand behind the bar with him.
He said it was so I could have a clearer view of the door as I wait for Clara, but I suspect it was so he could yell drink orders at me while he lived out his dream of finally being Tom Cruise in Cocktail after Clara bought him a mixology course for his birthday.
"Clara said she'd be here, right?" he asks as he fills a mason jar with prosecco and hangs a candy cane on the rim before handing it to a woman across the bar.
"She wouldn't miss it for the—sorry, was that a mason jar full of sparkling wine you just poured?"
"Listen, man," Tommy says, rolling up the sleeves of his Fraser Falls Bears sweatshirt. "It's New Year's Eve. The lady asked for the biggest prosecco I could legally pour. It's good customer service."
I open my mouth to respond just as the door creaks open and I see her, cheeks red from the cold, hair wild from the wind, suede boots soaked, and wrapped up in a coat far too fancy for here.
She works the buttons and pulls it from her shoulders, and that's when I spot she's wearing the sweater Wilhelmina crafted her for Christmas.
Cream with a knitted version of Elf in the center.
She's perfect. The sweater is especially perfect, and surprisingly accurate actually.
Clara makes her way to the bar, peeling off her gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of the coat draped over her arms. "Will it ever be my turn to play bartender?" she says, pouting.
Tommy pours her a mason jar of prosecco and pushes me out from behind the bar.
"Your assistance is no longer needed, Jack. You were actually more of a hindrance than a help, if I'm being honest. I won't be letting anyone else have a turn.
Sorry, Clara. Blame your boyfriend for being bad at pouring beer. "
"I understand. I feel like that when he stacks my dishwasher wrong." She smiles like she didn't just insult me and leans across to kiss me. "Do you guys know it's snowing? Looks like the White House finally read Donald's letters and flicked the switch to turn us back on."
I love how Clara says us . "Wonder what we did to get in their bad books," Tommy says, leaning against the bar.
"It was probably Donald's podcast episode criticizing their lawn," I suggest, but there's a long list of options.
The Landscape of Lies podcast launched in the summer and is doing great in the exceptionally niche conspiracy theorists who like gardening space. Turns out all that soundproofing he's done over the years gave him the perfect spot for a studio.
The thumbnail is him holding his net in one hand and a shovel in the other. I heard from Miss Celia that he's close to scoring his first sponsored episode.
Clara takes a sip from her mason jar, then pushes it back toward Tommy, shaking her head with disgust. "Is that laced with peppermint ?"
Tommy sighs and moves the jar under the counter. "I bought too much and it expires in February. I thought it was a fun festive twist."
She looks genuinely offended. "Make mojitos then, weirdo. Don't ruin a perfectly good sparkling wine."
He shakes his head slowly. "I feel like you're just naming a drink with mint in it. I guess I'll try it, but it feels wrong after my class. I only use fresh, organic mint now. Peppermint isn't even the same thing."
She still looks unimpressed. "And wine doesn't feel wrong? Bizarre. Just try it. It has to be better than what you just gave me."
Clara leads me through the back door of the bar and out onto Tommy's freshly installed, fully approved patio extension.
The outdoor space is full of people, local and otherwise.
A group staying at the B Sailor is asleep across Luke and Dove in the corner; Flo and Maggie have cocooned themselves in a blanket nest over by a heater.
Mel and Winnie are laughing with some guys from the fire station.
"Five minutes!" Tommy yells from the doorway, clinking a spoon against what I strongly suspect is a jug of peppermint-laced mojito. "Anyone who doesn't vacate the bar in time for the countdown is at risk of being captured in Donald's net."
"I could sit out here all night watching the world go by," Flo says dreamily. It takes a lot for me not to remind her that she was the main person vetoing the plans for this patio for years.
As we file out onto the street, Sailor has woken up from her nap with fresh enthusiasm and is waving sparklers like she's directing traffic with her equally enthusiastic dad.
Winnie and Mel are frantically trying to keep them from accidentally setting fire to each other's wool scarves, although a firefighter is probably a good date to have if that happens.
The group from the firepit prematurely pops a bottle of champagne, making Clara jump beside me. With her hand safe in mine, we venture away from the tavern onto the sidewalk with a better view of Arthur and Tommy looking intimidated by tonight's entertainment.
Her eyes are closed; she lifts her face to the sky, letting snowflakes land on her face. "Everything's perfect."
The countdown begins. Ten. Nine. Eight.
Tommy's yelling at Arthur to move away from the fireworks like he's trying to wake the dead.
Donald jumps the gun and starts singing "Auld Lang Syne." A rogue firework zips sideways, hurtling toward the newly repaired church roof.
We collectively hold our breath. Pastor Akinola does everything but fall to his knees and scream.
Seven. Six. Five.
The firework doesn't make impact, exploding just above the roof, showering the parking lot in vibrant pinks, purples, and blues.
Clara looks up at me. "I've never liked New Year's Eve much. Too much pressure to transform into someone shiny and new."
Four. Three.
I take her face in my hands. "Good thing you already shine just fine."
Two. One.
A chorus of Happy New Year rings out in front of the tavern, followed by cheers, laughter, a correctly timed rendition of "Auld Lang Syne."
Clara stands on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me in to her. She kisses me and all the noise and chaos of the street around us melts away. If this moment is the only thing I achieve this year, then I'll consider it a year well spent.
I TOLD T OMMY THAT HE didn't need to extend his opening hours to 2 a.m. for special occasions.
As I listen to him telling Pastor Akinola and Miss Celia, who are both completely sober, that they can't sing another karaoke duet, I think I made the right choice.
"I personally would've liked to hear their interpretation of Sonny and Cher," Clara says, lifting her hair as I pull her coat onto her shoulders.
She takes my hand for the second time tonight and leads me outside.
I follow like I always do, because I'd follow that woman anywhere.
The snow heading toward Main has been crushed into a dirty slush by all the people eager to get away from the karaoke and continue their celebrations at home.
Clara pulls that way, but I don't move and tug her back to me.
"We're taking a detour," I explain, guiding her left.
"You're delaying me seeing my child," she says, the mojitos she's been guzzling making her giggly. She called them disgusting, but it didn't stop her.
"Elf is loving life being babysat by Joe. He'll be okay for an extra five minutes." Despite Elf having survived countless New Year's and Fourth of Julys without incident, Clara convinced herself he would be scared of fireworks if we weren't there.
It resulted in me paying Joe a hundred bucks to hang out at my place and play PlayStation all night. Peak rates, the hustling little jerk said. Made me drive him to Mr. Worldwide to get Thai takeout before I left to help out Tommy too.
"Okay, but if he's pissed when we get home late I'm going to tell him it's your fault," she singsongs.
"And he'll believe you because you're wearing his face on your chest. It isn't far, promise."
Tipsy Clara is less inquisitive than sober Clara because she hasn't asked where we're going yet.
We walk past the antique store and she launches into how much her mom loved the mirror she bought her for Christmas—which her mom picked out for herself when she visited at the start of December, but Clara appreciates the praise.
When I take a left before we reach the intersection where the Christmas tree farm is, Clara starts staring up at me with suspicion. "I don't think I knew this lane existed."
"You didn't notice it during the Santa run? Or, y'know, the countless times we've driven past it?"
She shrugs. "Nope."
We pass the first house, then the second, and the third until we reach a big corner plot at the end of the cul-de-sac. I stop at the white picket fence and put my arm across her shoulders. She just looks confused. I guess if I wanted her to be sharp I should've done this pre-drinks.
"Are we breaking and entering?" she asks, looking around and straight past the Sold sign. "I know you like to bend me around like I'm a pretzel, but I'm not actually that flexible. There's no way I'm Catwoman-ing through that big-ass window."
I take her wrist gently and twist her palm up, dropping a set of keys into it. "I'd like to see you as Catwoman, but this time you can just use the front door."
"You bought a house," she says, more talking to herself. Her eyes widen and she grips my arms before jumping up and down. "You bought a house!" Clara throws herself at me, the keys jingling somewhere behind my head.
"I bought a house," I say, fighting to keep the painfully large grin from my face. "And you have an office."
"I have an office," she repeats. "You bought a house, and the house has an office."
"Okay, let's go inside, I think the cold is doing something to your brain," I say, nudging her through the gate. This time I take her hand and lead her up the porch steps to the door.
She fumbles with the keys until she finds the right one and turns the lock. Seeing her walk through this door is all I've thought about while dealing with the Realtor and bank stresses.
This year has tested how much change Clara can deal with.
The realization that she was leaving Davenport, building a plan with Max, figuring out where they wanted to set up their business, figuring out where she wants to live.
It's been hard to have to stand back and let her fix it herself as someone who just wants to make her problems go away.
Thankfully the one thing that was easy to agree on, and the one thing I could take control of handling, was that I needed a bigger place.
Somewhere for us both to live when a newly launched business isn't taking up her every minute and thought.
And for when she's ready to leave Uber Eats and reliable cell service behind.
It's more than that too. It's somewhere for me to come to and have separation from my own business at the end of the day. Somewhere for Elf to have the backyard I've always wanted for him. Somewhere that feels quiet and homely and ours . Somewhere to raise those kids we want one day.
As soon as she said she was putting her place in the city on the market, I knew it was the right time.
Clara takes it in, eyes bouncing from fireplace to light fixtures to windows. "It needs some work," I say.
She spins to face me, her face frozen into something unreadable at first. "I love it, Jack. This is the best surprise you could've ever given me."
I hold out my arms to her, embracing her when she steps into them and kissing her forehead. "I love you, Clara. Happy New Year."
She squeezes me tight and the keys drop to the floor. "I love you too."
"Look after those keys," I say, reaching down to grab them and laughing when she immediately stuffs them in her pocket. "That's your set."
"I can't believe I have my own key to your place and can finally stop stealing Tommy's." I side-eye her. She's never needed a key because I rarely lock the door, and I always know when she's coming. "I think you finally might trust me."
"Of course, I do," I say gently, knowing she's teasing. "Wait, since when has Tommy had a key to my place?"
She drags her fingers across her lips as if to zip them. "Classified town secrets."