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    December Rose
    December Rose
    December Rose
    Ebook238 pages3 hours

    December Rose

    By Maria Rachel Hooley

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    About this ebook

    Who we live for is just as significant as who we die for.

    As a national bestselling author, Rose Conrad has entertained millions of readers, at least before Altzheimer's set in. Now Rose is dying, and her granddaughter, Clara, has come to care for her. Desperate to know more about the grandmother she's losing, Clara looks at the novels Rose has written to find one striking commonality--all of them include a character named Peter, starting when he is a young man, a rebel fighter in WWII, and ending with his last breath as an old man.

    Clara senses a story here, one that goes beyond fiction, and even though it seems the only person who knows the truth is dying, she has to find out the truth about Peter before Rose is gone forever because the key to Rose is Peter.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMaria Rachel Hooley
    Release dateSep 16, 2018
    ISBN9780463539293
    December Rose
    Author

    Maria Rachel Hooley

    Maria Rachel Hooley is the author of over forty novels, including When Angels Cry and October Breezes. Her first chapbook of poetry was published by Rose Rock Press in 1999. She is an English teacher who lives in Oklahoma with her three children and husband. She loves reading, and if she could live in a novel, it would be Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn.

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      Book preview

      December Rose - Maria Rachel Hooley

      Chapter 1

      I can't wait to get out of this car, Clara Conrad said, eyeing her reflection in her Ford Escort’s rear-view mirror. In the sunlight, she could see the dark circles under her eyes from too little sleep.

      Ahead, she saw the sign for Medicine Park, Oklahoma, and she flipped her turn signal and squirmed in the seat. It was a long drive from Galveston, one her body constantly griped about, but still, even as she exited and headed across a rickety bridge, Clara knew the hours spent cooped up in the car would be worth it. Time away from the ocean would be worth it. Her grandmother, Rose Conrad, would be worth it.

      She scanned the street filled with older buildings and artsy- craftsy shops and restaurants which sure hadn't been there when Clara had been growing up. She knew the community was changing. Her father told her that all the time, along with hinting at her to come visit, but it always seemed she found reasons not to, at least until five days ago.

      That's when her dad had called to ask her to come home. There was no hinting this time, and no awkward pauses as he tried to guilt her into remembering the way back. There had been seven words: Your grandma is dying. I need you.

      Oh, Clara had asked him all the usual questions--the what, the why, the how, and the when--but in the end, the answers didn't suffice. They didn't fill the sudden emptiness in her stomach that consumed her when she thought of Grandma Rose lying in bed, unable to care for herself, the same Grandma Rose who had practically raised Clara when her mother died. Rose had lived with them because Clara's father had had to work, and anyways, Rose was a writer, so she didn’t have to adjust her schedule, not like someone with a 9-5 job.

      Clara swallowed hard and thought of her grandmother—a tall woman who wore elegance the way other women wore skin. It was innate. She moved with measured grace and spoke in a voice that sounded almost regal. And her stories—her stories were the impetus of dreams.

      That thought jolted Clara back to the narrow dirt road to the left, the one that would take her to the brown rock house where she'd grown up, and although Clara tried to urge herself to push the accelerator, something seemed heavy about it, perhaps because she was afraid?

      She straightened, a way to deny the fear, but it claimed her all the same. It wasn't the fear of returning home that seized her; it was the fear of what she would see when she got there. It had been seven years since she'd left, and though time had been gracious to her, it had probably left its mark on her father, and the house she'd grown up in wouldn't be the same, so maybe it was change itself that left her sitting in the middle of the road as though her car had stalled, at least until someone drove up behind her and honked. Then she’d no choice but to move.

      No matter how hard she tried to remain in the present, it wasn't a hotel but merely a train station, and she was passing through.

      A moment later, the past abruptly greeted her as she pulled into the gravel drive. She noted her father's black Honda Civic—the same car he'd driven for ten years, and even if Clara were to ask him why he still had it, Peter Conrad would’ve told her if it ain't broke, don't fix it. He was that simple and down-to-earth, and Clara loved him for it.

      Getting out of her car, she mused that her relationship with her father hadn't been the norm by any standard. No, where most kids were struggling—some even kicking and screaming—to gain independence from their parents, Clara had actually taken comfort in that dependence. Part of it had, no doubt, been the loss of her mom, but, really, Clara considered herself an old soul. Strangely enough, she understood her father better than any guy her own age, and invariably, she’d always measured any guy who’d even sparked an interest in her against her father. No one had quite measured up.

      Well, that wasn't completely true. There’d been Eli Montgomery, her high school sweetheart, who had made her laugh, who’d taught her all the constellations, and who’d helped her understand what it felt like to have the earth slip from beneath her feet simply because a guy had kissed her. She'd thought he was perfect--at least until he'd put the earth back into place the day she'd seen him kissing her best friend Mary, who’d quickly became her ex-best friend.

      Hey, Peanut!

      Clara looked up to see her father standing on the porch, beaming. He wore a faded t-shirt and old jeans with leather hiking boots and had both hands shoved into his pockets.

      Dad, I grew out of being a peanut when I was six.

      He took the two steps down from the porch, and she walked to meet him, suddenly aware of the grey at his temples. And then Peter Conrad caught his daughter in a bear-hug.

      You'll always be my peanut. I don't care how big you get.

      He kissed her cheek, the same way he'd done since she was little.

      Hey, Daddy, she said, a little breathless as she clung to him even when he pulled away.

      Everything all right down there?

      That, too, had started out as a joke, as Clara had actually been kind of scared of her father as a baby because he’d been so tall: six foot four. He'd towered above her, larger than life. But when she'd finally realized that while he might be many things to her threatening wasn't one of them, she’d quickly come to idolize him, and this little quip was his way of asking if his daughter were okay. If she replied back about her height, he would know everything was fine. Other responses guided him as he navigated the waters he didn't always understand. But he tried. Clara was sure of that.

      I'm not that short anymore, She said, easing away, which was harder than she thought it could be, probably because she knew her grandma wasn’t going to be with them much longer, and if Grandma Rose could die, it meant her father could as well, and he someday would.

      That thought terrified her. It had taken years for her father to convince Clara he wasn't going anywhere—that while death was part of the normal order of life, losing someone to cancer, as she had with her mom, wasn't something she should worry about, so she'd finally stopped.

      And to his credit, the thief this time wouldn't be cancer. It would be Alzheimer’s. Part of Clara wondered if death had chosen to visit because Clara had finally stopped watching and waiting for him to reappear after her mother’s death. Had she left her guard down too much and he'd taken that as a sign to proceed?

      Clara?

      Her father's voice jerked her back to the present, and she started up the steps.

      What? she asked.

      Any luggage? He pointed to the car.

      A couple of bags in back. I'll get them later.

      Peter laughed. Always the procrastinator. I'll get them. He walked to the car and opened the trunk before grabbing both bags.

      Hey, I have to go with my strengths, she retorted, waiting for her dad so they could walk up the steps together.

      Everything all right? he asked, scrutinizing her from his peripheral vision as they headed to the front door.

      I'm fine, Daddy. Really. How's Grandma? Clara held open the door, and he followed her.

      She's been sleeping a lot.

      Clara looked around the foyer, feeling nostalgic about how everything seemed so much the same, almost as though change hadn't touched the house—-just the people who lived there.

      This place never seems any different, she said, drifting into the living room as her father set the bags on the couch. She glanced at all the photos on the mantle. In some ways, it was like those photo montages on the Internet of kids growing up right in front of you. Anybody who looked at those pictures could chart her growth year by year, which was kind of scary to Clara. It put her and everything about her too much in focus, which was the last place she wanted to be.

      Have you talked to Eli lately? her father asked. And why should this place change? I like it the way it is.

      Clara laughed and kept moving down the line of photos, a flood of memories rushing back at her. Of course you do, Dad. Haven't you still got those jeans from the eighties that you refuse to throw out?

      Yeah, so? He shrugged. You want me to go put it on?

      At that, Clara formed a cross with her fingers. Oh, no. I never want to see that, Dad. It's too scary even for Halloween.

      Funny. Very funny, he retorted dryly. Now how about some lunch?

      Clara set her purse on the couch. Ooh. I thought you'd never ask!

      She followed him into the kitchen where she realized he’d been in the midst of making submarine sandwiches. He immediately washed his hands and started cutting up bell peppers again.

      So, about Eli. Have you talked to him recently?

      Gee, I kind of thought I was giving a good answer by not answering. Should I repeat the silence?

      Come on, Clara. I know you were crazy about the boy, and one day you cut him out of your life without so much as a word. What gives? He set down the knife then reached for the rolls so as to start assembling the sandwiches.

      It’s complicated. She walked to the fridge to get a bottle of water.

      Yeah, right. Something happened between the two of you, so what was it?

      Frowning, she torqued the lid from her water bottle and sat at the kitchen table. Dad, why in the world are you worried about a boy from my past? It’s over. It’s done. I’ve moved on, and so has he.

      The doorbell rang.

      And that’s why Eli is ringing our doorbell? Because he’s moved on, Peter said flatly, giving her a knowing look. Somehow I’m not buying that.

      It’s not Eli, she argued and headed for the front door to prove to her father she was right.

      And she was…sort of.

      The Eli she had known had been a lanky boy with dark blond hair and braces. At the time, she’d thought him strong, but in reality, he’d been thin and undefined. The man who stood on the front porch now was neither of those things. Clara saw flashes of the boy she’d loved buried in the darker curls, a six-foot-three frame, and a chest which resembled a brick wall—impenetrable.

      Shit! she muttered and dove into the bathroom, not stopping until she’d shut and locked the door.

      What the hell was Eli doing here after all this time? Why couldn’t he have picked last week to stop in?

      Stupidly, Clara tried to think, but all she could focus on was the frantic pounding of her heart as she leaned against the closed door.

      The next thing she heard was even more disturbing as the front screen groaned open.

      Eli, how goes it? her dad asked, and judging from the creaking of the floorboards, both men were in the house, which flustered Clara all the more.

      Not bad. Was that Clara I saw?

      Even though his voice sounded familiar, it was deeper and resonated within her, making it difficult to breathe.

      He kissed your best friend, she reminded herself. It doesn’t matter what his voice sounds like when you can’t trust him.

      But she knew that was a lie. It had always mattered. He had always mattered. She just wished he’d matter from a different state far from here.

      Yes, Clara’s back. She must’ve needed to go to the bathroom because she was on her way to answer the door.

      Her father’s voice was filled with amusement. She knew he was paying her back for the jeans comment, however true it might’ve been.

      Clara turned her attention to her reflection to assess what Eli would see…if she ever decided to come out of the bathroom. Truthfully, that was a big if. Her hair was drawn back into a messy ponytail, which allowed loose tendrils to slip free and frame her narrow face. For the first time in a week, she lamented not wearing makeup. Usually, it didn't matter, but if she'd known she'd be running into the one guy who’d turned her world upside-down more than once, she would’ve taken care of it, but as usual, there had been no warning or she would've fled the other way to save herself the grief.

      In a frantic rush, she tried to tame her hair and straighten her clothes, not that either would help. She wasn't dressed to impress, rather to be comfortable as she drove.

      She set her hand on the door knob, contemplating making an appearance. She wasn't sure she could live down her father's comment about her diving for the bathroom.

      Clara and I were getting ready to have some lunch. Would you like to join us?

      When Clara heard that, her shoulders sank. There was no way she could go out there, not for something as extensive as a meal. She’d not had to face him since the kiss in the eleventh grade, and she was all for keeping with the status quo.

      Thanks, but my mom has some errands she wants me to run. More than anything, I came by here to see how Rose was faring and whether you needed any help with anything. I know it’s been kind of overwhelming around here.

      And where do you hide the two-timing devil horns these days, she wondered foully. It was hard to believe she was even dealing with the same person. Could Eli have grown up and learned not to burn bridges?

      She doubted that. He was probably an exceptional faker.

      Mom is doing okay for now, Eli, but thanks for stopping in. Please tell your mom I said hello.

      Will do. The liar agreed, and Clara gritted her teeth, shaking her head at how common-place this whole stupid conversation sounded. It was like they spoke every day, but Clara couldn't fathom that. It wasn't possible.

      Good.

      It sounded like they were moving closer to the door.

      And will you tell Clara I'd love to catch up over dinner or something.

      I'll let her know, her father said. Clara heard the screen door open and shut, shortly before a knock resounded at the bathroom door, making her jump.

      You didn't fall in, did you, Clara? I figured if you had, I would've heard the splash or something.

      Very funny, Daddy!

      Clara jerked open the door to find her father leaning on the jamb, his arms crossed over his chest. He smirked at her.

      I thought it was! He shrugged.

      You would! she growled, heading down the hall.

      So what did happen between you two, for the record? her father asked again.

      She finally realized he wasn't going to give up. For some reason, her father had a vested interest in this conversation, and when Daddy was personally invested, Hell could freeze over and he wouldn't notice.

      He cheated on me. She plopped onto one of the chairs at the table.

      Peter frowned. Hmmm. That doesn't sound like Eli. Did you ever ask him about it? Maybe it wasn't what you thought.

      She banged her head on the table. Seriously, Dad, there aren't too many ways to interpret two people lip locked together, especially when one of them was my best friend and the other was my boyfriend. I got the impression I needed to be elsewhere, and it wasn't going to go well.

      Maybe there are different interpretations, and maybe there aren’t. It wouldn't hurt to ask if it bothers you that much. He slid a plate with a sandwich in front of her. This boy has been crazy over you since day one. I'm not sure what you saw, but I don't think it was what you think it was.

      Clara started waving her hands in the air. Oh, hell no, Dad. I'm not going to play the part of a desperate ex-girlfriend who needs to know what happened years ago so I can get on with my life. That's not me, and I'm not going to even pretend it is. The last thing I want is for Eli to think I need him.

      She averted her gaze and focused her attention on eating the sandwich, hoping her father would forget about the invitation Eli had extended her. What the hell did he think they’d even have to talk about? Once she'd left, she never looked back.

      I didn't know I raised a daughter so worried about what Eli or anyone else thinks. I had gotten used to the idea that you were the strong, independent type, but I guess I was wrong, eh?

      Peter, too, picked up his sandwich and started eating. Clara tried to adjust to the silence around her, but she hated it. She felt like it was closing in around her, threatening to cut off her air.

      Only Eli would still have this kind of an effect on her after so many years apart, and that was why she didn't want to face him. All he'd have to do to know the truth of what she felt would be to look her in the eye, and it would be right there.

      What was Eli doing here, anyway? she asked, taking a sip of her drink.

      He’s been helping me out with your grandma. He took another bite.

      At that, Clara swallowed wrong and started coughing immediately, which caused her father to look at her strangely.

      Grandma? she finally croaked, her voice coming out in a whisper. He’s been helping you with Grandma? She sat back, trying to picture this: the guy who had once betrayed her now spending time with her grandmother.

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