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The last week before summer vacation was a veritable nightmare. Each day, Clara was battling more and more disruptions to her class. It didn’t help that other teachers were showing movies and hosting parties whereas Clara had continued on with business as usual.
Her severe regime endeared her to only a few of her eighth graders. Most of them coped with the suffocation by asking to use the bathroom or get a drink no fewer than three times per class period.
By the end of the school day on Monday, Clara had neared the end of her resolve, and she went as far as to promise her fifth period class that they could play games the next day. Once the last hour began, Clara’s planning period, she finally had a chance to breathe. A stack of essays stood menacingly on the corner of her desk. Instead of tearing into them with her red pen, she opted to take a walk to the front office and grab a box of tissues from the supply closet. It was as good an excuse as any, and she could use a little warm up. After school, she’d promised herself that she’d get a little packing done at her apartment. Then, after that, she told Kate she’d spend an hour in the basement with her. Clara and her sisters had so much to do, but Clara had tried to impress upon them that they had all the time in the world to do it.
She’d just as soon work bit by bit on her own move. But Clara loved her sisters and her commitment to help them was pure.
Her sensible clogs echoed softly against the hardwood floors as she walked through quiet lockers toward the office.
Once there, she slipped in through the hall door, greeting the secretary politely before stealing away into the modest closet where teachers could find extra paper, boxes of tissues, and—sometimes, if they were lucky, packages of dry erase markers.
As she rummaged through the closet, Clara heard the secretary buzz in a visitor through the front door of the school building. The visitor and his deep voice joined the secretary in a conversation. Just as Clara had rummaged through the end-of-the-year dregs of supplies, she heard her name.
“Miss Hannigan is right here, actually!”
Clara popped her head out and glanced toward the reception desk. Standing on the other side was a familiar-looking man.
She winced. “Oh my goodness, Mr. Hennings!” Recovering quickly, Clara didn’t reveal that she’d completely and utterly forgotten about the last-minute conference she’d scheduled with Mercy’s dad. “I’m so glad to see you. Let’s head back to my classroom.”
Clara whirled out of the office and met him in the hall where he offered his hand to hers. She waved down the hall. “Right this way.”
“Beautiful day out,” he commented lightly.
Appreciating the small talk, she agreed. “Not too hot, yet. Last night I even slept with the windows open, if you can believe that.” Clara cringed a little. It felt like an over-share in the presence of this veritable stranger.
But Mr. Hennings didn’t falter. “This weekend’s storm was a nice break. It’s been a little dry.”
“Are you from Birch Harbor originally?” Clara diverted the conversation as they turned the corner to her wing. She knew they weren’t. Mercy had told her as much. They were from the Detroit area, probably not far from Kate’s neck of the woods. Clara knew almost the entire story of why Mercy and her father left his good job at the college to come to a small tourist town.
“No. We lived outside of Detroit. I taught at Great Lakes College and ran a research lab there for marine technology and freshwater studies. We did a lot of work on Lake Huron.” They paused outside Clara’s door as she fumbled with her keys. She flushed under the pressure but finally inserted the right one, turned the knob and as she began to tug the door, Mr. Hennings gripped it from above her, opening it and holding it patiently as she withdrew her key and stepped in.
“What a neat job,” she replied, smiling up at him. “And, thanks. We can leave this open or close it if you’d like?” Normally, Clara kept the door open during parent conferences, unless an administrator or another teacher happened to be present too. She should have just done that, prop it open. She silently cursed herself for another awkward moment.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter to me. Whatever you prefer.” He tucked his hands in his khaki shorts pockets and waited by the door as she dumped the boxes of tissues on a nearby student desk.
The door naturally swung shut, and Clara chose to leave it be. Not make a bigger deal. “Come sit down,” she said to him, waving at a chair beside her desk.
He waited until she sat then followed her example and eased down.
Uncertain just how to begin, since their conference was the result of a flippant offer she’d made a few days before (rather than anything out of necessity), Clara swallowed and asked, “So what brought you to Birch Harbor? A research project, or...?”
Mr. Hennings glanced left then replied after an extended beat. “Just a fresh start.”
Clara blinked. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t blame him.
“So,” she answered brightly. “Mercy.”
A broad grin swept across Mr. Hennings’ face. He leaned forward, closer to Clara. Warmth crawled up her neck.
“Yes,” he said. “First of all, thank you for suggesting the conference. I don’t... I haven’t always come to parent-teacher-type meetings. Her mother used to do that. Not that she needed to either. Mercy is more responsible than me, probably.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands along his shorts.
Clara forced herself to focus on her computer screen as she navigated into her online grade book. “Well, she’s certainly more responsible than me,” she joked, laughing lightly. Then she turned serious. “Mercy is truly an exceptional young lady, Mr. Hennings.”
“Thank you for saying that. I happen to agree with you, but it’s nice to hear it from someone else, you know?” He hesitated and a thoughtful expression darkened his face. Clara slid her hand off her mouse and swiveled in her chair to face him. He looked up at her, a frown crinkling the skin between his eyebrows. “I worry about her sometimes.”
“Mercy?” Clara fell back a little. What could he possibly worry about with Mercy? She was brilliant and kind, smart and hard-working. His comment left her to ignore for the moment just how nervous she seemed to be around him. “What are you worried about?” Clara felt her face flush as she wracked her brain for any incidents in the past couple weeks. Anything to suggest Mercy was less than thriving. She came up empty.
“New girl. New school. I know how teenagers can be, and Mercy, well,” he pressed his lips into a thin line. “She’s more concerned with straight A’s than happiness.”
Clara thought about that for a moment. “To Mercy,” she began, treading on thin ice. It was never smart to cross the line between teacher and parent, especially when Clara had no children of her own. No parental experience to speak of. But she pushed ahead. “Straight A’s are happiness.” She shrugged and felt lame.
“That’s no way to spend a childhood, though.”
She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. For being the father of a fourteen-year-old, he lacked the middle-agedness that most of her students’ parents bore. No silver hairs at the temples. No paunchy stomach. And yet, despite his evident youthfulness, he reflected the wisdom of an old soul.
Clara immediately conjured images of her own father and crossed them with each man she had ever been on a date with. It was complicated and confusing, the feelings that currently fought their way to the surface of her mind. Nonetheless, she pushed them down hard and addressed his concern.
“You wonder if Mercy fits in?”
He looked at his hands then back up at her. “Something like that. I just want her to have a good life. I want her to have close relationships. Friendships.”
Clara understood exactly what he needed to hear. He needed to hear that Mercy was more than a student—that she was a joiner, too. But the problem was, she wasn’t. Mercy was a mini Clara. Isolated, nervous, and introverted. She tried a small smile, lifting her hands. “Mr. Hennings, Mercy is a kind-hearted girl. She’s a leader, academically. She might not want to be a cheerleader or join the drama club, but I think you’ve done a great job with her. You and her mom, I mean. Mercy is perfect just the way she is.” As the words curled off her tongue, Clara realized she was saying those things to herself as much as she was to the girl’s father. And, it felt good. She bit her lower lip and raised her eyebrows.
Mr. Hennings was smiling back and nodding his head. “You’re right. You’re right. I guess it’s just what dads do. Worry, that is. Thanks for your time today, Miss Hannigan.”
“Oh, please, Mr. Hennings. Call me Clara.” She narrowed her gaze on him, and suddenly he seemed ten years younger. His face free of worry now, he looked more like a peer to Clara and less like a parent, less like her father.
“Clara. Oh, and you can call me Jake.”
***
Somehow, one thing led to another and Clara had walked Jake clear out to the front office. The secretary gave her a knowing look, but she tried to ignore it, instead turning her focus on her after-school plans.
As soon as Clara left school and headed to her apartment, her phone rang.
She glanced at the screen. Amelia. Clara hit Accept. “Hey.”
“Are you still at school?” Amelia asked, breathlessly.
“I’m just leaving. Why? Is everything okay?”
“I’m at the lighthouse with Michael.”
Clara squinted through the late afternoon sun. “Michael?”
“The lawyer. Yes. We can’t get in. It’s locked. Kate can’t find a key at the house. Can you swing by the cottage and dig around for a bit?”
Just as she was about to swing left onto the main drag, Clara flipped her turn signal in the other direction, toward where the cottage sat inland on Birch Creek. “Sure,” she replied, though deep down Clara knew it was a fool’s mission. She had no idea where to begin to look. It was going to take days to sort through everything in that place. “Are you sure it’s not at the house on the harbor?” she pressed, skeptical.
“No, I’m not.” A crackling sound cut across the line before Amelia came back on. “But if you could look that might help, okay?”
It felt like Clara had no choice. Her packing session had officially been derailed by Amelia’s urgent need to get into the lighthouse. Impatience was distinctly a Hannigan virtue, but one that had not been passed on to Clara. “Fine,” she murmured through the phone. “I’ll call you if I find something.” She clicked off, accelerated down the road and toward the cottage. Her future home. At least, Clara thought to herself, she enjoyed being at the cottage.
***
After walking up the cobblestone path, Clara unlocked the door to the cottage and pushed it open, stalling for a moment on the threshold. She hadn’t been in the little house since just before the funeral, when she and Kate carefully selected a pretty white lace nightgown for their mother. It had been a specific request. Nora wanted to rest when it was time for her final rest. Don’t have them drape me in some ridiculous gown, she’d said.
Clara already knew which nightdress to select. It was one Nora had purchased on vacation one year in New York. She’d never worn it, and when Clara asked her why not, she said she was saving it.
Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes and she silently cursed Amelia for making her go there alone.
Sucking a deep breath in, she walked directly to the little table by the door and slid open the drawer. Rummaging around inside proved useless. There was nothing in there except a book of matches, a flashlight, a candle, and a back-up key fob for Clara’s own vehicle. Nora had gotten rid of her own car years earlier.
She shoved the drawer shut and dipped her hand into the basket on top, finding a couple of plastic-wrapped mints, Nora’s late Chihuahua’s collar, and a packet of bills. Clara grabbed the bills and tucked them into the crevice of the front door so as not to forget.
Then, she began to forage in the junk drawer in the kitchen. As expected, mostly junk revealed itself. Highlighters and notepads, screws and a tape measure, another flashlight, a packet of flossing sticks. As Clara began to close the drawer, it got jammed. She yanked it out and pushed again, but something was stuck in the far back. Her fingers crawled to the back of the drawer, alighting on the cause of the jam, a thick notebook.
As she drew it out, her eyes danced across its surface. It was bound in a dusty fabric and bore no indication of what might be inside.
Clara wondered if she even ought to look.
If it was her place to look.
After all, the last time a secret document surfaced, it changed everything.