Chapter 7

Claire's place was a small single-level brick house in the suburbs, on a street not too different from Bob's neighborhood. There was a small covered porch, and a tiny strip of garden right underneath one of the windows where Claire was growing a variety of kitchen herbs. The front lawn was as modest as the rest of the place; Will guessed that it probably only took a half dozen passes with a push mower to traverse the front yard. The other houses on the quiet cul-de-sac looked like they had sprung from the same architect's design board.

Claire pulled her little Beetle into its parking spot, leaving as much space to her left as she could. The concrete pad in front of her house was designed for two cars, but the girth of the Navigator made that a tight proposition. Will waited for Claire to get out of her car, and then pulled into the spot at a careful pace.

"Why do people prefer these things over normal cars?" he asked Claire after he had lowered himself out of the Lincoln and closed the door. "It gets eight miles to the gallon, and half the time you can't see where you're going. I hate it."

"Beats me," Claire shrugged. "You know what kills me? Whenever I see one of these battleships, they're usually single occupancy. That's an awful lot of steel to wrap around one person."

She walked over to the door, sorting out her keys. There was a large window to the right of the door, and Will could see the vertical blinds part as something pushed its way through them. Then a dog's head appeared in the window, and the blinds swinging wildly behind the dog indicated furious tail wagging.

"Hey, sweetie," Claire cooed as she opened the door. Oliver jumped up to greet her, whining as he did, and Claire gently pushed him back into the house.

"Hurry up, and don't let him slip out past your legs," she cautioned Will. "He's much more agile than he looks."

Will heeded the warning, blocking the way out with his legs while he pulled the storm door shut behind him.

"Hi, Oliver," he said as the dog jumped up to plant his paws on the legs of Will's pants. "Sorry, we didn't bring you anything from the restaurant this time. French cooking doesn't leave any leftovers for a doggy bag."

"Oh, he's had his dinner already," Claire said. "I fed him before I left. Of course, he's hoping that I forgot all about that." She looked at Will and smiled.

"Oliver must think you're a decent guy. He usually barks at everyone who walks through that door. He's a sweetie at the shop, even with strangers, but at home he feels like he needs to earn his keep by defending the castle."

"He's obviously a good judge of character," Will said, and stooped down to scratch Oliver behind both ears. "So, does it have a bearing on a guy's chances for another date how Oliver reacts to him?"

"Maybe," Claire smiled. "He's never steered me wrong."

Claire's house was small, but cozy. The living room, where they now stood with Oliver circling their legs, was lined with bookshelves on three of its four walls. The front door and the large window through which Oliver had observed their arrival took up the fourth wall. There was a small entertainment center, but it looked forlorn, wedged between two book cases, and the stereo on its bottom shelf looked far more modern than the small TV above it.

"Not bad," Will said as he looked around. "You have almost as many books in this place as you do at the store."

"You don't know half of it," Claire laughed. "There are more in the office, and more still in the bedroom. I'm actually amazed the walls can hold that much weight in paper."

"If this place ever catches fire, it'll burn for a month," Will said. He stepped over to one of the shelves and started scanning book spines. At home, Claire didn't sort her books alphabetically by author, but rather thematically. One shelf held fantasy and science fiction—Tolkien, Heinlein, Asimov. Another held poetry—Shakespeare, Frost, D.H. Lawrence, Spenser, T.S. Eliot.

"Who's your favorite poetry author, Claire?"

She looked at him, biting her lower lip as if in thought, and then shook her head.

"Can't pick just one. It's like asking me what kind of ice cream I like best. Some days, you feel like chocolate, and some days, you feel like vanilla, you know?"

"Come on," Will said. "Everyone knows that the best ice cream is vanilla. And every bookworm I've ever known has a favorite poet. There's got to be one you like a little more than the rest. One whose name pops into your head right away when you hear 'poetry'."

Claire bit her lower lip again and thought about the question for a moment before nodding resolutely.

"Frost. If you have to absolutely nail it down to a single choice, it would have to be Robert Frost for me."

"Not a bad choice," Will said. "New England's own poet, you know. New Hampshire's own, actually."

She smiled weakly at the mention of her old home state.

"Yeah, I know. Some of my book club friends would agree with my pick, but there are plenty who consider him too mainstream, whatever the hell that is. I guess they had to suffer The Road Not Taken one too many times in high school."

"Our English teacher was fond of Birches," Will grinned. "Funny thing is, that one's still my favorite Frost poem, despite Mrs. Thurber beating it to death in class."

"It is my firm opinion that high school English turns more people off of literature than anything else," Claire said. "I know I love literature in spite of my schooling, not because of it. Do you prefer white or red?"

"Sorry?"

"White wine or red wine," Claire smiled. She took down the folding toddler gate that was blocking access to the kitchen, and stowed it behind the sofa.

"Stern confinement measures," Will commented, and Oliver glanced at him with what seemed to be agreement.

"Yeah, well, they're necessary," Claire said from the kitchen, where Will heard her taking glasses out of the cupboard. "If I let him have the run of the house when I'm gone, he'll turn the place upside down looking for food. I spent a hundred bucks on four different trashcans in search of one that's dachshund-proof, and I never found it. Did you say red or white?"

"Red's fine, thanks."

"I was hoping you'd say that. I found this lovely Cabernet Shiraz that's just unbelievably good for the money."

"You probably know more about wine than I do," Will said. "I'll trust your judgment."

"Oh, I'm not a lush or anything. I just enjoy a nice glass of wine at the end of the day as a reward for staying on my feet from eight to six."

Will sat down on the couch, and Oliver wasted no time jumping up to claim the spot next to him.

"No, no, little buddy," Claire said when she emerged from the kitchen with two wine glasses. "You're sitting in mommy's spot. Scoot."

"Thank you," Will said as she handed him a glass and then sat down next to him, displacing Oliver with a gentle hand. The dachshund yielded the spot and then curled himself up against Claire after having moved only the requisite twelve inches to make space for her.

Claire took a remote from the coffee table and turned on the stereo system, which was set to some classical music channel. Then she sat back against the sofa cushions with a sigh.

"Red wine and Vivaldi's Four Seasons," she said. "That's usually what I do for fun in the evenings. Am I boring or what?"

"Not at all, Claire. I spend my evenings sort of the same way. Only for me it's usually a bourbon with ginger ale, or a vodka with orange juice. To reward myself for yet another day of getting nothing done, you know."

Claire chuckled and took a sip of her wine.

"Well, you can't rush genius, right? How long did it take you to write that famous novel of yours?"

"Oh, right around a year or so. If I had kept up that pace, I would have another eight or nine novels sitting on the shelf right next to that one. As things stand right now, the first one is all by itself, like an only child."

Will tried the wine, and he found that it was as good as Claire had promised, a full-bodied blend that had just the right balance between dry and sweet.

"You know what?" he continued. "I razz my brother about his writing all the time, but I wish I had his ability to apply ass to chair. Three novels a year, like clockwork. They're pulp, but they take up just as much space on the bookshelf, right?"

"Don't tell me your brother writes bodice rippers," Claire grinned. "I've never seen anything else with your last name on it."

"Oh, he's got pen names. You know those Thorn McAllister novels? The really cheesy ones with the guy who hunts terrorists for a living?"

"That's your brother?" Claire laughed. "I always thought those were written by a writer pool, the way they crank out a new one just about every nine months."

"Nope, those are all from the fertile imagination of Bob Liebkind. I can get you some autographed copies if you want," he added with a grin.

"That's amazing. Two published writers in the family. What are the chances of that?"

"Family disease," Will said. "Looks like it's genetic, actually. My niece may have picked it up, too. She's starting to show symptoms."

Claire turned her wine glass slowly in her hand and studied his face.

"You're the most down-to-earth famous person I've ever met," she said. "Of course, I haven't met too many famous people, so that may or may not be a compliment. The only other writer I've met in person was a total dick."

"Oh, yeah?" Will grinned. "Who was it?"

She told him the name of an A-list author who was well known to Will, a guy who had seen several of his science thrillers made into blockbuster movies, and whose ego was only eclipsed by his bank account.

"Yeah, I know him," he said. "And your assessment is pretty much right on the money. He is a complete and total dick. Charges for autographs, if you can believe that."

"Yeah, I know," Claire replied. "He did a book signing downtown a few years back. I was in the store anyway, and I bought one of his stupid books for him to sign. I shell out twenty-five bucks for the hardcover, and he wants ten bucks to sign it. I told him he was out of his mind, went to get a refund for the book, and dropped the receipt back at his table." She snorted with derision.

"I'm sure the royalties from one crummy book are a drop in the bucket for him, but it's real money for me, you know?"

"Good for you," Will laughed. "He's not that great of a writer anyway. I don't know why his stuff sells like donuts at a Weight Watchers conference."

"I mean, seriously. Who would charge for a signature? You don't, and you won the Nobel Prize."

"He probably does it because he thinks everyone with a signed copy is going to flip it for fifty or a hundred bucks on eBay. He's a jackass, but he's a rich jackass."

"Pshaw," Claire said. "He's still a jackass, and no amount of cash can fix that. I talk smack about him every time someone at the store buys one of his books."

"Remind me not to get on your bad side, then," Will smiled.

Claire shook her head as she returned his smile.

"Oh, you're nowhere near my bad side, mister."

They looked at each other for about three heartbeats, their faces closer than they had been all evening. Will felt the almost irresistible desire to lean in and kiss her on those full lips, and he resolved to give into it if the moment lasted just two heartbeats longer.

"You know, you can kiss me if you'd like," she said, as if she was reading his mind.

Will raised his hand and gently brushed back the strand of hair that had fallen onto her forehead, and she smiled again, unflinching. He leaned forward and kissed her, and she closed her eyes as their lips touched. It was a cautious kiss, and towards the end, their tongues met briefly. Will tasted Cabernet, and her very own flavor, infinitely more intoxicating to him than the red wine.

When they pulled apart after a few moments, she opened her eyes slowly and smiled.

"Hmmm. That was nice."

"Yes," Will agreed. "Very."

"Master of poetry, you are," she chuckled softly.

"Never claimed I was. Fiction, remember?"

She kissed him in response, this time with decidedly more passion, and they sank back into the couch cushions, arms wrapped around each other. This time, their lips stayed locked for a good while longer.

The Liebkind house was dark when Will pulled into the driveway shortly after midnight. The only evidence of activity was a ghostly flicker of blue light behind the window of Erica's little den, and Will smiled at the mental image of his niece hunched over the laptop at an hour when she should be long asleep. Maybe the computer--and the unfettered Internet access it entailed--was a bit too much of a good thing for Erica, but he trusted her self-moderation skills.

He let himself into the house as quietly as possible. There was the muted noise of a television coming from upstairs, but the downstairs living room was dark. Will helped himself to some of Bob's bourbon, and then sat down on the couch, not bothering to turn on the lights.

As he sat in the dark living room, listening to the noises of the house and the occasional traffic outside, he recalled the second half of the evening, the part that had taken place at Claire's house. There was something about her that reminded him of a wounded bird on the mend, fragile and skittish, but there was also a forwardness he hadn't expected. Will recalled the sensation of those full lips of hers on his own, and he chastised himself for the tenth time since leaving her house for turning down her offer to stay for the night.

I know it's what she wanted to hear, he thought. Despite the fact that both their bodies had indicated otherwise, something had kept him from giving in to his desires and taking her to the bedroom, and it was the same flicker of intuition that had made him surrender the initiative for their first kiss. This was new territory for her once again, and he would let her navigate it at her own pace. For some reason, he knew that she wouldn't have turned him down tonight, but he also knew that things would have been different between them in the morning. It would have been too fast, too soon.

Am I really looking to go the distance with this one?

He knew the answer to that question already, of course.

At the breakfast table, there was barely concealed curiosity on the faces of all three Liebkinds, and Will made it almost all the way through his plate of scrambled eggs before the inquisition began. It was Erica who finally broke, shaking Will's shoulder and grinning like the Cheshire cat.

"And? How was your date with Claire last night?"

"It was great," he said, overemphasizing the last word for effect while spearing a strip of bacon on her plate with his fork. In response, she slid the plate towards him.

"You can have all of that dead pig if you want. I don't even know why mom bothers putting it on my plate."

"Because I have hope that you'll come to your senses and eat something other than rabbit food again some day," Christa said.

Will stabbed his fork into another bacon strip and stuffed the double layer of bacon into his mouth, ignoring Erica's look of revulsion.

"That's just ugh, Uncle Will. Ever been to a meat packing plant?"

"Ugh says the girl who drowns her scrambled eggs in ketchup," Will retorted, flashing a bacon-laced grin at his niece.

"And yes, I know what they do at those plants." He pointed his fork at the sausage patties on Bob's plate. "You know what goes into those? Everything but the oink. And I don't care, as long as they spice it up right."

"Amen to that," Bob agreed. "So they use all the parts of the pig. Waste not, want not, right?"

Bob, who knew exactly how to get his daughter's goad, seemed delighted at the opportunity to tag-team her with Will, who usually fraternized with Erica. She stuck her finger into her mouth in a pretend-vomiting gesture, but then focused her attention on Will again, deflecting his attempt to redirect the conversation.

"So? Just great? You're going to go out again, or what?"

"Erica," Christa cautioned. "I'm sure your uncle has no desire to discuss his personal love life with us over breakfast. Not any more than you would, anyway."

"That's okay," Will said. "And for your information, nosy niece, we are going to go out again. In fact, I think I am going to ask her to come up to Maine with me for our Christmas shindig."

The thought hadn't occurred to him until it was out of his mouth, but now that it was out, it seemed like a fabulous idea.

"No way," Christa and Erica said in unison, and Will laughed at the perfect synchronicity of their exclamations.

"Yes way," he said. "Just watch."

Bob leaned back in his chair and folded his arms with a satisfied grin.

"Will's bringing a new girlfriend home to meet the family. This is going to be the most fun Christmas since mom ate that pot brownie by accident."

Since it was Saturday, none of the family left the house after breakfast, and Will had to flee the house to get away from the constant, good-natured interrogations by Erica and Christa. In truth, he didn't mind their interest at all, but there was the problem of making good on his breakfast table announcement. He chided himself for running his mouth as soon as he was out of the house, and when he left the driveway in the Lincoln, he had resigned himself to confessing and begging absolution from Claire.

Her car was parked in front of the store when he pulled up, and Will felt a brief twinge of anxiety when he parked the Lincoln and walked towards the door of the bookstore. There was the possibility that his intuition had been dead wrong, and that she felt rejected by his retreat last night.

If that's the case, I'll hit myself in the nuts every day for a month, he thought.

His fears dissipated, however, when he opened the door, and Claire looked up from the counter with a smile.

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A Bettered Life

Michael Lindgren

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