Once Upon a List Read Free

to wait in Libby’s snowy driveway.”
    â€œI know. I know . . .” Clara shivered as she pulled her wool scarf over her mouth. “Please,” she closed her eyes, exhaling a weighty sigh. “Just give me two more minutes to mentally prepare and then I’ll be ready to go inside.”
    â€œThat’s what you said two minutes ago.” Leo tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel, not bothering to hide his worried expression. “You’re stalling.”
    Clara didn’t respond.
    â€œLook”—he paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully as he studied his younger sister—“I know you haven’t been home in a long time, and I know you’re anxious about this weekend, but it’s not gonna be that bad. Really. Thanksgiving is supposed to be a time of joy, not torture.”
    â€œTrue. But you’re not the one under a microscope,” Clara mumbled in a meek voice, shrinking in her seat like a child.
    Leo shook his head. “Neither are you.” Smiling, he gave Clara’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning off the ignition. He threw open the car door, letting in a frosty blast of November night air. “And if Libby catches us sitting out here in the dark cold like this, she’ll only worry about you more.”
    Clara rolled her eyes. “Like that’s possible?”
    â€œSorry. You know I love you.” And with that, Leo slammed his hand on the horn, alerting their anxiously awaiting mother that they were home.
    â€œHallelujah! You’re here!” Libby squealed from upstairs when she heard her children enter the front door, to which a colorful W ELCOME H OME C LARA! banner had been affixed. She’d planned to join Leo in retrieving Clara from the airport, but ended up stuck at home with Todd, the perpetually tardy but drop-dead gorgeous part-time piano technician, who had arrived three hours late to service her Steinway due to a last-minute gig he’d booked modeling menswear for the Sears catalogue. It was an annual holiday tradition for Libby Black, an internationally renowned winner of five Clio awards (the equivalent to an Oscar in advertising), to entertain her Thanksgiving party guests with a medley of her most famous commercial jingles, and she had no intention of performing with an instrument that didn’t share her perfect pitch. “ Finally! I love you I love you I love you!” She bounded down the mahogany staircase at lightning speed with her untied bathrobe flying behind her like a superhero’s cape. When she reached the bottom, she wrapped Clara in a powerful embrace. “Clara-pie! It is so wonderful to finally have you home.” Libby squeezed her even tighter, cradling Clara’s head in the back of her hand. “Oh, thank God you’re here,” she whispered. “Thank God . . .”
    Clara had not returned to her childhood home in River Pointe, a suburb located north of Chicago and filled mostly with successful lawyers, doctors, and other “highfalutin types”—as Leo called them—since before the fatal automobile accident that claimed her fiancé’s life the previous March, less than two weeks before they were to be married. Prior to this tragedy, Clara had made it a regular habit of visiting her mother and brother at least once every few months, if not more often. The hardest part about living in Boston was not being near Leo and Libby; however, planning frequent trips to the Windy City helped dull the pain of the distance and made it at least a little bit more tolerable. Sebastian often teased Clara that if they had a dollar for every time she said, “I wish we lived closer to my family,” they would have been millionaires. Clara agreed. This was the longest period of time she had ever stayed away—a point Libby highlighted during a recent, tense telephone conversation when Clara mentioned there was a chance she