When Claire had first found Mr. Knutsen’s letter in Eileen’s room two days ago, she’d been stunned. She wasn’t a scavenger; she didn’t normally snoop through Eileen’s things while taking out trash. But the words OPEN IMMEDIATELY in bold red had been conspicuous. They’d caused Claire’s fingers to itch. So much so that, for the first time in years, Claire did something rash. Unplanned. She’d opened the envelope, she’d read the letter, and she’d promptly called Mr. Knutsen, attorney-at-law.
The lawyer had been hopelessly vague, informing Claire that his client had given him strict instructions: Claire would get her own letter and explanation when she turned eighteen, not before. Meantime, she could calm any expectations she had about earning fast money; the house could not be sold until Claire’s little sister inherited. Only then could the siblings decide what to do.
The phone call had deflated some of Claire’s hopes. Though Claire earned a decent wage from her Etsy shop, her current college fund was barely enough for moving costs and maybe books. For the rest of her expenses, she’d been counting on student loans. And student loans were for students, not for college rejects who simply wanted to flee their awful hometown. Claire needed actual money if she was going to get out of Emmet. For one moment, she’d hoped the inheritance would be that: a direct answer to her problem. But as it turned out, whatever money was to be made wouldn’t come her way for another four years.
That night Claire had gone to bed as she had the six nights before—bitter and helplessly confused. None of her plans had come to fruition, and not even this mysterious inheritance could help her achieve them.
Then, yesterday morning, Eileen had walked into the house and left that folder in the kitchen while she used the bathroom. It had been pure chance: Claire had heard the kitchen door slam, which reminded her she was hungry, and she’d abandoned her Etsy work for a snack. That’s when she’d found the folder, and she hadn’t been able to resist. She’d grabbed it, looking through its contents, taking quick photos on her phone, like a trained spy. Then she’d returned to her room to reflect.
Her plans hadn’t worked. And this house? She didn’t see how it could help her in the here and now. But Claire reached a conclusion—one that had been brewing inside her since her time in that purgatorial post office: This situation was precisely what Harper Everly called a “golden moment.”
You only got so many golden moments in your life. They might strike you as nonsensical, or even as distractions on your path. But golden moments were where true growth and personal innovation occurred. Take, for example, Abraham Lincoln, who lost his senate race before becoming president. Or Bill Gates, whose first business flopped before he went on to found Microsoft. Or Michael Jordan, who’d been cut from his high school basketball team before becoming … well, Michael Jordan.
If any of those successful people hadn’t persevered, where would they be? You had to recognize your golden moment, and you had to seize it and squeeze it dry of every good thing. This wasn’t the time for Claire to despair, to stay home for a dreary holiday, bemoaning what she’d lost. This was the time to move forward. To be—did Claire dare think the word?—impulsive.
Just this once, Claire wasn’t going to plan. She was going to pack a bag and go along with Eileen on a harebrained, midnight trip. Because maybe this—the mysterious 2270 Laramie Court—was her golden moment.
Claire had done what sleuthing she could at home, searching the address online. There had been no listings, though; nothing on Zillow or other realty sites. When she’d tried to glimpse the property on Google Maps, there’d been nothing but blue check-in dots scattered throughout the coastal town. No street view. No clue as to what her inheritance looked like. And then there was the matter of an uncle Claire had never known. A family secret her mother hadn’t told. Claire would be lying if she said she wasn’t curious. There were so many reasons to go on this trip.
She wanted a distraction from her bad news.
She wanted a way forward, to better things.
She wanted her golden moment.
So, planning be damned, she was taking it.
Here was a hitch, though: Harper Everly hadn’t warned Claire about the trials preceding golden moments. Like two hours’ worth of insipid Christmas tunes.
Claire kept thinking Eileen would get annoyed and change stations, but as the songs played on, she seemed impervious. Claire chose her words carefully. This didn’t have to be a big argument.
“You know,” she said, “they sell cassette converters. Like, for your iPhone. You could use one to play your own music in the car.”
Eileen flinched, like the sound of Claire’s voice had been a bullhorn. She looked at Claire with glazed eyes, uncomprehending. “My iPhone?”
Right. How could Claire have forgotten? Eileen didn’t have a phone. She’d foresworn them two years ago, when she’d read an article about the working conditions of smart phone manufacturers.
“You could always get one secondhand,” Claire said, not sure where she was going. “Then you wouldn’t be … you know, directly contributing to … whatever.”
“I’m acquit—” Eileen frowned, correcting herself: “acquainted with eBay.”
Yes. Claire knew that, too. She still remembered the best gift she’d ever received. A lot had changed since that Christmas four years ago.
“Sure,” she said. “Yeah, okay.”
Eileen breathed heavily out her nose. Her profile was eerie and shadowed—severe cheekbones, knife-sharp nose. The heat from the vents was warming her jacket, filling the van with the scent of leather … and something else. A biting scent. Sharp, like vinegar, or—
The truth sucker punched Claire.
“Oh my God,” she said, sitting up straight. “Have you been drinking?”
Eileen didn’t answer. She kept her lips shut tight. That had been her mistake: She’d spoken to Claire, thereby letting out the damning stench of whiskey.
“Pull over,” Claire ordered.
Eileen’s body was tense, shoulders drawn too tight—trying to act sober. She wasn’t, though. Claire got it: the flinching, the stumbling speech, the glaze in her eyes that Claire had mistaken for tiredness.
Thirty-six days of Christmas could be endured. This could not.
“Did you hear me?” Claire raised her voice. “Pull over. NOW.”
“I took a shot, okay?” Eileen groused. “I’m fine. You don’t know my toler—”
“Uh, I know you drank, and now you’re driving. Which means you’re drinking and driving. So pull over the car, or so help me—”
The car juddered, swerving violently onto the shoulder. Tires screeched beneath them as Eileen pumped her foot on the brake, bringing the Caravan to a graceless stop.
Claire breathed out rapid breaths, staring at Eileen through the dim light. She could believe that Eileen would drink and drive; she’d known her sister’s not-so-secret habit for a while. She couldn’t believe Eileen would actually pull over.
And who knew how long that rationality would last? Claire had to act now. She threw off her seat belt, pointing to the driver’s seat.
“I’m taking over,” she announced. “Switch out.”