Page 4 of The Doctor's Surprise Family

It wasn’t just her shoes that seemed better than real. Her hair was wet that day, but not the way mine was. Not messy clumps slicked to her neck. Her luscious black curls sparkled with raindrops, an artistic scatter like beads on a veil. She spotted a friend, and her smile was like sunshine, pink apple cheeks,twinkling dark eyes. I tried not to gawk at her as she glided by, but I’d say my jaw was about on the floor.

Most folks, that glow wears off once you get to know them. The curtain pulls back and you see they’re just human. But somehow Claire’s flaws only made her more perfect, how she’d curse for real, then cover up withoh sugar. The way she sat tall when she got nervous, or tall as she could at about five foot three. Even her shoe-condoms made her more precious, because really, who’d think of a thing like that? Someone attentive, who took care of her things. Maybe someday, she’d take care of me.

It wasn’t raining when we left for Thanksgiving. We took Claire’s car because mine was a beater, and from the moment I got in, it was like, I don’t know. Stepping into her bubble, I guess you might say. Into her orbit of sparkling perfection. First thing I noticed was, her car smelled amazing, like hot spiced cider and gingerbread.

“It’s the thingy,” she said, when she caught me sniffing. “You know… this.” She flicked at the air freshener hanging off her rearview mirror, not the usual pine tree but a gingerbread man.

“I didn’t know they made them in different smells.”

We drove out of Memphis and out through the burbs, and with every mile, the view got more gorgeous — big, fancy houses, then gated estates, then a riot of fall leaves lining the road. I caught a glimpse of blue water, a horse in a field. A fairytale house with a tall ivied tower, the kind you’d look up and see Rapunzel. I saw kids with their daddy playing football. A car pulling up to a massive McMansion, a family piling out to be greeted with hugs.

“It’s like one of those movies.”

Claire smiled. “Which ones?”

“The ones where some lady goes home for Christmas, and it’s this town right out of a snow globe, cute and old-fashioned, like time never touched it. There’s always a church like you’d see in a postcard— Oh! There it is.” I squinted at a steeple spearing the sky. “This is like Christmas town, but for Thanksgiving. I mean,howare there no rotting leaves in the gutters?”

Claire laughed. “Street sweepers?”

“‘Shoppe’ with a PE!” I pointed at the wine shoppe. “Oh, should we stop and get wine for your parents?”

“Got some,” said Claire. “And you brought your pie, right?” She hung a left past the shops, up a long, winding drive, then right through a gateway with the gates thrown open. I breathed a sigh of relief at first — her house wasn’tthatbig — then I spotted the other house rising up from the trees.

I swallowed. “Which one’s yours?”

Claire blinked. “Which what?”

“Which house?”

“Oh!” Claire laughed. “This place was an inn, y’know, way back when. Those were the stables.” She nodded at the small house. “They were practically rubble when my parents moved in, so Dad tore them down and put in the guesthouse. He had to rebuild the main house as well. That’s how they could swing this, it being a teardown.”

“Your dad’s in construction?”

“An architect.” She brightened. “Ooh, there he is!”

A man had come out on the big house porch, small and plump with a round, red face. He waved as we pulled up and joggeddown the steps. Claire was out of the car like a shot, and she flew straight to him and flung her arms around him.

“Dad!”

“Sweetheart! Your mom’s run next door. We’ve run out of ovens— oh, you must be Blake.” He freed one hand from Claire’s embrace and held it out for a shake.

“Blake Finley,” I said. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Oh, I’m just Alan. No need for all that.” He pumped my hand twice, and Claire let him go. She ducked back to the car and pulled out a bag.

“We brought you some wine, the kind Mom liked last Christmas. And Blake baked a pie. Maple pecan.”

Alan groaned. He slapped his big belly. “I’m not fat enough, you’ve gotta bring me more pie? Sharon’s already got three of them baking.”

“I could take it back,” I said.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Alan took the box from me and popped the lid. He took a long sniff and his eyes fluttered shut. “Mm-mm, that’s good. Worth every calorie.”

“Watch out,” I said, almost too late. A dog burst from the house and charged down the steps, barreled past Alan, and jumped up on Claire. Alan fumbled the pie and nearly dropped it, and caught the box between his chin and his chest. Claire shrieked, then laughed.

“Oof! Get down, Buster!”

Buster danced around her, trembling with joy. His pink tongue lolled out of a huge, doggy grin. I stood in a daze — was this real?Was I dreaming? Nobody’s life was this picture-perfect, at least outside of TV romance land. But Claire’s mom was bustling up in an actual apron, with actual flour dusting the front. She hugged Claire, then me, and brushed flour off my shirt.

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