Leave It to Claire

by Tracey Bateman

  If she’s saying what it seems like she’s saying, I think I’m going to barf. It means that whole session was a lie. “Are you telling me you made him apologize to me?”

  “Come on. No one makes Rick do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

  Well, she’s right about that. No one can make him do what he doesn’t want to do and no one can make him stop doing something he wants to do. But that’s not the point here. And she knows that. I can tell by the quiver in her voice that she’s hiding something. “But you are the one who suggested it?”

  “Oh, all right, Claire, if you’re going to pin me down. Then yes, I told him it would be a gesture of goodwill. And that you needed to hear him apologize for closure.”

  How did she know? How does she always know the right thing to do? My breath leaves me in a cloud as I give a sigh. “If you had to tell him to do it, it wasn’t real.”

  She stops walking and stares at me. In the lights glowing above the football field, I see anger. “You’re too hard to please, Claire. You want everyone else to do the giving, but you’re not willing to budge. I might have suggested to my husband that he apologize for the pain he caused, but no one could have faked those sobs. You left and he cried for another half hour. And you know what? Those tears weren’t for him. They were for you.” With that, Darcy whips her five-foot two-inch frame around and leaves me standing there in the cold.

  “I just bet they were for me,” I mutter into the night. I stomp toward the abandoned field. Only a few stragglers remain. Mostly kids, goofing off. I spot Trish.

  “Hey, Trish. Have you seen Ari?”

  She looks a little nervous, which instantly raises my suspicions. I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt, but when a kid says “uh” in response to a direct question, there’s no getting around it. Someone is doing something they’re not supposed to be doing. And by “someone” I mean my precocious daughter. “All right. Spill it. Now.”

  “She’ll kill me, Ms. Everett.” Like that’s supposed to induce sympathy.

  “Spill it.”

  “She’s by the bleachers.”

  “Thank you.” My gut clenches as I conjure up all the stuff she could be doing “by the bleachers.” Drugs, drinking, smoking… the possibilities.

  I think about calling out so she can stop whatever she’s doing, thereby relieving me of the necessity of confronting yet another issue. But I’m starting to get mad enough at the thought of her doing any of those things that I want to catch her red-handed.

  I walk around the side of the bleachers. I’m tempted to close my eyes. Hear no evil, see no evil, stay sane another day. But I keep them open and face my daughter’s truth. I stop short. A wave of dizziness washes over me. There, at the end of the risers, I see my cheerleader daughter, leaned back against the bleachers in what has to be the most uncomfortable position in the history of make-out sessions. Patrick is practically on top of her. I see red. As if things aren’t bad enough, now I catch my daughter being groped in public by the preacher’s son.

  24

  There are times in a girl’s life when she wants her mother. And right now, I want mine oh-so-badly. But the phone is ringing off the hook and Mom’s not picking up. I try Charley’s line and a teenage girl answers. Just what I’m not in the mood to talk to. I get my information as quickly as possible. The girl happens to be a fan of my books, and it’s not easy to get off the line with someone who thinks you’re a celebrity.

  Here’s the scoop: Mom’s out to the theater with Charley and Marie. The theater. They have culture in Texas. Can you believe it?

  Good for Mom, bad for me.

  I hang up, dejected, and head upstairs.

  My hands are shaking by the time I reach for the ibuprofen in my bathroom medicine cabinet. The tension in my head is reaching the point of explosion. I’m relieved the kids are staying at Rick’s. I was really tempted to drive Ari home, march her upstairs, and lock her in her room until kingdom come. But I think Darcy sensed I might not be in the best frame of mind to handle my daughter’s indiscretion in the wisest manner. Despite our earlier disagreement, Darcy was able to convince me to let it go for the weekend.

  I slide on my SpongeBobs and a ratty old Chiefs sweatshirt and pad into my bedroom. I’ve made a quality decision. Tonight I am going to finish The Mirror Has Two Faces. I’ve avoided romance in books, movies, music, and Hallmark cards for three whole weeks. Now it’s time to face my demons.

  I am just crawling beneath my fluffy quilt when the doorbell rings. Shoot. Why didn’t I go ahead and pull the van into the garage? Now there’s no way to pretend I’m not home.

  I shrug into my blue terrycloth bathrobe and slide my feet into my leopard-spotted slippers.

  This better be good. And it better not be Rick or Darcy or any of the kids, because I’m just not in the mood. Well, unless one of the kids is sick. What if that’s it? My footsteps pick up and my heart is racing as I fling open the door. The second time in a week Greg has seen me looking my utter worst. What’s with this guy? Does he have radar?

  “Hi.” His lopsided grin does nothing for allowing my heart rate to return to normal.

  “Greg. What are you doing here?”

  He holds up a pizza box. I think I love this man.

  “Sadie’s with Mom for the night, and I saw Rick with the boys this afternoon so I figured you’d be home alone.”

  Okay, if you want to know the truth, I’m a little insulted by the assumption. I mean, what makes him think I don’t have a date? I mean, besides the ratty robe and SpongeBob jammie bottoms and leopard-spotted slippers. Oh well, who am I kidding anyway? He figured right. I shrug. “Yeah. Here I am. All alone.” Looking at your pizza box.

  So why is he standing on my porch with pizza in hand, anyway? A sudden urge to share his pizza with me? I’m starting to catch a glimmer of hope. Still, I don’t want to assume. He hasn’t made any kind of declarative statement to make me believe he is in fact suggesting we spend the evening together. He may just need to borrow a paper plate or napkins for all I know.

  “Have you had supper?”

  If you call that bite of greasy brat supper—which I don’t. “No. I wasn’t all that hungry.”

  His expression drops. But I refuse to read too much into it. “Oh, well, I guess I can go on home. I just hated to eat alone.”

  “Are you kidding?” Just the medicine I need to brighten my general outlook. I take the box from him and motion him inside with my head—which, amazingly, is feeling all better. “Who says you have to be hungry to eat pizza? Pizza is fun food. Comfort food. A food for all occasions and any situation. This is pepperoni, right?”

  “Is there any other kind?” He laughs and follows me inside, shutting out the cold behind him. “A girl after my own heart.”

  Really? Stop it, stupid. Hands-off policy. Remember?

  “So what do you have planned for tonight?” He’s looking at me in my PJs and asking me what I have planned? Hmm. Cute, picks the right kind of pizza, good singer, not so quick on the uptake.

  Apparently he makes the connection himself, because his ears go red. “You were going to bed early? Do you want me to leave?”

  Try to take this pizza, bucko, and you will lose most, if not all, of your fingers.

  “This is a better idea,” I say. “I was just going to watch a movie upstairs. I wasn’t exactly planning to sleep.”

  “Oh, really? What movie?” He goes right to the cabinet by the stove and grabs a couple of plates. Now, never in the history of someone going to my cabinets have I ever, ever had someone nail it the first time. I mean, what’s wrong with him? Doesn’t he know that’s where the cooking stuff like salt and garlic powder is supposed to go? That’s just too weird.

  But I don’t ask and he doesn’t offer so I’m assuming he just opened the closest cabinet and got lucky.

  “It’s sort of a chick flick.” Why am I apologizing? “The Mirror Has Two Faces. Ever seen it?”

  “No. You offering?”
r />   “You’d watch it with me?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  Okay, is it any surprise that I’m melting into a pile of mush?

  After dinner I trot upstairs to grab the movie. While I’m at it I put on a bra and change my shirt so I don’t have to sit around in my bathrobe. I wonder where his sense of propriety went, anyway. Only a few weeks ago he didn’t want to come inside to get a house key for fear of the neighbors talking.

  Should I ask him, or leave well enough alone? I watch him sitting all cute and manly on my sofa, and the choice is pretty clear.

  “Shall I start a pot of coffee before we watch the movie?”

  “None for me.” He smiles, his eyes sliding over me, registering the fact that I changed out of my bathrobe. When his gaze returns to mine, I see appreciation. I practically swallow my tongue as unspeakable joy leaps to my heart. Imagine if I had another ten pounds off.

  No more pizza for a month! And I mean it.

  I slide the movie into the VCR and take a seat on the sofa, next to Greg.

  The movie is a little embarrassing in parts, but I’m totally able to identify with the Barbra Streisand character. I mean, gee whiz, I want that heart-pumping, orchestra-music-hearing, passion-filled relationship. Funny how the Jeff Bridges character is also named “Greg.” How’s that for providence?

  When the credits roll and the two of them are dancing in the street, two unlikely lovers finally finding their way to each other, I gather the nerve to cut a glance to Greg. My heart plummets. This movie definitely didn’t inspire an ounce of romance in the sleeping hunk.

  One thing I can say for him. At least he doesn’t snore. Information that might come in handy some day when he’s on his knee and I’m trying to decide whether or not to take the ring.

  “Wake up, slugger,” I say, shoving his shoulder. I’m a little ticked off. We finally spend an evening together. And I’m so boring he falls right asleep.

  “What happened?” he asks, blinking, trying to focus.

  “A tornado hit New York and they both died.” Which is just as well, because why even try to have a relationship.

  I stand up and move toward the kitchen with him following me. “Hey, are you mad at me?”

  I whip around to tell him “No.” But he’s… there.

  His arms reach out to steady me. His gaze captures mine, and I feel all the things a woman is supposed to feel when she’s in the arms of a great-looking guy with charm, wit, a strong sense of who he is in Christ, a job. I’m blown away by emotion. I think he might be about to kiss me. I want to raise my chin just a little so he knows it’s okay.

  Instead, I burst into tears.

  He doesn’t seem surprised. I find that, in and of itself, to be surprising. Suddenly I’m tucked into a warm embrace, my head settled against a firm, broad chest. I feel his hand stroking my hair. The gentleness of the action makes me sob even harder. I want a man like this to love me. Or do I want this man to love me?

  “I’m sorry,” I gulp when I’m finally able to gain enough control to pull away.

  “Don’t be.” He hands me a tissue from the counter.

  After making good use of the thing, I gather in a breath, trying to screw up the courage to look him in the eye. “I never break down like that.”

  “Then maybe it’s time you did.” He smiles tenderly, and I’m shocked that he’s not bolting out the door with the speed and grace of a gazelle.

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “If you need to talk, I’m good for more than just a shoulder to cry on.”

  I know darned well that if I start, he’s going to hear the venom in my voice when I mention Rick. That alone will likely run him off. Not to mention Ari’s exhibition of practically sexual activity right in front of the whole world. What kind of mother will he think I am?

  “If it’s any help, I already know some of what might be troubling you.”

  “Oh?”

  He nods. “Rick is my friend.”

  “I see.” I knew they were friendly. Didn’t realize they were friends. Awkward.

  “Rick told me what happened at the counselor’s office.”

  “You know what? If one more person tells me how sorry Rick is and how hard it was for him to—” I use my fingers for the quote/unquote sign. “—‘apologize,’ I think I’m going to blow my top.”

  “I wasn’t going to do that, Claire.” His hand slides down my arm until it reaches my hand. He laces his fingers with mine.

  Okeydokey, then.

  With my heart in my throat, I allow him to pull me toward the couch. He sits, and I follow. He doesn’t pull away, so I try to be inconspicuous just in case he hasn’t really noticed we’re holding hands.

  “I’m not here to talk about Rick. I know you’ve gone through a lot lately. I just thought you could use some company.”

  “You fell asleep,” I accuse.

  “I never said I was good company.”

  I laugh.

  “That’s more like it.” His eyes hold fondness. Fondness for me? Is that the little-sister kind of affection? Or the I-must-have-you-lest-I-die kind of affection?

  I can write romance to make your toes curl, but don’t ask me what’s really in a man’s mind. I’m totally clueless. But then, I’m sure that’s not real news.

  His eyes are on my hand, my wrist, which bears a scar that makes it look as though I tried to end it all. “When are you getting the other operation?”

  “Monday, as a matter of fact.” More than ready to hop off the emotional roller coaster, I immediately warm to the new topic. “Only I’m not getting the same type of procedure. The surgeon did more X-rays, and the left wrist isn’t as bad. We can do a less-invasive procedure. Lots less pain and a much shorter recovery time.”

  “That has to be a relief.”

  “It is. I’m ready to get back to work.” No. that’s only partially true. I am ready to be creative again. I’m ready for a routine. But I’m afraid, too. I’m still having trouble with the kids. What if I go back to the way things were before? Like Ari said to Mom on the phone that night? Only before, I always knew Mom was there to buffer my head-in-the-clouds neglect. Now, I’m all they have. Besides Rick—but it’s not the same.

  I know it’s my choice. But old habits die hard.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” Greg asks. “You’ve grown a little pensive.”

  See. Every writer needs a man who understands words like pensive and uses them correctly. This guy was made for me.

  Can I have him, God?

  Hmm. God’s not answering. Guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

  25

  Mom finally calls me back on Monday night. A full weekend after I left my message. I’m feeling a little groggy from pain medication, but this outpatient surgery was so much easier than the first one. Thank You, God.

  “How’d it go, honey?” she asks.

  “Much better. I should be ready to get back to work in a couple of weeks.”

  “I thought you were taking off until New Year’s.” Her voice is slightly stern.

  “That’s what I meant.” I smile to myself. Unless you count getting my new proposal typed up and sent off to my agent. But like I mentioned before, proposals are fun. Not work.

  “So, how was the theater, Mom?”

  “Fun. We saw Cats.”

  “Cats? Like the Broadway Cats?”

  “It was a college production. The president of the college bought an SUV from your brother and invited the three of us to go.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Yes. Bob’s a very nice man and he’s a real cowboy.”

  Bob? Something about the familiar way she says “Bob” raises my suspicion. Not to mention the fact that I’m wondering how a college president can be a real cowboy.

  But I don’t have to ask, because Mom’s coming right out with it. “Would it bother you if I started dating Bob?”

  Wow, what am I supposed to say to that? Yes, Mother, I
think you should remain forever true to the memory of my father. Which I guess I actually do think, sort of. I guess I’ll have to lie.

  “Of course not. You’re a big girl. So this Bob guy. Pretty neat, huh?”

  She gives a slight laugh. Embarrassed, I think. “He’s a wonderful Christian man. Goes to my church, even.”

  Well, there you have it. “What’s Charley think?”

  “Oh, you know your brother.”

  Okay, suppose I don’t. “Likes him, huh?” I take a chance.

  “Of course. Charley likes everyone. He just wants me to be happy.”

  Oh, the guilt.

  “Me, too, Mom. I’m happy you’ve found someone to have a little fun with.”

  “Thank you, hon. I was hoping you might bring the kids and come for Christmas.”

  Now, my mom knows that’s not going to happen. I don’t even know why she would bring it up. “You know I can’t take the kids away from Rick on Christmas. He’s been very good about letting me have them every year, despite the fact that he could have them every other Christmas. I want him to at least get to see them on Christmas Day.”

  “I understand. I was just hoping to introduce you to Bob. And of course, I ache to see you and the kids.”

  I can’t help the warmth of emotion filling my chest. “We’ll try to get there soon after the first of the year for a weekend at least.”

  We hang up, and it’s not until later that I realize she wants me to meet Bob. What exactly does that mean?

  Two and a half weeks after my surgery, I make an executive decision. It’s time to wow the neighborhood by decorating for Christmas. I still can’t carry anything heavy, so I enlist the kids to drag all the decorations from the attic.

  I like my attic. It’s a walk-in, and I find it so spooky and full of things to trip the imagination. Jakey, however, strongly disagrees. He refuses to help, and no amount of threatening will change his mind. The attic terrifies him.

  “Leave him alone, Mom,” Ari says. “I’ll bring down his share. The kid’s scared.”