Can I just admit something once and for all? I didn’t cry when Old Yeller died. I wanted to. I knew my mom was watching Charley and me like a hungry hawk, ready to scoop us into her waiting arms for a cuddle at the first sign of distress. But no matter how hard I tried to drum up a few tears, they just weren’t happening. I guess I’m too much of a survivor to have even considered any other alternative as acceptable. The dog had rabies, therefore the dog had to go. I mean, yeah, he was a good yeller dog for a while, but in the end he was foaming at the mouth and growling. Not exactly Mr. Cuddles.
I remember the entire scene like it happened yesterday… Mom and Dad are in their respective recliners. I’m sixteen years old, loving it that Mom roped Dad into watching a movie with us on the new VCR, even though it was the second day of trout season and I knew darn well he really wanted to go fishing. My thirteen-year-old brother, Charley, is sobbing like he just got a line drive to his shin, and I’m thinking, “Might want to plug the dog one more time to make sure he’s dead. Never can be too careful.”
I’m not heartless. Honest. I still cry every time Rhett leaves Scarlett (so sue me). The sweet presence of the Lord brings tears to my eyes when I worship. My children hurting or happy can make me cry for hours. But staring at the tree crushing the top of my house, all I can do is look on, dry-eyed, and try to wrap my mind around the fact that my office is gone. And following that thought is, “Thank God for the jump drive on my keychain.” That little thumb-sized instrument, 256 MB of golden memory, contains all my recent work. And in this moment, that’s what’s important—that and the fact that my children are all safe, of course.
I tend to disconnect from emotion during times of extreme crisis. That is, while I’m in the actual moment. Later, reality usually sends me rushing to Pizza Hut for a deep-dish super-supreme (hold the onions and green peppers now that I’m dating and very likely to get kissed at least once a day).
Just for the record, I have a message for the weather guys who say they’re not able to confirm a tornado: Come down and look at my new tree house, or house tree, as the case may be. That’ll convince them. The tree was literally uprooted and dropped on my house. Only a tornado could have done that! That’s my uneducated opinion, and I’m sticking with it.
“My room!” Ari whines. “My computer.”
I know how she feels.
“That’s what insurance is for,” Tommy informs her, with a superior attitude he had to have picked up from his dad.
“Like you know anything about insurance,” she zips back. “You can barely spell your own name.”
He clutches his chest in mock pain. “Oh, gee, that hurt so much coming from a dumb blonde cheerleader.”
“Both of you shut up,” I say, in a tone just above normal but not quite a shout.
They hush, and I think I’ve shocked them into obedience; “Shut up” is a banned phrase in our house, and I haven’t allowed it in years. But when I’m looking at a halfway demolished roof and they’re bickering back and forth, it’s just too much, you know?
I’m vaguely aware of Greg’s hands cupping my shoulders as he stands behind me. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks.”
Greg’s sweet. He’s the every-cloud-has-a-silver-lining kind of guy. And usually this attribute has a steadying effect on me. But not now. I mean, really, if the split tree on my house doesn’t look that bad, how does it look to him? Because, not to be a drama queen, but from where I’m standing, it looks like my roof is caved in over my office, Ari’s room, and most likely Tommy’s as well. It looks like if my children had been in their rooms, they would probably be squashed beneath the granddaddy of all oak trees. So I’m not sure how bad he thinks it looks, but reality is starting to seep through my practical side and emotional what-ifs are about to make me barf.
Plus, I’m trying to remember whether or not I ever got around to sending payment for my homeowner’s insurance. And for that matter, will the policy even cover holes in my roof due to storm-ravaged trees? Greg’s hands drop, leaving two cold patches on my shoulders as I walk out from under them. I head for the house.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Greg’s firm tone and even firmer grip on my upper arm surprise me. He’s usually such a beta male.
Okay, sidebar. Romance writers categorize guys in two ways: alpha and beta. Alpha males are the brawny kinds of guys who can fix a car, watch football, and generally take command of every situation. All the things we independent women say we don’t want (but really do) in a man. On the other hand, beta guys are sensitive, sweet, content to let their women take the lead (to an extent). They’re mama’s boys in general, but the ones who’ve evolved past the wimpy stage usually make the best husbands. Unfortunately, they’re not all that exciting at first glance. It takes a woman of maturity to recognize and appreciate the qualities of a beta man.
Romance writers typically combine the best of both types, alpha and beta males—brawn, sex appeal, and sensitivity—and that’s the stuff romantic heroes are made of. Totally bogus, of course, but the fact that half of all book sales are from the romance category attests to the assumption that our female buyers will pay anything to escape into a world whereby men don’t burp or scratch, where they live to please her and don’t care if she’s fat.
But back to my beta hero, Greg. This alpha-male-like manhandling is out of the box for him and to be honest, kind of turns me on. I whip around to face him, and he cuts me off before I have a chance to tell him off or kiss him (not sure which I was planning). “Claire, you’re not going back into that house.”
“I have to get the number for my insurance company.”
“You should always keep your insurance agent’s number with you, Claire.”
Where? In my wallet with all my money? Sheesh, Mr. “Always be prepared” has fallen back into beta.
“Well, I probably should, but for some stupid reason it never occurred to me that a tree would fall on my house, and I didn’t think to punch in those numbers. I’ll have to work on forethought. Definitely a character flaw.”
“All right. Point taken. No need to be sarcastic.”
I actually do think I have a reason to be sarcastic, but now is not the time to get into an argument.
Taking the high road, I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him. Full on the lips in front of God and everybody. I had intended to make it brief, but Greg (being a man) has other ideas.
“Stop kissing!” Jakey says, yanking on my sleeve.
Ari tosses me a scowling gaze. “Really, Mom. It’s not even dark out here. The whole neighborhood is watching.”
By “the whole neighborhood,” she means the elderly couple three doors down and across the street, along with their two cats. No one else has ventured out yet.
“Kids, go get in the van. I’m taking you over to your dad’s.”
“What about my stuff?” Ari demands.
“Sorry. Whatever you don’t have at Dad’s, he’ll get for you.”
Rick’s a doctor—a very successful one. He can afford it.
“Come on, boys,” Ari says in a sulky tone that always gets under my skin. “They want to be alone.”
I look up at Greg. “Sorry about the way they’re acting. You know they like you a lot. This is just a pretty big deal. And they’ve never seen us act this much like a couple.”
“Claire,” he says, in that husky I-want-you tone that always makes me shiver. “I don’t mean to act like a husband. I just …” He grips my upper arms. “Do you know that you could have been in that office? You didn’t even know a storm was brewing. I could have lost you.”
Well, when he puts it that way.
“I just want to take care of you.” He presses a kiss to my forehead.
I wrap my arms around his neck and his hands slide back to my waist. I give him a coquettish smile and run my fingers through the curls at the base of his neck. “News flash. I don’t need someone to take care of me. I like taking care of myself.”
He doesn’t smile
back. A bubble of nerves floats around my stomach. He stares down at me with smoldering eyes that leave no doubt in my mind that he’s smitten. “Maybe I need to take care of you, baby. Forever.” Something about the way he says “forever” makes me picture him getting down on one knee while branches poke him in the shins.
Okay, this so isn’t the way I wanted to have this conversation. Not standing in front of my branch-cluttered yard. I take my only line of defense. I kiss him again. Long and slow, a kiss that leaves us both breathless. He pushes me gently from his arms and touches my nose with his index finger. Giving a short laugh, he eyes me warily. “You win this round. But as soon as you get all this house repair stuff settled, we are going to have a serious talk about our future. Okay?”
My heart flutters at this new forcefulness coming from Greg. “It’s a deal.”
“Good. Now wait here while I check things out again to make sure the house is reasonably safe.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to argue, this man of mine. Just strides with determination up the steps and into my house.
Minutes later, I’ve retrieved my policy from a kitchen drawer and have made a call to my insurance agent, Pat, who assures me the cost of repair is indeed part of my policy. And yes, I’m paid up.
I’m just about to head over to the van to drive the kids to their dad’s when Darcy’s SUV squeals into my drive. She jumps out, leaving the door flung open like a TV cop, and waddles as fast as possible to my door. Her eyes are wide with horror and as soon as she sees the house, she bursts into tears. In half a second flat, I find myself wrapped up in her pregnancy-plumped arms and fighting her little one for space. The baby’s winning and I’m about to lose my balance when Darcy finally loosens her death grip. “Oh, Claire. I’m so glad you’re all right. I was worried sick.”
She cranes her neck. “Where are the kids? Are they all okay?”
“They’re fine, Darcy.” I motion toward the van where the kids are waving at her.
Relief washes over her tear-stained face. “You just can’t imagine how scared I was.”
“Well, as you can see, we’re fine. I was just about to take the kids over to your place.” I frown. “Come to think of it, how’d you get over here so fast? I just called Rick fifteen minutes ago.”
Darcy swipes at her nose with the back of her hand and gulps back the tears. “What do you mean?”
“Rick? Your husband? Father of my children?”
“I know who he is, but I haven’t talked to him. I was grocery shopping when the storm hit and I left my cell phone in the SUV.”
“Then what are you, psychic or something? How’d you know about my house?”
Understanding finally registers on her face. “Radio. I was in line at the grocery store when the storm hit. The employees led us all to a storm shelter, but someone had a weather radio and a twister was reported in this part of town. I was nearly frantic.” She grins. “Everyone thought I was a nut, because I was pacing back and forth praying for you and the kids out loud. As soon as they gave the all clear and let us out of the shelter, I hurried right over.”
Oh, so they finally confirmed what we already knew: a tornado. Good for them.
“Oh, my goodness!” Darcy’s eyes grow three sizes in radius. She gasps and covers her mouth.
“What is it? The baby? Do you need to get to the hospital?”
She shakes her head vehemently. “I just remembered I left a whole basketful of groceries in aisle ten.”
My relief knows no bounds. I’ve had this fear ever since she’s been pregnant that I’ll have to deliver her baby. That’s just about the way our relationship has gone and just about my luck to boot. So, excuse me if I’m not concerned about an abandoned basket of groceries on aisle ten. “Good grief. That’s no big deal.”
“It’s a big deal to someone, Claire, especially the person who will have to go all over the store and put everything back that I didn’t bother with. You know what Joyce Meyer thinks about that.”
Darcy recently discovered Joyce Meyer’s books, tapes, TV ministry, conferences. The lady preacher’s no-nonsense approach to modern-day Christianity has always struck a chord in me, and I guess Darcy’s joined the cause for Joyce’s brand of “just do it” Christian living too. Personally, I think it’s the best thing for her; maybe now she’ll join the rest of us in the real world.
But at this moment, her guilty conscience is really the last thing on my list of priorities. I mean, I’ve read all of Joyce Meyer’s books too, and I’ve listened to her admonishments about putting things back where you get them and making sure grocery carts are in the proper place instead of left to roll across the parking lot and ding someone’s car. When I go to Wal-Mart, she’s the voice in my head that keeps me polite no matter how frustrated I get by slow, ignorant people. But despite all these life lessons that are completely relevant 99 percent of the time, I’m sure Joyce doesn’t mean a pregnant woman who just lived through a tornado should go back to the store and put away each grocery item one at a time so that she doesn’t break some sort of God rule.
Darcy’s face is riddled with guilt. And I don’t have time to try to convince her. Because I know darned good and well that if I allow this conversation, I’ll end up going to that store and putting away all those groceries myself. Tree on house notwithstanding.
I steel myself against her puppy-dog eyes. “Look, if you want to go back and put the stuff away yourself or continue through the checkout line and actually buy the food you need, do it. I’m not going to stop you. But before you go, I need to tell you, I just called Rick and he’s already okayed it for the kids to come spend some time with you until the house is livable again. That all right with you?”
She gives me her don’t-be-stupid frown of incredulity. “Of course.”
I knew it would be, but as the ex-wife, I felt I should give her the option.
“Do they have their things? I could take them with me now.”
“We couldn’t go upstairs, so they can’t get clothes or toothbrushes or really anything.”
“Well they have tons of clothes at my house. And we can pick up anything else they need. Oh, but what about schoolbooks?”
This is one time when waiting until the last minute to do homework paid off. “They all took them downstairs with us to do homework while we waited out the storm. They’re in the van with the kids.”
She looks toward the driveway. “How are they holding up?”
“Shawn was pretty shaken up during the actual storm. Ari’s worried about her things, Jakey seems all right. Who knows with Tommy? I think they’re all in a state of shock. But they’re tough and at least they have you and Rick.”
“And you’ll be there too. Can you at least go inside to get your stuff?”
Oh, whoa. No one said a word about me staying there. I’d rather some cowpoke brand my bare behind with a sizzling red-hot iron than spend one night in that pillared, antebellum-wannabe home with my ex-husband and his pregnant wife. I mean, yeah, I’m not so mad at him anymore. But live with him? Not even for one night.
Darcy has apparently zoned into my choking hesitation. “What’s wrong? You do plan to stay with us, don’t you?”
“Uh, no. I’m making other arrangements.”
Think, Claire, think. Who do you know with a guest room or couch where you can crash? Linda, maybe? My best friend just renewed her wedding vows this past December. Her daughter, Trish, is my daughter’s best friend. But I hate to impose. Besides, they just bought a home in the newest subdivision in town and are in the middle of unpacking.
Desperately I sling a glance over my shoulder to Greg. Just for a few nights? Should I or shouldn’t I even think about it? He gives me a deer-caught-in-headlights look. I dismiss the idea before I give it any real consideration.
Besides, how would it look? And there’s also that pesky temptation issue. I’m not sure how strong we could be living under the same roof with only his six-year-old daughter for supervision. I mean, true, we
love Jesus, but also true, we’ve both been married before so we know what we’re missing. The Word doesn’t say to flee youthful lusts for nothing. I know better than to run into temptation.
I give Greg a shrug and a sheepish grin and the tension in his handsome face relaxes.
Darcy must have picked up on my original thought, because she plants her hands on her newly rounded hips. “Claire Everett, you are absolutely not staying with your boyfriend. What kind of an example would that be to your children, not to mention all the young people in the church? It would ruin Greg’s ministry. And what if all your Christian readers found out? They’d stop buying your books.”
Did I forget to mention that Greg is a part-time worship leader? Darcy has a point. One that I’d already silently thought of, but that doesn’t solve my dilemma. I cannot stay even one night under my ex-husband’s roof. I’d rather sleep in a cardboard box in the middle of January, in a cold, rat-infested alley. And I’m not exaggerating.
“She’s staying with my mom.” Greg, my darling, my hero, the love of my life, the man with whom I will most likely share the rest of my days, comes to my rescue.
Poor Darcy. Her expression falls, and I swear her lips are trembling. Hormones. Sheesh. “But we have all that room, and you haven’t seen the baby’s suite yet.”
Baby suite. Can you imagine? Rick and I were so poor when our kids were babies, they were lucky they got more than a dresser drawer to sleep in. This midlife-crisis baby of Rick’s is definitely getting a grander start than his first four.
“It’s really for the best, Darce,” I assure her.
“I’m sure it is.” She takes one of those gulping breaths as though trying to be brave.
Oh, brother. I hate it when I feel like a jerk. My cynicism combined with Darcy’s inherent sweetness always puts me on the guilty side of the equation. Even when I’m the one showing darned good sense.
Which I always am.
Nevertheless, I pat her arm and steer her toward the SUV. “I’ll get the kids from the minivan. I just need a minute alone with them to say good-bye. Thank you for being there. I really appreciate the fact that I can leave them with you and know they’ll be loved and well cared for.”
Claire Knows Best Page 3