I gulp. In the few hours since I’ve seen the man, I’ve forgotten how gorgeous he is. He flashes that Matthew McConaughey grin and all I can think to say is “Oh, hi!” Like I’m pretending I don’t remember he said he’d be here. “Where’s Linda?”
“Trish is sick, so she stayed home to play Florence Nightingale.” I’m trying to feel sorry for Trish, but my head is a little woozy from watching his pullover Polo shirt strain against his carpenter-muscled pecs and biceps. Hmmm, Trish who?
Someone brushes past me and I jerk to my senses. I’ve had enough experience with guys talking to my chest that I force my gaze to meet his amazing green eyes. “So, um, Linda’s sick? I’ll have to give her a call.” Man, I’d give anything to just slide my gaze back to those sleek, tanned arms. Stop it!
“Trish.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Trish is the one who is sick. Not Linda.”
Ohh, that’s right. The daughter.
“So, where are you sitting?” He flashes a boyish grin and I know doggone well he’s fully aware of his effect on me. Probably on every female of any age. He knows how to handle himself in this situation.
I scan the seats and find an empty row. “Over there.”
“Let’s go.” His warm palm cups my elbow as he leads me to my seat. Then he just stands there. It suddenly dawns on me that he has every intention of sitting with me.
Horror clutches my heart as the music begins, signaling the start of the service. I jerk around to the front and lock onto Greg. I want to die. He’s holding his mike and standing, frozen at center stage. Staring at me. And I know he just missed his cue to start the song. I try to convey my deepest apology by my silent gaze. Folks will assume I’m already dating. Humiliation burns my cheeks.
“Claire, can you move over and let me in?”
Oh, good grief. Van is still standing in the middle aisle.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and scooch over.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through the service. Even more so, I wonder how Greg is able to muster the dignity to be amazing, talented, and anointed. His voice breaks a few times during “I Surrender All.” I should be worshipping, but I can hardly take my eyes off of him. He stands with his face lifted heavenward, tears streaming down his cheeks as he sings. His face shines with an otherworldly glow (which in all likelihood is a result of the bright, hot stage lights overhead). Still, when he drops to his knees, a sign of the deepest humility and yieldedness (and half the church follows his example), I can’t help but wonder: Is he surrendering his love for me in order to follow the Lord? And as I look around, I don’t think I’m the only one thinking it, because even Eddie Cain gives me a pointed look as he passes me on the way to the men’s room. I guess he’s getting his revenge for my little laughing fit last month.
I feel like a total Jezebel. Potiphar’s wife. Mary Magdalene in her “before” shot—not to mention that bad girl of bad girls, Delilah.
I know I’m not good enough for Greg. Not worthy to be the wife of a man devoted to ministry. But suddenly I feel like not only am I not good enough for Greg, but maybe I’m just not good enough, period. Even God knows I’m not the one for Greg and that’s why Greg has to let me go. I know it was my decision, but I feel betrayed, all the same. Like God is one of those parents on the right side of the tracks, convincing his son that the girl from the other side just isn’t “their kind of people.”
In that moment, as I watch Greg give me up, I feel utterly abandoned. Van shifts next to me and I turn. He’s looking down at me and gives me a wink. “Neat church,” he whispers. “I’m glad I came.”
I slide a glance to Greg, who is still singing and kneeling. Then back to hunk-a-rama. I guess I’m yesterday’s news to Greg. Pushing aside the sudden ache, I allow my lips to soften into a smile. “I’m glad you did, too.”
11
Saturday afternoon, I face an empty nest while the kids are with Rick and Darcy for the weekend. After a quick cleanup of the apartment, I sort out a couple of loads of laundry, grab a book, and off I go to the laundry room. I’m puffing a little by the time I get there, a reminder I’ve been neglecting my running for the past three and a half weeks. Man, I don’t want to gain back all twenty-five pounds I’ve lost since last September. Or even five of it—although I’m sort of thinking it might be a little late for that. I’d better find a place to run and get back with the program. I have another ten to lose, but you know how those last ten are . . .
The laundry room is empty when I walk inside. Mercifully empty. Or, I should say, the room itself is unoccupied. When I open the washer, I find it has a full load finished and needing to be put in the dryer.
I expel a big, martyrish sigh. I have two choices, wait for the owner of these clothes (which are undies and bras—just my luck) to come and claim them. Or be a Good Samaritan and put them in the dryer (and, for the record, use my own money to dry them).
Since there’s no way I’m walking all the way back to my apartment with two loads of dirty laundry, I grudgingly divest the washer of its soggy contents and load the dryer.
My clothes are halfway through the cycle when a fresh-faced African American woman bursts into the room. She stops short when she sees me, looks to the washer, the dryer, then puts two and two together.
“Oh, man. I’m sorry.” She fishes out a dollar twenty-five and hands it over.
I take it because I figure a stranger’s not going to want me paying to dry her panties. She’s glancing over the settings, a worried little frown creasing her otherwise smooth brow.
“Don’t worry,” I say, tucking the money into my pocket. “I set the dryer on delicate and cool so your things wouldn’t get messed up.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. Last time I got here a little late, someone put my cashmere sweater in the dryer.” She gives me a disgusted, “Uh, uh, uh. Can you believe that?”
“No kidding?” Anyone who knows me would take the remark for what it is: total sarcasm. I don’t know how intuitive this girl is, but if she’s reading between the lines, she’ll realize I wasn’t crazy about getting her things out, either.
In this day and age, folks just aren’t very tolerant. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday we didn’t see laundry-room rage.
Anyway, I think she gets it, because she’s wearing a sheepish smile as she sits next to me on one of the four metal chairs available. She holds out her hand. “Penny Krueger.”
“Nice to meet you.” Her palm is cool to the touch as I clasp her hand.
“My older brother’s name is Freddy. Can you believe that?”
“Really?”
“I swear it.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what my mama was thinking.”
A real, genuine shot of laughter leaves my throat. The first in quite a few days and it feels great.
“So, what’s your name?” She pulls out a pack of cigarettes from her mini backpack.
“Claire Everett.” I’m tracking her every movement with my eyes. Nervous. Defensive. All I can think of is that I really hope she’s not going to light up in this closed-in room. Cigarette smoke grosses me out because—okay, confession time—I was a smoker before I got pregnant with Ari. They say ex-smokers are much more sensitive to it than those who have never taken that first drag.
Instead of pulling out a cigarette, she glances at her watch, wrinkles her nose, and sets the pack down in the chair next to her. When she catches my gaze, she gives me a shrug. “Trying to quit. I’m forcing myself to taper off to one per hour.”
A for effort. Got to give her that.
“How long has it been?”
The arm twists around again so she can see her watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
Good grief.
My silence prompts her to fill the emptiness with new conversation. I’ve never been around anyone so antsy, and it’s starting to trigger my anxiety.
“What did you say your name is?” She’s fishing through her backpack again.
“Claire Everet
t.” Penny Krueger is really starting to scare me.
“Ah, there it is.” Triumphantly, she withdraws a stick of spearmint gum. “I knew I had some,” she says with a wide smile. “That name sounds familiar.”
“Huh?”
“Your name. Claire Everett. Sounds familiar.”
“Oh. Well, it’s just one of those names.” I quirk an eyebrow. “You haven’t been getting my mail, have you?” I wish now that I’d never had it forwarded. “The post office can’t seem to find the right apartment. There’s no telling what I’ve missed.”
She grins. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks.”
“Which apartment are you in?”
I tell her and she nods brightly. “I’m in the building catty-corner to yours. I’m getting pretty tired of all that partying in the townhouse next to you.”
“Girlfriend,” I say, and then feel stupid, because that’s not a word I’d ever use. And wouldn’t now if this pretty young college student weren’t black. Inwardly I cringe, but I look past her raised eyebrows and forge ahead. “I’ve been tired of that loud music since the day we moved in. Aren’t there rules against that kind of thing?”
“There sure are, but no one will complain.” She passes me the clipboard she’s been holding, and I see a list of names. A petition.
We the tenants of Olive Street Apartments demand an immediate stop to all loud music coming from Building 4, Apartment A after eight o’clock at night.
This demand is in compliance with rule 10 of the regulations set forth by the management of these apartments.
There are at least twenty names on the list. I’m not sure that’s enough to do much good. Still, I add my name and then the names of all four of my children.
She frowns.
I wink and can’t help myself. “Multiple personality disorder. It can only help.”
Her eyes go wide and a shot of fear flashes in the chocolate-brown depths.
I laugh and give her a wave. “Oh, girl. Don’t be all nervous.” Good grief, there I go again.
Full lips widen into a slow smile, showing white, white teeth. “You messing with me?”
“I’m afraid so,” I say. “Actually those are my kids’ names.”
She frowns and glances at the clipboard. “Is that legal?”
“I don’t see why not. I own them until they’re eighteen.”
She gives a shrug. “Works for me.”
The dryer stops, and she sets the clipboard down on the laundry table. “You in college?” she asks, as she lifts her unmentionables out of the dryer. I feel my cheeks warm a little, and I avert my gaze. It’s not like I haven’t seen her itty-bitty thongs already when I put them in the dryer. Still… knowing that she’s probably thinking about the fact that I took them out. I don’t know her well enough to feel comfortable in this situation. As a matter of fact, there’s not a person alive I know well enough to be comfortable in this situation.
Before I can answer her question, she emits a heavy groan. “Would you look at that?”
With a sense of dread I glance up to find her holding a lacy pink bra. “It’s stretched out three times its size,” she complains. “I swear, I’d have to be Quasimodo to ever wear it again.”
I giggle. Can’t help myself. “Looks like it got caught on the agitator in the washing machine.”
“I wonder if I could get the manager to replace it.”
We sort of share a look. Then she shakes her head. “No, probably not.” She gathers a breath and repeats her previous question. “So, you in college?”
“No, I’m not in college.” I look down at my book and pretend to concentrate on the book cover. “Just temporarily displaced since the tornado a few weeks ago.”
“No kidding? Was your house blown away?”
“No. A tree fell on my roof and ruined some rooms.”
“Anyone get hurt?”
“No, thank the Lord.”
“You got that right.”
I don’t know, but something about the way she said “You got that right” makes me think she’s been around the gospel block. “You a Christian, Penny?”
“Not the best one in the world. But my mama raised me in church.”
I don’t know what to say to this. I always feel a little stupid. No one wants to be preached at, but it’s apparent that Penny is either backslidden or just complacent. I can identify with both from my own past struggles. And I feel that nudge.
Oh, sure. Not good enough to marry a pastor, but good enough to witness in a laundry room.
Guiltily, I push aside the rebellious thought and smile at the back of Penny’s head, just in case she turns around. “You go to church anywhere?”
She looks over her shoulder, and I’m glad I have a pleasant look on my face as she gives me a guarded glance. “Not since I moved here to go to school last semester.”
Okay, here’s the opening I need. “If you ever want to go, just let me know. Ours is really the best church around.”
A smug smile lifts her lips. “I’ve heard that from at least six people since I’ve been in town.”
“Then they must all go to mine.” I send her a cheeky grin. “See? It’s unanimous. We all want you to come visit our church.”
“I like you, Claire Everett.” She folds a silky camisole and lays it on top of the pile of folded clothes in her basket. “Dryer’s all yours.”
“Thanks.”
“Nice meeting you.” She heads for the door. “Thanks for signing my petition.”
“No problem. I hope it helps.”
“Me too, girl.” See, it sounds so much better coming from her.
When the washer and dryer are both full of my clothes, I pause at the soda machine and treat myself to a Diet Coke. I bend over to pull it out of the plastic drop-down thingie, and when I straighten back up my eye catches on a sign tacked to the bulletin board.
STRESSED?
Uh—yeah.
LACKING FOCUS?
Hmm. Sort of.
HAVING DIFFICULTY IN RELATIONSHIPS?
You could say that.
WONDERING IF YOU SHOULD MAKE A CAREER CHANGE?
Definitely.
EVER THOUGHT ABOUT TALKING TO A LIFE COACH?
Been there, done that.
Graduate student looking for clinical studies for thesis. Bachelor’s degree in psychology with a focus on counseling. Offering free sessions upon acceptance, in return for your agreement to allow documentation of our work together. If interested, please contact Ina at 555-4197.
Ina’s a little late. I should stick with Emma, but I take down the number anyway. A little backup can’t hurt.
I settle back on the chair and open my book to wait out the dryer cycle. I really want to believe I can have a bright future. But things are not looking great. I rake my fingers through my hair and end up staring out the window at the gathering clouds.
The day is lonely without my kids. You’d think after six years of being a single mom I’d be used to these weekends. But I’m not. It’s not so bad during the summer, like now, when the kids are home with me during the day. But during the school year, I barely have any free time with them. They go to school, come home and do homework, or stay after for extracurriculars. We have supper, chores, devotions, and poof, the day is all gone and it’s bedtime. Not a lot of quality togetherness.
Summer’s a whole other thing. But I still miss them on the weekends. Unless I’m on a deadline. Or if they’ve been fighting all week. Then I figure I need and deserve the break.
Today, however, all the laundry is washed and put away, the house is uncharacteristically clean, and I’m ready to climb the walls. It’s not even quite noon. I try to work a little, but even that’s not helping.
Finally, I slip into a pair of white capri jeans and a pink pullover top, apply some necessary cosmetics, slide into a pair of flip-flops, and head for the parking lot.
Van found enough of the materials he needed at the local lumberyard to get a good st
art on the house. He has a crew of about five guys and is estimating three to four months at least to complete the work. If the weather holds. It’s noon and I take a chance the guys haven’t eaten, stop at the local sub-sandwich shop, and order enough food for an army.
When I pull up a few minutes later, the workers are gone.
Disappointment rips through me. That’s what I get for assuming, I suppose. Should have called ahead and let them know I was buying lunch.
I decide I’ll go for a drive. Bennett Springs State Park is only ten miles or so outside of town. The highway leading there is curvy and hilly and really a lot of fun to drive. Slowly, I back up and head for the open road. Once I hit the highway, I open it up, pretending I’m driving a cherry red ’67 Mustang, top down.
Twenty minutes later, I’m stuck at a little roadside barbecue place, reminded that I am driving the van, am a middle-aged woman, and was not born to be wild. Now that I’m back to a little state of mind called reality, I am thanking God that the dumb thing didn’t die on the side of the dangerous highway where there’s a good chance I would have ended up getting hit.
Using directory assistance, I begin dialing numbers. Frustration is building as every service station and towing company I call is either backed up for hours or closes at noon on Saturday.
Finally, in desperation I make one last call. Close to tears, I wait for Greg to pick up. The cell phone rings four times. I know on five his voice mail kicks in. “Greg, this is Claire. I’m sorry to call, considering everything, but I’m stuck at the side of the road on Highway 64 at Ellie’s Barbecue. My van died and I can’t get anyone to come out here.” I hear the desperation in my voice, and I sort of feel like the woman in Fatal Attraction who won’t let go once the relationship is over.
I hope Greg doesn’t start worrying about dead bunnies. But he’s my last chance before I’m forced to call in the last resort. Rick. I’d rather walk all eight miles back to town than call him. But I’m sure the owner of this barbecue joint wouldn’t stand for a used, non-working van loitering in her parking lot. Of course, it’s not like she could get anyone to tow it anyway.
Claire Knows Best Page 14