I click off the phone. Only it’s already off. Oh, shoot. It’s dead. Tears prick my eyes. I won’t even be able to answer if Greg does call me back. In this hopeless situation, I grab my purse and head inside Ellie’s. My stomach begins to rumble the second I smell the tangy barbecue sauce.
The place is practically empty. I settle into a booth. In seconds a heavyset waitress appears. She smiles, showing braces and dimples. Bristly black lashes frame a pair of the prettiest violet-colored eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing a black T-shirt with white lettering that reads (appropriately) “Ellie’s BBQ.” It’s a bit too snug across her chest and arms.
She sets a frosty glass on the table in front of me. “Hi, I’m Brandi,” she says all bubbly, like she lives to bring me water.
“Hi, Brandi. How fresh is the coffee?”
“Just made a pot.” She motions out the window to my van, which is just off the highway—as far as it made it before the thing died. “I saw you barely make it into the parking lot. I figured you’d have to call for a tow.”
Very perceptive. I think a nice tip is in this girl’s future.
“Do you want to see a lunch menu? Or are you just drinking coffee today?”
Mindful of the hollow spot in my gut from lack of breakfast or lunch, I push aside visions of the sandwiches still in my van and give her a nod. “Bring me one.”
She flashes her braces again. “Okay, be back in a jif.”
And she’s not kidding. Less than two minutes later I’m staring at a menu and there’s a cup of freshly brewed coffee just begging to fill my veins with much-needed caffeine.
“What do you recommend, Brandi?”
“There are no bad choices on that menu, ma’am.” She stands patiently waiting for me to make up my mind. “I can honestly say that.”
“Ah, but is that under threat of termination?” I tease.
A short laugh leaves her throat. “I can’t be fired; I’m the granddaughter of the owner and next in line to take over.”
“Don’t be so sure of that, young lady,” an elderly woman calls from a barstool across the room. “You don’t mind your p’s and q’s and I’ll let you go.” She snaps her crooked fingers. “Just like that.”
I have to smile at the amused affection in the old woman’s voice. “Grandma, I presume?” I take a sip of my coffee, keeping my eyes fixed on the waitress over the rim of my cup.
“Yep, that’s her, all right. Eighty-four years old and won’t retire because she’s afraid I’ll run the place into the ground without her.”
“You probably would. Standing there chatting with the customers when there’s work to do.”
I order a barbecued beef sandwich and give Brandi my menu. As I sip my coffee and wait, my gaze ventures to the window and I take note of the dark western horizon. The clouds from this morning have returned and it looks like there might be a thunderstorm anytime. Flashes of light glimmer high in the clouds.
Brandi returns and sets my plate in front of me. My eyes go big. That has to be the most enormous sandwich I’ve ever seen in my life, and while I might eat it all if I were alone, there’s no way I’m going to do so in public.
“Wow.”
“I know.” Brandi gives a chuckle. “I’ll bring you a box and a knife to cut it in half.”
“Thanks.”
She returns momentarily. “Looks like we’re about to get a gully washer.”
I nod. “Looks that way.”
Ripping my ticket from her book, she slides it on the table. “I’ll go ahead and leave this so I don’t get too busy and forget about it. This place is about to fill up.”
“How do you know that?”
“Always does when it rains. Campers from the park, travelers on the highway.”
“That makes sense. Sorry I have to take up space when you’re about to be busy. If you want me to sit in my van until help comes I’d be happy to.”
A laugh and a wave. “Don’t even think about it. You sit there as long as you like.”
Thunder crashes overhead, and the sky opens, sending a sudden hard rain—the prophesied gully washer.
As the place starts to fill, I can’t take my eyes off Brandi. For a large, thirtysomething woman, she moves with the grace and speed of a supermodel. The only difference besides her weight is that she is always smiling, laughing, pleasant. The more I watch her, the more fascinated I become as every customer who enters the restaurant immediately falls under the spell of her grace and charm.
Suddenly a new heroine comes to life in my mind. A new book plot. My heart begins to pound. The thought I’m having isn’t a romance. It also isn’t the “Everywoman” stuff Stu basically mocked (jerk). This is different. This feels… like God set all this up.
My eyes fill with immediate tears. I’m still on God’s radar after all.
I snatch a napkin from the holder and a pen from my purse and I start to sketch. The characters are demanding to be heard; everyone is talking at once, telling me their stories, interacting with each other until the plot begins to form. My pile of napkins keeps rising. Brandi slides by with the coffee pot and fills my cup I don’t know how many times, but she seems to know not to bother me.
Finally, I look up. The sky has quieted. The rain has stopped, the sun is shining through the window once more. I arch my aching back and lean against the booth. The restaurant is empty except for Brandi. She seems to sense my perusal and glances up from counting receipts and smiles. “You run out of napkins?”
My cheeks warm. “Sorry about that. I’ll pay for them.”
“Don’t be silly. We get a good deal on napkins. We’re a barbecue place.”
She reaches under the counter and pulls out a half-empty package of napkins and walks to my table. “You a writer?”
“How’d you guess?” I smirk.
She dimples, and I make a mental note to add those to my heroine’s characterization. “Got anything published?”
This situation always makes me feel awkward. The average reader doesn’t have a clue who I am. Christian readers might, but not secular readers. So to say yes always leaves me feeling like apologizing for not being more well known.
Still, there’s only one answer. “A few things.”
“Impressive,” she says, wiping off the table next to mine. “What type of book?”
“Christian romance, mostly.”
Her face brightens. “I love those! Hang on.” She walks across the room and takes a book out from under the counter.
“Just so you know I’m telling the truth about loving Christian romance.”
I can hardly believe it when I see the cover. My newest novel, Esmeralda’s Heart. I finished it just before my sabbatical last fall. I was a bit late, so they rushed it into publication. It’s been out less than a month.
Again I’m faced with an awkward situation. Do I say “I wrote that book”?
Turns out my indecision is moot because Brandi gives a little frown. “Wait a sec.” She turns the book over to the back cover copy, where I happen to know there’s a picture of me.
“You’re Claire Everett?” Amazingly, Brandi’s voice is calm. Not the silly, giggly response I usually get from fans who meet me in regular life situations as opposed to conferences or book-signing events where you’d expect to see an author. This young woman is most definitely the right model for my new character.
“That’s me,” I say.
“It’s an honor to have you in the place,” she says, still in a very calm voice as she leaves the book on the table (like it’s mine since it’s got my name on it).
From the corner of my eye, I happen to notice a vehicle pull into the parking lot. Greg’s Avalanche. I fish out my money and a generous tip that is actually three times the price of the sandwich and drop it to the table. I smile at my new character. “The honor has been all mine, Brandi.”
“Would you mind signing my book?”
“Sure.”
“Here.” She hands me her pen, since I’ve alr
eady thrown mine back into my purse.
“To Brandi…” I glanced up at her with my eyebrows raised. “Brandi what?”
“Wells.”
“Wells? You wouldn’t happen to be related to John Wells, the actor, would you?”
Her face loses its pleasant expression for the first time since I walked into Ellie’s, and I know I’ve hit the jackpot.
“Sore topic?”
“Only for him.”
John? He only moved here to be near her. Doesn’t she know that?
“You sure about that?”
She gives a humorless smile and grabs the book in one hand and my coffee cup in the other. “Trust me.”
“My son is in his children’s theater group.”
A cynical smile tips one corner of her mouth. “Small world.”
“Yes.” My gaze drifts over her shoulder and out the window. The driver’s side door is open and the hood popped. Greg’s trying to figure out what’s wrong.
Brandi follows my gaze. “He belong to you?”
Okay, I know she didn’t mean to twist the knife, but the pain is so harsh. “Not anymore.”
Silky dark eyebrows go up as she jerks her head toward the window. “Doesn’t look like he knows that.”
I smile. “He does. He’s just a nice guy and I needed help.” I stuff my new book idea into my purse and slip the strap over my shoulder.
“A nice guy?” She gives a snort. “How old is he? Because if you don’t want him…”
Okay, I know she’s kidding. But my claws start to unsheathe.
Her dimples wink as she notes my back stiffening. “You are so not over that guy. Take my advice, Claire Everett: go to him and work out whatever is between you. There just aren’t that many choices out there.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I say, just as Greg drops the hood and starts to head this way. My heart does a little flip at the sight of his long, tanned legs in a pair of denim shorts. A loose T-shirt with the church logo hangs from his shoulders.
“Nice meeting you, Brandi,” I say, as the bell above the door clangs. “Give your dad the benefit of the doubt. I know he loves you.”
This gorgeous girl isn’t so pretty with a curled lip. She expels an expletive that I never would have pictured coming from the mouth of someone who reads my books.
But then I guess you just never can tell. Maybe she’s more her father’s daughter than she thinks.
At any rate, I shrug it off for now, knowing I’ll be seeing this young woman again.
Turning, I paste on a smile and force my trembling legs forward to speak with Greg for the first time since his “non-proposal.”
12
Greg’s Avalanche smells so good. Like him. His aftershave lingers subtly in the closed air and I feel like I’m home again.
I flatly refuse the tears of loss that are trying to make me look bad. I push them aside. I’m a mature woman who made the only possible decision, given the choices available.
We drive the curvy highway that is wet from the latest round of sprinkles. Polite silence permeates the Greg-scented air. Come on, Claire, small talk. You can do small talk.
“So, how is your mother?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Sadie?”
“Also fine.”
Alrighty. So much for small talk.
“Look, Claire. I need to tell you something before you hear it tomorrow at church.”
“You’re marrying someone else?”
Good grief. Why do I blurt the first thing that comes to mind?
Greg takes his eyes off the road long enough to give me an incredulous, eyebrow-raised look. “No.”
“I was kidding,” I mumble.
“I’m leaving for Oklahoma next week.”
Suddenly I feel as though all the air in the cab has somehow been sucked out and I can’t breathe. “What do you mean? I . . . I thought you were waiting until fall.”
“They’re offering summer classes for the first time. It’ll knock off a full year if I take a full load this summer, fall, spring, and next summer. It’ll be better for Sadie.”
“Wow.”
That’s me—the last of the great conversationalists. Always ready with just the right response. But how am I supposed to respond to this with grace or class? He’s leaving me!
“‘Wow’ is all you have to say?”
“I don’t know how to respond. I’ll miss you.”
He gives one of those “sure you will” nods.
He’s making me feel so bad that I do what I promised myself I wouldn’t do—rehash. “I’m so sorry things turned out this way.” My voice breaks, and I take a second to pull myself together before I go on. “I guess it’s better that we found this out now rather than after the wedding, huh?” I give a smile I’m so far from feeling. But I’m trying to keep things light. Crying in front of him won’t do either of us any good.
“I suppose you’re right,” he says quietly. I frown a little. I mean, sure we’ve discovered we are going different places in life. I can’t be a pastor’s wife, and he has to follow God’s plan. But does he have to accept it so easily? Come on. Just a little begging? What would it hurt?
His comment leaves nowhere to take the conversation. I offered a reasonable comment and he agreed. Darn him.
At this point, a smart woman would just sit in silence. Keep her big fat trap shut. But then, no one has ever accused me of being Einstein, have they?
“I’ve heard lots of women attend Bible school to find a pastor for a husband.” Oh, no, I didn’t! Did I? “Well, I mean, if you’re wanting a wife who could support you in the ministry, Bible school is a great place to…” Deep breath. Just shut up, Claire, would you?
He gives me the kind of look Ari gives me when I try to help her pick out clothes. Like I don’t have a clue. Although I actually do have better taste in clothes than she does. Much better. But that’s not the point right now.
“Just the kind of woman I’m hoping to find.” He doesn’t even bother to hide his annoyance.
I fold into myself, wishing I’d opted for awkward silence as a riding companion rather than idiot ramblings. “Sorry.”
His chest rises with a sigh and he reaches across the seat to take my hand. I want to pull away. I know I should, considering that there is no way either of us are changing our minds. But it feels so good. So familiar. Like finding a lost treasure. I turn my hand over and our fingers naturally intertwine.
“I don’t want to find another woman, Claire. I’m not looking for a wife. I fell in love with you and want to spend my life with you. But just because you won’t marry me doesn’t mean I’m going to run off and find a replacement. You came into my life when I wasn’t looking for love. I can be a pastor without a wife, and I have no plans to look for one at Bible school.”
It’s not really fair to him how relieved I am to hear this. I just don’t know what else to say. And I’ve learned my lesson.
“Thank you for picking me up. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. Especially since the towing guys can’t pick up the van until Monday.”
“Don’t thank me for doing what I want to do,” he practically growls. “Don’t you know how badly I want to take care of you?”
Okay, do you know how sexy that is? How come every woman in the world wants to nab a pastor except me? And how come of all the men in the world I had to go fall in love with a jerk who wants to be a pastor? I give myself one fleeting second to reconsider my position and beg him to take me back. Then I get an image of me standing in front of women’s group trying to smile when all I want to do is go home and curl up with a good book—or a good man—and I go cold.
“I’m sorry, Greg.” It’s all I can think to say.
Silence is the name of the game for the last ten minutes of our drive. But when we pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex, Greg’s face darkens into a scowl. “Look, how long is that guy going to take fixing your house?”
The way he says “that g
uy” leaves no doubt in my mind that Greg’s not a bit happy about Van.
“He says a couple of months.”
“You don’t want to live here a couple of months, do you?”
Not sure what he’s getting at, I shrug. “I really don’t have a choice. I wouldn’t want to stay much longer than that, but until then I can put up with it.” Hopefully Penny’s petition will do some good, and the party guys will cut it out. Judging from the noise coming from my building, though, I highly doubt if anything short of eviction is going to convince those guys.
“You could stay at my house.”
“Come on, Greg. I know you want to look out for me, but you don’t have to worry about it anymore. I can take care of myself.”
“I know.” He looks at my building. The redbrick apartment building holds two townhouses. But they were built at least twenty years ago, and the wear and tear is more than apparent. But at least they’re clean and bug-free. “I don’t want to leave the house empty for a whole year. You could stay there free just to keep it lived in.”
“But it’s not practical. The kids and I are going to be back in our house in two months. Leave me a key and we’ll keep an eye on it. Make sure it doesn’t look empty so no one will break in.”
“My things are going into storage anyway.”
So, he was just offering for my sake. Something inside of me shrivels. I swallow hard before I reiterate my refusal. “Thanks anyway. But it’s not necessary.”
“All right.”
I take the silence that follows as my cue to get out of the truck. I open the door. “Thanks again.” I turn just before sliding out. “I’m really happy for you. It’s gutsy to give up a career and someone you love to do what you’re doing. I hope…”
For the record, I was going to say “I hope you find someone to make you happy.” But that’s not true. I mean, I want him to be happy. But happiness doesn’t necessarily mean married and I’m not going to bring that up again. Ignoring the inner voice reminding me that “it is not good for man to be alone,” I look into his expectant eyes. “I hope you have a safe trip.”
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