Claire Knows Best

by Tracey Bateman

  And I take that as my cue. I shove up from my chair and give Patrick a “better get going” half smile. He nods.

  “Can you see yourself out, Paddy? I need to go take care of my daughter.”

  He stands, casts a lingering, heartbreakingly sad glance toward the bathroom and retreats to the living room. As I kneel beside my reeking daughter, I hear the front door close softly.

  I know there is no point in kicking Ari while she’s down. There will be plenty of time for her to regret her abominably poor judgment. Like when she wakes up tomorrow. When Patrick comes over and ends things with her once and for all, which I fully believe he will do, when she’s not going to Mexico because, even if Patrick weren’t about to dump her for good, there’s zero chance I’d let her go now.

  I find it hard to drum up much sympathy for her as I help her back to the couch, run a fluffy washcloth under cool water, and lay it folded across her forehead. Her chest rises and falls steadily within a couple of minutes.

  I sit there and watch her sleep. I am filled with anger, outrage, hurt. How could she do this? To herself? To Patrick?

  To me?

  Two hours later, I’m sitting at my kitchen table. Knowing there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep, I exchange the chamomile tea for a freshly brewed cup of full-strength caffeinated Cain’s coffee and am soon mulling over all the things that have happened since that stupid tornado a mere four weeks ago.

  I thought I was doing the right thing by bringing my kids back to me, even if we had to live in a crummy townhouse for a few weeks. Now I’m not so sure. Or at the very least I should have found someplace not inundated with college guys.

  Oh, Claire, how stupid can you be? I slap my palm to my forehead. How could I not have known that a complex full of college-age guys would be too much temptation for my kid to handle?

  It’s five-thirty in the morning but I couldn’t get back to sleep now even if I could pick up where my Greg dream was interrupted. I grab my coffee mug and lift out all the napkins I used to sketch my new story at Ellie’s Barbecue. As I transcribe my barely readable notes, yesterday’s experiences come to mind. Penny in the laundry room, the van breaking down, Brandi, Greg . . .

  Hmm. Greg’s offer to have me stay at his place until my house is fixed . . .

  By the time I am seriously considering the offer, the clock reads almost seven. Greg’s an early bird, so I grab the phone and punch in his number.

  13

  Two days later, most of the neighborhood turns out to lend a hand moving Greg’s stuff into storage and mine into Greg’s house. Even Van shows up during breaks. (And is it my imagination or is he taking quite a few breaks more than necessary? Glad I’m not paying by the hour.) He seems content to ignore the looks he’s getting from Greg.

  I can’t help but be a little bewildered at these two guys. They’re both acting pretty macho—like I’m the little lady and they’re about to fight a duel over who wins my hand. I’d be flattered if I weren’t so depressed over the whole breakup with Greg.

  By noon, everyone is starving, so Darcy, whom I refuse to allow to lift a finger to help with the move, shows up driving Rick’s Mercedes. She’s picked up a full meal for us, complete with barbecued ribs, fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans. You name it, it’s here. We end up having an impromptu block party—half Greg’s going away, half my welcome back.

  John Wells corners me just as I bite into juicy, spicy, tangy barbecue.

  “Pork is going to be the downfall of America,” he says.

  I wipe away a smeary face full of sauce and smirk. “No doubt a conspiracy created by foreign enemies bent on our destruction.”

  “I would not doubt it one bit.” He gives me a wink. “So, you’ve taken up residence on our quiet street once more.”

  He’s fishing for something, but for the life of me I haven’t a clue what it is.

  “Yes, I have. It’s nice to be home.” Literally. Living in Greg’s house is going to take me back to childhood.

  “I take it you and Mr. Lewis are finally engaged to be married then?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Wells, but no, we aren’t. He’s moving away for a year or so and I need a place to live where I won’t constantly worry about my kids. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Quite. And how about your van? I notice it has been absent.”

  Taking a bite, I chew and talk, I admit, mostly to bug John. “Had to put it in the shop. They called today and the motor is shot.”

  “Unfortunate.”

  He has no idea. Rick is encouraging me to buy a used one. He even has a friend with a three-year-old Dodge Caravan for sale for fifteen thousand. Blue Book confirms that’s a great deal. But I just don’t know if I can even swing that much. And with my pay schedule, setting up accounts that have to be paid on a monthly basis is scary.

  But I know John didn’t come in here to talk about my van. “What’s up, John?”

  “I wanted to take a minute to chat about your son. I’ve already decided that he will have the part of Peter Pan.”

  “You have!” Finally, something going right for a member of my family. “Thanks, John. He’s going to be thrilled.”

  “Yes, well. Callbacks aren’t over yet, so keep it under wraps until we announce it officially.”

  “Oh, sure. No problem.”

  “Now, on to the issue we discussed previously.”

  “What issue?”

  “That of you allowing me to tutor Shawn.”

  “John Wells, you’re a bulldog disguised as a handsome older man.”

  His smile shows his beautifully white teeth. I swear John’s had tons of dental work done. There’s just no other explanation. He leans in a little, allowing me a whiff of musky cologne. “So you admit to thinking of me as handsome?”

  I give him a tap on the shoulder. “Handsome older gentleman, John.”

  “You break my heart, Ms. Everett.”

  “I’m sure you’ll recover.” I give him a dry grin and he laughs outright.

  “I’m sure you’re right. But back to the subject of your talented son.”

  “John, I’ve already told you. I can’t just hand him over for you to brainwash with all those anti-God, liberal, immoral ideals you hold.”

  “First of all, I am not anti-God. To be against God, one must first believe He exists. And I simply do not.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  “Liberal. Immoral.” An exaggerated sigh escapes. “I’m afraid you’re right about those.”

  “You’re impossible, John Wells.” So why do I like him so much? Not in an I-want-to-date-a-man-old-enough-to-be-my-dad kind of way, but more in an I-wish-dad-were-still-around kind of way. “Impossible and forbidden to brainwash my kid.”

  “What can I say to assure you I will in no way try to brainwash the boy?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, how about, ‘I believe in God, His Son, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, and I promise to never ever be immoral or liberal again’?”

  I give him a whopper of a wise-guy grin.

  His eyes flash with a seriousness I’ve rarely seen, and his expression drops.

  “John? Is everything all right?”

  He expels a long slow breath and lowers himself to the only kitchen chair vacant of moving boxes. “What you say makes a lot of sense. I wish I could believe.”

  Heat spreads over me and I lean close, my heart filled with so much emotion. “John, believing is easy. Much easier than trying to explain God’s amazing world any other way than the hand of someone bigger than you.”

  “Do you really think so, Ms. Everett?”

  “I truly do.”

  “Then I promise to try.”

  “Try?” There is no try. In the words of the one and only great Jedi master, Yoda, “Do or do not. There is no try.” But I’m almost positive that’s not something I should say while trying to convince an atheist to believe in God. Besides, he’s sort of looking up at me and there’s this grin .
. .

  I suck half the oxygen from the room and my jaw drops. “John Wells, you big rotten heathen. Were you acting just then?”

  A chuckle leaves his throat in a most mocking way. “And that, my dear, is why you need this liberal, immoral atheist training your son who longs to be an actor.”

  Disappointment yawns inside of me like a gaping wound. I should have known it couldn’t be that easy. What am I, stupid?

  John stands and presses a kiss to my forehead. He winks and heads toward the kitchen door.

  His affection for me is clear, and I know, despite the teasing, it’s not in a patronizing sort of way. His affection for Shawn is evident as well.

  Lord? What’s the answer here?

  I think about Little League and music lessons. I know more about John Wells than I ever knew about those coaches and instructors. Could it be that God dropped John in our laps so that Shawn could have a future as an actor and John could hear the Gospel from people who care about him?

  With that thought to spur me on, I sprint across the kitchen. “Hey, John, wait up.”

  I find him halfway through the living room and headed to the door. He stops and waits for me to join him.

  “Okay, listen,” I say. “Here’s the deal.”

  “The deal?” He lifts an eyebrow a la Sean Connery. I make a mental note to tell Linda. “I’m offering free coaching for your son. And you want to strike a bargain?”

  “Crazy as it sounds. Yeah.”

  His mustache twitches, and his eyes squint with amusement. “All right, I’m listening. What are your terms?”

  “I want Shawn to do chores for you to pay for the lessons.”

  He scowls. “I will not allow it.”

  “He has to learn that things aren’t going to be handed to him on a silver platter just because he’s talented. Think about the spoiled, indulgent actors out there. Especially the young ones. Is that what you want for Shawn?”

  “All right. Yes. That is a very good argument. I will consider it.”

  “No, you have to agree.”

  His eyes scan my face and I guess he sees that this is non-negotiable, because he nods. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Everett. But I agree. And as a matter of fact, I have a project I’m working on and I could use the boy’s help.”

  “Good.”

  He holds out his hand. “Are we agreed then?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do go on.”

  “There are ground rules. You can’t ever try to sway him to liberal, immoral, or atheistic beliefs. I know we were joking around earlier, but I am dead serious. If he comes home even one time and says something that makes me uncomfortable and I trace it back to you, that will be the end of it.”

  “You have my most solemn word that I will not squash his most holy faith. Time and disappointment will do that without my help.”

  “I disagree. I believe God will give my son a very bright future.” I smile and take his arm. “After all, He gave us you, didn’t He?”

  “You think your God brought me here just to give your boy lessons?”

  “Partly.”

  He gives a mocking tsk, tsk, tsk. “You think more highly of yourself than you ought.”

  “Quoting Scripture, John? Interesting.”

  “Just because I don’t believe the Bible to be true doesn’t mean I don’t find it an entertaining read. Especially the Song of Solomon.” He gives me a suggestive lifting of his dirty-old-man brow.

  I shove away from him. “You’re impossible.”

  “And you, my dear lady, are silly if you think there are cosmic forces working to bring you into my life so that I can coach your boy.”

  “One of these days, John,” I say with bold assurance, “you’re going to come to me and admit it.”

  For some reason, I can’t quite bring myself to tell him I met Brandi. I have a feeling it’s not an easy subject. So, I renew my efforts to pray for them both. And if God wants to use me to bring these two together, I’m willing.

  The lawn has emptied out, everything is moved in, and only Greg and Darcy remain of the helpers. Even though I told him it wasn’t necessary, he’s upstairs putting beds together. See? The man is way too good for me.

  Darcy looks like she’s about to fall over. She’s trying to help me put dishes away. But one look down at her swollen feet and I grab the plate from her hand and push her by the shoulders into the living room. “You’re outta here, sister.”

  “Claire, I want to help.”

  “Darcy, honey, you’ve been on your feet all day. You’re exhausted. That baby will be here soon, and you need to save your strength for labor and delivery.”

  Tears well up in her eyes. Sheesh. I hurt her feelings even when I’m trying to be nice. I really should just stop talking altogether.

  “I’m sorry, Darce. I’m not trying to be mean. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself or the little one.”

  She gives a vehement shake of her head. “You didn’t hurt my feelings.”

  “Okay. You’re just emotional. I get it.” I smile into her round little water-filled face. “Go home and get off your feet, honey. You’ll be a new woman in the morning.”

  Fresh tears flow down her cheeks and she grabs onto me, slamming me into the baby as she gives me a fierce hug. “This is the first time you’ve ever used a term of endearment with me, Claire. Like maybe you might actually love me a little bit.”

  Oh, for the love of…

  Lord? Is this my punishment for unconfessed sins?

  “Okay, Darcy. All right. Take it easy.” I pull out of her embrace and snatch a Kleenex from an opened box labeled “living room.” “Here. Take this.”

  She dabs at her nose and eyes, never taking her gaze off me. Clearly she is waiting for me to confirm or deny her assumption.

  “You know I love you.”

  Her eyes grow big. Enormous. I’m glad she’s not still holding my plate, because I swear she’d drop it.

  Come on. I haven’t been so awful that a little “I love you” sends her over some kind of emotional edge.

  “Oh, Claire. I’m so glad. I just kept praying and praying. And God answered my prayer tonight.” She hugs me again while I speechlessly allow the embrace. I’m too stunned to do anything else.

  She loosens her death grip and grabs her purse from the key table by the door. “I’ll be over tomorrow if Rick can do without the car.”

  I switch on the porch light as she steps outside. “Stay in bed, Darcy. I can get the rest put away myself. Your ankles look like softballs. I want you to take care of yourself.” Her face crumples and I don’t dare use any terms of affection. “Really. Go home and rest up. We want a healthy little Darcy Jr., don’t we?”

  She nods and her expression brightens. I stand at the door and wait as she pulls away. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn. I stop short at the sight of Greg standing in a white T-shirt and denim shorts. He is way too good-looking to be a pastor. Good-looking in a normal, rugged sort of way. Not all spruced up and trying to look good for TV. Greg just is. Understated. I adore that about him. If things were different right now, I’d be in his arms.

  “That Darcy loves you a lot, doesn’t she?” he asks with a tender smile.

  “Darcy is a nutcase.” I shake my head and close the door.

  “So anyone who loves you must be nuts?” I’ve annoyed him with my less-than-gracious response to his observation.

  “Not everyone,” I say cheekily. “Just her. My ex-husband’s wife? You don’t think her devotion to me is a little off the wall?”

  He shrugs and takes two steps to intercept me. “Maybe people just can’t help themselves.”

  “You mean I’m irresistible?” I’m flirting. And it’s not fair to either of us, but it’s so easy and natural to fall into with him.

  I think he might take me in his arms, but he doesn’t. He just reaches forward and tucks my hair behind my ear. “You’re letting it grow.”

  A shrug lifts my shoulders. “Not re
ally. Just no time to get it cut. Too preoccupied with everything.”

  He nods. We’re never at a loss for words with each other, but this silence is a little awkward. Finally, he speaks. “It never occurred to me, you know?” He’s looking past me to the bare wall.

  “What? You should have hung a picture there?” Oh, why do I have to resort to lame jokes all the time?

  “That you wouldn’t want to marry me if I were in full-time ministry.”

  “It’s not you, Greg.” I let off a sigh and drop onto the couch. Greg sits next to me.

  He takes my hands. “Help me to understand. Please. I know this isn’t because you don’t want to serve God. Your faith is as strong as anyone’s.”

  “I wouldn’t be a good minister’s wife. Trust me.”

  “I just want you to be you. Stand beside me.”

  “And share you with five hundred people?”

  He gives a boyish grin. “I’m hoping for more like a thousand-member church eventually.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll achieve that goal.”

  “But it has to be without you, huh?”

  Has he missed the last two weeks where we’ve been broken up?

  I nod.

  He expels a frustrated breath.

  Almost afraid of the answer, I ask, “Do you want us to move?”

  Giving my hands a squeeze, he releases me. “Of course not.”

  “Hang on. Let me get my checkbook,” I say, needing to remove myself from this situation that’s about to make me cry. “We never really settled on a rent, but I figure eight hundred dollars a month is a good number for a place like this. You know you’d get three times that much in the city.”

  He pulls me back. “I told you no rent. The house is paid for. I’m debt-free. I don’t need or want your money. You and the kids are doing me a favor by living here.”

  “You know it’s only for a few months until my house is done. Then the house will be empty until you get out of school.”

  “I know. But having someone living here, even for a few months, makes me feel better.”

  “All right, Greg.” I know he’s only doing this for me. And I feel bad for taking shameless advantage of the situation but I justify myself with two thoughts: One, I grew up in this house, so somehow I feel like I’ve retained some ownership rights. Two, I need my children to be away from the terrible influences lurking about that college-kid-infested apartment complex.