Leave It to Claire

by Tracey Bateman

  I tell her about Linda. But I steer clear of last night’s conversation. From experience, I am fully aware that my new friend wouldn’t want me to reveal her painful suspicions. Not even to one neutral bystander.

  “It’s so nice that you’re making friends, honey.” She says this in a tone that she might have used my first day of grade school. “I can fly home for a few days if you need me.”

  Hope shoots through me, and I know all I have to do is say the word and Mom will be hopping a plane to come and take care of everything. The thought of it sends me such a feeling of relief that I am this close to saying, “Oh, yes, Mommy, please come take care of me.” But her words flash through my mind: “Maybe this is something I need to do for myself.”

  Truth slams me like a line drive to the gut. I can’t let her come running back to take care of me. It’s not easy to get around one-handed, but it’s doable and there’s no point in her making the sacrifice. Besides, I sort of get the feeling she’ll give up her new life if she comes home this soon. If she decides to move home for the fall weather and snow in the winter, that’s one thing. But to do it because she doesn’t think I can get along without her isn’t right.

  “Mom, I appreciate the offer, but I’m almost forty years old. I can manage.”

  “Oh!” Her voice rings with startled deflation.

  “It’s not that I don’t want you,” I quickly explain. “You know I’d love to see you. But I have it all worked out, so there’s no need for you to leave Charley’s twins. Tell me about them, anyway. Do you know I’ve only gotten one measly picture of my nephews and that was when Marie was in the hospital?”

  “They’re a couple of doozies, Claire. You should just see the little dolls. I keep them downstairs with me while Marie home schools the older children. I’m simply having the time of my life.”

  Wow. I wonder sometimes how she can be so satisfied being the mom—the one who is there for everyone. I decide to ask her point-blank. “Is keeping them really something you enjoy, Mom? Or do you feel obligated to babysit?”

  “Claire, let me tell you something, honey. I might get tired sometimes, but I know better than anyone how short this life can be. When my grandbabies grow up, I want them to remember their granny. I don’t want to sit in some apartment somewhere all alone, wishing I’d taken less time for my own desires and more time building relationships with my family.”

  “So there are things you would like to do, then?”

  She gives me that well-if-you’re-going-to-force-the-issue huff. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I’d like to tour France someday.”

  “You’re kidding. I didn’t know that.”

  “Now you do. Only, to tell you the truth, honey, I’d rather be changing these diapers in a basement apartment in Texas than see any French villas.”

  I know she means it. But something inside me still wonders if she’s where she’s happiest. I don’t want to pry. I wonder why it took her going off to essentially play the same role with Charley that she’s played with me for the past five years, for me to realize that Mom has no life outside her children and grandchildren.

  We exchange a bit more small talk, then say good-bye. After all, according to Mom, six in the evening is still a daytime call. I smile when I press the receiver. She also doesn’t get the concept of free minutes.

  I sit in my living room glancing about at the emptiness. The bright, low sun beams through a crack in my curtain and I watch it, fascinated with the colors of light.

  Oh man, I need to get out of the house. The doctor said I could walk as long as I didn’t get too tired. So I change into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and grab my shoes. Then my heart sinks. I can get in and out of clothes, awkwardly, with one hand, but there’s no way I can tie my shoes.

  But I’m committed to the effort of continuing my very first walking program (number four on my list), so I head up to Ari’s closet, grab a pair of her running shoes, which are slightly tighter than mine, tuck in the laces, and head for the door.

  The smell of freshly cut grass in the cool autumn air invades my senses. I am filled with a sensation of goodness. Of newness. Of excitement that something good is about to happen to me. And just last night I was dreading the inevitable changes that will someday make their way into my life when Darcy turns up pregnant. Tonight, all that is behind me, for a while anyway. I breathe in the freshness as I head down my steps and to the sidewalk. Out of habit, I turn toward Mom’s house. The leaves on the maple tree in her front yard are already turning a gorgeous reddish gold. I think of how she gathers the leaves when the branches turn them loose and they glide to the ground, and makes fall decorations for her house.

  I am forced to blink away tears of loneliness. But I snap out of it fast as I see a truck driving by, slowly, from the corner of my eye. My pulse quickens. The sun is sinking lower in the western sky, but the pink and orange beauty eludes me as I start to wonder if I’m being stalked. The truck is barely inching along the street. None of my neighbors are out in their yards this time of day. I didn’t think to bring my cell phone. I am totally regretting my hasty “new me” sort of feeling that tricked me into putting on running shoes and leaving my house only to become a six o’clock news statistic.

  I pick up my pace, fear shooting like fire through my veins. I’m too spooked to turn my head because I know deductively that this guy is stalking me. I am about to shoot through the Barkers’ yard and pound on their door when the truck pulls up alongside the curb and stops.

  Fight or flight kicks in and I pick the latter. I make a sharp left and realize my legs are about to get a shock. I’m about to break into a run.

  “Claire, wait!”

  Claire? I don’t know any stalkers.

  “It’s me. Greg Lewis.”

  I jerk to a sudden stop and whisk around. Relief floods through me at the sight of Tall, Dark, and Handsome. But for once, I’m not impressed enough with his looks to keep my irritation from sprouting from me like a spring flower. “You scared the crud out of me, buddy. What’s the big idea making like you’re a dadgum stalker?” (Oh boy, I’m as bad as Mom.) “You’re lucky I didn’t have my phone with me. I would have dialed 911.”

  Greg opens the door of his black-and-gray Avalanche. “Sorry. I wasn’t stalking you. I was looking at that house back there. The one with the FOR SALE sign. Then I thought I recognized you.” He frowns and looks at my hand. “What happened?”

  “Carpal tunnel. Are you looking for a house to buy?”

  He nodded. “Does it hurt?”

  His question strikes me as odd. “Mom’s house?”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, you mean does my arm hurt?”

  He tosses out a throaty laugh. I grin. The whole conversation is crazy. Just like my crazy life.

  “That’s your mom’s house for sale back there?”

  “Yes. She moved to Texas. I can give you a quick walk-through, but you’ll have to call the realtor for the official tour if you’re really interested.”

  “Sure, I’d like that. Would right now be too much trouble?”

  Is he kidding?

  I shoot him a smile. “Anything to get out of exercise.”

  “Glad I can help.” His lopsided grin makes me want to run my fingers through his hair. Good thing half of them are out of commission.

  “My house is a few doors down. I need to go get the key. Do you want to walk with me or wait on Mom’s porch?”

  “We’d be neighbors?”

  Do I detect a note of pleasure? I nod. “Looks that way.”

  He winks. “I’ll wait here for you. Otherwise, people might talk.”

  I feel warmth rush to my cheeks. But I roll my eyes, my way of covering up. “Sure they would. Like anyone really cares what their neighbors are doing anymore.” I speak from experience. We tried a neighborhood watch system once, but when the group’s leader was arrested for breaking and entering a house three blocks south, we gave it up.

  I practically rush home and gr
ab Mom’s key from the key holder hanging above the light switch in the kitchen. I stop off at the bathroom to check myself out in the mirror. Oh, crud, is that what he saw? My short hair isn’t spiked, but it’s definitely sticking out in every direction. I turn on the water and quickly wet down the mess. I still don’t feel great about how I look, but there’s no way I’m going to slap on makeup. That’d be way too obvious.

  He’s leaning against the porch railing when I get back. Mom’s house. A white two-story dwelling with a green door and green shutters. My mother’s dream home. I was ten when we moved in. The tree house Dad built for Charley and me is still wedged in the massive oak that stands in the middle of the backyard.

  “This is a home for a family,” I muse as I slide the key into the familiar lock. “My mom lived here for twenty-seven years.”

  “This is where you were raised, then?”

  I nod. “Mostly. Dad was military. But he retired when I was ten. My parents saved every extra penny to buy this house.”

  We step inside. Greg’s hard-soled shoes echo off the walls as he walks across the hardwood floors. He looks from one side of the spacious living room to the other. “This is beautiful,” he says. “Your mother took great care of it.”

  “This house was her pride and joy. She worked on it all the time.” And so did Charley and I. I smile as memories slip through my mind. “I hated the last Saturday of the month, though.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I stand in the middle of the living room and suddenly I see my family. “On the last Saturday of every month—without fail—Dad and Charley (once he was old enough) would move all the furniture out, then Mom and I would clean all the windows, wash the curtains, and wax the floor.”

  “Sounds like a tough day.”

  “It was. The only good part about it was that afterward, Dad took us all out to dinner.”

  “Good memories.” His voice is gentle, as though he recognizes how difficult the thought of someone else occupying my childhood home is.

  “I envisioned a family living here.”

  He cocks his head to the side a little and frowns. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned a family.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess it just didn’t occur to me that a bachelor would be interested in a four-bedroom two-story home.”

  “Widower.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face at the obvious pain in his eyes. “You’re a widower?”

  “I assumed you knew. My wife died two years ago. It’s just been me and Sadie ever since.”

  “Sadie?”

  “My daughter.”

  “Well, for the love of Pete. I had no idea you were raising a child. Greg, I’m truly sorry.”

  He gives me a sad smile. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

  The silence hangs, heavy, intense. Awkward. “Do you—uh—want to see the upstairs?”

  He shakes his head, as I’d expect him to. “I’ve seen enough to know I’m interested in seeing the rest. But I’ll call the realtor and do the rest through them.”

  “All right.” I shut off the lights and follow him out to the porch. By now, the blinding sunset has given way to twilight. I turn the key in the dead bolt and let the storm door swing shut. Greg is standing on the porch. Waiting. “Well,” I say, not sure what to say. “I—um—guess I’ll see you at church tomorrow night, right?”

  His mouth twists in a wry grin. “I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t walk you home.”

  Walk me home? I shiver in anticipation at the thought of gorgeous Greg strolling along next to me, our shoulders brushing lightly in the dusky night. But a girl can’t seem overly anxious. Or desperate. My Tough Chick persona comes to the surface. I like Tough Chick. She’s cool. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I can walk a few blocks.”

  This brings out a chuckle. “Sure. You were about to bolt like a thoroughbred stallion just because I parked my truck alongside the street.”

  “No. I was about to bolt because you were stalking me.”

  I raise my chin in the air and brush past him. Greg falls into step beside me. Clearly he is undaunted by Tough Chick’s obvious ability to control her own life. I find it sort of endearing. But I take care not to allow our shoulders to brush.

  “How’s Shawn doing since he got in trouble?” I ask.

  “I’m not encouraging him to write poetry, that’s for sure.”

  I’m glad the evening hides my embarrassment. “Well, you should know he’s being severely punished for that little stunt.”

  “Severely? You’re not locking him in the woodshed without supper every night, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  He nudges me and Tough Chick gets the joke.

  “Oh. Well, he’s cleaning his dad’s garage and he did a superb job of raking my leaves.” Unfortunately, as I say this, we arrive in my yard and crunch dried leaves all the way to the porch. Two large lawn-and-garden plastic bags are sitting half filled in the center of the yard. “Well, he’s working on it.”

  He hesitates at the door and I don’t invite him in. I know he’d just say no and then I’d be embarrassed. Instead, I hold out my hand like we just landed a business deal. His mouth quirks in another lopsided grin and he takes my hand between both of his. “Thank you for showing me the house. And I’m sorry I scared you.”

  The warmth of two large, male hands cradling mine has totally melted Tough Chick to Giggle Girl. But I can take her, so I contain the giggle to a mere smile in return. “That’s okay. I didn’t walk far enough to get my heart rate up, so that scare was probably the only aerobic activity I’ve had lately.”

  He laughs out loud.

  “Thanks for walking me home, even though it wasn’t necessary.”

  “You’re welcome, Claire. I’ll see you tomorrow night at church. And by the way, it’s good that you’ve been coming more lately.”

  A cheesy smile lifts my lips as I walk inside.

  12

  For three days I wander aimlessly about the house. I can read the posts coming through on my writer’s loop and peck one-handed, pitifully short answers. But I’m having serious withdrawal all the same and Instant Messenger is out of the question.

  I’m unaccustomed to not having work coming out my ears. I’ve been pushing one deadline after another for the last few years and, quite frankly, at the moment I’m at loose ends. I’ve been working on my new idea steadily and I really think I’m on to something. Enough so that I’m dying to put a proposal together to send for my agent’s opinion, but I need the computer to do that. And I need both hands.

  At night, I wake up with panic zooming through every inch of my body, until I realize, “Hey, it’s okay. There’s nothing for you to do. Go back to sleep.”

  I blame my stir-crazy state of being on the fact that I let Darcy talk me into attending ladies’ Bible study this morning. And though I insisted I could drive one-handed, she insisted better than I did. That’s why I sit in her SUV, listening to her tell me how great the kids have been and how they should stay a few more days until I’m fully recovered.

  “Did Shawn clean the garage?”

  Her face clouds over. “We’re still working on it. He doesn’t seem to worry too much about punishment, does he?”

  He’s never been punished all that much. I admit it. He’s always sort of been my baby, and I’ve overlooked things I could probably have addressed a little more forcefully—his lack of enthusiasm over doing chores, for instance. Okay, so the kid’s a bit lazy. A character flaw, but not a crime.

  “Rick is just going to have to insist about the garage,” she says. My defenses rise.

  “Maybe someone should help him clean it up.” I hear the tension in my own voice and fully expect her to apologize.

  Instead, she turns and looks me squarely in the eyes. “No one helped him come up with a humiliating poem about poor Ms. Clark, did they? Honestly. How will he ever learn if no one holds him
accountable for his actions?”

  “He is being held responsible. He’s raking leaves and cleaning the garage, plus he’s grounded from TV for a month. What do you want me to do, lock him in the woodshed without supper every night after school?” So what if Greg’s outlandish statement was the first thing that came to mind?

  “I just think it’s one thing to dole out punishment when you’re angry. Another to stay committed to it. And clearly, he’s being let off the hook. My garage still isn’t even halfway clean, and I saw your yard, Claire. Leaves everywhere, bags lying about like they’ve been filled and dumped back out. And as far as TV goes, he still gets to watch TV on Monday nights and you let him play video games.” She shakes her head as we pull into the church parking lot. “I just don’t see how you can call that his punishment.”

  Well, when you look at it that way . . .

  Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt. Partly because I’m going to slug her if we don’t stop talking about my boy. Partly because we’ve arrived at the church. I feel Darcy’s tension. I know she’s leading Bible study today, and I have a little sense of glee that she’s so nervous. Okay, it’s not nice. But it isn’t nice of her to talk about my son. So there. Our relationship has definitely regressed in the last few minutes.

  Suddenly she turns to me and grabs my hand. She’s shaking. “Claire, pray for me.”

  I gulp a huge amount of air and feel it come back in a burp. “Excuse me,” I whisper. Her wedding ring set is gouging into my palm. Sheesh, she should get those sized so the rock doesn’t turn around. The pain brings me to clarity and I realize that to deny her my prayers would prove my jealousy, my resentment, my eternal anger that she has a wonderful marriage to Rick, the toad-sucking cheat.

  I gather myself and bow my head to murmur a mostly heartfelt prayer. When we look up, her eyes are filled with tears. “Thank you. I can do this.”

  “Of course you can.” I squeeze her hand. “God wouldn’t have put you in this position if He weren’t going to equip you to succeed.”

  Words are true. Attitude stinks. Darcy sees truth minus attitude and reaches out. Her embrace lasts only a second. My shame just won’t quit.