“Well, goodie for her. I’m not getting on that thing. I’ll kill myself.”
“Oh, well, that’s a good thing to say.”
“Hey, speaking a positive confession is one thing. Stating the facts is another. And if I get on that board, I’m going to die. Or hurt myself at least.”
“What are you, chicken?”
Okay, now that was uncalled for.
“Bwark, bwark, bwark.”
Oh, he is so grounded.
“All right, smart guy. Show me that kickflip. But if I hurt my hand…”
“You’re not going to be skateboarding with your hands.”
“Well, you weren’t supposed to be skateboarding with your behind but it didn’t keep you from falling on it, now did it?”
He doesn’t dignify my comment with a reply. “The first thing you have to learn is how to stand on the board without falling off.”
I’m amazed at how hard it is to balance, and a new appreciation for my son’s talents emerges. I never land a kickflip, and I fall off the board at least ten times. Still, by the time Greg’s truck pulls down the street, I’m sweating like a marathon runner. My son slings his gangly, sweaty arm around me and gives me a one-armed hug. “You did good, Mom.”
He snatches up his board and heads back toward the steps.
Ari is standing on the porch, watching. “Cool,” she says, then turns and follows her brother inside.
“Taken aback” is about the mildest phrase I can think of to describe the shock I’m feeling. On another level, I’m inundated with pride, joy, a sense of peace, and oh, yeah, maybe I’m not such a bad mom after all.
15
Okay, I’m definitely a poor excuse for a mother. At least according to Rick’s mom. When you marry a man, you marry his whole family, so how come when you divorce a man, you still have a nosy mother-in-law who thinks she can call and tell you how to raise her grandkids? Blech.
My keeping-up-with-the-Joneses, member of the DAR, president of the garden club, and member-in-good-standing of the country club (naturally) former mother-in-law is not happy with the choice we have made to enter into family counseling. And, rightfully so, she holds me 100 percent responsible for the suggestion. Rick must have wimped out and put the heat on me. Like he’s always done.
“I just don’t see why normal, productive citizens have to get therapy.” She says therapy like it’s a bad word. I’m not sure what she’s saying next because my ear itches and I move the phone to the other one.
“. . . would think if they knew their doctor had to go see a psychiatrist.”
Okay, I can figure that one out. “Trust me, Rosette.” (No, I’m not kidding. Her parents actually named her that.) “Rick’s not going to lose any patients over this. And we aren’t seeing a psychiatrist. We’re seeing a family counselor.”
“Well, I don’t see the necessity of airing your dirty laundry to a perfect stranger in the first place. In my day, we dealt with our own matters and left other people to theirs.”
With a great amount of difficulty, I refrain from suggesting that perhaps if her little family had considered counseling after the first, second, or tenth time Rick Sr. cheated on Rosette, perhaps their son’s marriage wouldn’t have fallen apart in the first place. But I manage a large amount of self-control and keep my mouth shut. Time for a switcheroo in topic.
“So, did Rick tell you Ari is driving now?”
A gasp loud enough to break my eardrum shudders through the speaker in my ear, and for a second I wish I’d eased her into the new topic.
“When did this happen?” And the ever-silent, but nonetheless understood, “And why was I not consulted beforehand?”
“A couple of weeks ago. As a matter of fact, Ari drove me home after my surgery.” Oh, I’m so mean, I can’t stop myself. I have to say it. “And we only got into two near-accidents. But Rick says she’s doing much better. Although she backed into the trash can at his house and dented his fender.”
“On the Benz?” Her voice sounds like she swallowed an orange.
Oh, yeah. The sleek, brand-new, black-as-night Mercedes Benz. Once perfect, now with a dented fender. Life is good.
“Really, Claire, you should teach the girl to drive in your van. One more scratch on that old thing won’t hurt. But the Mercedes! That’s going to cost a fortune to fix.”
“Well, he could always turn it in to the insurance company.” Snicker, snicker. I’m sure she hears amusement in my voice.
“There’s no need to enjoy Rick’s misfortune so much. And you claim to be a Christian. I thought Christians were supposed to be loving.”
My former mother-in-law doesn’t even pretend to be a Christian, but boy does she grab every opportunity to use her limited knowledge against me when I don’t behave in her best interest. Hey, guess what else Christians aren’t supposed to do? Picture themselves with their fingers around their ex-monster-in-law’s throat choking the life… Okay, that was overboard. But, good grief. The woman would make a preacher seriously consider emitting a four-letter word. I glance at the clock. It’s getting close to seven. “Excuse me, Rosette,” I say, interrupting whatever she’s saying, which, no doubt, isn’t flattering to me. “I’m expecting company in a few minutes so I need to go.”
Okay, “company” is perhaps a bit of a stretch. But I find it painful to simply think of Greg as a man who wants a key. I prefer to think of him as the man who made an excuse to pick up a key so he can see me again, if ever-so-briefly. Smile.
“Oh? Is one of your girlfriends coming over?”
Smooth, Rosette. Real smooth.
“No.”
“Well, I know it can’t be a man.” That smug assurance in her voice jabs my pride like a sword.
“As a matter of fact, yes, it is.”
“You’re dating?”
“Hard to believe I could, isn’t it?”
“Hey, Mom,” Tommy calls. “Lewis just pulled in.”
“Sorry, Rosette. I have to go. He’s here.”
I hang up with only a slight feeling that sending a wrong impression might be considered the sin of lying. I offer a hasty prayer of repentance just in case. And fluff my hair on the way into the living room.
When I get there, Greg’s presence sucks the breath from my lungs. His long legs fill out a pair of snug-fitting faded Levi’s, and a gray-and-red Chief’s hoodie shows me the guy can pick his teams. Destiny (the sovereign, Jeremiah 29:11 kind) presents a marketable plan to me and I fall for it hook, line, and sinker. I want this man to notice me. To think of me as “date” material. “Wife” material is further reaching than even I want to allow destiny to offer. But a cozy sit-down dinner with a little music in the background would be nice.
He smiles when he sees me. “See, I told you I actually have a daughter.”
“Huh?” Oh. Gravy. I didn’t even see the kid standing next to him. The beautiful raven-haired child might have been Snow White. Enormous dark eyes and flawless skin. “Oh, Sadie. Of course I’ve seen you at church. I just can’t believe I never connected you to your dad. You look just like him!”
She gives me a gap-toothed grin and I’m hooked. “Everyone says that.”
“And they’re right.”
I reach into my pocket and produce Mom’s key. “Here you go.”
Rick takes it and in true romantic fashion, his hand brushes mine. I fight to keep from reacting. “We were hoping you’d give us a tour,” he says.
Is he serious? I glance up at him through the squinted eyes of skepticism.
“That is,” he says haltingly, “if you’re not too busy.”
Never too busy for you, babe. “Just let me tell the kids.” I jog up the stairs, trying to make it appear as effortless as possible just in case he’s watching. Once I’ve turned the corner, out of his sight, I stop and gulp for air, pausing long enough to catch my breath before I walk down the hall. I tap on Ari’s door then open it. I don’t knock for permission, but rather to let her know I’m there. I mean, I know
some people think kids need their “privacy.” But I remember being a kid, and personally, I think the only privacy they’re entitled to is bathroom times and when they’re getting dressed. Other than that, their time is my time. Period.
Ari is at her computer desk. “Hey, Ma. Can you read this over for me? It’s a short story for English.”
Pride shoots through me. My daughter is a wonderful writer. Much better than I was at her age. So the possibilities for her are endless if she wants to be a writer like her mother. “I’d love to, after I get back from giving Greg a tour of Granny’s house.”
“I thought you did that the other day.”
“This time he wants to show Sadie around.”
“Ugh. I hope he doesn’t buy it. That kid is such a brat. I’d hate to have her living in Granny’s house.”
Sadie the angel? “She seems so sweet.”
“Ha! The halo is a cover-up for the horns. Trust me.”
Worry niggles through me. What if she’s right?
“Anyway, run Jake a bath, will you? I shouldn’t be very long.”
“Why can’t Jake run his own bath?”
“Because he forgets about it and the water overflows and floods the bathroom. That’s why. Besides, I said so.”
She heaves a great sigh and tosses her wireless mouse onto the desk.
“All right. JAKE! BATHTIME.”
I cringe. Does she have to yell? What must Greg think? He’ll never ask me out if he thinks my kids are unruly… The irony of that hits me like a line drive to the gut. He already knows about Shawn. No wonder he’s not asking me out!
I give Shawn and Jakey’s door a tap. Shawn is lying on his bed, hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling. Exactly the place he’s been since he ran upstairs this afternoon. “I’m going to show Mr. Lewis and Sadie Granny’s house. I’ll be back. Did you do your homework?”
He ignores me.
“Answer me, young man.”
He turns his head. “No.”
“Then do it. And it had best be done when I get back.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Oh. Well, then. Take a bath after Jakey and then get into your jammies. When I get back we’ll read our chapter of Purpose-Driven Life. It’s your turn to read.”
He dismisses me with a nod.
That kid. You’d think someone in the kind of trouble he’s in would show a little remorse—or, at the very least, fear.
Last stop, Tommy’s room. I tap and enter. Tommy scrambles. My suspicious nature comes to the foreground. “Whatcha doing, Toms?”
“Geez, Mom. Can’t you knock?”
“Sure I could.” If I wanted to.
He gets my drift and scowls.
“So what were you doing that you don’t want me to know about?”
“None of… nothing.”
Oh, he is so lucky he changed his direction of wording.
“You were obviously doing something. What was it?”
“I’m writing a note.”
“A note?” I’m seeing a forged note from his dad or me, excusing him from school without our knowledge. “What kind of a note?”
“To a girl, okay? I like someone.”
“Oh, how sweet.” I clamp my hand over my mouth. He didn’t want to hear that. No wonder he hides his crushes from me. I can’t be trusted not to gush over him. I clear my throat. “Sorry.”
“She doesn’t like me anyway.”
The little tease! “What do you mean she doesn’t like you? Of course she does.” Unless she has mental problems.
“She hates the skateboarder look.”
Ah, smart girl. Please, God, let this crush be strong enough to get him over this phase in his life. No more wanting to wear eyeliner or lip rings. No more talk of name changes. I’d be so grateful if You could work that out for me.
“Well, maybe she’ll change her mind.” I pause. “Unless you’d like to reconsider the long hair and black clothes.”
“Nice try.” He grins and my heart melts. The boy is still the same on the inside. I don’t care what he looks like. Well, I care. But it’s not the most important thing.
“I’m going to show Mr. Lewis Granny’s house.”
“How many times does he have to go through it?”
“This time he’s showing Sadie.”
“Keep that kid away from me. She drives me crazy.”
Two-fer. No wonder Greg can show sympathy to Shawn. He’s got a handful himself.
“Finish up your homework if you have any. When I get back we’ll do our next chapter in Purpose-Driven Life.”
He heaves a great sigh. Some things a teenager just can’t get excited about, I suppose. But I’m determined to be consistent with this. This is our third night. Third chapter. I’m discovering purpose. They’re mostly grumbling.
I head back to the stairs. Greg looks up at me like he’s a senior high school boy and I’m his prom date as I descend the steps. He smiles, and he’s leaning on the banister in Rhett Butler fashion. My heart plummets as his eyes travel the length of me and back to my face. I look away before I can see the disappointment or disgust in his eyes.
Better just face reality, I tell myself in no uncertain terms. Andy Garcia Eyes can have anyone he wants. And believe me, girlfriend, he doesn’t want you.
“All set?” At the sound of Greg’s voice I force my eyes back to his. Oddly, there’s only kindness—affection even—shining back. I’d love to stay in this eyes-melting-into-each-other moment, but I’m aware of his daughter waiting by the door.
Curious about my kids’ attitude about Sadie, I focus my attention on the little girl. Her eyes are widely innocent. Too innocent? I wonder. But when she smiles, I have trouble picturing her as the demoness my children have made her out to be. I find myself drawn to reciprocate the smile. “Ready to see the house? I bet you can’t guess what’s in the backyard.”
“What is it?”
I send her a wink and she grins. I’m charmed. “You’ll have to wait until we get there. It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise?”
“Mmm-hmm. Do you like surprises?”
“Yes!” Her hair bounces and shines with her enthusiastic nod.
We walk to the door and Greg steps back to allow me to precede him onto the porch. What a guy.
He walks beside me, shoulder to shoulder, as his little girl skips ahead of us on the sidewalk. I’m thinking I could get used to seeing his truck in my driveway when he leans in close and keeps his voice quiet. “So what’s the surprise?”
Sadie is already making a beeline to the back. “Come on. I’ll show you,” I say, picking up the pace.
When we catch up to her, Sadie is standing in the middle of the yard. She turns to me. I catch my breath at the disappointment and anger in her eyes. “Where’s my surprise?” Her lip is pushed out a bit and her little hands rest impatiently upon teeny, tiny hips.
Oh, boy. I’ve found the first questionable thing about Greg: Sadie. The kids are right. She’s a total brat.
To his credit, Greg hops to it. “Sadie, is that anyway to speak to Ms. Everett?”
Slowly, she shakes her head and drops her gaze.
“You know what to say,” he prods.
“Sorry.” Or at least that’s what I think she said. Her chin is pretty much pressed against her chest.
Greg turns an apologetic gaze on me. “She’s gotten a little out of hand since her mother died. My mom hasn’t got the heart to discipline her.”
“It’s okay,” I say, somewhat convincingly. How long has it been since her mother died?
I’ve lost all desire to share my tree house with this demanding and somewhat belligerent child. But I can’t help but think of how Tommy has changed, and Shawn, too (as I’m discovering), since the divorce. And they still get to see their dad. There’s no telling how their personalities might have changed if they had to deal with permanent separation from one parent or the other.
I gather a breath and smile at Sadie,
whose eyes still hold a demanding question. At least her body language has calmed down.
“Look up into the big tree in the middle of the yard.”
Her little chin rises as she tilts her neck. A gratifying (to me) gasp shoots from her lips. “A tree house! Daddy, look! I have my very own tree house!” She runs for the ladder.
“Sadie, wait!” Greg calls. “It might not be safe.”
Figures. She’s not stopping. By the time he catches up to her, she’s on the second rung. Half expecting her little rump to catch a swat, I’m surprised when Greg catches her close, snuggling her against his chest.
I watch in bemused silence. Methinks the child’s grandma isn’t the only spoiler in this family.
“Sadie, honey. You can’t climb into the tree house by yourself. You could fall and get hurt. And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
A daddy and his little girl. What a sight. My heart melts a little more for this man. I’m afraid if I am forced to witness much more of his perfection, I might just lose my heart altogether. A perfectly delicious, if somewhat terrifying, thought.
I hear one of the kids splashing around in the tub when I get home forty-five minutes later. Ari’s door is closed, as are the boys’. Just as well. I need a few minutes to sort out my thoughts about Greg’s spoiled daughter, not to mention the butterflies in my stomach at the memory of Greg’s smile.
I’m definitely losing it where this guy’s concerned. And so far he’s been nothing but friendly. No kisses or hugs, not even a handshake that lasts a bit too long. I think maybe he’s just not that in to me. Hmm. Don’t they have a book about that? I make a mental note to check it out on Amazon.com next chance I get.
That gives me an idea. I clench and unclench my fingers a few times to test the waters of my wrist pain. Not bad. A slight twinge, but I bet I could check my e-mail. I find myself drawn to my computer like a crazy moth to a flame. E-mail! I need it. I’m dying for some interaction with like-minded individuals.
I tiptoe to my office, fully aware that every person in my life would have a cow if they knew of my intention. But no one intercepts me as I sink into my lovely, black, ergonomically crafted desk chair. I feel the pleasant familiarity of butt-in-chair syndrome as I reach toward my computer. Only guess what? Some smarty has taped the Wal-Mart receipt with my List to my monitor. I can only guess it was Ari. She knows me very well. I snatch it away from the screen and scan the lofty goals I impulsively penned a month ago.
Leave It to Claire Page 14
