A Time to Mend

by Sally John

“You’re changing the subject, but all right, let’s go there. You didn’t miss dinner. You missed Lexi all excited about her workday. She never gets excited about anything. You missed Danny’s questions about his own company. He sounds like he’s drowning in it. He needs your expertise.”

  “I’ll call the twins later. Catch up.”

  “You missed Erik referring to you as The Putz. Capital letters.”

  He took a leisurely sip of coffee before replying but didn’t look at her. “I’m sure he had a few beers under his belt.”

  “Nobody disagreed with him, and they weren’t drinking.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose there’s a Jenna story too?”

  Claire pressed her lips together.

  Max sighed and set his mug on the table. “I suppose she has major news, like she’s pregnant or something.”

  “No. She just . . . She just reminded me of myself.” Claire’s voice sank, and she closed her eyes. Her older daughter’s behavior cut her to the quick. It was subtle, something she’d noticed before but had always chosen to ignore. Until now.

  “How’s that?”

  Claire looked at him. “She worships the ground Kevin walks on.” “That’s pure nonsense. Jenna’s the most stubbornly independent of them all.”

  “Except when Kevin says, ‘Jump.’ He makes subtle, sarcastic comments about her, about her teaching or whatever, and she smiles through it all. ‘How high, Kev?’”

  “That’s harmless.”

  “Well, thirty-two and a half years of asking how high isn’t harmless.”

  His brow wrinkled.

  “I’ve worshipped the ground you walk on, taking second place for the sake of the business. I thought I was supposed to. But now . . .” She paused. “It’s over. That’s what I quit. Max, I want to play first fiddle.”

  He inhaled deeply and exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling. “You are first. I admit the company consumes much of my time and attention. But, Claire, you are my real priority.”

  “Then prove it. Call in sick today.”

  “That’s hardly a fair request, and you know it.” He stood, nearly overturning his chair in the process. “For crying out loud, we’re flying to San Francisco for your birthday tomorrow. We’ll have two full days together to discuss anything you want. All right?”

  A pang ripped through her chest, so sharp she thought her heart had literally snapped shut right then and there. It wasn’t his red face or low, angry tone that delivered the blow. It was his blatant disregard for her in choosing to go to work.

  She shook her head. “Sorry, Max. I’m fresh out of days to wait for you.”

  “I really have to get to this meeting.”

  She waved her hand, shooing him off like the deaf fruit fly he was impersonating.

  He turned on his heel and hurried down the gazebo’s two steps. No kiss, no good-bye, no apology, no indication when he’d be home.

  So much for being straightforward about her feelings. Evidently he didn’t believe her declaration that she was out of days.

  Evidently she didn’t believe it either. Evidently she didn’t believe a thing she had said.

  Because, of course, she would go to San Francisco with him. She would rave about whatever pricey gift he gave her and pretend last night was no big deal. Life would go on. Like always.

  An image of Jenna came to mind, smiling almost vapidly and in essence asking, “How high, Kev?”

  It was way past time her daughter saw a wife who kept both feet firmly planted on the ground, no matter the consequences.

  “Max!” Claire shoved back her chair and rose, whirling around and shouting across the spacious yard. “Max!”

  He stopped, halfway through the sliding glass door, and turned. “If you go, I won’t be here when you come home.”

  “Suit yourself !” Even from her distance, she heard the rattle of the door’s glass as he banged it shut.

  And that was that.

  Almost in disbelief at how quickly it had happened, Claire slumped back onto the chair and wrapped her arms around her torso, shiver-ing in the sun as her face contorted with tears. Despite everything, she had hoped for a different response. For Max to fight—to attach some worth to their relationship, to acknowledge her. It was only fair. She had given him all of herself—her hopes, her dreams, her identity—allowing him to mold her into his perfect companion until she’d lost her own identity.

  And that’s what this was all truly about. She couldn’t remain the person he had created. And he didn’t have room for anything different.

  Four

  An hour behind his usual arrival time, Max entered the front glass double doors of Beaumont Staffing.

  Thirty minutes and light-years from the community where he lived, his office was located in a busy strip mall near intersecting freeways. It had a private rear entrance with reserved parking spaces, but Max preferred using the large public lot and front door.

  It was his favorite time of the day.

  He paused just inside the door and waited for the full impact of the scene before him to settle in.

  “That commercial’s getting a little stale, don’t you think?”

  Yeah, all right. He could be a jerk, but that snide remark was totally out of line. A low blow and undeserved. What was up with her? Maybe he could blame hormones. Wasn’t she in menopause or something?

  “Excuse me.” A young woman stood before him, a glassy-eyed child on one hip, a large diaper bag on the other, an uninhibited expression of fury on her plain, narrow face. The girl was ticked.

  “Sorry.” He stepped aside and opened the door for her.

  She started through it without a glance or thank-you.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “Ma’am!”

  She turned.

  “The checks will be ready by ten o’clock.” It was Friday, payday. A steady stream of people would flow through the office to pick up checks. Some, like her, would have children in tow and wear an obvious look of dire need. He figured she’d been told her check wasn’t available yet.

  “I know, but I’m here now. They told me I’d get paid today.”

  “You will. Just later.”

  “I got a life for later,” she muttered and continued through the door he still held open. “Can’t spend the whole freaking day riding buses around the county.”

  Max dug into his jacket pocket and quickly pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “Hang on a sec.” A quick step and he was beside her, shoving the money into the front pouch of the diaper bag.

  She twisted around. “What are you doing?”

  “Just giving you a little something to help tide you over.”

  “Huh?” She began digging in the pocket.

  He smiled and went back inside to where the lobby overflowed with people. All ages, sizes, shapes, and cultures. All in search of temporary work. Some stood at the counter, which was centered along the back wall. Others sat in the glassed-in waiting areas—one on his right, one on his left—filling out applications or watching morning news programs on the wall-mounted televisions while waiting to be interviewed.

  Behind the counter were three fresh-faced, perky, bilingual women —his first line of customer service. They answered phones and fielded the one thousand job seekers who walked through the door every month. In the back offices were twenty more staff members, whose task it was to find them temporary jobs.

  “Hey, Max!” one of the receptionists called over the hubbub. “Phil’s on his way over.”

  “Thanks.” He gave her a wave and headed down the hallway toward his office.

  He could feel his smile. Yes, it was his favorite time of the day.

  The impact of this shot through him now. Sometimes it hit him like a jolt of energy, a caffeine buzz after a triple espresso. Other times it was a slow-spreading warmth, like the glow of contentment after a few sips of good scotch.

  “That commercial’s getting a little stale, don’t you think?”

  Today it wasn’t qu
ite buzz, wasn’t quite glow. More like a brain cramp.

  Five

  Claire’s finger shook so badly she couldn’t press the phone’s On button. She set the cordless receiver on the kitchen counter and balled her hands into fists.

  All thoughts of safety and security had fled her home. Expressing her innermost feelings to Max and getting no response in return proved what she feared: all his years of relating to the world through the eyes of a businessman had deadened something inside of him. He couldn’t respond with his heart. Could he feel anything anymore?

  Good negotiator that he was, he would smooth things over between them by helping her see things his way. He would convince her she was wrong. To emphasize his point, he would give her jewelry. Probably flowers too.

  That was how it worked whenever she hinted at going negative on him, whenever she mustered enough courage to quit pretending.

  A casserole dish filled with sudsy water caught her gaze. Two pots also in need of scrubbing sat nearby on the stovetop. Not bad considering that last night the kids had used almost every dish and utensil she owned.

  She pictured them there, all five, dressed in white chef jackets and tall hats, bebopping to rock-and-roll music blasting from the radio as they unloaded grocery bag after grocery bag. They’d brought all her favorite foods and even a bakery cake topped with purple-frosting roses arranged in the shape of “53.”

  “For you, Mom.” Erik, her eldest at thirty, grinned. “A birthday extravaganza. Six courses!”

  “Seven.” Jenna corrected. “Remember, the sorbet to cleanse the palate counts as one.”

  Lexi added, “We will totally clean up.”

  Well, Claire didn’t buy that promise, but she did count on Danny’s guarantee, underscored by son-in-law Kevin’s solemn nod: “Dad’s on his way.”

  She remembered the moment the phone had rung.

  She remembered answering it gaily, expecting to hear her best friend’s voice. Naturally, Tandy had been the children’s accomplice, the one who’d made dinner plans with Claire, ensuring she’d be home at six on Thursday night. But instead of Tandy, the kids had appeared with groceries and promises that Dad was on his way.

  “Claire!” It was her husband. His energetic voice rose above the chefs’ clamor. “Surprise!”

  Wham. Emotional whiplash.

  “Dad’s on his way,” they’d said. Such empty words. Only a fool would believe them.

  The laughter in her throat died a quick death. With a too-familiar sense of resignation, she sat on a counter stool and closed her eyes to shut out the swirl of activity before her.

  The thing was, it was so typical. So nauseatingly typical. Why had she assumed for even a split second that tonight would be different?

  “Claire? Are you there?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Her fingers ached. She loosened her grip on the phone and noticed the ache in her stomach. There wasn’t a thing to be done except endure the discomfort. It always went away . . . after a time.

  “Oh, man!” he cried.

  She visualized Max slapping his forehead in that dramatic way some people thought winsome.

  “Did I call too early?”

  “Too early?” She shifted on the stool. “Too early for what?”

  “The surprise. But I hear music. Oh, please, please tell me the kids are there already.”

  “The kids?”

  “Claire! Give me a break!”

  Her pleasure in making him squirm really was twisted. “They’re here.”

  “Whew. Were you surprised?”

  “Astonished.”

  She felt a hand on her arm and opened her eyes. Jenna was leaning across the counter toward her.

  “Is it Dad?”

  She nodded.

  “Dad!” Jenna bellowed in the articulate teacher voice she’d acquired about the time she turned three. “Get your derriere home tout de suite or you’ll be sorry!”

  Max laughed.

  Claire said, “He’s laughing.”

  Jenna flipped her long, black hair over her shoulder. “I’m serious, Maxwell!” she barked. “Kevin and Erik are lighting the grill even as we speak. Your grill. Your precious, brand-new, top-of-the-line grill. Need I say more?”

  “My grill?” The panic in Max’s tone was not total fabrication. He adored his covered-patio kitchenette with its built-in gas grill, ceramic-tiled workspace, and surrounding low brick wall. “Not my grill.”

  Claire gave Jenna a thumbs-up and got a smirk in reply as her daughter sashayed away.

  “Aw, Claire,” he said.

  That was when the full impact hit. Her insides felt like a rug being shaken. Up. Snap. Down. Up. Snap. Down. Max. Was not. Coming.

  “I can’t make it in time. There’s no way.”

  A whooshing sensation filled her ears, and the kitchen hullabaloo dimmed. Max’s litany became unintelligible. She heard bits and pieces. “Sacramento . . . jet repairs . . . three hours minimum . . .”

  As he talked, she swiveled on the stool and faced the adjoining family room. Large sliding doors and wide bay windows filled most of two walls, giving a clear view of the backyard. Shadows already touched the swimming pool. Nearby, thick groves of eucalyptus trees filtered rays from the sun, while lush flowers bloomed in terracotta pots scattered about the yard. Coastal dampness thickened the scents of jasmine and citrus. The peaceful scene calmed her.

  “I’m sorry, Claire.” He always was. And he did mean it sincerely.

  “I know.”

  “At least it’s not really your birthday, right? We’ll be celebrating in San Francisco on the real day. Hey, do you mind keeping an eye on my grill? You know how Erik and Kevin are.”

  The music volume jumped to eardrum-shattering level. The Stones and her kids screamed they could “get no satisfaction,” drowning out Max’s voice. Claire turned back around toward the kitchen and watched as the five revelers danced wildly about, waving wooden spoons, beckoning her to join them.

  Max was wrong. No matter the date, it was her birthday, with or without him.

  “Gotta go, Max!” she shouted into the phone. “Bye!”

  She hit the Off button, picked up a wooden spoon they’d set out for her, and discoed her way into the kitchen . . .

  Now Claire blinked away the memory. It had solidified some-thing in her. A resolve.

  She picked up the phone and pressed the number with a steady finger.

  “Hello?”

  “Tandy, I need a place to stay.”

  Six

  I mean, since when do my kids cook?” Max groused. “If I’d known they were going to use my grill, I would’ve canceled the trip to Sacramento yesterday.”

  Seated on the other side of his desk, Neva Martínez-Rhodes crossed her legs and smacked her gum. “Claire really should nail your carcass over the fireplace.”

  Next to her, Phil Singleton shook his head. “Nah. He’s just being overly dramatic. Aren’t you, Max? You’re not really saying you’d cancel for the grill, but you wouldn’t cancel for Claire’s birthday dinner.”

  “I didn’t know it was her birthday dinner in time to cancel! And it wasn’t her official birthday dinner. That happens tomorrow. In San Francisco. With me.”

  Neva swung her crossed leg back and forth, her jaws working at the piece of gum, and studied him. The petite Hispanic woman resembled a meteor in everything she did. Compared to her, Max saw himself as a lethargic slug. Which was probably why she’d been his right-hand person forever and a day. He trusted her capabilities and usually her opinion.

  “Nail my carcass?”

  “That’s what I said.” She nodded. “Did she?”

  “Almost.”

  “Good for her.”

  Neva had gone with him the previous day to visit the office in Sacramento. She overheard his conversation with Claire when he explained the company jet needed repairs and he wouldn’t be home on time. She understood his wife’s disappointment.

  Phil cleared his throat. “Max, you look like som
ething a dog would be proud to drag inside and lay at his owner’s feet. Care to elaborate?”

  Max studied the two employees who also happened to be his closest friends.

  Neva had been his director of operations since he created the position, less than two years after opening the doors of Beaumont Staffing. At that time he and Claire were almost bonkers trying to run things themselves. His niche was networking with clients; Claire’s was play-ing her violin with the symphony. Nobody was managing the office until Neva stepped in. Hardly out of her teens, she’d been bilingual, extroverted, and eager to work for a pittance.

  Phil was tall and blond with Nordic features. He’d joined the team a dozen years ago, when technology sprouted wings, and Max realized he was Gulliver, tied fast to the ground with other concerns. Phil led Beaumont Staffing into the twenty-first century and now, as director of technology, oversaw the selling and servicing of software. He was also one heck of a tennis partner.

  They weren’t just being polite. They wanted to know what was going on with him and Claire.

  Max gave them the highlights. He omitted Claire’s derogatory jibe about the stale commercial—after all, they were an integral part of the agency—and ended with that nonsense about not being there when he got home.

  Neva and Phil exchanged a glance and then resumed staring at him.

  “What?” He shrugged. “We’re having a spat.”

  Neither of them replied. He stared them down.

  At last Neva said, “Yeah, right. Max, for your information, you left ‘spat’ behind about the time you went off to separate bedrooms.”

  Phil added, “Most definitely by the time she announced the ultimatum about not being there when you got back.”

  Max shook his head. “She won’t literally leave, no matter how serious the spat is. Walking out has never been an option for us. Period.”

  But a memory snagged his attention. No, not so much a memory as an impression. A gut-wrenching impression of his body being ripped apart.

  Walking out had been an option . . . once.

  But that was—what? Thirty-one, thirty-two years ago. And there had been a reason then. Claire had done the unthinkable—