A Time to Mend

by Sally John

  He slid onto a stool at the counter and rubbed the back of his head. Nausea gripped his throat. That probably didn’t count for feelings either. That would be a stomach issue.

  With effort, he recalled the morning conversation. “You said you don’t want to play second fiddle to the grill.”

  “Yes.”

  His stomach churned. “Whew. Got one right.”

  “There’s more.”

  He leaned forward until his forehead lay against the cool counter-top. “Nor do you want to play second fiddle to the business.”

  “A-plus.”

  “Which means what?”

  “I’ve been thinking all day, Max, and I can only come up with one answer. You won’t like it.”

  “Claire, just spit it out.”

  “Sell.”

  “Sell?”

  “Sell. The whole kit and caboodle.”

  He bolted upright, grunting his disbelief. “Sell Beaumont Staffing?”

  “There is no other way around this. It all comes down to me or the company. You have to choose. I need you to choose, because I don’t want to keep living in this gray twilight, wondering when you’re going to show up for our life.”

  “But the agency is my life!”

  She didn’t reply.

  “You know it is!”

  “Yeah.” Her voice went whispery soft. “It is your life. I think that’s the whole point here.”

  “Claire, I can’t choose between you and the company!” Lights flickered in his peripheral vision. He shut his eyes. “You’re something totally different to me. You’re my wife. There has to be another way—Where are my pills?”

  She sighed. “You have a migraine. The pills are in our medicine cabinet. Get the ice pack out of the freezer.”

  He did as he was told.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He stumbled through the kitchen.

  “Max, I can come home. Or—or call me if you don’t sleep. If you need something. Okay? I’ll come.”

  “Mmm.” He closed his phone.

  The world faded from view, along with all confusion about Claire’s irrational behavior.

  Thirteen

  Claire, you cannot go home!” Tandy stood, arms propped against the sides of the living room doorway, blocking her exit.

  “He’s sick.” She stood before her friend, shoulder bag in hand.

  “He’ll take his pill and sleep. There’s nothing you can do for him.”

  “I can be there for him!”

  “Like he was there for you last night.”

  “This is different. He’s totally out of it.” Why else would he dig up the past?

  Then again, could it be an indicator? Was that the last time he’d actually felt anything—when she almost left him for someone else?

  But that had all been dealt with long ago, forgiven and forgotten. Hadn’t it?

  She should go to him.

  “Did you ever think he uses these migraines to control you?”

  “Tandy! What an awful thing to say! He can’t create them at will. He doesn’t get them often.”

  “When does he get them?”

  “When he . . . I don’t know. When things are out of control. Business situations.”

  “Or like now. He can’t control you, so he goes powerless.” Tandy pointed to the couch. “Sit down, Claire. I’ll be right back.”

  She didn’t sit; she collapsed. Her bones liquefied. Her hands shook. She had held nothing back from Max. She had lost control. She had not skirted issues or pretended. Why, oh why had she ever started pretending all those years ago? She didn’t even know how to be real with him.

  Tandy returned and set a mug on the end table. “The green tea you requested. You okay?”

  “I’m calming down. I can’t believe I said all that to him. I’ve never been so mad.”

  “You have been, Claire. You’ve just never expressed it.”

  She stared at her friend.

  “Right?”

  Claire nodded. “Wives aren’t supposed to be mad.”

  “What a bunch of drivel that is.”

  “I always figured he’d explode.”

  “And that would kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, give yourself a pat on the back. You have lived to be mad another day.” Tandy disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I don’t want a pat on the back,” Claire called after her.

  Tandy didn’t reply.

  “And I don’t like being mad.”

  Claire rested her head back against the couch. She just wanted to be real, to be the real Claire Beaumont. Not that she knew her any-more. Ages ago she had. Before she met Max she was confident; she was focused on her dream to teach and play music. Then she met him, and somehow his love exposed what she didn’t have: a family support system.

  Almost at once she received from him a sense of safety and security, all the warm fuzzies she had never felt. She loved him like crazy. She wanted to be the best wife. She promised herself she would be. She promised Max she would be.

  She shut her eyes.

  What about that promise?

  And what about that other one—the one Max had just referred to? Thirty-one years ago, when she almost walked out of their marriage, they’d promised never to take that route. They’d promised to make things work, no matter what.

  Silly, naive, saucer-eyed kids.

  Tandy came back with her own mug of tea and settled into the recliner. “He’ll be fine without you tonight.”

  “I suppose,” she murmured, still following a different train of thought. “Do you remember I told you he and I promised we’d never leave each other?”

  “You’re not talking about that pablum we all swore as part of our marriage vows.”

  Claire winced.

  “Sorry. I really am working on my bitter attitude.” Tandy made a wry face. “Seriously, yes, I remember. You promised sometime after you were married that you’d stay together forever. Let me guess. He brought it up just now on the phone, right?”

  She nodded.

  “You haven’t left him, left him. You’ve just called a time-out. Okay?”

  “I wonder.”

  “Give yourself a time-out. I ordered pizza. It should be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Pizza?” Claire grimaced.

  “Hey, my house, my dinner menu.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be pampering me.”

  “I am. I’m pampering you with the empathetic coping mechanism otherwise known as gorging on junk food. You think I need pizza?” Tandy grabbed at her waist. “And I’ve got two bags of Mint Milanos waiting in the cupboard. One for each thigh.”

  Claire couldn’t help but giggle.

  “If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you have your own bag.”

  The chuckle dissolved into a sob. “Oh, Tandy! What would I do without you?”

  “Eat both bags?” She laughed. “Now blow your nose and drink your tea. It’s going to be a long night.”

  The orchestra played Beethoven’s Fifth. Always a favorite of Claire’s. Her bow leaped across the violin. Her fingers flew. Allegro con brio ! Brisk! Lively! Spirited!

  Ba, ba, ba, bummm.

  Again.

  And again.

  Ba, ba, ba, bummm.

  It was her phone ringing.

  Claire opened her eyes and rolled over. A tidal wave of information greeted her along with sunlight peeking through venetian blinds: The mattress was lumpy. She was in Tandy’s guest room. She was angry at Max. Not only had she admitted that to herself, but she had even told him she was angry. She’d eaten half a pizza and a fourth of a bag of Mint Milanos. She’d watched a horrible shoot-’em-up movie—under the circumstances, Tandy disallowed romantic feel-good comedies—until midnight. She’d tossed and turned for hours. The clock now read six fifty.

  And it was her birthday.

  Beethoven rang out again.

  She grabbed the cell off the nightsta
nd. Holding it at arm’s length, she squinted at the ID. The incoming number belonged to her in-laws. She could have guessed. They were always the first.

  “Hello.”

  “Happy birthday, Claire!” Indio and Ben’s voices greeted in unison.

  She couldn’t help but smile. The couple would be huddled over the same phone, both in blue jeans and boots, ready for the day at their remote estate in the hills above the city. They lived in a sprawling old hacienda. Despite Ben’s white hair and Indio’s thick, salt-and-pepper braid, the two acted much younger than seventy-something. They both still rode horses and chopped wood. He was tall and rugged. Indio—named after the California city of her birth—joked about her own features, which carried none of her Irish father in them. She resembled her mother, a full-blooded Kumeyaay, with dark hair and eyes and a short, pudgy stature.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d better tend to the horses. You have a good day,” Ben said. “Good-bye.”

  “Thanks, Ben. Bye.”

  “So,” Indio said. “Jenna called yesterday.”

  Her voice always reminded Claire of a primitive wind instrument, such as a panpipe: low, breathy, haunting. It wove itself in and out of the melody of other family members’ voices, all the while anchoring them.

  “Claire, how are you?”

  Tears welled. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are.”

  “I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you and Ben.”

  A long moment passed before Indio responded. “We love both of you.” Her voice lost its strength.

  “I got—I got to the point where I just couldn’t go on.”

  “Go on with what?”

  Claire cringed. Indio knew with what. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed Max’s behavior over the past thirty-some years.

  “Indio, I don’t want to vent to you.”

  “You never have.”

  She pressed fingertips to her eyes. No, she never had. She believed a properly submissive wife did not call the mother-in-law and gripe, especially not if that mother-in-law was as vocal about her faith as Indio was.

  “Dear, I’m inviting you to vent. I really want to understand what happened.”

  Claire sighed to herself. After all the Christian rules she’d broken, one more couldn’t matter. “I don’t think I understand it myself. When he didn’t show up for the dinner, something snapped inside of me. I clearly saw how I’m playing second fiddle—to the agency and every business relationship he has. I mean, I feel like a placeholder. I hold the house in place. I hold our social life in place. I hold the kids in place.” I hold his physical needs in place. “Does any of this make any sense? Oh! Don’t answer that. I am not going to drag you into it.”

  “Well, we are in it. That can’t be helped.”

  Claire hugged her knees to her chest. Sugar-coating was not part of Indio’s repertoire. “I’ve tried to be a good wife. I’ve tried my hard-est to be the epitome of submissive. I thought I was doing things God’s way. Or what I thought was His way. I’m not so sure about that anymore. I used to hear women complain about feeling like a doormat. I never did. I thought, Wow, I must be on the right track. Now I think if I did feel like a doormat, it might be better. At least that would mean I was noticeable. He could wipe his feet on me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “Oh, Claire. This is a two-way street. What you say does make sense. I know my son. I made mistakes with him. The tentacles go deep.” The subject was Indio’s soft spot, the only place in the musical score when her pitch went almost squeaky. “I’m sorry.”

  Claire knew about Indio’s deep heartache. On paper, Max appeared to be a dutiful son. He gave lavishly to his parents when it came to material things. He never spoke a negative word about them. He celebrated Christmas and their anniversary with them. Yet on the every-day level, he went out of his way to avoid them. There were no drop-in visits or casual phone conversations or regular dinners.

  Indio believed he still lived in the shadow of his older brother, BJ. She and Ben had placed that shadow squarely on his little-boy shoulders. BJ could do no wrong. Max did everything wrong.

  As far as Claire could tell, Indio was correct. Max always heard those old voices of his parents. They continued to compare him to BJ, and he always came up short.

  But, good grief, Max was a grown man.

  “Indio, he’s responsible for his choices. This one is not your fault.”

  Indio hummed out a breath, as if she were tuning the pipes. “Anyway.” Her voice returned to normal. “This isn’t about me. Let’s get back to you. How are you?”

  “Fi—” Claire stopped herself. Today she turned fifty-three. She was talking to a woman who had obviously loved her for more than thirty years. She had upset everybody’s apple cart, from her husband’s to her kids’ to her in-laws’ to her best friend’s. Wasn’t it time to get real?

  “I was going to say fine. But I’m not fine. I’m angry, and I don’t know how to be angry. I’m so upset because I’ve hurt my entire family. I’m at a loss as to what to do next. Oh!” A sudden, overwhelm-ing sense of comfort burst upon Claire.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh!” She closed her eyes. “I just had this weird sensation. I feel all warm and cozy like . . . like—Oh my. Like when I was visiting Aunt Helen.”

  She hesitated. How could she describe what that childhood memory felt like? “She lived here in San Diego. I came one summer, all the way from North Carolina, without my parents or brothers. I distinctly remember snuggling with a stuffed lion in her feather bed, and I felt so incredibly . . .”

  She stopped again, lost in the vivid recollection of her aunt’s love. It had felt so new, so right, so incredibly— “Safe. That’s what it was. I felt safe. I’d never felt safe before.”

  An awful truth struck her. Had she ever felt safe again?

  “Claire.” Indio paused. “Does Max scare you?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “But you’re saying you feel safe now, away from home, away from him.”

  That was true. She wasn’t in her own house. She wasn’t with Max. Max was probably as angry with her as she with him. The future was a black hole. She shouldn’t feel safe. But she did.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s what I feel.”

  Neither spoke for a few seconds.

  At last Indio said, “Then perhaps you did the right thing. God will work it out for your good, for Max’s good.” She paused. “You know you’re welcome to stay here anytime.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but no. I can’t.”

  “All right. I suppose that’s best. Will you keep us posted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you could come for dinner.” Indio’s tone welcomed, but in a guarded way. “Happy birthday, dear.”

  “Thank you.”

  After the good-byes, Claire reached behind her and twisted open the venetian blinds. Sunlight poured into the small bedroom. Birds sang. Palm trees swept blue sky. The scent of arid summer heat drifted inside.

  And she felt so . . . incredibly . . . safe.

  Fourteen

  Outdoors on the side porch, Indio ended her phone call with Claire and walked into the house. A few steps led her through the laundry-slash-mudroom and into the kitchen. Her private hiatus ended at that point.

  Paquita Guevara stood at the island, filling a big basket with croissants. She was an ageless woman, built like a washing machine, with two long, black braids. She glanced up, concern obvious on her flat face. “How is Claire?”

  “Actually . . .” Safe was how her daughter-in-law was, much as that flew in the face of reason. “She’s all right.”

  Paquita shook her head. “So sad. But maybe for the best, hmm? Now they fix things.”

  Indio smiled and watched Paquita carry the basket through a door-way. It was time to serve breakfast to the guests.

  Several years before, when she and Ben retired, they’d remodeled their home and turned i
t into a retreat center, the Hacienda Hide-away. The setting was perfect: a 150-year-old dwelling tucked away on acreage in the quiet hills above San Diego. Ben’s great-great-grand-father had mined gold in the area and eventually bought the property and built the house. Beaumonts had grown up in it for generations.

  Indio felt a timelessness in the old, red-tile roof and thick adobe walls. In spite of updating, the house was still the original U shape. A covered veranda hugged the interior of the U; a courtyard filled its center.

  She had resisted excessive change in the kitchen. The island and appliances were new—necessary accommodations for guests—but she’d claimed the rest of the large room for personal use. The original stone fireplace and wood-plank flooring remained, along with her scruffy oak table. She added braid rugs, a couch, and her rocker. Over time she created her wall of “Jesus reminders.”

  At the side of the fireplace, a framed family photo hung behind the table. She stopped now in front of it, thinking about Max and Claire as she stared at the faces of her loved ones.

  She and Ben weren’t too keen on displaying family photos. Her husband likened it to scab picking: why keep exposing the wound? Pictures only reminded them of who wasn’t there for the camera’s click. Pictures only reminded them that thirty-four years ago their older son, BJ, had gone to Vietnam and never come home.

  But Jenna had married, and photos were taken. And Indio adored her grandchildren. She treasured the sense they gave her of posterity, of life itself. Ben hadn’t fussed at her decision to hang this one.

  It was a toothy photo, everyone grinning from ear to ear.

  Jenna glowed in her froufrou gown. Though her facial features were finer, and she was tall, she had—like Max and Indio—the black eyes and coarse, black hair of Indio’s mother.

  Kevin, her groom, was resplendent in Marine dress blues.

  Erik’s charm twinkled from greenish-brown eyes.

  Danny, square shaped like Max, still looked boyish with curly brown hair.

  Lexi, his fraternal twin, had Claire’s light brown hair and was birdlike in build.

  “Thinking of taking it down?”

  At the sound of Ben’s voice, Indio looked over her shoulder. Her husband lumbered across the room. At seventy-eight he still reminded her of Ben Cartwright on the old western television show Bonanza. Though his eyes weren’t black, he had the identical silver mane and broad shoulders. Most often he wore a shirt with dolman sleeves, leather vest, and blue jeans. He towered over her.