A Time to Mend

by Sally John

  “I screwed up big-time.” Way beyond the old “snafu” antics.

  “Did you admit that to her?”

  “She won’t answer her phone.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Of course you did.” She paused. “You don’t want to get blitzed again, do you?”

  “No. I want to work until I drop dead.”

  “That’s fine. Go ahead. But your staff is not joining you in that endeavor.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Take care of yourself. Shut down the computer, and get out of here. Have you eaten anything today?”

  “A muffin.” Her advice dangled before him like a hand over the edge of a cliff, ready to pull him up before he slid down any farther toward the jagged rocks below. “Will you have dinner with me?”

  “What? You need somebody to keep you company?” The softness on her face removed any sting in her biting question.

  “Just for a couple more hours.”

  She stood. “I was thinking pasta.”

  They went to Little Italy and sat on the patio in the back of the restaurant.

  It was Claire’s favorite restaurant for pasta.

  At least Max thought it was her favorite. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she hadn’t been real about that either.

  The patio was open to the stars. It was a funky place, surrounded by two-story walls that looked like something from an old Florentine neighborhood. An open staircase led up to a second-story door. A clothesline with permanently displayed laundry hung above one corner.

  He watched Neva dip a piece of foccacia into olive oil. “Is this Claire’s favorite place for pasta?”

  Neva looked over at him, the bread in her hand millimeters from her mouth. “I’ve heard her say that several times. Whenever we’ve all come here together, she says it is.”

  “I don’t know whether to believe her anymore about anything.” He picked up a large piece of bread, jabbed it into the puddle of oil, and crammed it into his mouth.

  Neva swallowed. “Want to talk about business instead? It might be better for your digestive system.”

  “She says she can’t be real with me.” He spoke around the chunk of food in his mouth.

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Says I don’t want to hear it.”

  “There might be some truth to that.”

  He gulped his diet cola. “I’m listening.”

  “Years ago she and I talked about how she believed a wife was supposed to submit to a husband. It was when you two first started going to church. She was pretty gung ho on the subject. She went so far as to say that if you weren’t happy and contented, it was her fault. And she said it with a big smile, like she’d discovered life’s greatest secret. Like taking care of you was her purpose for being.”

  He reached for the bread basket, lifted the napkin, and took out another piece.

  “Oh my gosh. Max! You believe that, don’t you?”

  “Not put that way exactly.”

  “Put it any which way near that, and there’s no way on earth she could be real with you.”

  “She keeps the peace in our home. She makes it all work.”

  “Yeah! She wouldn’t dare upset the apple cart. She’s no wallflower. She speaks her mind when she wants. But like I said before, I some-times thought she should have nailed your carcass to the wall, because you can be such a bear. Like today at the office. But she couldn’t do that, could she? Not under those rules.”

  “We don’t have rules.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “She had an affair.”

  Neva’s eyes widened. She closed her mouth on whatever opinion she was about to render. Her hands stilled at the sides of her salad plate.

  “It was a long time ago. You were there. In the early days, when we were losing money hand over fist.”

  “I knew you two were having problems. Who wouldn’t, with their business going down the tubes? But I had no idea . . . What . . .” She went speechless again.

  “She gave violin lessons at a music store. She met someone. It was . . . brief. The guilt was more than she could handle. She started going to church. I had no clue until she told me months after the fact. Then I started going to church. The pastor counseled us. I really wanted things to work out between us. We got through it.”

  “Why are you telling me this now? She’s not seeing . . . ?”

  “She says no. But . . . who knows?” He blew out a breath. “I don’t think I’m hungry.”

  “Max.” Neva reached across the table, turned his hand over, and laced her fingers with his. “You have every right to feel angry and confused, but you will eat.”

  Is that what he felt? Angry and confused? Well, he could come up with more apropos adjectives, but the point was, he was feeling. That should make Claire happy.

  Neva squeezed his hand and let go. “Now eat.”

  He picked up his fork, speared a lettuce leaf, and tried to ignore two suddenly glaring facts. One, he was having dinner, on his anniversary, with another woman. And two, the touch of Neva’s skin against his burned, as if he’d held onto a blazing match too long.

  Thirty

  It was after midnight at the hacienda.

  Claire brushed her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. She didn’t look so good. The highlighted strands of hair struck her as overdone. She should let the color go natural, not concern herself with pretending there wasn’t any gray creeping through the brown. Dark circles rimmed her eyes; lines bunched at her mouth. Evidently she’d lost the ability to hide the fact that she was under stress.

  Was that progress?

  She wore a sleep shirt, one from Lexi’s stash of clothes that her daughter kept at the hacienda. It was baggy with big sleeves, loose enough to conceal the turkey-wing arms, five-months-pregnant-like tummy paunch, and cottage cheese thighs. Large velveteen letters splashed a message across her anything-but-perky chest. It read “Hey, Bud, Let’s Party.”

  She should call Max. Of course, he hadn’t remembered the date. She’d upset his world, probably more than she imagined possible. Had she really expected him to remember? Who did she think she was, to upset him and then drop in unexpectedly and want “normal” from him? She should call him.

  He had left a voice mail. He had apologized. He was sorry for for-getting their anniversary.

  For forgetting their anniversary.

  Forgetting their anniversary?

  She laid the hairbrush on the vanity and felt her insides tighten in anger, the sensation almost frightening in its intensity.

  Who was she kidding? He hadn’t apologized for his attack. Hadn’t even mentioned how he’d once again thrown her past in her face. Did he truly still hold that incident of thirty-two years ago against her? How much longer would he let that wound fester?

  And really, how could he accuse her of quitting? Her? He was the one who had quit. He’d abandoned them as a married couple. He’d buried himself at work, usually with good old Neva at his side.

  Not all that much had changed, had it? Was it even worth think-ing it ever would?

  She studied the T-shirt again in the mirror and smiled—a grimace that twisted her lips. So Max wanted to hold on to the past? Well, let him. She planned on moving forward.

  “Okay, bud. Let’s party.”

  Thirty-one

  Jenna strolled with her mom through the dark across Tandy’s front yard and giggled. “I can’t believe what just went on in there.”

  Claire snickered. “But you had a good time.”

  “Yes, Mom, I had a good time hanging out with your weird friends and playing our instruments together.”

  “Knew you would.” She elbowed Jenna. “It’s so wonderful mak-ing music for no reason at all except to feel sheer joy.”

  “I felt like when we were on that Alaskan cruise. There were no words to describe what we saw. It was beyond breathtaking.”

  “That’s it exactly. Don�
�t you miss music?”

  “We always have music going. Dave Matthews Band, Tim McGraw, Beatles, Ray LaMontagne. All kinds. Once in a while I even sneak in Bach or Telemann, and Kevin says, ‘Whoa. That’s cool.’”

  “I don’t mean just listening. I mean creating it yourself. I think about all those years you studied piano and viola. All those con-certs. You should take the piano from the house. Squeeze it into your apartment.”

  “Right. It wouldn’t even fit in the center of the living room.”

  They reached her car parked at the curb. Jenna put her viola case in the backseat. “You know, I never really enjoyed playing that much.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Sorry to burst your bubble, Mom. But tonight was different. I wasn’t uptight about performing. It was fun. Thanks.”

  “I’m so glad. You’re welcome to come again. Two weeks from tonight, same time, same place.”

  Jenna chuckled. “Wow. Biweekly quintets at Tandy Abbott’s condo. A minor in music at UCSD opens all sorts of exclusive doors for me. Is this Dad’s hard-earned dollars at work or what?”

  “And the best part is no fees and no dues.”

  “No salary. We could schedule some gigs. Weddings would be nice.”

  Claire laughed. “That would put you back into performing mode.”

  “I suppose. Mom, it’s so good to hear you laugh.”

  She leaned her forehead against Jenna’s. “You should hear it from this side.”

  Jenna smiled through a twinge of unease. Why was her mom so happy not living with her dad?

  Claire straightened. “Seriously, Jen, I loved having you here. I don’t want you to feel obligated, though. You are not responsible for my happiness.”

  Jenna bit her lip.

  “By the way, I didn’t invite you to keep me company tonight. I simply knew you’d be an excellent addition. And besides, we couldn’t have a quintet without a fifth.”

  Jenna smiled. “I’ll come back because I enjoyed it. And Kevin’s life these days is football. I seem to have plenty of free time on my hands.”

  “You’re okay with that?”

  “Sure. It’s the way it is with a coach during season.”

  “Great.”

  “You don’t believe me. But really, Mom, I would whine if I weren’t okay with it.”

  “Just meddling—I mean checking.” Her mom sighed. “The thing is, I should have been a better role model for you as a wife.”

  “Are you kidding? You and Dad were Mike and Carol Brady in the flesh. All my friends thought so. Why else did we hang out so much at our house?”

  “I know. Compared to some, we appeared to have it all together. What disturbs me now, though, is how I never openly disagreed with your dad. I want you to know that wasn’t healthy.”

  “I sure didn’t pick up the habit. Kevin hears my mind no matter what.”

  “But sometimes . . .”

  “Sometimes what?”

  “Sometimes you hold back and—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hon, I don’t mean to upset you. I admit, I’m overly sensitive these days. I’m probably overreacting too. The night of my birthday dinner, I heard you give in to Kevin’s opinion a few times.” She held up a palm. “On-the-surface, insignificant things—”

  “Like what?”

  “Like about your classroom. What you do with your bulletin boards. Like what you teach, still pushing the old books, like To Kill a Mockingbird. He made fun of that, and you didn’t tell him where to get off.”

  “He teases.”

  “He was putting you down. The point is, you reminded me of myself. And in my case the insignificant added up over the years until I lost track of my own voice. I lost sight of my own passion. I gave up music. I hadn’t played my violin for ages until Tandy and I got this group together last year. I just don’t want the same thing happening to you.”

  Her mother’s fervent plea subdued Jenna. “How did it happen to you?”

  “Slowly. Subtly. I played in the symphony, you know, early on. That was a dream come true. Then we decided to get married and start the business. My little side job wouldn’t pay enough to justify the hours spent on practicing. So I quit. There wasn’t an opportunity to go back. I did teach violin for a little while, but Beaumont Staffing consumed us those first few years, and then Erik was born.”

  “The agency always consumed Dad.”

  “It’s his passion. And I adopted it because he was my knight in shining armor. I adored whatever was important to him, even to the point of giving up my passion.”

  “Well, I haven’t adopted a passion for softball or football. I haven’t quit teaching to help Kevin coach or mentor a bunch of teenage guys. And my students will still read Mockingbird this year.”

  “Then you’re off to a better start than I was. Balance is the key, and I didn’t have it. That’s what I didn’t model. Will you forgive me?”

  “Mom, there’s nothing to forgive.”

  Her mother didn’t respond for a moment. “Maybe not now, hon. But someday, if you find yourself looking at him to get his approval before you speak your mind, then remember this conversation.”

  “You didn’t really look at Dad—”

  “Yes, I really did. Literally as well as figuratively. If he wasn’t in the room, I imagined him hearing me.” She blew out a breath. “That’s what this is all about—finding my own voice again. I know it seems like I’m throwing the baby out with the bathwater by leaving him, but I don’t see any other way to do it.”

  Questions whirled in Jenna’s mind. Why couldn’t her mom do it from home? How would she know if she found her voice? Was the separation temporary? Did she have a time frame?

  But Jenna wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answers.

  Thirty-two

  Bravo!”

  “That was quite lovely, Ms. Beaumont. Very accomplished.”

  Claire smiled and lowered the violin, propping it on her lap. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The two strangers sitting in the front row of the auditorium turned from her and conferred quietly between themselves, while Claire pressed the toe of her shoe against the other ankle, hard enough for it to hurt. She wasn’t dreaming.

  Unsure of protocol at this point, she simply watched the man and woman from her seat in the orchestra pit. Her smile stretched from closed lips to a cheek-aching grin that surely revealed every tooth in her mouth. Her chest heaved as another rush of adrenaline shot through her.

  They liked her performance. They. People who knew about such things.

  The man was the conductor of the San Diego Symphony. The woman was related in some way to hiring and firing and officiating at auditions.

  And they thought Claire Beaumont deserved a bravo.

  She felt like a schoolgirl soaking up a teacher’s praise. She probably looked downright sappy.

  The man stood, gave a little wave in her direction, turned, and walked away.

  The woman said, “How soon can you join us?”

  The adrenaline surge propelled Claire through blocks and blocks of the downtown area. Her skirt swished; her violin case bounced at her side; her feet danced in flats. Every so often a chuckle slipped out.

  People, buildings, trolley tracks, and crosswalks barely registered on her radar. She headed toward the water. Still grinning, she finally reached Seaport Village. The festive tourist spot encompassed a myriad of shops and restaurants as well as trickling fountains, a carousel, and a walkway along the bay.

  The place was summertime crowded. Like a bee to a hive, she homed in on the book-and-coffee shop, where she ordered some sort of iced coffee drink with a raft of sweet fixings. Outdoors again, she headed away from the shops to where a small peninsula jutted out into the bay. At the first available park bench, she sat and let the view overtake her.

  Brilliant sunlight glittered on the water. An aircraft carrier glided under the Coronado Bridge. A water taxi skitter
ed in the distance. Sailboats bobbed. The sky shone, an aquamarine gemstone so luminescent she had to squint her eyes to look at it.

  The largeness of it all calmed her until the need to jump out of her skin subsided. At last the grin shrank, and her lungs offered sufficient air. She exhaled a “Whew” and felt a sense of deep gratitude.

  So many details had come together to bring about this moment: A reawakened desire to play music . . . Daily hours spent practicing for no apparent purpose . . . The full-time violinist opening with the symphony the day she tried out for a sub’s position . . . The courage it took to even inquire, not to mention to audition . . .

  On the way downtown that morning, she had twice driven onto freeway exit lanes, intent on turning back, certain she would look like an absolute fool playing, after all these years, in front of professionals. But something had kept her going. And now there she was. Newly hired violinist with the San Diego Symphony.

  She sipped coffee through the straw and pulled her cell phone from her bag. Who to call first?

  Jenna would appreciate the news. But . . . Claire thought she had maxed out on drawing emotional support from her older daughter. Probably from Lexi and the guys as well. Not that those three understood her infatuation with orchestras.

  Tandy was with clients. Other musical friends were at work.

  Indio? No. She wanted to keep her at a comfortable arm’s length.

  She had other friends. But over the past weeks they had slid into “mere acquaintances.” All those women she’d served with for twenty years on boards and committees had floated out of her life just like that aircraft carrier sailing by now. At the mention of “I quit” and “personal reasons,” they became hesitant and then unavailable.

  Max.

  Should she tell him? Did she want to?

  Since their non-anniversary conversation in the car two weeks before, she had successfully avoided talking to him. He had left his message, an apology about forgetting the date. It almost prompted her to call him.

  It was his only message. Evidently he had successfully avoided talking to her too.

  She wished she wanted to tell him.

  But he’d always considered her music a waste of time. Even before they married, his disinterest was obvious. “It’s a nice hobby for you,” he would say. “Do you have to practice when I’m at home?” “You spent how many hours playing?”