by Sally John
“No, I guess I’m not either.”
Claire said, “This is really hard on all of us, but the worst part is you’ve lost your home.”
She nodded again.
“We’ll be back to help in a bit,” Max said. “Where’s Dad?”
“In the courtyard. He’s talking about selling the place.”
“No way!”
“Oh no.” Claire’s face showed her disappointment.
“He’ll get over it.” Indio shooed her hands at them. “Now run along. Don’t worry about us here. Take all the time you need.”
Max gave her a quick hug, and they climbed into the truck.
She watched them drive off, a prayer she said often these days on her lips. “Lord, bring them back together.”
Carrying her broom across the yard, she was struck with the need for more prayer.
“Okay, Lord. I’m listening. Yes, I admit it. I have a hankering to leave my husband until he sees the light. I do not like this idea of selling one bit. Maybe he could woo me like Max is wooing Claire, until I see the light.” She laughed aloud. “Lord, bless us all. We’re never going to make it without You!”
Ninety-one
Max held his hand out to Claire as they walked through what had once been a grove of hardwoods. Now it was a black and gray scene of broken, charred tree trunks and bare limbs.
She slid her hand into his.
He thought he might have to sit until the mushiness receded from his legs.
Claire didn’t always take his hand. Three weeks ago, when they’d first started this odd dating relationship, she avoided physical con-tact with him. They’d advanced to hand-holding and chaste good-night kisses. In the truck, she had moved across the bench seat until their thighs touched.
Progress.
He had begun writing her notes. Love notes. Chatty notes. Thinking-of-you notes. Things he had never thought to tell her before. He mailed them. He mailed her cards, too, sappy ones and funny ones.
Like a flower bud in the warm sunshine, she began to unfold. Almost daily he discovered something new about her. He hadn’t paid attention for a long time, but if anyone had asked a month ago what she was like, he would have said she was confident enough, though not the in-your-face type. She could even be a bit of a pushover.
Forget that.
One night she asked, “What if there hadn’t been a fire?”
He was ready for that. “Then God would have had to use a different two-by-four to get my attention.”
Another time she said, “So what’s the deal with Neva?”
He wasn’t ready for that one. “She resigned.”
“Why?”
He cringed.
“Max, I told you all about Eddie. I even told you I met with him on Sunday.”
“But I . . .” He swallowed. “I kissed her.”
Claire winced.
“And I wanted to spend the night with her to hurt you, but I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“So why did she resign?”
“Because, she said, she loved me and couldn’t continue to work with me, knowing I would always love you.”
Claire nearly snarled. “Like she didn’t suspect that for the past thirty-plus years?”
He shrugged.
She narrowed her eyes in a “told you so” glare.
Yes, he agreed silently. Claire had always sensed that Neva loved him. How did women know this junk?
“So when is she leaving the office?”
“After Christmas. First of the year.”
“Anything else?”
He tilted his head back and forth. “Kisses. A picnic. A dinner. I’m sorry.”
Claire hadn’t kissed him good night after that conversation.
But they were making progress.
Max, look.” Claire stopped near a blackened tree and pointed to the ground.
“Where?”
She crouched, pulling him down beside herself. “There.”
Her nearness distracted him. He felt like an adolescent. He wasn’t all that comfortable with feeling like an adolescent.
“Look. It’s green!”
He saw it then, the slender sprout of a plant, poking through thick debris. “Wow.”
“Yeah, wow.” She smiled at him. The new shine in her green-brown eyes caught his attention. Flecks of topaz sparkled. They hadn’t always been there, he was sure of it.
She said, “Kind of like us, huh?”
He raised his brows.
“New life springing through old, dead stuff.”
He grinned. “Yeah. Yeah. I like that.”
She kissed his cheek.
She didn’t often kiss him.
He pulled her to her feet before he suggested they remove their clothes. They hiked in silence for a while.
“Max, what do you think about your dad selling the hacienda?”
“He mentioned the idea to me the other day. I think it’s just his way of coping. There’s so much to be done, it overwhelms him. I sure would hate to see him give it up.”
“It’s an extraordinary place.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Are you still okay with giving up the agency?”
He smiled at her. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Her face went all soft.
And the mush hit him again.
He’d borrowed from his dad’s idea of calling his mom “love.” Max had given Claire her own special endearment, not the old “hon” he used indiscriminately with females. The new moniker worked just as his dad said it would: Claire adored it when he called her “sweetheart.” He sensed that she received it as his way of telling her she was more important to him than anyone.
She said, “Did you have something to add?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah. Yes, I am still okay with giving up the agency.” She nodded.
He hadn’t held back. He’d confessed his doubts to her, described the agony of letting his baby go. But his choice was clear: the busi-ness or her? It was a no-brainer.
They’d signed the papers to sell to Phil. Next week they would be paid a lot of money. Arrangements had been made to deposit half in his account and half in Claire’s new savings account. Her idea.
Every once in a while, a fearful thought stabbed him. Would she take the money and tell him to take a hike?
Ridiculous. But unsettling nonetheless.
Probably right where she wanted him.
They reached a steep incline covered with boulders of all shapes and sizes. Claire let go of his hand and started to climb.
He grasped her elbow to stop her. “Claire, are you sure about this?”
She looked back at him. “Is my knight in shining armor with me?”
He smiled. Talk about nicknames. He liked that one. “Right here.”
“Then I’m sure. Let’s go.”
Ninety-two
Claire watched Max pile stones in front of the gold-mine entrance. He wore blue jeans and a brown T-shirt. The muscles in his biceps and forearms bulged with each hefting of a large rock. The sun beat down on the back of his head and accented the salt in his pepper hair. It would turn all white someday, like Ben’s. Perspiration glistened on his neck.
When was the last time she’d noticed him as a flesh-and-blood man?
She shut her eyes. The insides of the lids were bright.
For so long she had considered him the source of all that was wrong in her life. She blamed him for her inability to stand on her own two feet. She blamed religious teachers for garbling the precept of sub-mission and making her think she had to lose her identity in Max’s. She blamed her parents for a crummy childhood that did not equip her to stand on her own two feet in the first place.
Lord, I’m sorry for it all.
It was time, as she had told Max weeks ago, to take ownership. Now she knew how.
She opened her eyes. “Max, wait.”
“Hmm?” He turned to her.
“Don’t close it up. I want to go inside.”
Concern wr
inkled his brow, and his shoulders heaved, but he didn’t say anything.
“I have to finish it.”
“I’ll come with you.”
She shook her head. “Just wait for me.”
Claire crawled and, where the tunnel fit tight as a sock around her body, inched along on her stomach.
They hadn’t brought flashlights. With each forward move, the sun-light diminished.
She was going into total darkness.
And the memory came again.
She didn’t fight it this time.
“Jesus, Indio said You were there. She said You are outside of time. Help me believe that. Help me stop believing the lie—that lie rooted in the past that says people who love me will always shove me into a dark cellar and leave me there.”
A wave of nausea hit her. She lay flat, her face against her arm.
Jesus, please help me.
After a few moments, the queasiness passed.
And she knew she could keep going.
Indio’s words pressed in upon her. Jesus is there. Claire didn’t see anything now except that old root cellar and the angry faces of her parents. But from the depths of her being, a new understanding took hold.
In the mystery where time did not exist, Jesus was. He had been with her when she was a little girl. He had wept for her. He had died on the cross for her and for her parents and for the awful hurts they’d done and for the awful hurts that must have been done to them.
“Lord, help me forgive my mom and dad. Help me forgive Max.”
In the pitch black, Claire felt the tunnel sides give way. She must have reached the first small opening. Slowly she shifted to a sitting position.
The night of the fire, tumbling from the confines of the tunnel, she had screamed. She had known gut-wrenching terror. She had seethed with hatred for Max. She had vomited, her body rejecting it all, but the ugliness and fears were not released. They remained inside of her, where they had resided since that day long ago when she was three years old.
Until now.
A quiet flowed over her like a soft desert wind. Its warmth seeped through into her very bones.
It was over.
She smiled. “Thank You.”
“Max!” Claire called as she wiggled toward the sunlight. “Max!”
His face appeared at the end of the tunnel. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
She laughed. “I am so okay.”
At last she emerged from the tunnel. He helped her stand up and scooped her into an embrace. “I love you, Claire.”
She kissed him soundly on the mouth. “And I love you, Max. Hey.” She leaned back to look him in the eyes, seeing a flame light there that surely mirrored her own. “I was wondering. Do you want to spend the night at my place?”
His burst of laughter rolled through the hills.
Grinning, she leaned into him, her face against his chest. As the rumble of his laugh faded, his heartbeat resounded in her ear. She listened closely, as if it were a piece of unfamiliar music. She let its strong, steady cadence flow through her until her own heart pulsed with it.
And then . . . she felt safe. So . . . incredibly . . . safe.
In the cave, alone with God, she had reached at long last her true safe harbor. She understood that. Now, though, enfolded in Max’s arms, it seemed God poured yet another gift into her soul: a hus-band whose love would be her home, her earthly safe harbor.
“Max.” She looked up at him.
His half-masted eyes said they’d talked enough for one day.
When he kissed her, it felt like the very first time.
She began to imagine shoving her stuffed lion into the trash bin. She hoped it would fit, because it sure wasn’t going to fit in her bed anymore.
Ninety-three
The next morning, Claire smiled at Max across the small dinette table that filled up half of her small living room. “That was nice.”
His dark eyes twinkled. His lips curved into a sly grin. “Nice doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“I was talking about breakfast.”
“Breakfast was great too.”
She sighed. “Is this our future? Here it is a Friday. We spent yesterday with your parents. Today we ate breakfast together. We even cooked together. And you’re not jumping up to go to the office. I could get used to this.”
“Me too. Except the part about telling my parents I won’t be home until morning.”
She laughed. “Seriously, could you get used to this?”
He studied her face. “Hmm. Something is on your mind.”
She grinned. “You’re getting awfully good at reading me.”
“I certainly hope so.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “What’s up?”
A tingle sent shivers up and down her spine. The delicious sensation had been occurring frequently the past few weeks. She suspected it had to do with getting used to the idea that Max wanted to be with her.
“Sweetheart?”
The quiver melted into an ooey-gooey contentment. She knew she could say anything to him. “Okay, here’s what I’m wondering. Do you think consulting for Phil will be enough for you to do?”
“I’m sure it will.”
“Come on. Give it a little thought.”
“I admit it won’t be easy. And I’ve told you that for a while I will be going into the office regularly.”
“Mm-hmm.” She tried not to wrinkle her nose. It seemed a setup for him to easily slide back into the old routine, but she refused to dwell on that thought. “Regularly. Not as in the old regular sixteen hours a day?”
“No. Some days I take the reins back from him and don’t even realize I’m doing it. He’s strong enough to talk straight, though. He tells me to back off. I’ll get reprogrammed, and I will be fine.”
“You might need a hobby. Or . . . something.”
His brows rose.
“Remember when we first met? We both wanted to save the world. I jumped on your bandwagon because you had the greatest idea: a staffing firm. You could find jobs for people. What better way to save at least a corner of the world?”
He nodded.
“It was a good work you did, Max.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe there’s another corner of the world for us to work on.” She paused. “This just came to me last night. You know what the world doesn’t have enough of? Safe harbors. There used to be this perfect place up in the hills. It needs some work. A lot of work, actually. But the walls are there, solid as ever. The roof. And the reputation. The owners are aging. They need some help.” She shrugged.
“Hmm.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm.” His tone went up.
“Mm-hmm.”
Max leaned his head to one side. “It’s something to consider.”
“And pray about.”
“Definitely. I don’t want to leave God out of the equation any longer. I think it’s time we started praying together too.”
Claire smiled. “I think it’s time I moved home.”
She watched the tears well in his eyes and knew without a doubt it was time.
“Want to help me pack?”
He nodded, and his tears spilled over.
She went around the table, slid onto his lap, and pulled him close. “I’m your safe harbor, too, hon.”
He nodded again and blubbered like a child in her arms.
Ninety-four
It’s a no-brainer.” Max nuzzled the back of Claire’s neck.
“What is?” She twisted around, planted a kiss on his cheek, and then turned again to the kitchen counter. “Stuffing this turkey?”
He watched her deft finger truss up the huge bird’s legs. Claire’s hands fascinated him. In years past, he’d never really noticed them. But for three weeks now, since she had moved home, they had intrigued him, most especially when she played her violin. He would sit with her, dazed, admiring their strength and dexterity.
There had been so much he nev
er really noticed. Like stuffing turkeys.
He said, “No, I’m not talking about the turkey. I will never say again that anything related to homemaking is a no-brainer. Helping you prepare this morning—or is it night? It’s still pitch-black out there.” He glanced through the windows. “I had no idea the amount of work that goes into making Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I appreciate the appreciation.” She winked at him.
“It’s a little overdue.”
“I’m okay with ‘Better late than never.’”
She kept forgiving him like that, quick as the blink of her eye. He smiled. “The no-brainer is figuring out what I’m grateful for this year.”
“That is an easy one.”
“I mean besides all the obvious things, like we’re alive and we’re together, blah, blah, blah.” He nibbled on her earlobe and whispered, “I’m grateful my folks are still asleep, and soon as we shove this bird in the oven, we have nothing else to do until the kids show up, hours and hours from now.”
“Oh my. You do live on another planet.”
“What?”
She moved to the sink and washed her hands. “There are pota-toes to peel, crystal to wash, and a table to set. That’s just for starters. All of which I would have done yesterday, but we were too busy.”
“Like every day. What exactly did we do?”
“Exactly doesn’t matter.” She opened the oven door. “We’re together.”
He picked up the heavy roasting pan and slid it into the oven. “Like never before.”
Claire shut the door and slid her arms around his waist. “Like never before.”
He laid his hands on her shoulders. The day held more in store for them than a turkey dinner.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, here we go. Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“I am absolutely sure about this. Are you?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
She smiled.
“Claire, I love you so much.” He kissed her. And he kissed her. And he kissed her. Until time and space faded from his consciousness.
She sighed and looked up at him, her face rosy, her eyes unfocused. “That was nice, dear.” Her voice was thick. “But you still have to peel potatoes.”
Max stood in the living room, a crackling fire in the fireplace behind him, a white, shirt-sized gift box in his hands. Claire had tied a yellow ribbon around it and formed a simple bow on top. He never would have thought of doing that, but now, alone with his parents, he was grateful for her simple, feminine touch to soften the moment.
