Claire Knows Best

by Tracey Bateman

  “For a run. Do you mind starting supper? I bought a frozen Stouffer’s lasagna. Follow the directions on the box.”

  “Yuck.” She wrinkles her perky little cheerleader nose. “Why can’t you ever cook a real meal?”

  I guess she’s forgetting about the canned chicken casserole I made night before last (and that we had again last night so as not to be wasteful). She could give me a little bit of A for effort.

  Still, I hide my hurt and answer her question with my trademark rapier wit. “Because I don’t want to spoil you, honey.” Oh yeah. Good one. Snap, snap, and snap.

  Rolling one’s eyes should not be an art form, but my daughter has it perfected. “All those preservatives are killing us from the inside out, Mother. We shouldn’t be eating this garbage. Especially the little boys. You’ll stunt their growth.”

  Her concern for her brothers is truly touching. “Duly noted.” I reach for the door and give her a little wave as she resumes her phone conversation. “I’ll be back.”

  “Wait a sec, Ma. Paddy says you better stay in. He’s IMing with one of his friends in Springfield. They’re getting hammered with a storm. And it’s headed our way.”

  Yeah, like I’m really going to listen to an adolescent boy. Besides, I’m sick of people telling me what to do. I’m taking a stand. “Thank Paddy for looking out for me,” I call, as I step onto the porch and shut the door behind me.

  Patrick Devine is the pastor’s son and the boy who has captured my daughter’s heart every other month during the past six. Intermittently, she’s dated Craig Miller, Nate Cooper, and Tyler Lincoln. But she always comes back around to Paddy. I think he may be the one. If not, he’ll at least be the one she remembers in years to come as the first boy she ever loved.

  Sitting on the step, I pull on my Nikes. The spring wind is blowing like crazy, warm and comforting, breezing up the scents of fresh grass and daffodils, honeysuckle and roses. A sudden gust whips through the gutters with a high-pitched whistle.

  I like the idea of running against a strong wind. With Paddy’s warning in my mind, I give momentary attention to a distant rumble of thunder. Typical for a Missouri spring. Something about it always makes me feel powerful. Woman against the elements.

  Still, I glance at the sky just to be sure there are no threatening clouds. The sun is making a brave showing, trying to peek through. If the storm is moving seventy miles an hour straight down the interstate, it’s still going to take almost an hour to get here. Plenty of time to pound my frustrations into the pavement before I’m forced to unplug the electrical appliances. Well, okay, there’s no way I’m going to run for a whole hour, anyway. The point is I’m not likely to get soaked before I get back home.

  I slide on my headphones, clip my nifty little iPod to my shorts, and off I go. (Yeah, I should probably stretch, but I never do. Too impatient to hit the open road.) Blasting to Hillsongs Youth band, I feel my spirits lifting at the mere mention of Jesus being the center of my life.

  I smile and wave at my boyfriend, Greg, as I jog by his house—formerly my mother’s house before she hightailed it to Texas last fall to live with my brother, Charley. Funny, I grew up in that house, but my best memories I have from there happened this past Christmas Eve, when I received my first Greg kiss under a construction-paper mistletoe hanging over the doorway to the kitchen. (My second Greg kiss happened less than a minute after the first. My third and fourth happened on my front porch before I watched him walk back to his house.)

  Things are going well, I suppose. Except Greg’s been trying to pin me down for a serious conversation over the past week. Knowing the possibility is high that he will want to talk about joining our lives, I’m excited and scared all at the same time. So I keep avoiding the issue. And in order to avoid the issue, I’ve been forced to avoid him, as well.

  Only now he’s standing on his front porch with a humongous frown on his face. His mouth moves and he jogs down his steps toward me. My chest tightens. Can’t a girl go for a run? Spend a few minutes alone and try to figure a way to heat up a cooling career? Bury her head in the proverbial sand so she doesn’t have to discuss a future where she might have to give up a little independence?

  What is wrong with me? One minute I pray for someone with whom to share my life. The next I worry about whether or not I’ll be able to watch what I want on TV or be forced to watch the military channel—ugh—or football.

  I need therapy. I know I do. Or at the very least I need someone to help me point my life in the right direction. I’ve been thinking of looking into hiring a life coach since they’re all the rage. Only all the life coaches I’ve found are full of New Age mumbo jumbo. I want someone whose head is, at the very least, screwed on tighter than mine—and, really, that shouldn’t be a tough find.

  But there’s no time to think about that right now. Greg’s striding my way. The closer he gets, the more my heart starts to pick up, and I forgive him for invading my personal space. Greg is gorgeous. Dark hair, Andy Garcia eyes. I think I’m in love. I really do.

  He’s talking, but I’m not hearing. He points to my ears. Headphones. I slip them off. “Sorry. Want to go for a jog with me?”

  Jogging is something we’ve enjoyed doing together during the past few months. And given my desire to do some thinking, I consider it a generous invitation. I flash him my winningest smile.

  Only Greg isn’t liking the idea. His brows are furrowed, and his eyes look more like mean, controlling Andy Garcia in Ocean’s Eleven and Twelve. Not the sweet, ever patient one in When a Man Loves a Woman. He gives a frustrated grunt and waves his arms like a crazy person. “Are you out of your mind?” he questions in a voice slightly above his normal tone. I get the feeling he’s sort of yelling at me. “There are tornados all over the place.”

  Another fairly common threat during a Missouri spring.

  I glance at the sky. Darkening, but still pretty bright. No telltale green clouds to indicate a tornado. “Looks okay to me,” I say, with flippant disregard for his concern.

  His darkening gaze is all I need to tell me what he thinks of my answer. “The squall line is just to our west. And storms travel west to east.”

  I swear, if he says, “Young lady…”

  I squeeze my brow into a frown to match his, because quite frankly, he’s beginning to tick me off a little. “I know that.”

  “I’ve been trying to call you for thirty minutes.” His high-and-mighty attitude isn’t helping to soothe my irritation. Not one bit. “I assumed you weren’t home.”

  “I had an important business call,” I say, taking a page out of Stu’s book and trying to sound superior. “I figured you could wait. That’s why I didn’t take your call. You do remember that I work from my home phone, cell phone, and e-mail?”

  He gathers what I’ve come to recognize as a steadying breath. “Yes, I remember.” His thoughtful gaze peruses my face, and he hesitates like he’s going to say something, then thinks better of it—which is probably just as well. “Why don’t you come inside? I have the radio tuned into the weather report. We can run down to the basement if a tornado gets close.”

  “I can’t. The kids are home.”

  “Okay. How about I come over to your house, then? Sadie’s at Mom’s.”

  I hesitate. I’m not really ready to let go of my grudge, but the image of cuddling with Greg while the storm rages outside sort of melts away any memory of exactly why his bossiness bugged me in the first place.

  He gives me a fake pout. “I’m scared of storms.”

  Grinning like a lovesick fool, I nod. “All right, come over. I’ll protect you.”

  “Hang on while I make sure I unplugged everything.” Greg’s a double-checker. I’m usually running so late I barely check anything the first time.

  I stay on the porch, watching the gathering storm in the west as the sky grows darker by the second. I shudder just as Greg reappears.

  I take his outstretched hand and my knees nearly buckle when he laces warm f
ingers through mine.

  “You know there’s not going to be a tornado, right?” I say. “We never actually get one.”

  A crash of thunder hammers through the air like a sonic boom and I jump, glad that I’m not out running in it. As Greg’s arms encircle me, I gather in the scent of his understated aftershave. Mmm. My stomach hip-hops and I smile into his shining face.

  “I could get used to this,” he murmurs, just before lowering his head. His mouth covers mine. I don’t know if he’s trying to make a point or not, but he’s never kissed me like this before. My ears roar. I’m not sure if it’s thunder or my heart pounding in my ears.

  Oh yeah, I could definitely get used to this.

  Let the storm beat against my house. Let the winds blow. I’m in the arms of the man I love.

  2

  Being in the arms of the man you love is little consolation when a tornado is bearing down on your house with the speed of an airplane and the roar of a train. Huddled in the basement of my home, my four children, Greg, and I are definitely in touch with our mortality.

  I can’t speak for anyone else, but never again will I take life for granted. No more artery-clogging food, no more skipping exercise in favor of a mocha latte down at Churchill’s (the cute little coffee shop I love so much). No more driving even a block without my seat belt, or punching it at a yellow light, or going eighty in a sixty-mile-per-hour stretch of highway. From now on, it’s the straight and narrow for this chick.

  And these are the promises I’m making God as the basement windows rattle so loudly I’m sure they’re about to blow. I lunge for the two blankets folded on the end of the couch and fling them over my children to protect them from shards of glass should that happen.

  I’m glad I’m not alone, and Greg’s great comfort, but sometimes a person just wants her mommy. I can attest to that, not only because I’m thinking of mine right now, but because all four of my children are clamoring about like pups around a mother dog. Snuggling and romance are the farthest things from either my mind or Greg’s. I know he’s frantic to call and check on his daughter and mother, who are just across town in Greg’s childhood home. But for now, he’s hanging on like the rest of us amid the shaking, roaring, and clattering.

  Ari gives off an ear-splitting scream as an enormous boom shakes the house. For the kids’ sakes, I try not to show fear, but I dread what we might find once we are able to leave the basement. Will there be anything left of my house?

  Suddenly everything goes silent. “What’s happening, Mom?” Tommy, my brave fourteen-year-old boy lifts his head from where it’s been gouging my spine. “Are we in the eye of the tornado?”

  “What are you talking about?” He always comes up with the weirdest stuff. Like the time he thought agoraphobia was the fear of gore. And hydrophobia, the fear of hydrants. The boy has his days.

  “I saw it in a movie once. Everything got quiet and they thought the tornado was over so they went outside and got sucked into the vortex.”

  Ari lifts her head from under my left arm. “That’s The Wizard of Oz, idiot.” Nice to see that fear hasn’t dampened her spirit.

  “No it wasn’t, idiot,” he returns.

  Oh, brother. Nipping this thing in the bud is the only thing that will keep me from screaming. I open my mouth, but Greg beats me to it.

  “Hey, you two,” he says, and I can hear the tension in his voice. “Knock it off. This isn’t exactly the time to be fighting over movie titles.”

  “Whatever.” Tommy knows he’s not supposed to say that word in that context—mainly because it drives me nuts. But I know everyone is tense, so I’m going to let it slide. This time.

  Ari jerks her chin and looks back at me like I should step in and fuss at Greg for getting on them. I roll my eyes. I mean, am I the only one who just heard a sound that, for all we know, could have been my house imploding?

  It’s been quiet outside for a few minutes now, so I figure it’s time to check out the damage overhead. I disengage Jakey, my eight-year-old boy from my lap and pat Shawny’s back. He’s at my feet with his arms still clutching my legs. “Shawn, honey. Get up.” He grabs on tighter. “It’s okay, babe. It’s all over.”

  Slowly he raises his chin and I capture his gaze. Love-mingled compassion squeezes my heart with one look at my eleven-year-old’s tear-stained face and fear-filled eyes. I gather him up in my arms. “Come on, now. Everything is going to be fine. You’re safe now.”

  “What a big baby,” Tommy says, disdain thick in his tone.

  I shoot him a shut-up-or-you’ll-have-me-to-deal-with glare. “Don’t be mean.”

  Tommy’s chest swells with macho-man bravado now that the noise has subsided. “I’m going to check out the house.”

  “No. Greg and I will go up in a few minutes.”

  “Whatever,” he mutters, and stares daggers at Greg.

  Unaffected by the boy’s hostility, Greg takes the remote and by some miracle, the cable is on. The weather guys are talking about the storm that, apparently, only hit this side of town and totally skirted off to the east without so much as a raindrop on the swanky part of town, where my ex-husband lives. (And if anyone deserves to be the victim of a freak tornado… ah well, best not to go there.) Besides, the weather guys aren’t even confirming a tornado. Geniuses.

  Shawn’s body shudders and I tighten my grip on him. Settling back, I hold him for a while until he stops trembling and before long I realize he’s fallen asleep. I press a kiss to his head and set him gently on the couch, carefully standing as I do so.

  Greg and I exchange a glance. His brow lifts in question. I nod. “Kids, we’re going up to check on things. Stay down here until we give the all clear. Understand?”

  “Why can’t we go up and see, too?” Jakey asks. The kid’s played too many video games and seen too many disaster flicks. He has no sense of reality.

  “Because it might be dangerous, bud,” Greg says. “Your mom and I need to check it out first.”

  I stand at the bottom of the basement steps and brace myself. Who knows what we’ll find beyond that door?

  Greg goes on ahead and turns to look at me. “Are you coming, Claire?” I nod, taking the stairs one agonizing step at a time.

  I stop short after we walk through the basement door and into the living room. Other than a few pictures hanging askew, I see no house-shaking damage. We wander into the kitchen and suddenly the noise makes sense. Okay, I’m not sure how, but the dishwasher has loosened from its cubbyhole and has rolled all the way across the floor and crashed into the fridge.

  Relief swarms through me. “I guess that’s the boom we heard.”

  But Greg’s frowning and I don’t think he’s buying it. Which is what I was afraid of.

  “Why don’t you get the kids and take them outside? I’d like to check out the upstairs.”

  “Take them outside? Why?”

  “I have a hunch.” He bends and brushes my lips with a kiss. “Trust me?”

  Well, what’s a girl to do? I nod and head for the basement. “Kids! Come on up here. Greg wants us to go outside. And bring the blankets. It’s cooled off quite a bit.”

  I hear Ari. “Shawn, wake up! Wake up. We’re going outside before the house falls in.”

  Falls in? Is that what Greg’s worried about?

  The kids and I are ready to go out about the same time Greg is coming back downstairs. His face is a little white.

  “What?” I ask. My stomach is twisted in knots because Greg doesn’t rattle very easily.

  “The tree fell on your roof.”

  “Th-the big one?”

  He gives me a nod.

  “Cool!” Tommy yells like only a clueless fourteen-year-old boy can in a situation such as this. He heads for the stairs. Greg snatches him by the arm just in time.

  “You can’t go up there. It’s dangerous.”

  Tommy’s gaze is as dark and stormy as the sky was an hour ago. He jerks his arm out of Greg’s grip. “You can’t tell me what
to do. You’re not my dad.”

  Now that’s an original line. I’ve been wondering when it might crop up and which of my kids would be the first to blurt it out. If I’d have placed bets, though, I’d have put my money on Ari. Guess it’s a good thing I’m not a gambler.

  I look my son square in the eye, in no mood to bargain, cajole, or, for that matter, be even the least bit nice. “Greg may not be your dad, but he’s right. You’re not going upstairs. Get your behind outside. Right now.”

  He’s muttering under his breath as he clods to the door and yanks it open.

  I snatch my cell from the coffee table where it’s been charging since I got home earlier. I’m dialing Rick and Darcy as I step out.

  “Hi, Rick, it’s me.”

  I’m a little surprised at the relief in his tone. So maybe he’s not envisioning me with my feet sticking out from under the house like the Wicked Witch of the East. Ding dong, the ex is dead… okay, maybe he wouldn’t go that far. “Thank God. I saw on the news that the storm did damage in your part of town. We barely had any wind over here. I’ve been trying to call, but they kept telling me circuits were busy. And there was no answer on your cell.”

  “Holy moly!” Tommy hollers. “Look at the roof!”

  I walk down the steps, dreading what I’m going to see. In this computer-generated world we live in, it’s not easy to excite a kid. And my kids are all starting to get nerved up. “It’s all right, Rick. Stop freaking out. We were in the basement. The kids are fine.”

  “Is everything okay though?”

  “Not exactly. We have some tree damage, and I need the kids to stay over there with you.”

  “How are they?” he asks.

  “Upset, but fine otherwise. But we can’t stay in the house right now until we get some repairs done.”

  “How bad is it?”

  I turn and follow my children’s gazes.

  Holy moly. That is some tree.