Claire Knows Best

by Tracey Bateman

  Sadie picks this moment to bang on the window. Greg drops his arms from my waist and turns to his girl, opening the door. “What, sweetie?”

  “Can we go home now?” she asks sleepily. And I could kiss her for getting me out of this conversation.

  “You better get her to bed, Greg,” I say in my oh-so-sacrificial tone. “She has school tomorrow. You both do.”

  He nods. “All right, Sadie. We’ll go in a sec.” Closing the door, he turns back to me and presses a swift kiss to my lips. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  Associate pastor. That’ll make me an associate pastor’s wife.

  Lord, have mercy.

  Helen’s kitchen is every woman’s dream. An island stove top and grill. All stainless-steel appliances, which just happens to be my favorite kind of kitchen. Gorgeous hand-crafted wood cabinets everywhere. Granite countertops.

  She glances up from her perch at the bar and waves me to a seat. “I’ll get your tea.” By the cinnamony scents wafting from the oven, I think Helen has gone to a little more trouble than merely setting a teakettle on the stove.

  Grabbing a potholder, she confirms my suspicion. “I had some cinnamon rolls left over from yesterday’s baking. I have them warming in the oven. I hope you like them.”

  Is she kidding? I can feel my hips spreading just thinking about gooey, warm, iced cinnamon rolls.

  “Yum. You’re not trying to fatten me up so Greg will lose interest, are you?”

  Her brown eyes, so like Greg’s, twinkle as she sets a cup and saucer in front of me and a little plate with an enormous roll next to it. “Not a chance. I’m tickled pink that he’s found you.”

  Taken aback by her sincerity, I’m embarrassed into silence, so I bite and chew quick-like to avoid the necessity of a reply. “Delifshush,” I say with my mouth full.

  I’d rather snuggle up in one of the branches of my house tree than have to engage Helen in a conversation about my relationship with Greg. But Helen, it seems, is settling in for a nice long chat.

  She sets a serving plate between us with at least six warm cinnamon rolls and my palms start to sweat. Nervousness hits me on two levels. One, like I said, I don’t want to talk to her about Greg. I have a bad habit of saying too much. Two, I could easily eat every one of those soft, yeasty, calorie-and-fat-laden treats of comfort and delight.

  My heart is beating as though I’ve been pushed into a corner. I know there’s only one way out of this. I fake a big, wide yawn, complete with an over-the-head arm stretch. I may have overdone it, because the expression on Helen’s face is anything but clueless.

  “You’ve had an exhausting evening,” she says, totally letting me off the hook even though I know darn well she has my number. “I’ll put these away for breakfast.”

  Relieved beyond words, I swallow my last bite while nodding my approval as she grabs plastic wrap from a drawer and proceeds to cover the baked goods. My nerves are beginning to calm. I’m halfway to escape. And honestly, I’m beginning to feel the effects of the stressful evening. I’m more than ready to take a shower and lose myself in that enormous bed.

  The tea presents another challenge, though. It’s steaming hot. No gulping for a hasty exit. And after I said I wanted some, I can’t really leave the cup full without making a valiant effort to drink it down.

  Again, Helen comes to the rescue. “You look about ready to drop, dear. Why don’t you take your tea up to your room with you?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” She swipes at the countertop with a damp cloth. “We’ll have plenty of chances for girl talk. And I promise not to pry into your relationship with my son.”

  I slide off the stool and snatch my cup and saucer from the counter. “I’m that obvious, huh?”

  “Never try to play poker, Claire. You’ll lose your shirt.” She laughs.

  Amusement slips through me. She’s right about that. I couldn’t bluff my way out of a paper bag. I mull this over as I climb the steps, carefully hanging onto the saucer so that I don’t drop it or spill the contents of the cup. Isn’t it better to be a straight shooter? To be honest at all costs? At least no one ever has to wonder where they stand with me. That’s a quality I admire in the people I keep close to me. I want to know truth above all else. Even my children know that they’ll get in a lot less trouble if they own up to whatever it is they’ve done. And there’s always something. Believe me.

  I enter the amazing bedroom and go to work immediately emptying bags of underwear, bras, shirts, jeans, all things I could find on sale. I didn’t venture too far from Sears. Other than the size 10 Gap jeans and to Dillards for Clinique skin care and makeup. Still, five hundred dollars doesn’t go that far when you have to buy a little bit of everything, so it doesn’t take long to put everything away.

  I grab my new SpongeBob pj bottoms and a black undershirt I bought to sleep in. (I really wanted to get a silky nightgown, but Greg was hovering. I had to order him out of the lingerie section when I picked out new bras and underwear.)

  I enter the bathroom and have to bite back a cry of ecstasy. A Jacuzzi tub. Okay, all thoughts of a shower are firmly removed from my mind. Now I have to go borrow a book from Helen so I can soak and read.

  I pad barefoot out to the hallway. I notice a light glowing from the bedroom at the other end of the hall and assume that’s where Helen’s at.

  I tap on the door.

  “Come in,” Helen calls. I enter the master bedroom and my jaw drops. I’m pathetic. It’s downright elegant. “Is something wrong?” Helen is sitting up in bed, reading by the light of a beautiful brass lamp sitting on her nightstand.

  “I wondered if you might have a book I can read.” Too late I remember I faked a yawn to get out of our conversation. But considering she wasn’t fooled in the first place, I’m not surprised by her warm smile.

  She nods toward a nook in the corner of the room. “Help yourself.”

  Wide-eyed, I step across to a little built-in library. “Wow. This is amazing.”

  “Jim built it for me as a surprise on our tenth anniversary,” she says from the other room. “That used to be the nursery. When we bought the house, I dreamed of keeping it full. But it took us seven years to have Greg and I couldn’t have any more after him. I suppose nowadays we could find a way. But doctors didn’t know then what they do now about fertility.”

  My heart goes out to her. I can’t imagine life without my brood. Just thinking about it, the loneliness squeezes my heart. How will I survive without my kids for what could be weeks? I’m trying to find the proper response when she apparently takes my silence for what it is: me not knowing what to say.

  “Anyway, Jim knew the nursery made me sad, so he shipped Greg and me off to my mother’s for a week and while I was gone, he did this as a surprise.”

  I pull on the top of a book to bring it close enough to read the spine. “That’s sweet. It’s easy to see where Greg gets his nurturing.”

  “Yes. He was close to his father until Jim passed away during Greg’s senior year of high school. He went a little wild. I don’t think he would have married Kimberly if she hadn’t gotten pregnant.”

  Startled, I drop the book back into place and step out of the library. “What?”

  Her face goes white and I get the distinct feeling Greg’s mom has just let the cat out of the proverbial bag. “Greg hasn’t told you about Kimberly?”

  Well, he definitely hasn’t said anything about getting her pregnant before marriage. The thing is I am not one to throw stones. I wasn’t a paragon of virtue before my wedding night to Rick. My shock has nothing to do with judgment, but rather the fact that he’s never bothered to tell me such an important detail. I try to hide my rising irritation. “Other than the fact that he loved her and she died three years ago, no.”

  “Well, I probably shouldn’t go into it.”

  Come on, sure you should. I mean, you’ve already spilled more than I knew.

  I think the lady must b
e a mind reader, because she echoes my thoughts. “Well, I suppose I’ve already opened my mouth, I can’t really leave you hanging, can I?”

  “I’ll sleep better if you don’t.”

  She pats her mattress and I pad across the soft, rose-colored carpet and climb up into her bed. “I don’t understand. If Kimberly was pregnant that long ago, shouldn’t Greg have a teenager?”

  Her face clouds and she nods. “They were married a week after Greg found out about the baby. By a judge, of all people. I wanted them to at least have a minister do the service, but Kim wasn’t much on church.”

  I’ve rarely seen Greg’s mom with anything but a smile on her face, but now there’s definitely a scowl, and I’m tempted to assure her that when I marry Greg, we will definitely do it at the altar, complete with a communion service and our pastor presiding over the whole thing.

  I’m relieved when she continues without awaiting a response from me. “She lost the baby within a month of their marriage. Greg never actually said anything, but I knew he felt cheated out of so much in life. He had planned to go to college on a basketball scholarship.” She gives me a sad little smile. “He really was good enough, I think, to have gone on to play professional basketball. But he couldn’t go off and play college ball with a wife at home. Kim still had one year of high school.

  “Not long after the marriage, Kim’s mother left her father and moved to Arizona. Kim cried until Greg felt he had no choice but to try to make her happy.” She expels a soft sigh. “She was so young. Too young to be separated from her mother. She didn’t even wait to graduate. They moved to Tucson at the end of the summer. Kim finished her last year of high school and Greg went to college and got his teaching degree.”

  “That shows a lot of character. How many guys would have had such a sense of responsibility?”

  She nods, but her eyes are staring at the comforter as though she’s reliving the past. “Greg grew to love Kim in his own way. They began attending church and she eventually found the Lord. I think that helped his feelings toward her. At any rate, he chose to make the best out of his life. I think he would have had children sooner, but Kimberly was afraid after the miscarriage.”

  “No wonder he’s so close to Sadie.”

  “They have a bond that’s even stronger than most little girls and their daddies.” Her gaze pierces me. “But it’s not a substitute for the bond between a man and a woman. I thank God for bringing you into my son’s life.” Her eyes get a little misty and I’m feeling like a big jerk for turning him down earlier. “I think he’s really in love for the first time in his life, Claire. He’s happy.”

  “I’m glad. He makes me happy, too.” A lame response, but I’m at a loss for words, so it’s the best I can do. “Well, I better get that book and let you get some sleep. Thank you for telling me all of this. I guess if Greg had wanted me to know, he would have told me. So I feel a little guilty knowing.” I send her a grin. “But I’m still glad you told me.”

  “Well, he should have told you months ago. I think he just wants to let it go.”

  “I guess so.” Back in the library, I grab the first book I come across that looks even remotely engaging. When I come out, Helen still seems to be deep in thought. “Good night,” I say.

  “Good night, dear. I hope you won’t be angry with Greg about all of this.”

  “Naw. I’m sure he would have told me eventually.”

  But on the way back to my room, it rankles me a little that Greg hasn’t been very forthcoming about his first wife. I never really thought to ask too much. I guess I just thought he loved her too much to talk about her. Now I know it was just that he didn’t want to rehash all of his past mistakes. I guess I can appreciate that, but it still doesn’t help my suspicious side cope with one nagging question: What else has he kept from me?

  5

  The next afternoon Greg has made good on his promise to find me a contractor. I’m more than a little worried that the guy is so readily available on such short notice in the spring—the beginning of a busy season for most contractors. Nevertheless, Milton Travis is standing upstairs in my house, wearing a ratty red cap, looking over the damage so he can give me an estimate. His presence helps me to push aside the whole “associate pastor” situation. It’s a welcome relief, and I can’t help but breathe a little easier that I’m moving forward on my house so quickly.

  Milt, the contractor, lets off a long, low whistle. “That is some big tree.”

  His uncanny penchant for understatement just fills me with raw emotion. And not in a good way. To make matters worse, the guy has that bend-over butt-crack syndrome that guys with beer bellies and tool belts tend to get. And every time he bends over to look at the tree from another angle, I’m forced to avert my gaze. We may have to work out some sort of warning system if he’s going to be a permanent fixture around here for the next few weeks.

  “So, what do you think?” I ask.

  “Well, hon,” he says, and this is my second indication I’m not going to like this guy (the aforementioned butt-crack syndrome being the first). I don’t have any patience with “hon”-calling men. “First thing you’re gonna have to do is get yourself a tree-removal service.”

  I assumed he would just take care of it all. Take off the tree, fix the roof. This is going to be a step-by-step process involving more people to hire? I feel my stomach sinking down to my toes. The more people involved in anything, the more complicated things become.

  “Oh, sure. Mostly they take care of trees that folks want yanked out of the ground and moved. But most of ’em take care of storm damage kind of stuff, too.”

  Well, this one is already yanked out of the ground, compliments of Mother Nature, so there’s one step eliminated. “Okay, so first we have to move the tree.”

  “Yep.”

  “Then what? How much and how long will it take to get you to fix my roof and the inside of the rooms?”

  “Well, I cain’t be for sure until I get a good look. But more than likely it’ll run you in the ballpark of thirty or forty thousand. And I’ll need a third of that up front.”

  I do a mental assessment of my bank account. Thanks to years of saving every extra penny, I could just come up with the money, and then replace it when the insurance check comes through. But gee whiz, if the guy makes that kind of money on one job, surely he can afford a pair of pants that fit.

  “All right. Can you recommend someone to do the tree removal?”

  He scratches his nearly bald head through six strands of hair, strategically combed over to the side and held there with some kind of goop. Either that or it’s just greasy. Ew. “Have you tried the yellow pages?”

  Okay. Big help, buddy.

  “Uh, no. But I’ll do that today and get back with you as soon as I can.”

  Milt grabs his belt loops and jerks his ripped jeans back up over his behind like it’s no big deal that he’s mooning the world. He works his way back down the steps as his pants make their way back down his body. I follow him to the door, keeping my eyes firmly focused on his neck, and bid him good-bye at the door, watching for a sec as he meanders to his work truck, a beat up 1980-something Chevy with “MIL ’S C NTRA TING” painted on the side. Not someone who takes a lot of pride in the little things, I see.

  Totally lacking confidence in my new “c ntra tor,” I shake my head and turn back to the kitchen to grab my phone book. I sit at the table, praying the ceiling doesn’t cave in while I thumb through the yellow pages.

  The phones must be ringing off the hook for these people because the first three companies I call have their answering machines turned on. Finally I find a guy who answers.

  “Yello,” he says.

  “Hello?”

  “Yello.”

  Okay, that’s what I thought he said.

  “Um, Roy’s Tree Removal Service?”

  “Yep.”

  “I have a tree on my roof. Any chance you could come and take it away?”

  “You say
you got a tree on your roof?”

  “Yes. The tornado last night yanked it out of the ground and dropped it there.”

  “That’s tough luck.”

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  “Got a permit?”

  “A what?”

  “A permit from the county. Got to have a permit before I can move it.”

  “I need a permit to remove a tree from my own yard?”

  “Yep. Some of ’em are protected under law.”

  “Good grief.”

  “Well, now, hold on. You say the tree was pulled up out of the ground?”

  “Yes, by the tornado last night.”

  “That right? My wife and I didn’t hear a thing. Didn’t even know about a tornado until we started getting calls this mornin’. Must’ve come whilst we was watchin’ Jeopardy. The wife has bad ears, don’t ya know, and we have to turn the dern thing up so high, it ain’t no wonder we couldn’t hear no tornado.”

  Fascinating story. I fight to squelch my impatience. “Mr. uh-Roy. Who do I have to contact about a permit?”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’re gonna need one.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you just told me the law requires—”

  “That was before I found out it was pulled up. Ain’t much chance it’s alive anymore. Is there?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Do you think you can come over any time soon to do this? I really should get started on repairs.”

  “Oh, sure. I need to round up my boys and we can be over there first thing in the morning. Probably take the better part of two days to get it all gone.”

  I press my forehead into my palm. “All right. I’ll be here in the morning.” I give him the address and hang up the phone, not feeling extremely confident in my chances of ever actually moving back into my house.