“I assure you, everything is fine. How about talking about Greg?”
It doesn’t take much for me to open up here. I give her the history of my relationship with Greg. When I get to the part where he proposed the night of the storm, I’m certain I can hear her sigh. Or is she yawning?
“He sounds like a great guy. What do you think is holding you back from committing to him?”
“Oh, I’m committed. I just feel like I need to have some structure back in my life before I agree to marriage.”
“I see.”
Oh, I hate that. I hate it when people think they see things about me that they don’t.
“Look, I’m not afraid to commit, okay? I am committed to a relationship with him.”
“I believe you.”
“No, you don’t. Look, he wants to be an associate pastor.”
“And how do you feel about that?” Oh man, what is she, a shrink or a life coach? Still, I force myself to calm down and just try to answer the question. After all, isn’t this what the sessions are all about? I gather a deep breath. “I think Greg will be amazing as an associate pastor. He’s warm and wise, and God has truly gifted him for ministry.”
She stays silent. Am I supposed to keep talking without a response, or did she fall asleep? “Emma?”
“I’m still here, Claire. I don’t think you’re finished. What do you think about his becoming an associate pastor?”
I let out a breath. “I’m not sure what my place is going to be in that part of his life.”
I hear a ding in the background and I know my time is up.
“Claire, this week I want you to concentrate on how you are feeling. Journal each night and be very honest.”
“All right.”
“Remember, if you should need to talk through the week, I’m available for more sessions.”
“Thanks.” At a hundred and thirty bucks a pop, I think I’ll just hold it all in and unload once a week.
Greg’s face lights up when he sees me walk into Red Lobster for our dinner date. This is the first time we’ve been out in the two weeks since the tornado, and not only do I need some time to de-stress, I just need to spend the evening alone with him. He’s sitting in the waiting area, but stands as soon as I wade through the other customers waiting for a table.
My heart does a loop-de-loop when he bends forward and brushes his warm lips against my cheek. “Our table should be ready soon.” He leads me to a couch, where we sit shoulder to shoulder. I relish the scent of his cologne (Polo, which I love as long as it’s not overdone).
Our hands are laced and resting on my crossed knee. He runs his thumb along the back of my hand and leans closer. “So, what have you heard from the contractor?” His voice is soft and his lips are next to my ear. The room is buzzing, but I think he does it to be closer to me. And I’m not complaining. Believe me!
“Not a word since a week ago.” I hate to admit it, but I’m starting to worry.
“And you gave him how much up front?”
“Ten thousand dollars.” A third of the estimate. “He said it was standard.”
“Could be. But I think we need to start making some phone calls if you don’t hear from him by Monday.”
“I agree.”
The hostess calls for us, and Greg and I exchange a smile as we stand. Funny how the smallest things mean so much. A touch here. A smile there. Just that sense of belonging to someone. I’ve been thinking a lot about my relationship with Greg lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s worth giving up the remote control for. And if I have to do laundry for two extra people, that’s worth it, too. After all, I’ll have someone to take care of the cars and make sure the garbage is on the curb for the trash collectors each week.
I don’t know. I’m starting to think it would be really great to have a partner in life.
We sit in a quiet little booth out of the way of traffic, for which I’m grateful. I hate getting seated close to the kitchen doors. After we give our drink orders, Greg takes my hands across the table. “It’s nice to have you all to myself for a while.” He’s not kidding! I feel the same way. “I have something important to tell you.”
My heart picks up because I’ve decided if he asks me to marry him again, I’m going to say yes. No more lack of commitment for this chick. I’m ready to take that plunge.
“Look, Claire, you know how much I love you…”
Yes, yes.
“Diet Coke?”
Huh? Stupid waitress. Leave the Coke and go. I sit back and force a smile as she sets down my soda and Greg’s iced tea. “Thank you,” I say in my polite voice.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks, her smile looking a bit stretched. I know how she feels.
“Uh, we haven’t looked at the menu yet.”
I’ve been a waitress so I know she’s just doing her job. But doggone it. Leave already.
Greg smiles at her, and I see her melt a little. I know some women get jealous when other women flirt with their guys, but not me. I figure as long as he’s not flirting back (and Greg’s never done that), then it’s really a compliment to me that other women find him attractive. Right? Or is that weird?
“We don’t want to throw you behind schedule,” he says, “but we haven’t had a chance to spend time together in a couple of weeks and we have a lot of catching up to do. Would you mind coming back in about fifteen minutes? By then we should be ready. I promise we won’t complain about slow service.”
She giggles, and a blush spreads across her face. “I’ll hold you to that.” She gives him a light tap on the shoulder. Okay, that raises an involuntary eyebrow. Flirting is one thing. Touching is quite another. I’m about to hop out of the booth and slam her to the ground when she sends me a “keep this one” wink and walks away.
I sip my Diet Coke and then slip my hands back in Greg’s.
“As I was saying,” he says with a smile, “you know how much I love you.”
“Yes. I love you, too.”
He raises my hands and brushes a kiss across my knuckles—first the left hand, then the right. “I’ve been thinking a lot about your reasoning for not wanting to marry me yet.”
Reasons? What reasons? I know of no reasons why we shouldn’t be wed.
“Yeah, about that, Greg—”
“Let me finish, okay? I just need to say this while I have the courage.”
I know how hard it is for a man to propose when he isn’t sure what the answer will be, so I admire him. I zip my lip, determined that I’m not going to interrupt him until it’s time for me sit trembling ever so slightly while a single tear of joy slips down my alabaster cheek (okay, it’s my fantasy moment—I can have an alabaster cheek if I want to) and falls onto the teardrop-shaped solitaire he’s just placed on the third finger of my left hand.
He pauses to take a sip. Poor guy. He’s about as nervous as a pig at a sausage factory. “It’s all right, Greg. Just say it.”
A smile curves his lips. “You were right. Now isn’t the time for us to marry.”
I don’t have one of those stupid moments where I answer the question I thought he was going to ask. I’m not one of those people who say something dumb like, “Of course I’ll marry you, darling,” when he never proposed. I heard him loud and clear.
Greg just keeps on talking, oblivious to the fact that I’m wishing the earth would open and swallow me in a big hole.
“Your desire to make sure your life is in order and your career on track before you settle down inspired me to want to do the same.” He thumbs my knuckles and I have to force myself to keep from yanking my hands away. How dare he use my former words against me when he knows it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind?
“I thought your life was already on track, Greg,” I say quietly. I’m trying to force a little oomph behind the words, but they fall flat. I’m totally depressed. Can’t help but wish I’d stayed home in my apartment and listened to the loud music coming from the students on either si
de of me, all of whom have decided to take summer classes in order to graduate early.
“I thought it was, too. I mean, I teach a great class of students, I lead worship on Wednesday nights, I have a great girlfriend and a wonderful daughter and a mother who encourages me to follow my dreams. Life is great.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Hey, if the guy’s having a midlife crisis, I’d just as soon he gets it out of his system before bringing it into a marriage anyway.
“I realize that God has called me to something more.”
“More like what? How could you possibly fit anything else into your schedule?” And still have time for me. I slide one hand out of his and reach for my glass.
“I’m going to Bible school. I’m enrolling full-time next year. It’s only a two-year program. But I can receive full ordination upon graduation.”
“Ordination to do what?” I look at him over the rim of my soda glass as I sip from the straw.
“Pastor my own church.”
I shouldn’t have taken the drink. Because it goes down the wrong pipe, and I spend a few seconds coughing my head off.
“Are you okay, Claire?” I’m fighting for air as he slides around to my side of the booth. I know people are starting to stare, but I can’t nix the coughing fit. Greg pounds my back with a little more force than I personally think is necessary. I wonder if he’s letting out his frustration over the fact that I didn’t ooh and ahh over his dumb decision to leave me to go to Bible college—which I happen to know is in Tulsa. He nudges me over and I scoot.
“What about associate pastor? Whatever happened to that plan?” Suddenly that looks extremely inviting.
“The board offered it to me. But to be honest, I didn’t feel like I was supposed to do it. I feel like some day I’ll want to become a pastor, and I want some training before that day comes. For now, I can attend school and when I graduate, Pastor’s already committed to giving me the associate position.”
“Let me get this straight. You can either take the associate position now or you can go away for two years, get schooling, come home, and take the same position you could have anyway?” Without having to go away. What is he thinking?
“I know it seems crazy when you spell it out like that.”
“You got that right.”
He smiles as though indulging a small child. “Honey, if I were interested in becoming an associate and staying in that position, I’d take it and not think about school. But that’s not what I feel God is telling me to do.”
I harrumph a little and fold my arms across my chest. Totally pouting. I mean, gee whiz. I was planning to tell him how wrong I was for hesitating when he brought up the associate position to begin with. I was going to tell him the heck with a big wedding, let’s just get married. Instead, I look him in the eye and frown. “What do you plan to live on while you’re in school?”
“My dad left a large insurance policy. Mom put a lot of it aside for me. Not to mention my inheritance in general. That’s the good thing about being an only child to late-in-life parents. They’re already established before you ever come into the world. The house is paid for. I have a pretty big savings of my own, but I’d have to exhaust it over the two years.” He gives me an apologetic look. “We wouldn’t have a nest egg when we get married.”
Believe me, bucko, nest eggs are the least of my worries at the moment.
There is an excitement flashing in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, and I know there’s no talking him out of this. Someone he loves a lot more than he does me has apparently spoken loud and clear. And as depressed as what he’s saying makes me, who am I to tell him God’s got the wrong idea?
“I’ll be coming home on weekends. Mom and I both think it’s best for Sadie if she stays here rather than uprooting her from school and home. And it’s only a four-hour drive. With your writing schedule, you could come see me through the week at least once a month.”
“Greg,” I say, my stomach sinking so low I’m afraid I’ll step on it if I stand up. Associate pastor was one thing. This is way bigger than what he originally suggested. “Do you realize what this will mean?”
“It will be an adjustment.” He stretches his arm along the top of the booth. “But it’s only for two years, then we can get married and all of this will be behind us. It’ll go by fast.”
Okay, focus, preacher boy, and listen to what Claire’s got to tell you. I turn my body to face him. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
He frowns. “What then?”
“Greg, I can’t be a pastor’s wife.”
8
This is Milton. I’m out of the office right now, but if ya leave your name, number, and a brief message explaining your problem, I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”
Fury burns on the inside of me. I’ve had a rotten weekend as it is, what with Greg’s big announcement Friday night at dinner, and I’m in no mood for this stupid message for the millionth time.
“Milt, this is Claire Everett. There are three rooms in my house that still look like a tree caved in on them. You were supposed to be in touch with me no later than one week ago today and—” Beep.
Shoot.
Milt needs to buy a better answering machine.
I jam my finger on the redial button and wait.
“This is Milton…” Yada yada.
“Claire Everett again. You took ten thousand dollars of my hard-earned money, and I expect one of two things to happen within twenty-four hours. One, you return my money. Two—” Beep.
Grrr. I re-redial.
“This is Milton…” Yeah, yeah, just give me the beep already.
“Okay, Milt. Claire Everett again. Number two, you come to my house in the morning with the materials that were only supposed to take three days—tops—to order. Or three, I will be calling the police.”
I slam the phone down and head to the kitchen table—my office for the next two months (or longer if my contractor never shows up). Before sitting down I grab a mug from the dishwasher and fill it with freshly-brewed vanilla coffee, shake two packets of Sweet’n Low into the dark liquid, then finish off the preparation with a tablespoon of half-and-half.
Only it doesn’t look creamy enough, so I throw caution to the wind and just pour and stir at the same time until it looks right. I sit in front of my borrowed laptop.
Instead of focusing on the romance proposal I’m finally getting around to working on again for Stu, my thoughts sprint over to my great office in my great house where at this minute, there’s not much in the way of progress taking shape.
My fears about the destruction of most of my equipment in my office were correct. But by some miracle my dad’s old desk made it through the storm damage with only a few scratches, and actually I’m not a hundred percent certain they weren’t already there. I haven’t had the heart to refinish the desk since Dad died, so it’s pretty scarred up.
Ari’s computer is okay. The tree only damaged a little bit of her room, so she’s happy to know she’ll be able to salvage ninety percent of her personal things.
Tommy’s room, however, looks like a… well, like a tornado hit it. Which isn’t too far off from how it always looked anyway, with the exception of all the breakage. Of course, it was hard on him losing some of the things he prized, including a couple of pretty expensive skateboards, his computer, and some video games.
The little boys’ room got it about as bad as Tommy’s did. But they didn’t have a TV or computer to demolish as I had to take all video games from Jakey’s room or he’d be on them day and night. Ditto with Shawn and TV.
My office only got clipped, but like I said, the tree took out my computer and squished my file boxes, but I’m pretty sure the files themselves will be salvageable. So far, I haven’t had the guts to step into my office because there’s a big hole in the wall, and I’m afraid of heights. I can barely look out the two-story window without getting dizzy.
The contractor could have been a week into the
repairs by now. Where is he, Lord? Where?
I have a sinking feeling that Milt never intended to fix my house. I know if I took a peek in the mirror, right now, there’d be an enormous L on my forehead. Loser.
I have to force my attention back to this proposal. As much as I resent every breathy sigh, every passionate kiss, every tender marriage proposal, I know this is where my bread is buttered, and I need to make the most of the name I’ve made for myself.
And like Stu said, romance readers got me where I am. Right? So I owe it to my readers to write my very best and not allow my resentment over not being able to write the book I truly feel God put on my heart to overshadow my pleasure in the simple act of creating a new story.
I open my file and pull up the synopsis I wrote the day I met John Wells and his new protégé at Churchill’s. I need to write up a couple of chapters since we’re having to target a new publisher; my former publisher would have taken it with just a synopsis. Stu’s called me three times this week to ask me about the doggone thing. He’s pushing me—something Stu never does. Apparently a publisher—and he’s not telling me which one, so that makes me a little nervous—wrote to him asking specifically for a certain type of romance book. I can deliver. I’m a pro at this.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate every romance book God has graciously allowed me to write. I’m humbled and awed by the letters I receive from women of all ages telling me how much the books have meant to them. But good grief. Am I chained to a certain type of book just because that’s what people expect from me? What about creative integrity? What about obeying the voice of God deep on the inside of me when He says, “This is the way to go, walk in it”?
My practical nature is at war with that part of me that wants to throw caution to the wind and see if I could succeed with something else. But now is the time to play by the rules. The proverbial safety net. I have kids to feed. Rent and a mortgage to pay. And I might possibly have to admit to losing ten grand. Drat that Milt.
Claire Knows Best Page 10
