Claire Knows Best

by Tracey Bateman

  Oh, Lord. Don’t let her get it. Please. She would be just as good as Wendy.

  “Ms. Everett? Is that you?”

  I nearly jump out of my skin as I turn and see Patrick coming into the balcony.

  “Shh,” I say with a frown.

  He nods and makes his way down the steps to stand next to me. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, “Jen doesn’t know I’m here, either. I guess I’m early picking her up. But I’m glad I get to see her audition.”

  I just wish he’d shut up before he gets us busted. “Sonar Ears” Wells is glancing up here.

  Jennifer has a beautiful voice. When her song is over, she does a short scene with one of the Wendy wannabes, gives an adorable little curtsey that might have charmed me if I didn’t want to bump her off to eliminate my son’s only real competition.

  “Isn’t she great?” The proud brother is nearly bursting.

  “Yeah.” Trying to muster a little good-sportsmanlike enthusiasm, but failing miserably.

  Finally, the moment I’ve been waiting for. Shawn walks slowly across the stage, his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his Tommy Hilfiger jean shorts, passed down from his brother Tommy, who begged his dad for them two years ago. I wouldn’t pay forty bucks for a pair of shorts if I had the Queen’s cash flow. But lucky for my champagne-taste son, his dad’s an overcompensating-for-abandoning-his-kids sucker.

  I lean forward in my chair so that I’m resting my elbows on the railing—the only thing separating me from certain death should an earthquake suddenly tilt the balcony a few degrees and send me sliding downward.

  Patrick’s tensing up next to me. He knows my Shawn is probably Jenny’s only real competition.

  Shawn starts to sing “I Can Fly,” and suddenly my heart is soaring on the wings of a mother’s pride. I watch my son, remembering his struggle last year, his insecurity, the anger, the notes he wrote Ms. Clark. Those things fade away as rapturous joy beams from his precious face.

  When the song ends, he acts a scene with the same Wendy wannabe that has read lines with all of the Peter Pans so far. (I figure John must be seriously considering the little girl lead if he’s auditioning her opposite all of the Peter Pan hopefuls.) As Shawn says his lines, he’s calm, in control, and convincing. Not like most child stars, who are more cutesy than talent.

  “That’s fine, Mr. Everett,” John says.

  I cringe a little on the inside at the mistake. I use my maiden name, “Everett,” but the kids have their dad’s last name, “Frank.” I wait for Shawn to correct him, but he doesn’t. He simply nods, says “Thank you, sir,” and moves backstage. I see him coming out the stage door a second later. He descends the four steps and takes his seat on the front row next to Jenny. She leans over, and I wish I had a mike hooked up.

  Two things I know for sure. One, my son has found his place in this world. Two, I’ll be darned if Jenny Devine is taking it away from him.

  10

  After Shawn’s audition ends, I say a swift good-bye to Patrick and sneak out of the balcony. I get back in the van and drive around to a deceptive parking space in front of the theater, where it will look to Shawn as though I’ve just arrived and have been waiting. My cell phone rings just as I shut off the van.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Claire,” a sexy male voice says. “This is Van.”

  My heart does a little lilt. Funny how I might not have thought about him as a prospective date before Emma put in her two cents’ worth. Now, however, my palms are sweating. “Hi, Van.” I imagine the contractor standing all grinning and heroic in my house just after he saved my life.

  I check my appearance in the rearview mirror—a knee-jerk reaction when a great-looking guy calls. I feel a little guilty at the way my heart picks up. I mean, sure, Greg and I parted amicably and we weren’t married, so why do I feel like a cheating toad-sucker?

  “Good news,” Van says. “The damage isn’t as extensive as the previous contractor quoted.”

  Sigh. My hero. “So how much are we talking?”

  He quotes his price.

  A thrill shoots through me and is mingled with big, huge relief. But before I can gush with gratitude, I hesitate and allow good common sense to take over. That’s going to be ten thousand below the original estimate. That can’t be right.

  “Come on,” I say. “How can it be that much cheaper?”

  “Trust me, will you? I’m just starting out. The way I get contracts is to underbid the guys who’ve been around a long time.” Amusement is thick in his Matthew McConaughey voice. “The real question is, why does it surprise you that my estimate is that much cheaper?”

  I blush like a sixteen-year-old. Sitting up straighter in my seat, I do my best to pull myself together. “When can you start?”

  “I can go to the lumberyard right now and see if they have everything we need. If not, I’ll put in an order and can probably get started on Monday, if the weather holds.”

  “Sounds great.” My nerves make a stop in my stomach and form all kinds of jumpy creatures. I hate to even ask the next question in light of my rapidly depleting savings. “How much do you need for a down payment?”

  “You don’t pay me a dime until I finish the job to your satisfaction.”

  Okay, that’s not what I expected to hear. I pause, embarrassed a little, because I figure Linda must have given him my sob story. I can just hear her: “And to top it all off she just broke up with her boyfriend because she’s too much of a disappointment in general for anyone to possibly think she’s pastor’s-wife material.”

  My defenses shoot up, incinerating the floating nerve creatures in my stomach. I’m no longer feeling like a schoolgirl. “Listen, Van. I appreciate the thought. But I want to be treated like any other customer. I planned for a down payment equal to the one I paid Milt.” The thieving jerk. “I don’t want any favors just because I’m friends with Linda.”

  He gives a short laugh. “Trust me, I don’t hand out favors based on a person’s relationship with my sister. Just ask her how much I charged Mark and her to add a deck to their new house.”

  My neck feels hot, and I know it’s splotchy, like it gets when I’m humiliated. “Well, I’m not a charity case, either.”

  “I agree,” he says, without a second of hesitation. “I have an account at the lumberyard. I prefer to put what I need on account and pay it when I get paid—after the job is done. It’s easier for me to keep my receipts straight that way.”

  “Okay, that makes absolutely no sense to me. What difference does it make?”

  “I knew you were going to ask that.” His tone is so light and friendly that I can’t help but warm to him. Even if I couldn’t picture his gorgeous auburn hair and sea-green eyes—which I can.

  “Oh, you did?” I say, flirting like a coed and not really caring if he knows it.

  “Yep. Always anticipate the next question and prepare the answer in advance.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “What is what?”

  I giggle, knowing that he’s teasing me.

  “The answer to my question. Or are you stalling so that you can try to think of something?” I still sort of think he’s just taking pity on me with the whole not-taking-a-down-payment thing.

  “I like to put all my supplies per job on one receipt. While I work on your house, I’m sure I’ll have to go back for nails or whatever. When it’s all over, I’ll just pay it off, get one receipt, and that way I don’t have tons of little papers to sort through by April fifteenth.”

  Hmm. Not all that romantic. In view of that explanation, I’m not really in the mood to flirt anymore. And while I’m at it, let’s just get a dose of reality. Why would this guy, who has to be at least five years my junior (maybe more), be interested in an overweight, middle-aged woman with four kids and a broken house? I’m a real catch. Like a turtle on a hook.

  Whack! The sound of me getting hit upside the head with a reality stick.

  From the corner of my eye, I
see the glass theater doors open. Kids start pouring out.

  “Thanks for calling, Van. Let me know when you get started.” I scan for Shawn, but I’m not seeing him. I picture my sweet boy huddled in a corner somewhere crying bitter tears because a girl beat him out of the role of Peter Pan.

  “Will do,” Van says. “I’ll see you at church tonight.”

  “Church?” He has my attention again. But he better make it quick, because Shawn still hasn’t shown up and I’m about to go inside and find him.

  “Don’t you go where my sister goes?”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re going with her?”

  “Yes. I hate to give up my home church, but since I’m finally moved into town, the ninety-minute drive home is a little too far when there’s a great church right here.”

  The doors open again. Finally, Shawn appears. John follows, his hand on my son’s shoulder. Like he’s letting him down easy.

  “Okay, Van. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Uh—okay, sure. Bye, Claire.”

  I close my phone and beep the horn. I wave and smile.

  To my surprise, John accompanies Shawn to the van. I think I might be about to get scolded for hiding in the balcony.

  He walks around to my side and I roll down the window. John tips his hat. I can’t help it that I melt a little. Who doesn’t secretly wish they’d had a date with Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra in their young days? Okay, maybe I’m the only thirty-six-year-old who thinks about it. And gee whiz, how nuts am I, anyway? Ten minutes ago, I’m robbing the cradle, now I’m robbing the nursing home? I shove aside all thoughts of the Rat Pack.

  “So, what’s the verdict? Is my kid going to be the boy who loses his shadow, or what?”

  His eye slides closed and open in a wink. “That, my dear lady, remains to be seen. Mrs. Jensen will do callbacks this week. So, if he doesn’t get a call, you’ll know. If he does, well, then he’s made it to the next round.”

  “Mr. Wells is giving acting lessons, Mom,” Shawn’s voice interrupts. Something he knows better than to do. “Isn’t that cool?”

  I turn to my son. He’s nearly exploding with excitement. A little theater is one thing. Handing my son over to this hedonistic Sean Connery wannabe is quite another. I turn back to John with a frown.

  He presses his hat to his chest, where a deep rumble begins and ends with a chuckle. “I won’t corrupt the boy, Miss Everett.”

  “Ms.,” I correct. “And I know you won’t because it’s not going to happen.”

  “Mom!” Shawn seems horrified by this news, as though he had built it up in his mind that I would have no objections.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I say firmly.

  “Think it over, Ms. Everett.” John’s mustache twitches over his full lips.

  I don’t want to be the bad guy, so I take the easy way out. “We appreciate it, John. Really, it would be an honor.” Did I sound convincing enough? Maybe I should make my voice crack as though I’m about to cry as I say the next words. No, I’m a lousy actress. I can’t even read my own manuscripts out loud because I sound so fake. I stick with a straight, even tone. “I’m afraid acting lessons aren’t in our budget right now. My first contractor swindled me and I’m having to hire another one. And there’s this suspicious rattle under the van hood. I think I’m going to have to start looking for a new vehicle soon.”

  Why is John looking at me and grinning smugly?

  “You’ve misunderstood entirely. I’m offering to coach the lad free of charge.”

  “Why would you do that?” John’s an okay guy. I like him. I really do—quite a lot, actually. But, come on, the man’s an atheist. Not exactly the type I’d have suspected of having a generous spirit. On the other hand, basic disbelief in God isn’t necessarily proof of low morals or a cold heart. Guilt nips at me for the second time today. I shouldn’t generalize people. He did buy lunch for Linda and me that day. And he helped me outside. Got me a paper bag for breathing.

  I know how much his lessons go for. Sharon Greene signed her daughter up and bragged about how much she paid. I learned from another source no more than two weeks later that John had given her back her money and told her not to bother. Little Kayla didn’t have an ounce of acting ability and even less singing ability. I laughed out loud when I heard he’d suggested if Sharon really loved her daughter, she’d show some mercy and stop pushing her toward something that’s only going to cause her humiliation and pain.

  But that’s far from John’s opinion of my son. And he’s telling me that now. “The boy’s got some of the most natural talent I’ve ever seen. He’s expressed an interest in acting as a profession. I thought it prudent that he have the best acting coach possible.”

  John Wells is nothing if not humble.

  “Sorry, John. You know it’s not just about the money.”

  “I do. I must say, I’m rather disappointed to realize that you’re so narrow-minded.”

  “Not narrow-minded.” You never can tell with someone so guarded, but I think my refusal of his amazingly generous offer has hurt him. I place my hand on his arm and offer him a smile to let him know I love him even if I won’t allow him to be a bad example to my son. I’ve never really tried to witness to John before, but somehow, I have this urge to say the next thing that comes to mind. “I’m just on a narrow road, and planning to keep my children on that same road until they’re safely at their final destination—after they’ve lived to ripe old ages, of course.”

  “This narrow road leads to heaven, I presume?”

  “It does. And happiness and peace of mind during the journey.”

  He pins me with that know-it-all gaze and I get the urge to fidget in my seat. I’m just about to tell him I have to go when he reaches through the window and gives my cheek a fatherly pat. “Happiness and peace?” He lowers his voice so that Shawn can’t hear, and leans closer. “You, my dear Ms. Everett, are neither happy nor at peace. Are you positive you’re going in the right direction?”

  He waves at Shawn. “You did a fine job today, son. Remember that, no matter what happens.”

  We sit watching him swinging his walking stick as he strides away with regal demeanor.

  “Please, Mom. He has contacts. Mr. Wells thinks with a year or so of training I might be able to get an agent and maybe get some real stage work.”

  Stage work? Hello? Who is this kid?

  “Sorry, kiddo.” I pull away from the curb and merge carefully into traffic.

  “Why, Mom? Why? Please. I’ll do anything you want me to do, if you’ll just let me have this opportunity. I have to do this.”

  “Shawn, I know you don’t understand. But you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  Not the least bit impressed or moved by my calm words of wisdom, Shawn continues to plead. “Please! I’ll clean out the garage and do all my chores without having to be told. I’ll keep my room clean. Anything.”

  I gather a steadying breath. Although his last argument almost did me in (ammunition for chores and a clean room—what parent wouldn’t at least give it some serious consideration?). Still, I have to be strong at least until I can have another little talk with John and reassure myself that he can be trusted not to turn my son. “The discussion is over,” I say with firm resolve, just a notch below raising my voice.

  My son folds his arms across his chest and stares silently out the window for the rest of the trip home. My heart goes out to him. Hope deferred makes the heart sick, according to the Word. I’ll allow him time to get over having his hopes smashed to smithereens. After all, I’m dealing with my own dashed hopes right now.

  I haven’t seen or spoken with Greg since his over-dinner revelation.

  Shawn sniffs. Ah, he’s crying. My heart clenches at his tears. I feel like a slug. But I have to be firm.

  “There’s Kleenex in the glove box,” I say quietly.

  He swipes his nose with the back of his arm and I swear he only does it to spite me. I fight back revulsion but refuse
to dignify his action with acknowledgment. I won’t be bullied into changing my mind. And that’s just all there is to it. Let him sit there with snot on his arm.

  Oh man. With one eye on the road, I reach over him—careful to avoid his arm—and grab the tissue from the glove box myself. “Wipe it off,” I say in my most commanding tone.

  Whew. He does it.

  My kids know I don’t change my mind too easily. When I say no, that’s that. For the most part.

  And judging from the fact that Greg hasn’t attempted to make contact since Friday night, I guess he’s figured that out about me, too.

  My heart sinks to an all-time low at the thought. It’s one thing to appreciate the attentions of a good-looking contractor. It’s another to feel secure and loved in the arms of a man who wants to spend his life making you happy.

  I shake my head bitterly. No. He doesn’t want me to be happy. Well, I suppose he does. But he wants me to be happy on his terms.

  John Wells’s words suddenly shoot through me once more. “You are neither happy nor at peace. Are you sure you are heading in the right direction?”

  That night I force myself to get ready and drive the kids to church when what I really want to do is crawl into bed and pretend the last three weeks haven’t occurred. No tornado, no stupid apartment where partying is keeping me up all night. Not to mention how worried I am about my daughter being so close to that environment.

  As soon as I walk through the church doors, I’m able to set all of that aside. I’m glad I came. The band is warming up, and the atmosphere is charged with energy. Just what I need.

  Shawn moves ahead of me to find a friend to sit with in the section of the church designated for kids his age. He’s still sulking, and hasn’t spoken more than two words to me all afternoon, but he’ll get over it.

  Ari and Tommy head off in their own directions, as does Jakey. I find myself alone and glancing about trying to find a place to sit. And okay, I admit I’m not only looking for a seat. I’m hoping for a glimpse of Greg.

  “Claire?”

  Not Greg, but definitely a man’s voice. I look up into the handsome face of Van Collins.