Of course. Claire has...had...a husband. Why did that knowledge hit me like a gutshot?
Obviously, she had a husband. She had children. I know this, and yet, it takes me three or four minutes to compose myself and gather my scattered thoughts.
“You’re right. I did think you were older. Your mom coaches the varsity team.” I know this, but I’m still trying to figure out where Evie fits in.
The varsity team would start with kids in ninth grade. They’d be fourteen or fifteen.
“That’s right. And I’m supposed to be on the junior high team, because I’m only in seventh grade, but I’m good enough to play with the older girls, and Mom says there aren’t any rules against it, so they let me. I just don’t get to play a whole lot.”
“Because the other girls are better than you?” That seems like the natural assumption, but her statement from earlier bothers me.
“I don’t think so.” Evie shrugs her shoulders. “I’m pretty much as good as they are. Better than some. That’s what everyone says anyway.”
“Then why don’t you play? Because you’re too young?”
“No. I told you. So the other girls don’t get upset. That and their parents.” Evie blows another bubble, apparently unconcerned and totally ignorant to the fact that her statement is just bizarre.
When you have a basketball team, you play the best players. You don’t not play one so that other people won’t get upset.
I keep this to myself. But I figure that is something that will change this year. Although I don’t tell her that.
“I bet you’re excited for practice to start,” I say, wanting to ask about her mother but unsure where Claire’s husband fits in the picture, so I don’t.
“It’s a few months away. It won’t start until November. But sometimes, I go to school with Aunt Tammy who goes early, because she’s a teacher. I can use the gym until it’s time for the other kids to come. I like that.”
I figured she did. As good as she is at handling the ball, it is obvious even if she is naturally talented, she still spends time practicing. Even with talent, being good takes hard work.
“I’m trying to talk your mom into starting early.” That sounded diplomatic. I am going to insist—no, demand—that basketball practice start sooner rather than later. But that isn’t a fight that Evie needs to be in.
My ex complained that I didn’t know anything about kids, and she was pretty much right. But I did know when adults disagreed, it wasn’t right to have kids in the middle of it.
And I am definitely in a disagreement with Claire if we don’t start basketball practice right away.
I hear Claire talking to her mom, apologizing again for getting the whole fire company out for nothing, and so, feeling a pinch of guilt as I do it, I look at Evie and say, “So your dad must be at work?”
“Probably. We don’t see him much. He moved to Salt Lake City with his girlfriend or,” she snaps her gum a couple of times, “maybe she’s his wife now. Mom doesn’t usually talk about it. And we’re supposed to go to his house over the summer, but we usually don’t.”
Oh yeah. My lungs feel like they are working properly again. Evie has no idea that she’s said everything I want to hear.
I had no idea I wanted to hear it. Not until she says it, and everything settles back down in my chest with the rightness that feels even better than it had before.
Which is crazy, because for most of the time I’ve spent with Claire, I wasn’t even sure I liked her.
But for the entire time, I’d known I was attracted to her. I also haven’t had any trouble remembering the crazy hard crush I had on her in high school.
I wasn’t the first high school kid to crush on a college girl though.
“You’re coming to the dinner at the fire hall tomorrow, right, Trey?” Mrs. Harding’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Um...I guess. I hadn’t realized there was going to be a dinner.” It is all I can think of to say. I suppose there’s no reason not to go.
“It’ll be a nice way for you to reacquaint yourself with everyone in town. Not to mention you’ll be supporting a good cause.” Mrs. Harding is a hard woman to say no to, and even though I’m not too interested in going to the fire hall for dinner, I know she is right. Everyone in town will be there.
Somehow with that thought, my eyes land on Claire. She is looking at me, and our eyes meet for a few seconds before she looks away.
I kind of feel like maybe she wants me to go.
“As long as my dad can make it, I’ll be there,” I hear myself say, and while I am speaking to Mrs. Harding, my eyes slip over to Claire again.
I don’t miss the way her lips turn up. It makes me look forward to tomorrow night.
Chapter 9
Claire
IT IS ALWAYS HOT IN the hall.
I have my hair pulled back in a tight ponytail to keep it out of the spaghetti that I am serving up on people’s plates as they come through the line, but a few strands have escaped, and I brush them out of my face.
Sometimes, I think it would be nice to have a buzz cut. I wouldn’t have to worry about my hair anymore.
Worry about my hair sure got me into a mess yesterday. I am still embarrassed over that, but at least Trey and I kinda talked about it, and he seemed to understand.
He even admitted to a weakness of his own, which shocked me.
And impressed me.
My ex was always right. Always perfect. Everything he did was always the right thing, and if anything went wrong, it was always my fault.
I hated that.
Me getting blamed for everything.
I hated standing up to him, because then it was a fight, and I hated fighting.
Maybe that’s why I always emphasize teamwork and consideration and putting others first in our basketball practices. I really like the way the character of the team has been shaping up over the years since I started.
We are not out to win at any cost. We are out to love each other and lift each other up.
Maybe I couldn’t save my marriage, but I can’t help but wish that someone had taught my husband these lessons. Maybe being married to him wouldn’t have been such a trial.
Maybe he wouldn’t have looked at me and seen someone who wasn’t as good as he was and wouldn’t have decided that he needed to find someone else to fit the perfect picture in his head of who he was and who he needed to complement him.
I slap the spaghetti on the plate that is held out to me, smile, and make an appropriate comment about the weather, shoving those feelings of inadequacy aside.
Even though I know my husband was a jerk, and even though I know for a fact that it isn’t my fault that our marriage didn’t work, and even though I know the things he told me—that I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t young enough, I wasn’t what he wanted, and he didn’t love me anymore—all show a lack of character on his part and not mine...despite knowing that, it’s all head knowledge.
There is a part of me that believes him.
There is a part of me that feels validated, because I had believed all those things all along. I wasn’t good enough. When he said it, I believed it, because it’s what I had thought.
Even though I know it isn’t true, those thoughts still have the power to take me to a place I don’t want to go.
“Are you going to answer me? Or are you going to stand there and stare off into space?”
Jerking my head out of the clouds as the words pierce my consciousness, I see Trey standing in front of me with his plate out.
“Sorry.”
The man already thinks I am an idiot ditz and a clumsy oaf. Now he knows I am a daydreamer too.
At least that one is true.
Although usually I am dreaming up science experiments to do with my girls. Or thinking about my patients and different ways to try to convince them to do the things—like change their diets—that I know would save their lives.
Sometimes, things just need to be framed in the rig
ht way to hit people the way they need to in order to get them interested in changing.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. Would you say that again, please?”
He grins a little, almost as though he thinks I’m cute. Which, considering I am over forty, I am officially never going to be cute again in my life.
Still, it is a smile that probably has been devastating to many, and it certainly makes my stomach twist and turn and yawn and stretch and kind of bask in the sunshine that lights up everything on my insides.
“I asked if you were going to be serving all night, or if I could save you a seat and we could talk a little.”
“You can save me a seat. Once the line’s through, I can go sit down.” There will be people who are eating now and will take over serving. It is about that time. We always do it that way, so everyone gets a chance to eat.
“I’ll do that.” He says it with a finality that makes my stretching stomach pause then narrow and seize. He probably wants to talk about basketball and starting practices.
I’ve already told him he can. So I don’t know why he’s talking in that tone of voice.
He waves his plate around, and I realize I never put any spaghetti on it. Digging in, I get a big scoop and slap it on his plate. He looks like the kind of guy who doesn’t eat pasta, and I kind of laugh to myself.
Right away, I feel guilty. I am definitely judging him by his looks; there is nothing wrong with cutting out carbs.
I have mostly done it for myself and my kids anyway.
But we don’t get legalistic about it.
Like tonight, we are going to eat spaghetti and not think another thing about it.
It isn’t going to hurt to eat it once in a while.
It isn’t five minutes later when Rosalynn Atwood comes and takes my place in the serving line.
Typically, I eat with Tammy, Leah, and Kori. My girls are off at the corner table they always share with their friends, and my sisters all sitting together, waiting on me. I know they’re going to be talking to me later as I walk to the opposite end of the hall and sit down in the chair across from Trey.
His dad, who happens to be one of my patients, is sitting beside him. I nod and greet him.
Interestingly, Lila Bogart, who owns the laundromat and also the small theater in Good Grief, sits across from Trey’s dad.
They are about the same age, although I’ve never seen them together before.
Trey’s dad, Clifford, is a nice man, and as far as I know, he’s not dated since the death of his wife.
Maybe the stroke has convinced him that he’d rather live than die.
Clifford and Lila are deep in a discussion about the newest play that is going to be opening at the little theater. It sounds like Lila is trying to convince Clifford to be in it.
I hope she is able to because it would be good for him to get out and involved in the community.
He works as a truck dispatcher for a logging company just a little north of town, and as far as I know, that is all he does.
Maybe Lila will convince him to get out and around more.
“I wasn’t expecting the spaghetti to be so good. And the salad’s not bad either.”
“You sound surprised,” I say as I unwrap my silverware and pull out my fork.
I hate eating spaghetti in front of people. I never know how to do it. In restaurants, they always serve it with a spoon, which baffles me.
“You have to admit sometimes when people are making food in bulk, quality suffers in favor of quantity. I’m honestly impressed that it didn’t.”
“Go ahead. You can say it. It’s a small town, and your taste buds are spoiled by the elite food of Seattle.” I fiddle with my fork, trying to put off the inevitable mess that I’m going to make.
I think I might have mentioned I am klutzy.
I am a sloppy eater as well. My ex pointed that out a time or ten thousand. I am kind of self-conscious about it.
“I wasn’t gonna say any such thing.” He puts a bite of the salad in his mouth and lifts a brow at me. I guess I should be paying more attention to our conversation, but I notice that his spaghetti is already gone, and I think that’s a shame, because if we are both eating spaghetti, then maybe he would be focused on not making a mess out of his, and he wouldn’t notice that I am making a mess out of mine.
I suppose this is one of the things I just need to grow up about.
Tempted to cut it up into tiny pieces so I could use my spoon to just scoop it up, I decide to be as adult as I can about it and start trying to get a small enough amount on my fork so I can wind it up and still fit it in my mouth.
“You were. And that’s okay. I’m sure there are lots of great restaurants in Seattle.”
“Haven’t you ever been there?”
“Nope. I’ve been as far as Boise. And we’ve vacationed a couple times in Coeur d’Alene. But I’ve never been to Seattle.”
“Never saw the ocean?”
Now I feel like a hick. But I shake my head. It’s the honest answer.
I see the look that crosses his face, and I feel even worse.
And then I give myself a mental shake. Who cares? Does it matter? It can’t possibly matter what this man thinks of me. Why am I so worried about it?
So I make a decision. Pulling my shoulders back, I look him in the eye. “I don’t have a clue how to eat spaghetti properly. They always give you a spoon in the restaurant, and I have never figured out what it’s for. I suppose, being that you’ve lived in Seattle for so long, you know the proper way to eat spaghetti. Care to share?”
I find, after I’m done speaking, that it wasn’t as hard as I thought. After all, I just figured out that it doesn’t matter what he thinks of me. So what if he thinks I’m a hick because I don’t know how to eat spaghetti? And hey, admitting it might mean that I get to find out what that spoon is actually for. One of life’s big mysteries solved.
He grins, and I don’t get the feeling he is looking down on me.
“Sure. I have to admit I used to wonder the same thing.” He holds his hand out for my silverware. “Give it to me, I’ll show you.”
I hand it over to him, and for some reason, we share a smile. This is probably not the weirdest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s definitely up there. Still, I think it’s kind of neat.
I look back down, because I truly do want to know, and my eyes catch on his fingers. They’re long, with a bone length and thickness that mark them as a man’s, and a slightly paler color that says he works inside, at a desk job.
I like the way they move.
I like the way they look, too. Funny how hands say so much about a person. And his are sure and full of character, with a dexterity I admire.
Man. That stupid crush coming back to haunt me that makes me the kind of person who can wax eloquent about a man’s hands. They’re not supposed to look that good. I’m definitely not supposed to be making googly eyes over his fingers as he shows me how to eat spaghetti.
He presses the tines of the fork against the spoon, and the light dawns in my head.
“That makes so much sense.”
“That’s exactly what I thought when I first saw it. Like, duh. I should have known.”
I never like to compare, but my ex would have taken that opportunity to rub in that he knew something that I didn’t and to make sure I knew exactly how stupid I was.
Maybe, just maybe, I lost a little piece of my heart right there, when he commiserated with me instead of lording it over me. I know there are men like that; I just hadn’t been married to one.
“I think you’ve got it,” he says, offering me my utensils back and letting me know by the expression on his face that we are equals, even though he was the one teaching me.
“Thank you,” I say. My voice sounds soft, and my heart feels softer.
I’m sure I won’t get it right away, and so, to take his attention off my clumsy attempts, I say, “I assume you saved me a seat because you wanted to talk to
me?”
“That’s right. I was hoping we could discuss the school team and the practice schedule that we’re going to have this year. I can speak to the principal again and see what’s on the calendar, since I’m sure they already have the game schedule set up.”
“I’m sure they do. We can make practices whenever we want to. I’ve always made up the schedule and turned it in to the office. They make sure it’s announced over the loudspeaker and the kids know about it. Nothing much has changed since we went to school. Things are pretty relaxed.” I don’t need to say small-town Idaho nor comment that it’s probably a lot different than the Seattle schools that he’d been used to with his children. He knows that.
And somehow, I feel, like with the spaghetti, he’s not going to be a jerk to work with. I’m happy about this, sure. But I’m also worried about my heart. He already has a piece of it. I can’t afford to let him have any more.
Chapter 10
Trey
“I KNOW HOW THAT GOES,” I say, replying to Claire’s comment about the school. It’s exactly what I’d expect of my hometown, and it’s comforting to know some things haven’t changed in the years I’ve been gone. Even as I speak, I’m thinking. I didn’t handle our last conversation very well. Maybe I can do better with this. “I get that you probably weren’t planning on starting practices this soon.”
“I wasn’t,” Claire says, holding a small forkful of spaghetti in front of her mouth and speaking before I can draw breath.
Her fast answer makes it sound like she isn’t open to change. Hopefully, I can circumnavigate that.
“I understand. You’re busy. I’m willing to do all of the practices myself until you’re ready to step in. Mostly conditioning things. Some skill work. Legwork, for defense, and a review of positions and their expectations. Maybe some shooting drills and techniques.” In my experience, once they reach varsity age, it is difficult to correct bad form, especially when it comes to shooting.
Claire chews while I speak, and I think maybe the look on her face is thoughtful. Hope rises in my chest, but she says, “I don’t want the girls to be confused about who’s in charge. If you start out leading the practices, and I step in six or eight weeks later, they might continue to look at you as the leader of the team.”
Me and the Cute Catastrophe (Sweet, Small Town Romantic Comedy in Good Grief, Idaho Book 1) Page 7
