Leave It to Claire Read online

  Quickly, she turns around and slinks back to the minivan, trying desperately not to be noticed. Only problem with that is the whole popularity thing. Everyone knows her, so when someone calls “Ari” like I just did, kids stare.

  However, I’m regretting my rash decision to put her in her place. Because not only are they staring at her, now they’re looking at me. My hair isn’t brushed, and there’s not a speck of makeup on my face. Instinctively, I check out my reflection in the rearview mirror. Big mistake!

  “Mo-ther,” she hisses. “You’re humiliating me.”

  Suddenly needing to get out of there quick, I take pity on us both. “You forgot to tell me what time to pick you up,” I say, as a way of covering up the fact that I was about to purposely embarrass her and ended up embarrassing myself instead. My mother would call that poetic justice.

  “I have my cell phone. I’ll call you when the game’s over.” She walks away, leaving me to stare after her.

  Shoot. Why does she always get the last word?

  I see her group of followers pointing at me and whispering among themselves. Okay, they’re probably looking and admiring her, and most likely haven’t even noticed me, but when you have the kind of self-esteem I have, laughing kids translate to “laughing at me” kids. That’s the way I feel if anyone is cracking a joke anywhere in the vicinity, and I’m not in on it.

  It’s something I’ve dealt with since I was a kid. Full of myself one second, down on myself the next. I probably need therapy. I hear Dr. Phil has a diet book out now. Maybe I should read it and kill two birds with one stone. Get my head and my behind shrunk for one low price of $19.99.

  I’m about to pull out of the drive, seriously considering making a detour to Wal-Mart’s book aisle on the way home, when I see a woman walking toward me, waving and mouthing, “Stop.” I’d love to pretend I don’t see her, but eye contact has already happened. Besides, I recognize her as the mother of one of Ari’s friends. Linda Myers. She and her husband are new to my church.

  That’s the thing about living in a small town. Acquaintanceships go beyond work, school, or church. Usually there are at least two common structured organizations in your life to connect you to someone. The sad thing is that Linda and I have daughters who are best friends and a church in common, and I have never taken the time to get to know her on a personal level.

  As she approaches, I notice she’s wearing a yellow-and-black GO YELLOWJACKETS T-shirt tucked into a pair of button-fly Levis. She looks how I wish I looked. I haven’t tucked in a shirt on purpose in a good five years. She reaches the van and I realize she’s even prettier than I remember from seeing her across the church. Auburn hair and enormous green eyes give her a romance-heroine beauty. And they say no one really looks like that. Wait until I tell my skeptical editor. Still, I’d rather eat dirt than have to talk to this woman and pretend I don’t care if I’m wearing SpongeBob jammie bottoms.

  A bright smile is splitting her beautifully made-up face and I wish I could crawl under the seat. Instead, I press the button and roll down the window.

  “Hi,” she says. “You’re not staying for the first game of the season?”

  I stare blankly. Shoot. I should have.

  “I’m uh… on deadline.” I give her a you-know-how-it-is smile, although we both know she doesn’t. For some reason, I really hope she won’t think little of me for being a horrible mother and not supporting my cheerleader daughter like she supports hers.

  “I understand,” she says. “I’m so sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s okay.” I continue to smile tightly, hoping this is the end of the conversation.

  No such luck.

  She leans against my van and I start worrying that she’s going to get a ton of dust down the front of her. When was the last time I had this thing at the car wash?

  She pulls me from the question with her next sentence. “I hope you don’t think this is inappropriate of me, but…”

  Oh, brother. Here it comes. “I’m a member of Weight Watchers… Low Carbers… Weigh Down…” You name it, I’ve heard it. Well-meaning ladies who honestly feel that inviting me to a weight-loss class is just the thing. After all, I have such a pretty face.

  My defenses are rising and I want to cut her off before she even has a chance to say anything. Instead, I take the less-than-truthful-but-necessary-for-my-reputation approach. “No, you’re not bothering me at all.”

  Not so friendly as to invite conversation, but not so rude that she can spread the word about what a snob the published author is.

  Instead of getting to the point, she clears her throat and looks toward the building. “I notice you didn’t let her wear the crop top.” She inclines her head toward the group of cheerleaders still milling around the doorway to the gym.

  I relish the approval in this virtual stranger’s face and give a superior laugh at her observation. “Not in my lifetime.”

  She nods in agreement, and again I’m feeling an unusual sense of camaraderie with this stranger. “Trish threw a fit, but I told her either she could wear the old top or they could have a crooked pyramid.”

  I give a weak laugh. It’s the best I can do. Funny how you think you’re the only one with quick wit—your one claim to self-worth—only to find there’s a Linda Myers in town who is not only beautiful but thinks up the exact same jokes. How can that be fair?

  “Anyway,” Trish’s mom is saying, “I’m so glad I caught you. I’ve tried to call several times but can never seem to get an answer.”

  Not that I’d tell her this, but that’s largely because I never answer my phone. As a matter of fact, it stays unplugged most of the time. Drives my mom perfectly nuts. But it’s the only way I can write without being interrupted every fifteen minutes. People inevitably believe if I’m home, I’m available. That’s the drawback to working at home.

  I don’t unplug the phone to be hateful; it’s a matter of self-preservation. Gotta meet those deadlines or we’ll be eating government cheese.

  Still, this lady isn’t one of my regular callers and I really don’t have a good reason to hold a grudge against her for something other people do. Besides, she seems sort of sweet and genuine. So I smile for real. “I’m so sorry I missed your calls. What can I do for you?”

  “It was nothing, really. I just… Mainly I wanted to thank you for your last book. Tobey’s Choice.”

  Well, then… Maybe I should give her my cell phone number, because if we’re going to talk about my books I can talk all night.

  Only, she has tears streaming down her face. I feel this is more than an average fan gusher. I sense the Holy Spirit leading me to be still and listen. To get over myself for once. This is not all about me. Sufficiently chastised, I get a grip and cover the hand she has placed on the halfway-down window. “I’m so glad you enjoyed the book,” I say, in order to encourage her to continue.

  She gulps. “I—I could so relate to her. My husband did the same… Well, reading your book gave me the strength to confront him. God is healing our marriage and I want to thank you for listening to Him and writing what I needed to hear.”

  Tears fill my eyes. I say a little prayer aloud right there in the circle drive of Jefferson High School, heedless of the watchers. God has performed a miracle.

  Moments later I leave the school behind, all thoughts of Dr. Phil pushed firmly to somewhere in the back of my mind. Who needs that guy when God is in the office?

  I drive home on autopilot. Humbled. Thoughtful.

  Feeling like an utter hypocrite.

  Tobey’s Choice. My book about forgiveness. My heroine’s cheating husband didn’t deserve a second chance. I wanted to kill him off—after Tobey did the right thing and forgave the weasel, of course. But my editor insisted the ending be rewritten so that their marriage was saved. No horrible death scene—and boy, did I have a good one. I was mad, but I gave in.

  Now I’m glad I did.

  2

  Amazing how lukewarm pizza loses its appea
l after you find out your book just saved a marriage. I float into the house on a cloud of “Wow, God, did You really use little ol’ me?”

  I’m refocused on the ministry of writing. The power of God flowing through the written word. With the kids at my ex-husband’s tonight (except Ari, who will go over in the morning), I have all night to finish my book. I practically fly up the steps to my office, anxious to let Blaine finish his kiss.

  Okay, so I know kissing isn’t necessarily a powerful ministry tool, but even in a Christian romance novel, the last embrace is still the big finish. And good grief, Christians kiss, too—or they would if the right guy would just show up, already.

  Great, now I’m depressed.

  The phone rings just as I position my fingers on the keyboard. But I can’t complain this time; I don’t turn the ringer off or unplug from the jack when my kids are at their dad’s. You never know when the cell phone might go dead or something. I need backup.

  We have three phone lines in the house—one in my office (I used to use it for dial-up before wireless. Thank You, God, for inspiring that one), one in the kitchen, and another in Ari’s room. And Ari and I each own a cell.

  I answer the ringing, and my ten-year-old son’s voice washes all over me like a warm rain. “Hi, Mom.”

  My Shawny. The child who makes me exhale. I love all of my kids the same. Honest. But Shawn is the one who gets me. He always notices when I lose ten pounds. Never mentions when I gain it back. He loves music the way I do. And loves to come to my office and sit quietly just to be near me. And no, he’s not a wimp like my older son says. He’s just sensitive. And sweet. There’s nothing wrong with that.

  Kicking off my fuzzy slippers, I smile and lean back in my black-leather desk chair. “Hi, angel baby. Having fun? Did Dad pick you up on time?”

  “Yeah, he was sitting right there in the car when I came out of the school.”

  I know a question like that might sound moot since Rick obviously got the kid home safe and sound, but my irresponsible ex did arrive at the school late once, and no one was left but the janitors and my four kids. It scared me half to death when I found out about it the next day. Hindsight fear can be just as bad as on-the-spot fear. Especially where your kids are concerned. Thinking about what could have been has kept me awake more than one night.

  “Guess what?” Shawn asks, bringing me back from the black hole of what-ifs.

  “What?”

  “Daddy took us to eat pizza.”

  Pizza. Now I’m thinking about that box on the counter again.

  “That’s what we ate, too.”

  He hesitates, probably trying to come up with something to say. “I miss you, Mommy.”

  I melt like microwaved butter. “I miss you, too, Shawn.”

  “I like going for pizza with you better.”

  Oh, baby, my heart cries. Don’t try to fix me.

  “Honey, I’m sure you like going with both of us, don’t you?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, and I know I’ve hurt his feelings. He was just trying to make me feel special. He’s sensitive that way—my ten-year-old boy. But I have to make him understand that he doesn’t have to choose. I’m not threatened by his love for his dad. Not much, anyway.

  “You know what? When you come home on Sunday, I’ll take you out for pizza again, how’s that sound?”

  “Great! I gotta go take a bath now. Darcy says I smell like a pig farm. It was only a joke, though. She wasn’t being mean or anything.”

  “I know.” I am, however, threatened by his affection for Darcy, his new stepmother. A woman ten years my junior. And a good fifty pounds lighter. “Be good and have fun.”

  “Okay. Here’s Tank.”

  I can tell by the muffled argument on the other end of the line that the last thing Tank wants to do is talk to me.

  My thirteen-year-old, Tommy, has recently changed his name to Tank and wants a lip ring. I’ll humor him with the name, but he can just forget about the hole in his lip. I shudder just thinking about it. Last night we had a very long and loud “discussion” about the subject, ending with my telling him to go to his room and think about the effects of piercing—such as lockjaw from rusty needles, or worse. He stomped off, but not before expressing his opinion of my mothering skills and informing me of his well-thought-out decision to never speak to me again. He did, however, allow me to fry him two eggs (over easy—not too runny, not too hard) this morning, and a couple of slices of bacon. Sweet of him, huh? Thinking back on it, I probably should have made him eat oatmeal.

  “What up, Dogg?” he asks.

  Dogg? “Yeah, that’s not going to work. Try again.”

  I hear him say, “Whatever” under his breath, but he loses a bit of the attitude before coming back to the conversation. “What’s up, Mom?”

  “Just got back from dropping Ari at the game. How come you’re not going?”

  “Football’s stupid.”

  “You didn’t think so last year.” Or the other twelve years of his life.

  “Things change.”

  Yeah, they sure do. Like last year his dad got remarried. Rick and I have been divorced for five years, and I honestly thought the kids had dealt with it. But when he announced his engagement to Darcy, I realized by the outcry that they’d honestly believed we’d get back together someday.

  By the time the wedding took place, my son’s personality had done a one-eighty. He looks different, acts different, hangs out with a different crowd. And I don’t mean “different” just because they’re not the same kids. I mean “different” as in weird. All this Goth black look. It’s creepy, and I don’t like my kid being one of them. I want back the clean-cut child I once knew. It’s what I’m pushing for. “Well, maybe you’ll go to Homecoming.”

  “I doubt it. Later, dude, I gotta go.”

  “Then put Jakey on the phone, will you? And don’t call me dude.” I’m stinging a little from his take-me-or-leave-me attitude. He doesn’t say good-bye, just drops the phone (I guess he dropped it anyway, judging from the clatter in my ear). “Hey brat,” he yells, and I swear he does it just so I can hear him call Jakey a brat without being able to fuss at him for doing it. “Mom wants to talk to you.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there when I finish this round,” my six-year-old calls back.

  “Whatever, dude. You’re the one she’s gonna yell at.”

  I want to shake the phone. Jakey is addicted to video games. Day and night, that’s all he thinks about. But I thought he’d at least want to tell me good night.

  I wait. I glance at the clock and wait some more. Irritation creeps through my veins. Those kids! I’m definitely having a talk with Tommy about his phone etiquette. And I’m cutting Jakey off from Nintendo. Totally! Just as soon as I get this book off to my editor.

  A minute later I realize no one remembers I’m on the phone. I’m just about to hang up when I hear Darcy say (in a testy tone that raises my hackles), “Who left the phone on the floor?” She drops her volume and mutters, “I swear, those kids.”

  My maternal indignation rises. Who is she to say “those kids” about my kids? She should be so lucky to someday have kids as great as mine!

  The phone clicks off, and I sit there holding the receiver in my hand, looking like a dope, before I finally press the off button.

  Kids. They never live up to the idealistic expectations young parents have. When that first precious offspring, that flesh of your flesh, comes along, all you can do is ooh and ahh and dream of its future. You are determined that you will not make the mistakes of generations past. Oh no. The family curses stop right here.

  You kiss all ten toes and all ten fingers of your tiny, sleeping miracle and think nothing about this wonderful creature could possibly induce you to raise your voice, bang your head against the wall, or run crying into the bathroom for ten minutes of peace—like your own mother did on occasion when you were growing up.

  Yeah, then a week later, you realize it’s time to amend your
lofty ideals from envisioning your prideful self attending your son’s—or better yet, daughter’s—presidential inauguration to simply making it through one more week with no sleep, no time for a shower, and for-the-love-of-Pete-will-those-stitches-ever-stop-itching?

  By the time two weeks have gone by, you’ve adjusted somewhat to the foggy lack of sleep, and your mind turns to other things—like getting out of the house, which by now has the distinct odor of the not-so-cuddly things babies can smell like.

  You burn the maternity rags and head for the prebaby wardrobe. Then moments later you sit on the floor and sob as reality bites you on your size 18 rear end. After nine months of dreaming of wearing the size 8 (okay, size 10) jeans again, you realize you didn’t miraculously shed the fifty-five pounds you gained while carrying a seven-pound baby. But being the trouper you are, you wipe away the tears and cuddle your infant close and try to convince yourself that she’s worth every busted-out zipper, all the hours of labor, and yes, even the cellulite and stretch marks (although that doesn’t stop you from slathering gobs of cocoa butter on your stomach and thighs just in case it really does cause them to fade—which it doesn’t).

  I stare at the phone, reliving that so-called conversation with my boys, not so sure they’re worth it after all. Swallowing down a lump of disappointment, I stare at the screen, fully aware that Blaine is still mid-pucker and Esmeralda is most likely about to get fed up with him and make a pass at Raoul. I want to help them out, but all the fire to write God’s masterpiece has fled.

  Suddenly, the weirdest feeling overtakes me: I want my mother.

  Apologetically, I glance at the computer screen, mentally asking Blaine to be patient for just a little while longer. I will get to that kiss, but first things first.