A Time to Mend (7 page)
But, good grief, Max was a grown man.
“Indio, he’s responsible for his choices. This one is not your fault.”
Indio hummed out a breath, as if she were tuning the pipes. “Anyway.” Her voice returned to normal. “This isn’t about me. Let’s get back to you. How are you?”
“Fi—” Claire stopped herself. Today she turned fifty-three. She was talking to a woman who had obviously loved her for more than thirty years. She had upset everybody’s apple cart, from her husband’s to her kids’ to her in-laws’ to her best friend’s. Wasn’t it time to get real?
“I was going to say fine. But I’m not fine. I’m angry, and I don’t know how to be angry. I’m so upset because I’ve hurt my entire family. I’m at a loss as to what to do next. Oh!” A sudden, overwhelm-ing sense of comfort burst upon Claire.
“What is it?”
“Oh!” She closed her eyes. “I just had this weird sensation. I feel all warm and cozy like . . . like—Oh my. Like when I was visiting Aunt Helen.”
She hesitated. How could she describe what that childhood memory felt like? “She lived here in San Diego. I came one summer, all the way from North Carolina, without my parents or brothers. I distinctly remember snuggling with a stuffed lion in her feather bed, and I felt so incredibly . . .”
She stopped again, lost in the vivid recollection of her aunt’s love. It had felt so new, so right, so incredibly— “
Safe
. That’s what it was. I felt safe. I’d never felt safe before.”
An awful truth struck her. Had she ever felt safe again?
“Claire.” Indio paused. “Does Max scare you?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“But you’re saying you feel safe now, away from home, away from him.”
That was true. She wasn’t in her own house. She wasn’t with Max. Max was probably as angry with her as she with him. The future was a black hole. She shouldn’t feel
safe
. But she did.
“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s what I feel.”
Neither spoke for a few seconds.
At last Indio said, “Then perhaps you did the right thing. God will work it out for your good, for Max’s good.” She paused. “You know you’re welcome to stay here anytime.”
“I appreciate the offer, but no. I can’t.”
“All right. I suppose that’s best. Will you keep us posted?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you could come for dinner.” Indio’s tone welcomed, but in a guarded way. “Happy birthday, dear.”
“Thank you.”
After the good-byes, Claire reached behind her and twisted open the venetian blinds. Sunlight poured into the small bedroom. Birds sang. Palm trees swept blue sky. The scent of arid summer heat drifted inside.
And she felt so . . . incredibly . . . safe.
O
utdoors on the side porch, Indio ended her phone call with Claire and walked into the house. A few steps led her through the laundry-slash-mudroom and into the kitchen. Her private hiatus ended at that point.
Paquita Guevara stood at the island, filling a big basket with croissants. She was an ageless woman, built like a washing machine, with two long, black braids. She glanced up, concern obvious on her flat face. “How is Claire?”
“Actually . . .” Safe was how her daughter-in-law was, much as that flew in the face of reason. “She’s all right.”
Paquita shook her head. “So sad. But maybe for the best, hmm? Now they fix things.”
Indio smiled and watched Paquita carry the basket through a door-way. It was time to serve breakfast to the guests.
Several years before, when she and Ben retired, they’d remodeled their home and turned it into a retreat center, the Hacienda Hide-away. The setting was perfect: a 150-year-old dwelling tucked away on acreage in the quiet hills above San Diego. Ben’s great-great-grand-father had mined gold in the area and eventually bought the property and built the house. Beaumonts had grown up in it for generations.
Indio felt a timelessness in the old, red-tile roof and thick adobe walls. In spite of updating, the house was still the original U shape. A covered veranda hugged the interior of the U; a courtyard filled its center.
She had resisted excessive change in the kitchen. The island and appliances were new—necessary accommodations for guests—but she’d claimed the rest of the large room for personal use. The original stone fireplace and wood-plank flooring remained, along with her scruffy oak table. She added braid rugs, a couch, and her rocker. Over time she created her wall of “Jesus reminders.”
At the side of the fireplace, a framed family photo hung behind the table. She stopped now in front of it, thinking about Max and Claire as she stared at the faces of her loved ones.
She and Ben weren’t too keen on displaying family photos. Her husband likened it to scab picking: why keep exposing the wound? Pictures only reminded them of who wasn’t there for the camera’s click. Pictures only reminded them that thirty-four years ago their older son, BJ, had gone to Vietnam and never come home.
But Jenna had married, and photos were taken. And Indio adored her grandchildren. She treasured the sense they gave her of posterity, of life itself. Ben hadn’t fussed at her decision to hang this one.
It was a toothy photo, everyone grinning from ear to ear.
Jenna glowed in her froufrou gown. Though her facial features were finer, and she was tall, she had—like Max and Indio—the black eyes and coarse, black hair of Indio’s mother.
Kevin, her groom, was resplendent in Marine dress blues.
Erik’s charm twinkled from greenish-brown eyes.
Danny, square shaped like Max, still looked boyish with curly brown hair.
Lexi, his fraternal twin, had Claire’s light brown hair and was birdlike in build.
“Thinking of taking it down?”
At the sound of Ben’s voice, Indio looked over her shoulder. Her husband lumbered across the room. At seventy-eight he still reminded her of Ben Cartwright on the old western television show
Bonanza
. Though his eyes weren’t black, he had the identical silver mane and broad shoulders. Most often he wore a shirt with dolman sleeves, leather vest, and blue jeans. He towered over her.
“Now why would I think of taking it down?”
He raised bushy brows. His eyes, blue as the desert sky, did not twinkle. He placed an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “Because Max’s family just got a big ol’ hole in it.”
T
he ripple effect was going to unravel her.
Seated on the floor beside her open suitcase, Claire rummaged through clothes, unable to decide what to put on. Her earlier sense of comfort dwindled as she thought about the impact of her actions on others.
Max had a migraine.
Indio and Ben, the dearest of in-laws, were hurt.
Jenna was upset. Her distraught birthday call moments before had indicated she’d neared basket-case level.
Which would make Kevin unhappy. He would take sides.
Then Jenna would take sides. If she succumbed to that misrepresented submissive role so perfectly modeled by Claire, then her side would be the same as Kevin’s.
Which would be Max’s side, because now that Claire felt safe enough to admit it, Kevin had a chauvinistic streak as wide as a six-lane freeway.
She didn’t want anybody taking sides!
Lexi was scared, Erik encouraging—although in a detrimental way—Danny too hung up on pat answers that would, in the end, let him down.
Tandy empathized to the unhealthy point of overeating and over-drinking. Then reversed her original opinion and concluded that Max was, after all, exactly like Trevor the Toad.
Was that supposed to help?
And what of Max’s business associates? Neva and Phil—
“Claire?” There was a rap on the door.
“Come in, Tandy.”
Her friend opened the door and gazed at the mess. “Whoa! I told you the closet is yours. And three drawers in the dresser.”
“If I move in, then that means I’ve really and truly moved out.”
“Aw, Claire,” Tandy whispered. “It just means you’d rather not live in a chaotic environment even for a day or two.”
“Oh, I don’t know—Why are you whispering and shutting the door?”
Tandy leaned back against it and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I thought it best to let you whine in private for a few moments. Gather your wits about you, as they say.” Her smile faltered.
“No.” Claire groaned.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“He’s here?”
Tandy nodded. “With birthday gift and flowers in hand.”
“I’m not even dressed yet. I’m not ready— Tandy, what do I do?”
“Take a deep breath. Get dressed.” Her friend shrugged. “Smell the roses. Open the gift. And don’t give in.”
M
elodic strains of Bach’s Mass in B Minor trailed Claire down the hall. They emanated from the direction of Tandy’s room. She’d promised to soak in the tub, out of earshot, with the CD volume on high.
Claire paused in the kitchen doorway and watched Max standing near the sink, coffee mug in hand, gazing out the window.
He was not a large man, but he somehow managed to fill the entire room. There had always been a presence about him. A solid-ity. It was one of the first things that attracted her to him.
He turned. Dark shadows ringed his eyes. “Hi.” He gave her a tiny smile.
She almost melted. What was she doing? “Hi.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. How’s your head?”
“It’s all right.”
“You didn’t have to drive all the way over here.”
“It’s your birthday.” He gestured toward the table. “Gift time. I thought I might still entice you to go to San Francisco. The plane’s ready. A pilot is on standby.”
She saw a dozen long-stemmed roses in a crystal vase. Red. Her favorite. A gold gift bag sat next to them. “Max, I’m not ready.”
“For San Francisco?”
“For San Francisco. For gifts. For you. For us. For anything that resembles life as we know it.”
“The status quo is so awful?”
She nodded. “It is so awful. I’m sorry.”
“I’m whisking you off to your favorite city! That’s so awful? I bought you diamonds! That’s so awful? Claire, I don’t understand this. We have a good life together. Yes, I admit, I’m a pain in the neck, that business preoccupies me at times, but—”
“At times?”
“All right, most of the time. But that’s probably a good thing. You wouldn’t want me around more than I already am.”
“You’re doing it again. Telling me what I wouldn’t want.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Max, I know what you’re just saying. You’re saying you like life the way it is. You like how we attend social-slash-business functions together. How I volunteer and keep us in the society columns. You like that I run our household. You like that I can entertain clients at the drop of a hat.”
“What is so awful about any of that? You like being sociable. And you have your own life, your music, your friends.”
She crossed her arms and frowned at the flowers. “Playing violin now and then with other wannabe musicians and dining out with Tandy maybe twice a month is hardly what I’d call my own life.” She snorted in frustration. “That’s not the point.”
“Then tell me what the point is so I know what I’m dealing with here!” His exasperated tone surpassed her own.
“I can’t.”
“Just try! Please.”
“You never listen.”
“Hey, you got my attention, all right? I am listening.”
Welcome back to your real world,
she berated herself.
Queen for a night with the kids. Safe and secure for half a morning while hiding out in Tandy’s guest room.
An image of a smiling Jenna flashed in her mind.
“How high, Kev?”
How high, Max?
It was time to end it.
She pulled out a chair and sat, averting her eyes. “All right. Yes, on the surface, we have a good life. All our needs are met and then some. We have our health. We have friends. Our kids are gainfully employed.” She paused. “But two nights ago those kids made me feel like a queen. You made me feel like a scullery maid.”
“A scullery—That is totally ridiculous! A trip on a private jet and diamonds aren’t queen treatment? Not like—what did you call it?— first fiddle? What is wrong with you?”
“Why does something have to be wrong with me?” She looked up at him. “I’m just describing how I feel. There’s nothing right or wrong about how I feel.”
“It’s hormones, isn’t it?”
“Oh, honestly, Max! We can’t always reduce my feelings to that.”
“But why now? Why all of a sudden is the status quo so wrong?”
“Because the status quo requires me to live a charade. To ignore what I’m really feeling, maintain an even keel, not rock anybody’s boat. To bend to your every whim in order to keep you happy.” She took a quick breath. “This morning when I woke up, I felt safe, all warm and cozy and secure. Then I saw you, and,
pfft
. It vanished like a puff of smoke.”
He blinked a few times as if he’d been slapped in the face.
“Max, there is nothing you can
fix
. Just leave me alone.”
She slid from the chair and rushed down the hall, back toward her safe room.
J
enna greeted her dad at the door with a long, hard hug. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.” He kissed her cheek. “Thanks for inviting me over.”
“No problem. Come inside.”
As he entered, Kevin shook his hand. “Hey, Max. How you doing?”
“ I’ve been better.” His attempt at a smile ended in a grimace.
Jenna studied her dad. Even if her mom hadn’t told her, she would have seen the signs. He’d had a migraine the night before. The remnants were still there in the haggard droop of his shoulders, the darker-than-dark eyes, the tousled hair that normally didn’t appear long enough to tousle.
“Sit, Dad.” She pointed to the plate of dip and cut-up vegetables on the coffee table. “Munchies. Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. Want some iced tea?”
“Sure.”
Kevin wiggled his wrist, as if pouring from a bottle.
She shook her head.
His brows went up.
She widened her eyes and shook her head again.
Still looking at her, Kevin said, “Max, you want a beer instead?”