Claire Knows Best (15 page)

I don’t know. Maybe I just want too much. Or do I? Surely there’s love out there for me, even if it’s not Greg. As much as
that thought seems foreign and just plain wrong, I would never try to keep him from following the road that he truly feels
God is leading him down.

I walk up the steps to my porch. My house feels eerily empty, like a haunted house or something, when I enter. No one has
been here for two weeks, and it has that unoccupied musty smell. I open all the downstairs windows and leave the front door
open, including the storm door. I figure any flies that want in have already come through the gaping holes in the ceiling.
We tarped it, but in the words of Michael Crichton in
Jurassic Park
, “Nature finds a way.”

Okay, enough stalling now. It’s time to go up those stairs and carefully walk along the hallway. It’ll just take a minute
for me to snag my book and get out of there. Not even enough time, really, to fall through the floor and kill or maim myself.

I’m standing at the end of the hall. According to Milt Travis, the hallway shouldn’t be dangerous, but going inside the rooms
could be because the boards aren’t structurally sound. We should assume any of them could be dangerous.

But I know from Milt’s original look-see of the house that my office hasn’t really had that much damage, so I’m not concerned.
Much.

I gather a breath designed to make me brave. The technique is an abysmal failure. I take a tentative step in the hallway,
then another. Okay, so far so good. The hallway floor feels no different than it always has. No suspicious creaks, no gaps
beneath the carpet to indicate a sinkhole. So I’m reasonably confident. With all the bedroom doors closed, I almost feel as
though nothing had happened, except for the thick sawdust layering every visible surface. A parting gift from the tree guys.
I’d have gladly paid another hundred bucks if they’d included vacuuming with the estimate.

Standing outside my office, I give the knob a tentative twist and shove. The door swings open. I can’t help the sob that catches
in my throat, nor the quick tears that appear in my eyes. Aside from the sawdust covering all my beautiful books—without regard
to my first-edition copy of
Gone With the Wind
displayed on a cheesy picture-frame easel or my treasured copy of John Bunyan’s
Pilgrim’s Progress
given to me by my dad when I graduated from high school—there’s not a lot of damage to this room. I’m pretty confident as
I walk over to the wall where my research bookshelf is leaning slightly askew but is otherwise untouched by nature’s fury.

There’s a hole in my wall about the size of a window, where a branch must have speared through as it crashed. And above me,
a skylight I never asked for. Although I’m seriously thinking about asking the contractor what it would set me back just to
add one since there’s a hole for it already. I keep thinking how neat it would be to work at night under the stars and a big,
bright moon.

My bookshelf is right next to the hole in the wall. I’m not stupid. I know I need to be extra careful. Cautiously, I approach.
I scan the shelf where I last saw my book. It’s not there. I tell myself “Don’t panic.” There are several missing editions,
so it stands to reason they were knocked off by the force of the invading tree. I scan the dusty floor around the bookcase
and wall.

A sigh pushes from my lips as I locate the treasure I’m after. It’s on the floor right below the hole in the wall. I hesitate
as fear grips me in a flash of heat and butterflies. But I know I can’t get this close to what I came to find only to leave
it behind because of a little irrational fear of heights.

I tiptoe (like being quiet is going to spare me a brutal death should I fall out that hole) until I’m close enough to bend
over. My fingers curl around the book and I feel a surge of accomplishment. Task completed. Something has finally gone right
in my twisted life.

From the corner of my eye, I catch movement.

Okay, let me just admit that I’m jumpy. I wish I weren’t. But the fact is that I am. So when I’m alone in a creepy, musty
house, and I catch movement, the first thing I’m going to do is scream. And that’s what I do. An ear-piercing screech that
leaves the windows and mirrors in serious jeopardy of major crackage.

Simultaneously, I jump—only there is debris on the floor and I stumble. Horrified, I lose my footing and start to fall backward,
toward the window-sized hole in my wall. And let me tell you, a flimsy tarp isn’t going to keep a size 12 butt (size 10 before
my list of crises over the past two weeks sent me to Pizza Hut more times than I care to admit) from scooting on through the
hole. I’m picturing myself falling backwards to my death.

Suddenly, the movement I detected materializes in the form of a hero. He zips across the room like Tom Welling (aka Clark
Kent from
Smallville
) and before I know it, strong arms have encircled me and I’m upright and in the arms of a strange man. Even in my crazy mind-set,
I deduce, judging from the auburn hair and green eyes—identical to Linda’s—that my best friend’s brother has finally arrived.

His face is mere centimeters from mine and suddenly he smiles. A dazzling toothpaste-commercial smile. And just like that,
I’m finding renewed inspiration to write romance. Stu’s going to be so happy.

The good thing about having an over-the-phone life coach is the anonymity it offers. I feel like I can be completely honest—not
that I’m a big liar in general, but I might have trouble opening up if we were face to face or trying to explain to a friend
(as opposed to a paid professional) how rotten I feel over losing Greg. How every single day I’m tempted to pick up the phone
and beg him to stop thinking about being a pastor.

All of my friends would say, “Stop being so dumb and call him. Be a pastor’s wife. You can do all things through Christ .
. .” Yada yada. I know better than to talk to Mom about it, or Linda, or even Darcy, because they all think Greg is the best
thing to come along since the value meal at McDonald’s.

But this life coach is here for me. I pay her a lot of money to be.

“I just don’t think I can be a pastor’s wife,” I’m telling her.

“Why not?”

“Pastor’s wives are amazing.” I’m thinking of Tina Devine, my pastor’s wife. She really is fantastic. Organized, put together,
sings beautifully. Deals with people in the proper way (I’d probably be losing my religion every day if I had to put up with
criticism and stupidity from people who probably don’t have the biblical knowledge to find the book of Genesis).

“Aren’t you amazing?”

I snort. And really, I think that pretty much answers the question.

I wait for her to respond. Finally I realize that she isn’t going to pipe in with anything resembling reassurance that I am,
in fact, amazing like one of my friends would have done.

What does she know anyway? I think, miffed. I’m tempted to just keep quiet and make her come up with some brilliant life-coachy
thing to say, but I figure, hey, it’s my dime. Better to suck it up and explain why I’m not amazing enough to be a pastor’s
wife.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” I say, but as long as it’s been since she’s uttered a word I have a feeling that she’s either dozed
off or is watching TV by reading the closed captioning. Still, I’m sort of committed to the process by now. “Well, I’m divorced
for one thing.”

“A lot of people are divorced.” Ah, so she is listening.

“Yes, but some Christians believe a divorced person shouldn’t remarry.”

Now it’s her turn to snort. I feel my hackles rising in defense of all my Christian brothers and sisters who hold to this
belief. Hey, whatever happened to being the objective observer? She finally speaks a full sentence. “I suppose that’s something
you have to decide for yourself.” I’m proud of her. I really am. She could have given some really opinionated philosophies,
but she didn’t go there.

“Considering how some folks feel, I’m afraid I might hurt Greg’s ministry if I’m his wife.”

“And yet he asked you to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“Then he must not be too worried about it.”

“I am though.”

“Claire, I feel you need to consider that fear of ruining his ministry isn’t the only thing holding you back from marriage
to a man you clearly love.”

Tears pop into my eyes because she is so right. I adore Greg. I love, love, love him with a mushy capital L. But as much as
I want to spend my life with him, I know I can’t be the kind of wife he needs. I know I probably don’t want to put myself
out there. I mean, pastors’ wives work hard and have to be nice to morons who think they know better than the pastor the direction
God is leading the church. I’d be hard-pressed not to just show those people to the door and point to the street corner, where
the next church sits in our church-on-every-corner section of the Bible Belt. “I guess I’m not willing to step into that position
with him.” Oh wow. I just went from
I can’t
to
I don’t want to
.

“Very good insight.”

“Is it?” I ask in a shuddering voice.

“Your inner desires are speaking more loudly than even your strong emotions. You must give them some consideration. Often
our inner desires, those feelings at the core, are what lead us into our destiny.”

See, it sounds all right when she says it like that. So how come I have this little niggling of unease about Emma? The very
first time I called her, I asked her if she believes in God, to which she responded that she believes in a higher power and
is a deeply spiritual person. She would call that higher power God, but many people don’t see God in the same way evangelical
Christians do. She prefers the term
higher power
so that she doesn’t offend. I let it be known that she was free to use the word
God
with me any time, but so far she hasn’t taken me up on my generous offer. I focus back on what she’s saying, which is costing
me by the minute.

“Claire, there is nothing wrong with discovering that you don’t have the same ideas about the future as the man you love.
In no way does it trivialize your feelings for him.”

“Then why do I feel so guilty?” I can hear the despair in my own voice, the tremor I get sometimes just before I let loose
with a flood of tears.

“Guilt is nothing but a lie. Don’t give in to it.” Her voice is determined, not the gentle monotone I’ve become accustomed
to. This is more aggression than I’ve heard from my even-keeled life coach since I started talking to her.

How do I not feel guilty when I’m not sure I’ve made the right decision?

As if in answer to my unspoken question, Emma continues her advice. “If I were you, I’d get back into the dating ring as soon
as possible.”

As soon as possible? Doesn’t she realize that it took me five years to get back into the dating ring after my divorce? I may
never get over losing Greg. “I just don’t think I’ll be ready for that anytime soon. Besides, where would I find anyone who
wants to date me?”

“You have as much responsibility as the guy to show availability. What about your new contractor? You said he was pretty cute.”

And if by “pretty cute” she means hunk-a-rama, then yeah, I guess he is.

The children’s theater is putting on
Peter Pan
. I’m thinking it’s a little ambitious for the first play performed by the new theater group. But since no one bothered to
ask my opinion, let alone take it into consideration, auditions begin today. I pull my minivan alongside the curb and turn
to look at Shawn. Sitting in the passenger seat, the kid looks like he’s about to throw up.

“You okay, bud?” I need to distract him so I don’t end up with a mess in my van.

He nods.

“Look, you know you don’t have to do this. If you get in there and you don’t want to stay, it’s no big deal to me. We’ll do
something else.”

I think that snaps him out of it, because he looks at me askance and scowls. “I don’t want to back out. I just have to push
through my fear and be professional.”

This from an eleven-year-old?

My jaw drops a little at the new, grown-up version of my little boy. The thing is, I know he has the talent to be an actor,
singer, musician, anything he wants. He and Tommy are even in a “band.” They’re horrible, but that’s mostly because poor Tommy
needs to stick to what he’s good at: skateboarding. But this mom is
not
going to discourage him for however long he wants to think he’s a singer.

Shawn is still trying to screw up enough courage to open the door. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

He seems to consider it, then shakes his head. “You’ll make me more nervous.”

Now, a lesser woman would definitely be hurt by this. But I know Shawn didn’t mean anything by it. He just meant he’d be trying
to impress me and might do just the opposite. Nothing to feel rejection over. Besides, I happen to know I can park around
back, sneak in through the side door, and hide in the balcony to watch every move he makes. Duplicitous, perhaps, and I’m
not recommending it to anyone necessarily, but come on, I
have
to watch.

“Come back in two hours,” he says like he’s a teenager (his sister, for instance, who has been blowing me off on a regular
basis for the last four years).

I try to take it in stride. “Okay, I’ll be here by three o’clock.” I lean over to kiss him good-bye, only to be greeted by
his back.

“Bye, Mom!”

Okay, then. Bye-bye.

I wait for him to be swallowed up by two massive theater doors, not at all sure I’m ready to let this one go. As a matter
of fact, I know I’m not.

A few minutes later, I’ve parked around back and slipped inside and into the balcony. The theater is dim except for the stage
lights and the muted lights along the aisles and walls to keep people from running into anything on their way to the bathroom.

The kids must be sitting in the seats as they wait their turn to audition, because I can’t see Shawn. I do, however, see a
familiar regal figure striding across the stage. John Wells, the atheist, almost-Broadway, world-traveling actor. Reduced
to children’s theater. How the mighty have fallen.