Claire Knows Best (23 page)

I pad down the hall to her room—the master bedroom. “Ari,” I call, opening the door. “Get up. Dad’s coming to get you in an
hour.”

“
Mmm
.” She turns over and covers her head with her comforter.

“No time for snooze this morning.”

“Go away, Mother. It’s not Friday. I don’t go to Dad’s today.”

Go away? Yeah, that’s not going to fly. I tell her so by yanking her comforter from the bed, leaving a ball of one-hundred-ten-pound
girl in the middle of the full-sized canopy bed.

“Ma!” she moans. I sense the agony of defeat in her sleepy voice.

“The two of you are starting your volunteer work down at the crisis pregnancy center today. You have ten minutes to be up
or I’m bringing a glass of water to dump on your cute little head.”

She sits up and gives me a glare. “Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough?”

I cock my head to the side and stare right back at her. “Well, let me think about that.” I open my eyes wide and press my
finger to the side of my mouth. “No, not really.”

“I lost Paddy. I lost my license. I’m grounded all summer from going anywhere with friends. How much more punishment do I
deserve?”

Good Lord. If John Wells saw Ari in action, he might reconsider coaching Shawn and turn his attention to her.

I don’t even answer what I assume to be a rhetorical question anyway. “Get up and get dressed. I’ll go fix you some breakfast.”

“I don’t want any.”

“Well, I’ll fix you something anyway and if you don’t want it, don’t eat it.”

“I won’t,” she calls after me.

“Don’t then.”

I’m deep into the fourth chapter of my “Brandi” story when I realize something. This is the first book I’ve written without
a contract since I started selling them without full chapters. I always vowed never to do it again. But I’ve somehow fallen
in love with this story. It’s so simple: a young woman who runs a restaurant and the kooky characters she encounters as she
learns to love her ailing estranged father again. They’re all each other has.

In the past twenty thousand words I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, and I’ve come to a decision. I will not write another book that
doesn’t touch a place deep in my heart.

I don’t know what Stu’s going to say about it, but I don’t care. If he drops me and I have to start all over again, that’s
what I’m going to do.

I’m waiting to hear about the romance proposal. If it sells, I’ll write it. After all, sending out a proposal and having it
accepted is still a God thing. I just believe that He’s in control.

By noon, I’m still pounding away on the keys when the door knocks open and I catch a glimpse of Ari just before she stomps
up the steps.

“Claire?” Rick’s voice calls from the living room. “You in here?”

I get up from my desk in my dad’s old office and walk in there. “What happened?”

“I made her play nurse while I gave exams all day.”

“She didn’t see anything, did she?”

“Of course not. I kept her on the other side of the sheet. But she’s still mad.”

Traumatized is probably more like it.

I partly question the wisdom of this (and I’m not entirely sure it’s legal) and partly I applaud his genius, because after
three hours of watching little pink toes braced in stirrups, she’s going to know what happens in the doctor’s office to girls
who get pregnant.

“I’m taking her back on Thursday.”

“How many more times do you think are necessary?”

“I think all summer should do it.”

“
All?
”

He shrugs. “What else does she have to do? She’s grounded from everything.”

He has a point there.

“All right.”

His eyebrows go up. “No arguments?”

“Not for now. You love her too much to let anything happen to her.” I give him a pointed look. “If it seems it’s too much
for her, I want you to let her off the hook.”

“I understand. Anyway, I’m going to switch her to a different job. I just wanted to give her a strong dose of reality.”

“I’m glad.” I smile at him. It occurs to me that a year ago this conversation would never have been possible.

“Where are the boys?” Rick asks. “I want to say hi before I head to work.”

“Tommy’s at The Board working on his ‘moves.’” I grin.

He grins back. “He’s pretty good.”

“Really good. The next Tony Hawk.”

“What about Shawn? Is he around?”

I shake my head. “He’s at the theater. Rehearsals started for
Peter Pan
.” I still haven’t broken the news to Rick yet that Shawn’s going with Everett as a stage name. My son hasn’t really given
an explanation as to why he’s doing this, but I figure it’s because I write under Everett. It’s a crazy connection kind of
thing, I imagine.

“Jakey’s playing Nintendo?”

I chuckle. “No. He’s in the tree house with Sadie.”

“Sadie?” He frowns. “I thought you and Greg broke up.”

“We did. As a matter of fact, he’s on his way to Tulsa.” I glance at my watch. He’s probably just now arriving, most likely.

“Then why are you living in his house and keeping his daughter?”

My defenses are rising. What’s it to Rick where I live or who comes to play with my kids? “I had to get Ari out of those apartments
and Greg wanted someone in the house so it doesn’t sit here empty.”

“Ari could have come and lived with me.” He’s sulking. He does occasionally when we discuss the fact that I took the kids
back a mere two weeks after I dropped them at his house. At first he took it as my lack of faith in his ability to take care
of them, to nurture them properly. I had to enlist Darcy’s help to make him see the whole thing for what it was: the kids
and I need to be together. He’s the one who left and they don’t see him as the main parent. He’s the part-time guy. They didn’t
want me to be the part-time gal. Simply put: they need us both, but they need my presence more.

“It was better this way.” I’m not getting into this argument with him. “Do you want me to call Jake in so you can see him?”

“No. I’ll go out there.” He heads toward the kitchen where the back door is located. Then he turns. “Darcy told me what you
said.”

Alarm jolts through me, because I say a lot of things. And more often than not it gets me into trouble. “She did?”

His expression softens. “Hearing you tell her you love her meant more than anything good that’s happened to her in a long
time.”

I want to ask him if she’s got a few screws loose, but I refrain from resorting to sarcasm since he’s being so serious and
appreciative.

“She’s been praying hard that tensions would loosen between us before the baby is born. She just doesn’t want the kids to
have to play referee between us.”

I don’t bother to answer because, quite frankly, I don’t know what to say. He seems to get it, because he gives me a nod and
walks away.

Darcy. Now there’s someone who would make a good pastor’s wife. Why can’t I be more like her?

Okay, I know I’m going crazy. One thing is for sure. Emma gives bad advice, evidenced by my loosening the reins of Ari’s grounding.
I already cancelled the rest of my sessions with the so-called life coach, and she grudgingly refunded half of my money.

But talking out my feelings did seem to help. My mind flitters back to the notice on the bulletin board in the laundry room.
It was free. All I have to do is agree to be a test subject. I fish through a stack of papers on my counter. Yes, I, too,
have a paper pile. Those flyers and coupons and old notes from teachers—papers I can’t bear to throw out because they might
some day come in handy. I finally pull out the elusive flyer from the bottom of the pile.

I glance at the clock. Do I really have time to get a private session in? Ari is upstairs sulking, Tommy is gone again, Shawn
is having his private lesson with John, and Helen has invited Jake to come to her house and spend the day with Sadie.

Flyer in hand, I pace the kitchen floor for a few minutes trying to decide if I really want to go there again. I’m fully aware
that my window of opportunity for today is slipping by.

Finally I just do it. I dial the number. After six rings I’m just about to hang up when I hear a breathless, “Hello?”

“Ina?”

“Who?”

Heat moves over my face. “I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number.”

“Wait! Did you say Ina?”

“Um… yeah.”

“Okay, hang on. Ina’s here. Ina!” she yells.

I hear a muffled voice respond, “I’ll be there in a second.”

“Ma’am? She’ll be here in a second. I’m sorry if I seemed rude.”

“Not at all.” Just clueless.

“Okay, here she is.”

“Hello?”

“Yes?” I say. I swear the voice…

“This is Ina. What can I do for you?”

“Actually. Do you know you sound exactly like the other girl?” If there were money exchanging hands, I’d be tempted to think
someone was yanking me around.

She hesitates. “We’re twins. Identical twins. Twin sisters, actually. People get us mixed up on the phone all the time.”

“And in person, too, I bet.”

“What do you mean by that?” She sounds defensive.

“Just that you’re look-alikes, right? Wouldn’t people mistake you for each other until they get to know you?”

She gives an airy little laugh. “Yeah. You’re right. What have you been doing, following me—er—us around?”

Methinks perhaps I’m not connecting with this life coach. Or maybe the problem is that this life coach isn’t connecting with
much herself. Like reality, for instance.

“Um, listen, Ina. I think maybe I did get a wrong number after all.”

“Wait. No. Don’t go. I’m a little scattered today, that’s all. I really need a subject for my thesis. I can help you. I promise
I can. And we can even do it all over the phone. So no need to leave your home unless you want to.”

She seems so desperate, my heart goes out to her. “Okay, where do we start?”

“Oh, thank you.” I hear her draw on a cigarette and blow out the smoke. “Tell me about yourself, first of all.”

“All right, but no names.”

“Anonymity will work fine for my thesis. But I’ll need to fax you a consent form and will need a real signature when we’re
finished in order for me to use the information we come up with. Will you agree to that?”

“I can’t have my name published.” I roll my eyes at that, considering my occupation.

“That’s fine. I only need to use it on the consent form.”

Without divulging my name, I spend the next hour sharing the details of my life with this young woman. She asks me to make
a list of all the things I am satisfied with and the things I’m not satisfied with. And because we’re working toward her thesis,
we’ll speak twice a week. We’ll try to make the satisfied list longer and the other list shorter as we progress.

Despite the disconcerting beginning to my conversation with Ina, I hang up feeling strangely hopeful. Maybe Ina is a better
fit and talking things out with an impartial third party will help me to put things into perspective.

I don’t know why, but somehow I expected to hear from Greg from time to time. I miss him. Badly. When two weeks pass with
no direct word from him, I realize he’s moved on. With that thought in mind, I finally accept Van’s invitation to take me
to dinner, even though Emma—the so-called life coach—had encouraged this.

“Anyplace but Red Lobster,” I say when he asks where I’d like to go. I may never be able to eat there again after the heartbreak
of my last date with Greg.

Van picks me up wearing a pink Polo shirt and a pair of Hollister jeans exactly like a pair I bought for Tommy a couple of
weeks ago. I’m thinking Van might be a little younger at heart than I am. Or younger in style, at least.

I’m intrigued when he takes me to the Golf-a-Rama. Not exactly the kind of place a mid-thirties woman expects to be taken
on a first date.

“I feel a little guilty coming here without the kids,” I say.

Pretty boy smiles. “We’ll bring them next time.”

I defy any girl to try to convince me her heart rate doesn’t double at the sight of his brilliant smile. I say that to rid
myself of the guilt. If I had to choose between Van and Greg (sans pastoral ambitions), I would choose Greg in a split second.
But I don’t have that option and Van’s the one who asked me out. Do I have to remain dateless forever?

I smile up at him; if I had inherited the family dimples like Charley, they’d be winking right now. “Taking a little bit for
granted, aren’t you?” I am fully aware that I’m shamelessly flirting with this guy.

Like a pro, he flirts back. And for the record, it’s all too obvious he has a lot more experience with this than I do, even
if I am several years older.

“Am I?” He takes my hand and our fingers intertwine.

“Well, you promised me dinner. Not putt-putt golf.”

“Say no more, beautiful lady. Your dinner awaits you.”

He takes me to the taco stand. “Oh, Romeo, Romeo, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, Romeo.”

“Hey, you’re worth it.” He grins and squeezes my hand as we approach the counter.

Van and I eat nachos, play golf, ride go-carts, and I feel like I’ve regressed ten years. Don’t get me wrong. I had a good
time. But… maybe it’s because Van is only twenty-nine—almost a decade my junior—that I can’t seem to muster any real
interest beyond the cuteness and good nature.

We get back to my house (Greg’s, actually, which makes this whole thing even more awkward). I know Van’s counting on a good-night
kiss. I’m pulled with indecision as he opens the door on his five-year-old Camry. I even let him hold my hand on the way to
the door.

“I had a great time, Claire,” he says in that husky, I’m-getting-a-good-night-kiss tone of voice. He stops at the door and
leans his shoulder casually against the doorframe. Guys like this know what they want, and they’re used to getting it. So
I have to be careful. Put it out there on the table that I’m not going to make out with him on my ex-boyfriend’s front porch.

He tugs on my hand to pull me closer.

Oh, gee, he’s making his move. “Hey, look, Van.”