Claire Knows Best (3 page)

Oh yeah, I could definitely get used to this.

Let the storm beat against my house. Let the winds blow. I’m in the arms of the man I love.

B
eing in the arms of the man you love is little consolation when a tornado is bearing down on your house with the speed of
an airplane and the roar of a train. Huddled in the basement of my home, my four children, Greg, and I are definitely in touch
with our mortality.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but never again will I take life for granted. No more artery-clogging food, no more skipping
exercise in favor of a mocha latte down at Churchill’s (the cute little coffee shop I love so much). No more driving even
a block without my seat belt, or punching it at a yellow light, or going eighty in a sixty-mile-per-hour stretch of highway.
From now on, it’s the straight and narrow for this chick.

And these are the promises I’m making God as the basement windows rattle so loudly I’m sure they’re about to blow. I lunge
for the two blankets folded on the end of the couch and fling them over my children to protect them from shards of glass should
that happen.

I’m glad I’m not alone, and Greg’s great comfort, but sometimes a person just wants her mommy. I can attest to that, not only
because I’m thinking of mine right now, but because all four of my children are clamoring about like pups around a mother
dog. Snuggling and romance are the farthest things from either my mind or Greg’s. I know he’s frantic to call and check on
his daughter and mother, who are just across town in Greg’s childhood home. But for now, he’s hanging on like the rest of
us amid the shaking, roaring, and clattering.

Ari gives off an ear-splitting scream as an enormous boom shakes the house. For the kids’ sakes, I try not to show fear, but
I dread what we might find once we are able to leave the basement. Will there be anything left of my house?

Suddenly everything goes silent. “What’s happening, Mom?” Tommy, my brave fourteen-year-old boy lifts his head from where
it’s been gouging my spine. “Are we in the eye of the tornado?”

“What are you talking about?” He always comes up with the weirdest stuff. Like the time he thought agoraphobia was the fear
of gore. And hydrophobia, the fear of hydrants. The boy has his days.

“I saw it in a movie once. Everything got quiet and they thought the tornado was over so they went outside and got sucked
into the vortex.”

Ari lifts her head from under my left arm. “That’s
The Wizard of Oz,
idiot.” Nice to see that fear hasn’t dampened her spirit.

“No it wasn’t,
idiot
,” he returns.

Oh, brother. Nipping this thing in the bud is the only thing that will keep me from screaming. I open my mouth, but Greg beats
me to it.

“Hey, you two,” he says, and I can hear the tension in his voice. “Knock it off. This isn’t exactly the time to be fighting
over movie titles.”

“Whatever.” Tommy knows he’s not supposed to say that word in that context—mainly because it drives me nuts. But I know everyone
is tense, so I’m going to let it slide. This time.

Ari jerks her chin and looks back at me like I should step in and fuss at Greg for getting on them. I roll my eyes. I mean,
am I the only one who just heard a sound that, for all we know, could have been my house imploding?

It’s been quiet outside for a few minutes now, so I figure it’s time to check out the damage overhead. I disengage Jakey,
my eight-year-old boy from my lap and pat Shawny’s back. He’s at my feet with his arms still clutching my legs. “Shawn, honey.
Get up.” He grabs on tighter. “It’s okay, babe. It’s all over.”

Slowly he raises his chin and I capture his gaze. Love-mingled compassion squeezes my heart with one look at my eleven-year-old’s
tear-stained face and fear-filled eyes. I gather him up in my arms. “Come on, now. Everything is going to be fine. You’re
safe now.”

“What a big baby,” Tommy says, disdain thick in his tone.

I shoot him a shut-up-or-you’ll-have-me-to-deal-with glare. “Don’t be mean.”

Tommy’s chest swells with macho-man bravado now that the noise has subsided. “I’m going to check out the house.”

“No. Greg and I will go up in a few minutes.”

“Whatever,” he mutters, and stares daggers at Greg.

Unaffected by the boy’s hostility, Greg takes the remote and by some miracle, the cable is on. The weather guys are talking
about the storm that, apparently, only hit this side of town and totally skirted off to the east without so much as a raindrop
on the swanky part of town, where my ex-husband lives. (And if anyone deserves to be the victim of a freak tornado… ah
well, best not to go there.) Besides, the weather guys aren’t even confirming a tornado. Geniuses.

Shawn’s body shudders and I tighten my grip on him. Settling back, I hold him for a while until he stops trembling and before
long I realize he’s fallen asleep. I press a kiss to his head and set him gently on the couch, carefully standing as I do
so.

Greg and I exchange a glance. His brow lifts in question. I nod. “Kids, we’re going up to check on things. Stay down here
until we give the all clear. Understand?”

“Why can’t we go up and see, too?” Jakey asks. The kid’s played too many video games and seen too many disaster flicks. He
has no sense of reality.

“Because it might be dangerous, bud,” Greg says. “Your mom and I need to check it out first.”

I stand at the bottom of the basement steps and brace myself. Who knows what we’ll find beyond that door?

Greg goes on ahead and turns to look at me. “Are you coming, Claire?” I nod, taking the stairs one agonizing step at a time.

I stop short after we walk through the basement door and into the living room. Other than a few pictures hanging askew, I
see no house-shaking damage. We wander into the kitchen and suddenly the noise makes sense. Okay, I’m not sure how, but the
dishwasher has loosened from its cubbyhole and has rolled all the way across the floor and crashed into the fridge.

Relief swarms through me. “I guess that’s the boom we heard.”

But Greg’s frowning and I don’t think he’s buying it. Which is what I was afraid of.

“Why don’t you get the kids and take them outside? I’d like to check out the upstairs.”

“Take them outside? Why?”

“I have a hunch.” He bends and brushes my lips with a kiss. “Trust me?”

Well, what’s a girl to do? I nod and head for the basement. “Kids! Come on up here. Greg wants us to go outside. And bring
the blankets. It’s cooled off quite a bit.”

I hear Ari. “Shawn, wake up! Wake up. We’re going outside before the house falls in.”

Falls in? Is that what Greg’s worried about?

The kids and I are ready to go out about the same time Greg is coming back downstairs. His face is a little white.

“What?” I ask. My stomach is twisted in knots because Greg doesn’t rattle very easily.

“The tree fell on your roof.”

“Th-the big one?”

He gives me a nod.

“Cool!” Tommy yells like only a clueless fourteen-year-old boy can in a situation such as this. He heads for the stairs. Greg
snatches him by the arm just in time.

“You can’t go up there. It’s dangerous.”

Tommy’s gaze is as dark and stormy as the sky was an hour ago. He jerks his arm out of Greg’s grip. “You can’t tell me what
to do. You’re not my dad.”

Now that’s an original line. I’ve been wondering when it might crop up and which of my kids would be the first to blurt it
out. If I’d have placed bets, though, I’d have put my money on Ari. Guess it’s a good thing I’m not a gambler.

I look my son square in the eye, in no mood to bargain, cajole, or, for that matter, be even the least bit nice. “Greg may
not be your dad, but he’s right. You’re not going upstairs. Get your behind outside. Right now.”

He’s muttering under his breath as he clods to the door and yanks it open.

I snatch my cell from the coffee table where it’s been charging since I got home earlier. I’m dialing Rick and Darcy as I
step out.

“Hi, Rick, it’s me.”

I’m a little surprised at the relief in his tone. So maybe he’s not envisioning me with my feet sticking out from under the
house like the Wicked Witch of the East. Ding dong, the ex is dead… okay, maybe he wouldn’t go that far. “Thank God.
I saw on the news that the storm did damage in your part of town. We barely had any wind over here. I’ve been trying to call,
but they kept telling me circuits were busy. And there was no answer on your cell.”

“Holy moly!” Tommy hollers. “Look at the roof!”

I walk down the steps, dreading what I’m going to see. In this computer-generated world we live in, it’s not easy to excite
a kid. And my kids are all starting to get nerved up. “It’s all right, Rick. Stop freaking out. We were in the basement. The
kids are fine.”

“Is everything okay though?”

“Not exactly. We have some tree damage, and I need the kids to stay over there with you.”

“How are they?” he asks.

“Upset, but fine otherwise. But we can’t stay in the house right now until we get some repairs done.”

“How bad is it?”

I turn and follow my children’s gazes.

Holy moly. That is some tree
.

Can I just admit something once and for all? I didn’t cry when Old Yeller died. I wanted to. I knew my mom was watching Charley
and me like a hungry hawk, ready to scoop us into her waiting arms for a cuddle at the first sign of distress. But no matter
how hard I tried to drum up a few tears, they just weren’t happening. I guess I’m too much of a survivor to have even considered
any other alternative as acceptable. The dog had rabies, therefore the dog had to go. I mean, yeah, he was a good yeller dog
for a while, but in the end he was foaming at the mouth and growling. Not exactly Mr. Cuddles.

I remember the entire scene like it happened yesterday… Mom and Dad are in their respective recliners. I’m sixteen years
old, loving it that Mom roped Dad into watching a movie with us on the new VCR, even though it was the second day of trout
season and I knew darn well he really wanted to go fishing. My thirteen-year-old brother, Charley, is sobbing like he just
got a line drive to his shin, and I’m thinking, “Might want to plug the dog one more time to make sure he’s dead. Never can
be too careful.”

I’m not heartless. Honest. I still cry every time Rhett leaves Scarlett (so sue me). The sweet presence of the Lord brings
tears to my eyes when I worship. My children hurting or happy can make me cry for hours. But staring at the tree crushing
the top of my house, all I can do is look on, dry-eyed, and try to wrap my mind around the fact that my office is gone. And
following that thought is, “Thank God for the jump drive on my keychain.” That little thumb-sized instrument, 256 MB of golden
memory, contains all my recent work. And in this moment, that’s what’s important—that and the fact that my children are all
safe, of course.

I tend to disconnect from emotion during times of extreme crisis. That is, while I’m
in
the actual moment. Later, reality usually sends me rushing to Pizza Hut for a deep-dish super-supreme (hold the onions and
green peppers now that I’m dating and very likely to get kissed at least once a day).

Just for the record, I have a message for the weather guys who say they’re not able to confirm a tornado: Come down and look
at my new tree house, or house tree, as the case may be. That’ll convince them. The tree was literally uprooted and dropped
on my house. Only a tornado could have done that! That’s my uneducated opinion, and I’m sticking with it.

“My room!” Ari whines. “My computer.”

I know how she feels.

“That’s what insurance is for,” Tommy informs her, with a superior attitude he had to have picked up from his dad.

“Like you know anything about insurance,” she zips back. “You can barely spell your own name.”

He clutches his chest in mock pain. “Oh, gee, that hurt so much coming from a dumb blonde cheerleader.”

“Both of you shut up,” I say, in a tone just above normal but not quite a shout.

They hush, and I think I’ve shocked them into obedience; “Shut up” is a banned phrase in our house, and I haven’t allowed
it in years. But when I’m looking at a halfway demolished roof and they’re bickering back and forth, it’s just too much, you
know?

I’m vaguely aware of Greg’s hands cupping my shoulders as he stands behind me. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Greg’s sweet. He’s the every-cloud-has-a-silver-lining kind of guy. And usually this attribute has a steadying effect on me.
But not now. I mean, really, if the split tree on my house doesn’t look that bad, how
does
it look to him? Because, not to be a drama queen, but from where I’m standing, it
looks
like my roof is caved in over my office, Ari’s room, and most likely Tommy’s as well. It
looks
like if my children had been in their rooms, they would probably be squashed beneath the granddaddy of all oak trees. So
I’m not sure how bad he thinks it looks, but reality is starting to seep through my practical side and emotional what-ifs
are about to make me barf.

Plus, I’m trying to remember whether or not I ever got around to sending payment for my homeowner’s insurance. And for that
matter, will the policy even cover holes in my roof due to storm-ravaged trees? Greg’s hands drop, leaving two cold patches
on my shoulders as I walk out from under them. I head for the house.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Greg’s firm tone and even firmer grip on my upper arm surprise me. He’s usually such a
beta male.

Okay, sidebar. Romance writers categorize guys in two ways: alpha and beta. Alpha males are the brawny kinds of guys who can
fix a car, watch football, and generally take command of every situation. All the things we independent women say we don’t
want (but really do) in a man. On the other hand, beta guys are sensitive, sweet, content to let their women take the lead
(to an extent). They’re mama’s boys in general, but the ones who’ve evolved past the wimpy stage usually make the best husbands.
Unfortunately, they’re not all that exciting at first glance. It takes a woman of maturity to recognize and appreciate the
qualities of a beta man.