Leave It to Claire (14 page)

Wow. I wonder sometimes how she can be so satisfied being the mom—the one who is there for everyone. I decide to ask her point-blank.
“Is keeping them really something you enjoy, Mom? Or do you feel obligated to babysit?”

“Claire, let me tell you something, honey. I might get tired sometimes, but I know better than anyone how short this life
can be. When my grandbabies grow up, I want them to remember their granny. I don’t want to sit in some apartment somewhere
all alone, wishing I’d taken less time for my own desires and more time building relationships with my family.”

“So there are things you would like to do, then?”

She gives me that well-if-you’re-going-to-force-the-issue huff. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I’d like to tour France someday.”

“You’re kidding. I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do. Only, to tell you the truth, honey, I’d rather be changing these diapers in a basement apartment in Texas than
see any French villas.”

I know she means it. But something inside me still wonders if she’s where she’s happiest. I don’t want to pry. I wonder why
it took her going off to essentially play the same role with Charley that she’s played with me for the past five years, for
me to realize that Mom has no life outside her children and grandchildren.

We exchange a bit more small talk, then say good-bye. After all, according to Mom, six in the evening is still a daytime call.
I smile when I press the receiver. She also doesn’t get the concept of free minutes.

I sit in my living room glancing about at the emptiness. The bright, low sun beams through a crack in my curtain and I watch
it, fascinated with the colors of light.

Oh man, I need to get out of the house. The doctor said I could walk as long as I didn’t get too tired. So I change into a
pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and grab my shoes. Then my heart sinks. I can get in and out of clothes, awkwardly, with
one hand, but there’s no way I can tie my shoes.

But I’m committed to the effort of continuing my very first walking program (number four on my list), so I head up to Ari’s
closet, grab a pair of her running shoes, which are slightly tighter than mine, tuck in the laces, and head for the door.

The smell of freshly cut grass in the cool autumn air invades my senses. I am filled with a sensation of goodness. Of newness.
Of excitement that something good is about to happen to me. And just last night I was dreading the inevitable changes that
will someday make their way into my life when Darcy turns up pregnant. Tonight, all that is behind me, for a while anyway.
I breathe in the freshness as I head down my steps and to the sidewalk. Out of habit, I turn toward Mom’s house. The leaves
on the maple tree in her front yard are already turning a gorgeous reddish gold. I think of how she gathers the leaves when
the branches turn them loose and they glide to the ground, and makes fall decorations for her house.

I am forced to blink away tears of loneliness. But I snap out of it fast as I see a truck driving by, slowly, from the corner
of my eye. My pulse quickens. The sun is sinking lower in the western sky, but the pink and orange beauty eludes me as I start
to wonder if I’m being stalked. The truck is barely inching along the street. None of my neighbors are out in their yards
this time of day. I didn’t think to bring my cell phone. I am totally regretting my hasty “new me” sort of feeling that tricked
me into putting on running shoes and leaving my house only to become a six o’clock news statistic.

I pick up my pace, fear shooting like fire through my veins. I’m too spooked to turn my head because I know deductively that
this guy is stalking me. I am about to shoot through the Barkers’ yard and pound on their door when the truck pulls up alongside
the curb and stops.

Fight or flight kicks in and I pick the latter. I make a sharp left and realize my legs are about to get a shock. I’m about
to break into a run.

“Claire, wait!”

Claire?
I don’t know any stalkers.

“It’s me. Greg Lewis.”

I jerk to a sudden stop and whisk around. Relief floods through me at the sight of Tall, Dark, and Handsome. But for once,
I’m not impressed enough with his looks to keep my irritation from sprouting from me like a spring flower. “You scared the
crud out of me, buddy. What’s the big idea making like you’re a dadgum stalker?” (Oh boy, I’m as bad as Mom.) “You’re lucky
I didn’t have my phone with me. I would have dialed 911.”

Greg opens the door of his black-and-gray Avalanche. “Sorry. I wasn’t stalking you. I was looking at that house back there.
The one with the FOR SALE sign. Then I thought I recognized you.” He frowns and looks at my hand. “What happened?”

“Carpal tunnel. Are you looking for a house to buy?”

He nodded. “Does it hurt?”

His question strikes me as odd. “Mom’s house?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, you mean does my arm hurt?”

He tosses out a throaty laugh. I grin. The whole conversation is crazy. Just like my crazy life.

“That’s your mom’s house for sale back there?”

“Yes. She moved to Texas. I can give you a quick walk-through, but you’ll have to call the realtor for the official tour if
you’re really interested.”

“Sure, I’d like that. Would right now be too much trouble?”

Is he kidding?

I shoot him a smile. “Anything to get out of exercise.”

“Glad I can help.” His lopsided grin makes me want to run my fingers through his hair. Good thing half of them are out of
commission.

“My house is a few doors down. I need to go get the key. Do you want to walk with me or wait on Mom’s porch?”

“We’d be neighbors?”

Do I detect a note of pleasure? I nod. “Looks that way.”

He winks. “I’ll wait here for you. Otherwise, people might talk.”

I feel warmth rush to my cheeks. But I roll my eyes, my way of covering up. “Sure they would. Like anyone really cares what
their neighbors are doing anymore.” I speak from experience. We tried a neighborhood watch system once, but when the group’s
leader was arrested for breaking and entering a house three blocks south, we gave it up.

I practically rush home and grab Mom’s key from the key holder hanging above the light switch in the kitchen. I stop off at
the bathroom to check myself out in the mirror. Oh, crud, is that what he saw? My short hair isn’t spiked, but it’s definitely
sticking out in every direction. I turn on the water and quickly wet down the mess. I still don’t feel great about how I look,
but there’s no way I’m going to slap on makeup. That’d be way too obvious.

He’s leaning against the porch railing when I get back. Mom’s house. A white two-story dwelling with a green door and green
shutters. My mother’s dream home. I was ten when we moved in. The tree house Dad built for Charley and me is still wedged
in the massive oak that stands in the middle of the backyard.

“This is a home for a family,” I muse as I slide the key into the familiar lock. “My mom lived here for twenty-seven years.”

“This is where you were raised, then?”

I nod. “Mostly. Dad was military. But he retired when I was ten. My parents saved every extra penny to buy this house.”

We step inside. Greg’s hard-soled shoes echo off the walls as he walks across the hardwood floors. He looks from one side
of the spacious living room to the other. “This is beautiful,” he says. “Your mother took great care of it.”

“This house was her pride and joy. She worked on it all the time.” And so did Charley and I. I smile as memories slip through
my mind. “I hated the last Saturday of the month, though.”

“Why’s that?”

I stand in the middle of the living room and suddenly I see my family. “On the last Saturday of every month—without fail—Dad
and Charley (once he was old enough) would move all the furniture out, then Mom and I would clean all the windows, wash the
curtains, and wax the floor.”

“Sounds like a tough day.”

“It was. The only good part about it was that afterward, Dad took us all out to dinner.”

“Good memories.” His voice is gentle, as though he recognizes how difficult the thought of someone else occupying my childhood
home is.

“I envisioned a family living here.”

He cocks his head to the side a little and frowns. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned a family.”

“I’m sorry. I guess it just didn’t occur to me that a bachelor would be interested in a four-bedroom two-story home.”

“Widower.”

I feel the blood drain from my face at the obvious pain in his eyes. “You’re a widower?”

“I assumed you knew. My wife died two years ago. It’s just been me and Sadie ever since.”

“Sadie?”

“My daughter.”

“Well, for the love of Pete. I had no idea you were raising a child. Greg, I’m truly sorry.”

He gives me a sad smile. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

The silence hangs, heavy, intense. Awkward. “Do you—uh—want to see the upstairs?”

He shakes his head, as I’d expect him to. “I’ve seen enough to know I’m interested in seeing the rest. But I’ll call the realtor
and do the rest through them.”

“All right.” I shut off the lights and follow him out to the porch. By now, the blinding sunset has given way to twilight.
I turn the key in the dead bolt and let the storm door swing shut. Greg is standing on the porch. Waiting. “Well,” I say,
not sure what to say. “I—um—guess I’ll see you at church tomorrow night, right?”

His mouth twists in a wry grin. “I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t walk you home.”

Walk me home? I shiver in anticipation at the thought of gorgeous Greg strolling along next to me, our shoulders brushing
lightly in the dusky night. But a girl can’t seem overly anxious. Or desperate. My Tough Chick persona comes to the surface.
I like Tough Chick. She’s cool. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I can walk a few blocks.”

This brings out a chuckle. “Sure. You were about to bolt like a thoroughbred stallion just because I parked my truck alongside
the street.”

“No. I was about to bolt because you were stalking me.”

I raise my chin in the air and brush past him. Greg falls into step beside me. Clearly he is undaunted by Tough Chick’s obvious
ability to control her own life. I find it sort of endearing. But I take care not to allow our shoulders to brush.

“How’s Shawn doing since he got in trouble?” I ask.

“I’m not encouraging him to write poetry, that’s for sure.”

I’m glad the evening hides my embarrassment. “Well, you should know he’s being severely punished for that little stunt.”

“Severely? You’re not locking him in the woodshed without supper every night, are you?”

“Of course not.”

He nudges me and Tough Chick gets the joke.

“Oh. Well, he’s cleaning his dad’s garage and he did a superb job of raking my leaves.” Unfortunately, as I say this, we arrive
in my yard and crunch dried leaves all the way to the porch. Two large lawn-and-garden plastic bags are sitting half filled
in the center of the yard. “Well, he’s working on it.”

He hesitates at the door and I don’t invite him in. I know he’d just say no and then I’d be embarrassed. Instead, I hold out
my hand like we just landed a business deal. His mouth quirks in another lopsided grin and he takes my hand between both of
his. “Thank you for showing me the house. And I’m sorry I scared you.”

The warmth of two large, male hands cradling mine has totally melted Tough Chick to Giggle Girl. But I can take her, so I
contain the giggle to a mere smile in return. “That’s okay. I didn’t walk far enough to get my heart rate up, so that scare
was probably the only aerobic activity I’ve had lately.”

He laughs out loud.

“Thanks for walking me home, even though it wasn’t necessary.”

“You’re welcome, Claire. I’ll see you tomorrow night at church. And by the way, it’s good that you’ve been coming more lately.”

A cheesy smile lifts my lips as I walk inside.

F
or three days I wander aimlessly about the house. I can read the posts coming through on my writer’s loop and peck one-handed,
pitifully short answers. But I’m having serious withdrawal all the same and Instant Messenger is out of the question.

I’m unaccustomed to not having work coming out my ears. I’ve been pushing one deadline after another for the last few years
and, quite frankly, at the moment I’m at loose ends. I’ve been working on my new idea steadily and I really think I’m on to
something. Enough so that I’m dying to put a proposal together to send for my agent’s opinion, but I need the computer to
do that. And I need both hands.

At night, I wake up with panic zooming through every inch of my body, until I realize, “Hey, it’s okay. There’s nothing for
you to do. Go back to sleep.”

I blame my stir-crazy state of being on the fact that I let Darcy talk me into attending ladies’ Bible study this morning.
And though I insisted I could drive one-handed, she insisted better than I did. That’s why I sit in her SUV, listening to
her tell me how great the kids have been and how they should stay a few more days until I’m fully recovered.

“Did Shawn clean the garage?”

Her face clouds over. “We’re still working on it. He doesn’t seem to worry too much about punishment, does he?”

He’s never been punished all that much. I admit it. He’s always sort of been my baby, and I’ve overlooked things I could probably
have addressed a little more forcefully—his lack of enthusiasm over doing chores, for instance. Okay, so the kid’s a bit lazy.
A character flaw, but not a crime.

“Rick is just going to have to insist about the garage,” she says. My defenses rise.

“Maybe someone should help him clean it up.” I hear the tension in my own voice and fully expect her to apologize.

Instead, she turns and looks me squarely in the eyes. “No one helped him come up with a humiliating poem about poor Ms. Clark,
did they? Honestly. How will he ever learn if no one holds him accountable for his actions?”

“He is being held responsible. He’s raking leaves and cleaning the garage, plus he’s grounded from TV for a month. What do
you want me to do, lock him in the woodshed without supper every night after school?” So what if Greg’s outlandish statement
was the first thing that came to mind?