Leave It to Claire (17 page)

“Don’t do that again. It’s nasty.” Note to self: buy a new gallon of milk.

“Whatever.”

I’m sorry, but that’s the last straw. He’s said that word to me three times in three minutes. Enough already. “Is that the
only word you know?”

“Maybe.”

Hey, guess what? That was a bad answer. “You’re grounded from using that word.” Did I really just ground him from a word?

“What word?”

“‘
Whatever
.’” I mean it. I put my hand on my hip and dare him to defy me.

Undaunted, he does just that. “You can’t ground someone from a word.”

“I’m your mother. I can ground you from whatever I want.”

“You just said ‘whatever.’” His lips are tugged into a smirk and I have to fight to keep from smirking right back. Discipline
is so not my strong suit.

“I didn’t say it like that. And I mean it. You’re grounded from that word.”

“But it doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t care what makes sense. You can’t use
whatever
for a week. It’s time to break that habit.”

“And what if I still use it?” The challenge in his eyes raises my hackles.

“Then I’m taking away your skateboard.”

His eyes grow wide for a split second, then he composes himself. The epitome of cool dudeness. “Wha—” He shrugs as the wheels
of his mind come to a screeching halt on the edge of that word. “Fine,” he bites out. “One week.”

Score one for Mom. I’m starting to feel a little like my old self. Saucy. I like it.

“Speaking of my skateboard.” He grabs his schoolbag off the table and rifles through it for a sec. “I need this signed,” he
says, shoving a sheet of paper at me. Prickles of panic needle through me. Notes from school that need my signature usually
indicate something I’m going to be really ticked about. “What now?”

“It’s just a permission slip. Don’t flip.”

“I never flip,” I snap. “And watch your attitude.”

“Wh— Yeah, okay.”

This is going to be fun.

I read over the form. It isn’t from the school. “What is it?”

“Skateboarding contest. I need to take it back by tomorrow to get on the list.”

“Whoa, boy. Not so fast. Where’d you get it?”

“Dan’s mom owns The Board. They’re sponsoring a contest next week.”

“Are you kidding me? There is a thirty-dollar entrance fee! What are they sponsoring?”

“Mrs. Ireland is providing all the food and drinks. All we have to do is bring our board and the permission slip.”

“And thirty big ones. Not a chance.”

“Please, Mom. If I pay my own way?”

“With what, your dimples?”

He blushes at the reference to those gorgeous valleys in his cheeks he’d rather forget exist. “I have all that money in the
bank.”

Oh, no, he didn’t just suggest using his college money for a stupid skateboarding entrance fee.

Wordlessly, I walk to the sink and turn on the faucet, let the water run for a few seconds, then turn it off.

I turn to my son, who is frowning like I’ve totally lost my mind.

“Hear that?” I ask as the water gurgles through the pipes.

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“Uh, water draining from the sink, maybe?” His sarcasm isn’t helping his plight any.

“Wrong. It’s the sound thirty dollars makes when you spend it to enter a skateboarding contest.”

“It’s not money down the drain.” Ah, the boy gets it at least. “First prize is a Zero skateboard.”

“And this is supposed to impress me?”

An exasperated sigh pushes through his lungs. “A professional skateboard. It costs over a hundred dollars retail.”

Hmm… maybe thirty bucks isn’t way overpriced. And since when is my son using words like
retail
? “What’s second prize?”

“Skateboard shoes. Vans.”

Okay, I’ve shelled out seventy dollars for those, so I do know what Vans are. Not bad.

“Third?”

“Three-month membership to The Board.”

“What does a membership consist of?”

“Unlimited skateboarding for a year.”

“How much is a membership? I didn’t even know they offered them.”

“Fifteen dollars a month or two dollars every time you go.”

I do some mental number crunching. Every time he asks to go, I give him two dollars. And that’s at least three times a week.
That’s twenty-four dollars a month! I hear the sound of nine bucks a month swishing down the drain. Six dollars a week for
five weeks would cover that entrance fee.

“Get my purse out of the living room. It’s on the coffee table.”

“Yes! Thanks, Mom.” I brace myself for a hug. But it doesn’t come. I’m a little disappointed, but I’m happy also, because
he’s so happy.

He stands beaming as I fish through my purse for a pen and thirty dollars. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.

Left-handed, I sign as neatly as possible, fold the paper, and hand it back to him.

“Think you can win something?”

“I know I can. Want me to show you some moves?”

The kid’s actually offering me a bit of his life. No way am I turning that down. “Sure.”

“We have to go outside.”

We head through the living room and out the front door. He scowls when we reach the porch. “Lewis’s truck is in the way.”

“Mr. Lewis.”

“What’s his truck doing in the way?”

“He’s looking to buy Granny’s house.”

“I wish she didn’t move.”

This sudden admission takes me by surprise. The kid isn’t exactly forthcoming with his feelings. But he’s gotten close to
Granny lately. Helps her take out garbage, carries in wood for her fireplace.

“You know what I’m really going to miss most?” he says, turning to look in that direction as though by doing so will bring
her back.

“What?” I swallow hard.

“Hot chocolate and cinnamon toast.”

“You can have those things at home. I’ll fix them for you when it gets cold out.”

He shrugs. “Wh— Okay. I’m going in.”

“What about showing me your moves?”

“I can’t until Lewis moves his truck.”

“
Mister
Lewis.”

“Yeah. Mr. Lewis.”

He slams back into the house. I’m about to follow, but I’m caught by a gentle autumn breeze. I sit on the porch swing and
gather in the smells of burning leaves somewhere in the neighborhood combined with the distinct fragrance of coming rain.
I love autumn rains. They come to wash away the dust and heat of summer and to get the earth ready for the beauty of winter
ice and snow.

Aren’t I just the optimist tonight? Ice and snow are treacherous. Or they can be. Just as treacherous as they are beautiful.
But I need a good perspective tonight. I glance down the block and see Greg walking back. I wave. A smile stretches his lips
as he waves back. “Hey, looks like we’re going to be neighbors if everything works out on the business end.”

“Mom’s going to be glad to hear that.” And oh, baby, am I ever glad! Oh, Lord, I’m a desperate housewife.

He stops in front of the house and I walk down the steps to join him. We are standing on the sidewalk. Two people just shooting
the breeze. Nothing to get excited about. But I can’t quite convince my heart of that, and it insists upon doubling in beats
per minute. We are standing fairly close and he looks down at me, his dark eyes gentle and soft.

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

Anything, Romeo. Ask and it’s yours.

“Do you think I could borrow your mom’s key so I can show Sadie around?”

“No problem. Do you want to come for supper?” Oh shoot. I didn’t thaw anything out.

“Another time. I’m sure Mom will already have something cooking.”

Whew. Dodged that bullet, and note to self: Don’t invite gorgeous neighbor for supper unless you know you have something decent
to serve him. Especially if you ever plan to snag him into a date. And did he really say, “Another time”?

“Okay, no problem.”

“I’ll be back around seven to get the key, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sounds fine.”

He climbs into the Avalanche and cranks the engine. A smile and a wave follow before he backs out of the drive. I stand there
like a lovesick puppy, watching him drive away into the sunset.

The door swings open and shut behind me. “’Bout time,” Tommy grouses. “You ready for me to show you some of my moves?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, but don’t flip out when you see all the jumping and dangerous stuff.”

“Dangerous?”

“I said don’t flip out.”

“I never flip out.”

“Yeah…”

I say it for him, “Whatever.”

I watch him, impressed, for about an hour, with only a slight time-out when the pizza delivery guy comes, and I think the
kid just might win that board. He has a great chance anyway. And he’s actually smiled at me five times if my count is on.
Four, if the last one was a grimace of pain when he missed the board and fell on his backside.

“Hey, Mom. Come learn how to do a kickflip.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. You can do it. Dan’s mom boards all the time.”

“Well, goodie for her. I’m not getting on that thing. I’ll kill myself.”

“Oh, well, that’s a good thing to say.”

“Hey, speaking a positive confession is one thing. Stating the facts is another. And if I get on that board, I’m going to
die. Or hurt myself at least.”

“What are you, chicken?”

Okay, now that was uncalled for.

“Bwark, bwark, bwark.”

Oh, he is so grounded.

“All right, smart guy. Show me that kickflip. But if I hurt my hand…”

“You’re not going to be skateboarding with your hands.”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to be skateboarding with your behind but it didn’t keep you from falling on it, now did it?”

He doesn’t dignify my comment with a reply. “The first thing you have to learn is how to stand on the board without falling
off.”

I’m amazed at how hard it is to balance, and a new appreciation for my son’s talents emerges. I never land a kickflip, and
I fall off the board at least ten times. Still, by the time Greg’s truck pulls down the street, I’m sweating like a marathon
runner. My son slings his gangly, sweaty arm around me and gives me a one-armed hug. “You did good, Mom.”

He snatches up his board and heads back toward the steps.

Ari is standing on the porch, watching. “Cool,” she says, then turns and follows her brother inside.

“Taken aback” is about the mildest phrase I can think of to describe the shock I’m feeling. On another level, I’m inundated
with pride, joy, a sense of peace, and oh, yeah, maybe I’m not such a bad mom after all.

O
kay, I’m definitely a poor excuse for a mother. At least according to Rick’s mom. When you marry a man, you marry his whole
family, so how come when you divorce a man, you still have a nosy mother-in-law who thinks she can call and tell you how to
raise her grandkids? Blech.

My keeping-up-with-the-Joneses, member of the DAR, president of the garden club, and member-in-good-standing of the country
club (naturally) former mother-in-law is not happy with the choice we have made to enter into family counseling. And, rightfully
so, she holds me 100 percent responsible for the suggestion. Rick must have wimped out and put the heat on me. Like he’s always
done.

“I just don’t see why normal, productive citizens have to get
therapy.
” She says
therapy
like it’s a bad word. I’m not sure what she’s saying next because my ear itches and I move the phone to the other one.

“. . . would think if they knew their doctor had to go see a psychiatrist.”

Okay, I can figure that one out. “Trust me, Rosette.” (No, I’m not kidding. Her parents actually named her that.) “Rick’s
not going to lose any patients over this. And we aren’t seeing a psychiatrist. We’re seeing a family counselor.”

“Well, I don’t see the necessity of airing your dirty laundry to a perfect stranger in the first place. In my day, we dealt
with our own matters and left other people to theirs.”

With a great amount of difficulty, I refrain from suggesting that perhaps if her little family had considered counseling after
the first, second, or tenth time Rick Sr. cheated on Rosette, perhaps their son’s marriage wouldn’t have fallen apart in the
first place. But I manage a large amount of self-control and keep my mouth shut. Time for a switcheroo in topic.

“So, did Rick tell you Ari is driving now?”

A gasp loud enough to break my eardrum shudders through the speaker in my ear, and for a second I wish I’d eased her into
the new topic.

“When did this happen?” And the ever-silent, but nonetheless understood,
“And why was I not consulted beforehand?”

“A couple of weeks ago. As a matter of fact, Ari drove me home after my surgery.” Oh, I’m so mean, I can’t stop myself. I
have to say it. “And we only got into two near-accidents. But Rick says she’s doing much better. Although she backed into
the trash can at his house and dented his fender.”

“On the Benz?” Her voice sounds like she swallowed an orange.

Oh, yeah. The sleek, brand-new, black-as-night Mercedes Benz. Once perfect, now with a dented fender. Life is good.

“Really, Claire, you should teach the girl to drive in your van. One more scratch on that old thing won’t hurt. But the Mercedes!
That’s going to cost a fortune to fix.”

“Well, he could always turn it in to the insurance company.” Snicker, snicker. I’m sure she hears amusement in my voice.

“There’s no need to enjoy Rick’s misfortune so much. And you claim to be a Christian. I thought Christians were supposed to
be loving.”

My former mother-in-law doesn’t even pretend to be a Christian, but boy does she grab every opportunity to use her limited
knowledge against me when I don’t behave in her best interest. Hey, guess what else Christians aren’t supposed to do? Picture
themselves with their fingers around their ex-monster-in-law’s throat choking the life… Okay, that was overboard. But,
good grief. The woman would make a preacher seriously consider emitting a four-letter word. I glance at the clock. It’s getting
close to seven. “Excuse me, Rosette,” I say, interrupting whatever she’s saying, which, no doubt, isn’t flattering to me.
“I’m expecting company in a few minutes so I need to go.”