Leave It to Claire (20 page)

“Linda, I had nothing to do with it, really.” The book is fiction, woman. Get a grip. But I feel a prick from that “still,
small voice.” The one I recognize as the God of all creation. The One who placed the writing bug in my heart. The One who
gave me the idea for
Tobey’s Choice.

As I write every day, I ask God to give me the words that will draw my readers closer to Him. I ask Him to speak as He sees
fit into every heart. He used Tobey’s unfaithful husband and his ultimate repentance to speak into Linda’s life. To cause
Mark to confess his sin and to seek forgiveness and restoration.

Why is fiction so much easier than real life when you’re the author?

Shoot. I’m going to have to be this woman’s matron of honor.

My cheeks puff with my next breath. “What color am I wearing?”

D
uring the past few weeks, I’ve come to love my alone time with God more than ever before. Not to sound like a cliché, but
I feel as though my spirit has walked out of a shadow into a soft, gentle light. One that illuminates and warms but doesn’t
blind or burn.

I’m not sure when my daily Bible reading became obligatory, rather than fellowship with the Lover of my soul. But somehow,
between the stress of deadlines, wasted time online, and life in general, I became complacent in my relationship with Him.
No wonder it was so easy to hide away from my church family.

I stretch out, snuggling under my goose-down comforter, prop myself up with three fluffy pillows (my little guilty pleasure—new
pillows every three months), and take out my devotional workbook (the Beth Moore Bible study) and do my lesson for the day.

I know many people find mornings to be their best time for prayer, Bible reading, devotions, whatever. But, night owl that
I am, I prefer bedtime. After the kids are down for the count and the world sleeps in the silent darkness outside my four
walls. I feel like I truly am alone with God during these hours. Somehow, I’m able to set aside my worry about the kids and
my roller-coaster emotions concerning Darcy. I’m able to simply put Rick out of my mind.

Tonight, I find myself approaching the King’s table with a bit of trepidation. His sweet conviction has pricked my heart since
the counseling session, and I know I blew it with Darcy and Rick. I gave in to my I-hate-you-ness at Rick and took it out
on Darcy. Definitely projected my loathing of him onto her. (See? One session with a doctor of psychology and I’m ready to
spout politically correct mumbo jumbo like “projected onto her.” I’m so easily led.)

The Bible study is just what I need, a walk through the ark of the covenant as it relates to personal relationship and worship.
I end up on my knees, in awe of a holy God—though why He would want my time eludes me. Especially after my attitude today.

The clock downstairs bongs eleven just as I get up off the floor and close the workbook. I feel cleansed, whole, completely
at peace as I gather a deep breath of accomplishment. Following my nightly ritual, I exit my bedroom to check in on the kids
one last time before I pop in my movie (yes, the same one) and turn in.

I open Shawn and Jakey’s door, walk inside. I stop at Shawn’s bed first. He’s curled into a little ball and sleeping like
the angel I know him to be. A tuft of hair is lying in an unruly wave across his forehead. I reach out and push it away with
my fingertips. Bending forward, I press a kiss to his cheek. He moves, moans, then settles back into peace.

Jakey’s covers are flung carelessly from him and he’s sprawled in his racecar jammies, one leg hanging off the edge of his
bed. He begged for bunk beds, but knowing his restlessness, I didn’t dare chance it. He’d fall off for sure. And really, do
we need broken bones in this family? We have enough problems as it is.

I cover him back up, knowing it will do no good and that in all likelihood, thirty seconds after I leave the room, he’ll have
them flung off again. I press a kiss to his cheek also, but sleep-like-the-dead boy doesn’t budge. Smile.

As I head down the hall to Tommy’s room, I tap and enter. Lord, he snores like his dad. I walk in (maneuvering around clothes,
shoes, a skateboard, and textbooks that I’m almost positive he never opens), do a once-over. He’s all covered up, snoring
happily. I barely contain a sudden burst of joy. Things have improved so much since I started having family movie night. He’s
like the boy he once was. Oh, his hair is still long and unruly, he still wears his jeans way too big and low, and he still
says annoying things like “What up, Dogg?” But I can handle this phase he’s going through as long as the attitude doesn’t
go south again. Following God’s example, I will look past the outward appearance and look at what I know to be in his heart.

Softly, I close his door. One more stop to make before I try to finish my movie—ever the optimist.

Low tones are coming from Ari’s room and for a second my heart nearly stops. Does Ari have someone in there? I stand outside
and listen for a second. “I’m telling you, Granny, she’s flipped her lid.”

Granny? The phone didn’t ring, so Ari must have called Mom. She knows better than to do that so late at night. And by the
way,
who
exactly has flipped her lid?

“It’s like she’s not the same mom anymore.”

Hello, wasn’t that the point? I mean, really.

“I’m not kidding, the other day she was outside on Tommy’s skateboard. Trying to learn a kickflip.”

What a little Benedict Arnold! If she is so sure I flipped my lid, then why did she give me a “cool” nod after the skateboard
episode? I’m really close to flinging open that door and confronting her, but her next words stop me in my tracks. “I know
she has time off with this whole surgery, but she’s turning our lives upside down with all these changes. I mean, Monday movie
night? Please.”

If that’s the way she feels about it, she can just forget about any movies wherein the main actor is good-looking or teenage.

“Yes. I see your point,” she says grudgingly, and I can only guess what my mom has advised. “But how can she possibly think
that paying attention to us for three months while she’s forced to stay off the computer is going to make up for the last
few years? Besides, we all know that as soon as she’s well, we won’t be reading a chapter a night in
Purpose-Driven Life
or having Monday movie night. It’ll be back to the way it was before.”

Leaning with my back against the wall next to her slightly open door, I feel like banging my head. In a million years, I never
would have guessed Ari was so skeptical about the whole new life we’re making as a family. My disappointment hits me on a
couple of different levels. First, I honestly believed that she was with me on this. Talk about seeing what you want to see.
And second, she thinks my reason for doing the family stuff is because I have nothing better to do.

“Do you think you might come back, Granny?”

I hold my breath, listening to Ari sniffling. “I know. I do understand. It’s just that the cheerleader carnival is next week,
and all the other mothers are bringing baked stuff or something. I’ll be the only girl on the squad who doesn’t bring anything
to sell.”

She blows her nose. “Huh? I don’t know if she would. Does Mom know how to bake stuff?”

My cheeks warm. Okay, so homemade baked goods aren’t my strong suit. I admit that. But she has to admit I’m darned good at
regular food.

But she has a point. Mom always made the cupcakes for school parties, served as “room mother,” or volunteered in the classrooms
in various capacities. Good grief. In many ways, my mom is also Ari’s mom. My heart sinks to my toes. How do you regain lost
years with your child who is close to becoming a young woman?

It’s too late for cupcakes. She’s too old for grade school stuff. But the cheerleader bake sale sounds like a good place to
start. How hard can it be to buy a brownie mix and follow the recipe, right? I’ll make my daughter proud of me. I tap on the
door and she jumps as I step inside. “I gotta go,” she says and essentially hangs up on Mom.

“Time for lights-out, Ari.”

“Okay. ’Night.”

I watch her slide her bare toes under the quilt and then follow with the rest of her body.

“Everything okay?” A slight frown mars her forehead.

“Everything is fine, sweetheart.” I stride to her bed and grasp the quilt. Her eyes are wide like she’s not sure whether she
should holler for help or not.

“Ma, what are you doing?”

I snatch at the corners of her quilt and pull it up to her neck. Next I tuck her in properly. “There.” I smile. “I haven’t
tucked you in for ages.”

“You heard my conversation with Granny, didn’t you?”

My eyes go wide in feigned innocence. But seeing her dubious scowl, I know there’s no point in denying it. “Yes, I overheard.”

“Man, we really gotta talk about some privacy issues.”

“You
were
talking about me, you know. I had a perfect right to eavesdrop.”

“It was still a private conversation,” she shoots back, apparently not in the mood to apologize for telling my mother I’ve
flipped my lid.

“You really want Granny to come back that badly, huh?”

“Don’t you?”

I shrug. “I miss her.” And her brownies, right?

I almost blurt out my intention, but instead I think Ari might need a nice little surprise, so I decide to leave my contribution
to the cheerleading bake sale completely under wraps. She’ll see the depth of my love for her. Maybe I can’t make up for lost
time, but the least I can do is bake a pan of brownies.

Well, personally, I think that’s a terrible idea!”

My heart goes out to Darcy a little as she stands in front of the dowagers on the Christmas decorating committee. I understand
why she hesitates to stand up for herself and her ideas (which are pretty good). Her main opposition is coming from Pastor’s
aunt. How do you disagree with someone like that?

“We’ve always used the nativity to decorate,” Mrs. Devine expels, glancing around for support. She receives just enough nods
to encourage her to continue her dissenting opinion. “My goodness. I can’t even imagine the outrage Jesus must feel for all
the churches decorating with Christmas trees. Why, it’s like setting up golden calves right on the platform with twinkling
lights and ornaments.”

I clear my throat as Darcy appears to shrink smaller and smaller. I’m afraid she will be carpet fuzz if this woman is allowed
to continue. “Now, wait a second,” I say. Darcy perks up, her eyes alight with shock and maybe a little hesitant hope.

“Darcy isn’t suggesting that we discount the nativity. As a matter of fact, I heard her mention setting it up as always. She
is merely suggesting adding to that particular decoration to beautify the Fellowship Hall. She isn’t asking to put it in the
sanctuary or even the main building.

“And besides. Didn’t baby Jesus and one of the wise men get broken last year when the youth group was taking it all down?”
(And for the record, after Pastor caught the teenage boys playing football with baby Jesus, it was unanimously agreed upon
that the youth group
not
be asked to undecorate from now on. Personally, I think they did it on purpose to get out of the extra work.) “As far as
I know those haven’t been replaced, and it’s a little late to go ordering new stuff.”

Mrs. Devine’s face goes a fascinating, if not frightening, shade of red. Clearly this woman is not used to being refuted.
But hey, she can get over it. Why ask a peacock like Darcy to do a luncheon, complete with decorations, and then expect her
to use twenty-year-old decorations that are no reflection of her style and taste? Peacocks are beautiful and meant to strut
their stuff. And so is Darcy.

“Well, I will not attend if you decide to go with pagan decorations.”

Tears shine in Darcy’s eyes. The woman’s bullying has just gotten on my last nerve. I start to stand up, but a short woman
with gorgeous white hair and dark eyes and complexion speaks up. Greg’s mom. Possibly my future mother-in-law. “Excuse me
for butting in, but I think Darcy’s idea is wonderful. I love poinsettias and Christmas lights. I don’t see how it could hurt
as long as we don’t use things that might be offensive to some, such as Santa or reindeer or elves. There shouldn’t be a problem.
Perhaps, we should ask Pastor’s opinion?”

The room trickles into silence. Bring Pastor into a decorating dispute? I can tell Joan isn’t about to chance it. Everyone
knows that Pastor’s as giddy as a four-year-old during the Christmas holiday. It would be a pretty safe bet to assume he’d
side with Darcy, familial ties notwithstanding.

Only one or two of Mrs. Devine’s disciples remain silent as the other women begin to nod and voice their agreement.

I send Darcy a wink. But she isn’t smiling. I see her staring after Mrs. Devine as the woman jerks to her feet and leaves
the room. As though she feels my attention, she turns to me. I see pain in her eyes. There is no triumph that the women’s
group has sided with her rather than the unspoken leader for over twenty years. How can this woman be for real?

“Shall we pray and dismiss?” she asks in a somber voice.

Normally, I would take off without talking to anyone (which, by the way, hardly helps out with number five on my list), but
I feel like I need to speak with Darcy. We haven’t really conversed this week, since the appointment with Dr. Goldberg. I’ve
seen her at church, but she’s been subdued. Not her usual smiling self. This morning, she presented the idea for the decorations
with very little zeal.

I wait while the women milling around her thin out. When only Greg’s mom, Darcy, and I remain in the room, I step forward.
Darcy sees me and bursts into tears, flinging herself into my arms. “Oh, Claire, I’ve caused division. All I do is cause division.”

I let her cry a minute, then I hold her out at arm’s length. “Darcy, are you kidding me? Shaking things up a bit is a great
thing. Look how many of the women are happy about the change in decorations. And good grief, they’re decorations. You’re not
introducing a new doctrine.”