Leave It to Claire (21 page)

“That’s right!” the other woman pipes in. “You stick to your guns, sweetheart. It won’t hurt Joan one bit to eat a little
crow.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lewis.” Darcy squeezes the older woman’s hand. “I’ll do my best.”

The back door of the church opens just as Darcy wipes her eyes and nose. My heart does a little loop-de-loop at the unexpected
sight of Greg in the doorway. He looks like a creature from Greek mythology surrounded by the glow of the autumn sun beating
down on his position.

Before his own mother has a chance to greet him, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

He chuckles and strides into the room. “I took the afternoon off. I signed the papers today.” He winks at me and I feel my
cheeks warm.

“On your new house?” his mother asks as he bends down and presses a kiss to her smooth cheek. “It’s amazing how quickly the
sale of a house can go when all the parties are in agreement.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Greg smiles his amazing smile. His eyes soften when he looks at his mom. “I came to see if I can
take you out to lunch to celebrate.”

“I think you can.” Her eyes twinkle and she smiles with pleasure. Watching the two of them, I am completely taken in by the
easy camaraderie. It’s not difficult to see where Greg gets his charm.

“Well,” Darcy says, “I think we’ll go grab some lunch, too. You game, Claire?”

I’d rather eat my eyebrows than have lunch with Darcy and have to discuss the menu for her Christmas luncheon (a menu sure
to cause more vocal displeasure from Pastor’s aunt), but how do I get out of it gracefully? Just as I’m in the throes of this
dilemma, Mrs. Lewis speaks up. “Why don’t you two join us? We’re going to the Chinese buffet.”

Okay, have I ever mentioned that next to pizza, Chinese food is my all-time favorite?

“That’s a great idea. Don’t you think so, Claire? We love Chinese.”

I happen to know that Darcy is anti-carbs. And if there’s one low-carb item on the Chinese buffet, I think it’s broccoli,
and she doesn’t need to spend $8.99 (drink included, free refills) for a plate of broccoli.

I send her a “What’s going on?” look, to which she responds with a wink. A knowing wink. A sly, knowing wink. A sly, knowing
wink that expresses that she knows I have a… Oh, my gosh! Darcy knows I have a crush on Greg! How? It must be that pod-girl
thing. It’s a well-known fact that aliens read minds.

I’m aghast. There’s only one thing to do when I’m in such a state. Let the babbling commence.

“Oh, no, I better go…”

Darcy gives an airy laugh. “Go where? Your cleaning lady will be at the house all afternoon.” (In keeping with number two
on my list. Still, I am definitely going to get muzzles for the kids. Who said they could go blabbing about my new housekeeper,
who I’m almost sure drinks the Diet Coke, not to mention the fact that she never vacuums behind any of the furniture?)

“That settles it.” Greg’s mom is totally staring me down, daring me to refuse one more time. She was so sweet and supportive
only ten minutes ago. Where did this warrior princess come from? “Let’s stop standing around talking about it and go have
lunch. My treat.”

“Oh, no,” Greg pipes in. “My treat.”

“Oh, no” right back at him. There’s no way he’s buying my lunch when we’re not even on a date.

“Really,” I say in my going-along-but-only-so-far voice. “I’ll buy lunch.”

Darcy shrugs and gives a playful grin. “Looks like our waitress is getting a good tip.”

I
wake up on Saturday morning knowing there’s something going on today, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is
I’m supposed to be remembering. The kids are at Rick’s for the weekend, so I’m pretty sure it’s nothing to do with them. We
will start fittings for the matron of honor gown next week, so I know for sure it’s not that.

No counseling sessions on the weekend.

Racking my brain here! Nothing. Shoot. Still can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. Oh, I hate that!

I push back the snuggly comforter. No point in trying for that five more minutes today. Sleep will inevitably elude me like
the five pounds I seem to be missing. There’s a happy thought. I’ve stayed on the wagon these past couple of weeks, with one
small exception for the whole Chinese lunch thing. And given that I was sitting across from Greg, who could really do justice
to a buffet? I mean, really. I ate like a bird.

My doctor will be pleasantly surprised, I’m sure, when I go in for round two of my surgery in three weeks. Maybe I could even
lose another five or ten pounds by then.

Okay, now I’m all motivated to go walk. Amazing how easy it is to get out there now that I feel a little improvement. I can’t
really see those five pounds yet, but there is strength in my legs that wasn’t there before. I’m able to walk for twenty minutes
now without feeling like I’d fight the Saint Bernard down the street for his water bowl and a nice rest inside his shady doghouse.

I slip into my gray-and-black exercise pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt to ward off the slight chill of an October morning in
Missouri, and pull on the Nikes. Like Pavlov’s dog, my body senses the coming activity and my muscles come alive. I’m anxious
to hit the pavement, to watch the minutes (all twenty of them) rack up as I put one foot in front of the other.

I stop by the kitchen for a glass of water before heading outside. I grab my watch and keys from the counter, and I’m off.

Na-na-naaaaaaaaaah…

Oh, yeah. I’m getting there. I am so high on life and the desire to take my fitness to the next level, I think I might actually
be ready to—Okay, I’m speeding up, walking faster. All it would take for this brisk walk to become a jog is a little bounce.
Should I or shouldn’t I?

This line of thinking takes me by surprise. I’ve never had aspirations to go that extra mile, make it harder on me than absolutely
necessary, but I see myself running. I’m really skinny. In a good, healthy kind of way. Can I really be a runner?

I’m walking really fast, so I give a sort of jump. Okay! I’m jogging. I can’t express my happiness that I, Claire Everett,
geek in school, overweight in adulthood, am becoming athletic. Oh, but jogging hurts. And I can’t catch my breath. Have I
really only gone half a block? Enough already. I hate jogging. If I had Tommy’s skateboard, I’d ride it home rather than have
to walk on my cramping calves.

Tommy’s skateboard!! The competition!

I whip around and head back toward the house. It was supposed to start at nine this morning with the first elimination round.

Knowing I’m late, I do the unthinkable. Something I swore only seconds ago I’d never do again. I break into a jog.

I’m out of breath and my lower body hurts when I slide my key into the door, but I have to admit, just knowing that I can
jog that far makes me want to try again.

Someday.

I shower, dress, and make a beeline for my minivan. Against all that is right and proper, I apply makeup on the go and narrowly
miss sideswiping a VW. The teenage driver flips me the bird. I can’t believe how intolerant people are. I head downtown to
The Board, find a parking spot with difficulty, and end up having to walk a block. Skateboarding kids are taking over the
world. The streets are filled with black-clad, makeup-wearing, I-know-you’re-hiding-an-Uzi, scary teenagers. My heart starts
to pound as three such boys walk toward me, side by side. Then I realize, hey, Tommy would look just like them if I’d let
him.

“Hey, Ms. Everett.” The kids halt in front of me. The one who spoke is grinning like I’m one of his peeps or something. I
square my shoulders and reach into my bag like I have a gun, just in case these kids aren’t as sweet and harmless as my kid.
I totally don’t, of course, but I do have breath spray, and I’ll squirt it right in their eyes if I have to.

The grinning talker looks sorta familiar. I squint, trying to remember if I’ve actually seen him before or if they all just
look alike. The young man has a scraggly tuft of hair growing (or possibly taped) to his chin, equally scraggly dirty-blond
hair, a nose ring, and a lip ring. No one I know has such an appearance, so I surmise this person has been rifling through
my garbage seeking a victim for identity theft.

This chick will not be said victim.

I screw up my courage and give him the deepest, darkest frown known to womankind. The kind of look that says, “Don’t mess
with me, I know karate.”

I see something flicker in his eyes. “Everything okay, Ms. Everett?”

Okay, I’m getting really creeped out now. “Look, bud.”

“Lance Avery.” He laughs. “You don’t recognize me.”

The older brother of Tommy’s best friend since first grade.

“Oh my gosh, I haven’t seen you in ages. I’m so sorry, Lance.”

“It’s okay. I get that a lot. Just never from my old Sunday school teachers.”

I feel a blush spread across my face. “So, how have you been?”

He swings his head forward and back. You couldn’t really call it a nod, because the neck follows the head. “All right” (which
comes out sounding like “Aw-ight”), he says.

I can tell the natives to the left and right of Lance are getting restless. They’re fidgety and coughing a lot.

“Have you seen Tommy around, Lance?”

“Tank?”

Whatever.

“Yeah, he’s about to skate.”

“Oh! I don’t want to miss him. It was great seeing you again, Lance. And hey, come to church and bring your friends. We miss
you.”

His expression softens a little. “I’ll think about it.”

Lance may look like something out of a vampire movie, but he’s someone’s kid. He has parents who adore him, who took him to
church every Sunday and Wednesday. He’s a good kid. Or he has goodness in him.

I sort of glance over my shoulder just as he lights up a cigarette. My heart sinks a little. Poor Lance. I hope he finds himself
soon.

I squeeze into the crowded concrete building. Kids are all over the place. Laughing, pushing. I elbow my way forward. Heat
rises up my spine and I can feel the redness on my neck. Dread creeps through me. I know this feeling as the beginning of
a panic attack. I stop a minute, close my eyes, and take some deep breaths as my heart speeds up.

Slow, even breaths. Come on, Claire, don’t freak out. You’re here for Tommy.

I lean against the wall and fight to regain my composure. Slowly, my heart resumes its normal rhythm, and relief floods me.
I’ve warded off this one.

I open my eyes and take in the wall I’ve been leaning against. This one, as well as the others, is painted to look like graffiti.
I guess they want this group to feel welcome. Thankfully, there’s nothing obscene. It takes me a few scans of the crowd before
I spot Tommy. He’s sitting on his skateboard, watching the current contestant.

The fluorescent lighting bathes his face just right, and I see the concentration tensing his jawline. He’s gearing himself
up for his coming task. Nervously, he pulls at his lip. He… wait. What exactly is he pulling on?

I don’t want to be a big fat false accuser, so I look closer, hoping I didn’t see what I’m almost sure I saw. In a moment
of utter shock I suck all the oxygen from the room. That little twerp. He has a lip ring.

He must have gotten it done this weekend, which means Rick is solely responsible. Consolation, yes. But not enough to offset
the mother’s rage I feel coming on. I send him a glare to beat all glares, fully expecting the force of my wrath will capture
his attention. Instead, I hear his name announced over the speakers. Okay, time to set aside my anger and concentrate on prayers
for his safety. Any pain he feels today will come from me.

Applause follows him as he takes his place. I hold my breath. He skates doooown then up. Twist around. Kickflip (I know that
one). Oh, my word. The boy has got some moves! The crowd is going crazy now. On their feet.

My son is flying, his body crouched above his airborne board. That looks dangerous. I don’t think he should be doing it. What
if he breaks a bone?

He lands perfectly. I clap as loudly as anyone and whistle my two-fingered whistle.

“Claire?”

I turn. It can’t be! “What are you doing here, Greg?”

“Shane’s competing in the older division.”

“Shane?”

“Vale.”

“Our new youth pastor is a skateboarder?”

“Yep. He’s making a difference down here. The kids love him. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we don’t end up with half these
kids in our youth group before school’s out next spring.”

Joan Devine’s going to love that. Of course, what can she do about it?

I wonder if having a positive role model with common interests has anything to do with Tommy’s change. Before the lip-ring
incident, that is. I glance toward my son and see him head off with a group of friends out a side exit door.

“I gotta go, Greg.” Suddenly I feel a wave of heat and my heart picks up as I look into the throng standing between my son
and me. I take deep gulps of air. The room is spinning. Not again! I have to get out of here before I’m in a full-blown panic.

“You okay?” Greg whispers close to my ear. Now I’m not sure if the heat I feel is panic or a natural response to the nearness
of a gorgeous guy who always seems to come to my rescue.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

“But I want Tommy to know I was here and saw how great he is. And that I’m gonna kill him for getting a lip ring.”

Greg smiles. Sort of a sexy smile that tells me he’s probably interested. Either that, or he likes my hair. Who knows with
guys? “We’ll find him. But you need some air. Trust me. I am the current expert on taking care of panicky women.”

I’d like to offer a quip, but my heart is thundering in my ears and my tongue feels too big for my mouth—which, according
to Rick, is as big as the Grand Canyon. But who cares what he thinks?

“Have you seen a doctor about these attacks?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. This is only the second one. I’m just under a lot of stress right now. I’m going to talk to him,
though, if they don’t stop.”