Leave It to Claire (5 page)

Ding, ding, ding.
Now I know who he is. Greg Lewis has two places of interest in my life. One, like he said, he leads praise and worship for
the Wednesday-night service at church. Two, he’s Shawn’s teacher. Only Rick took the kids to open house this year so I didn’t
get to meet Mr. Lewis up close and personal. I’m definitely regretting that.

“So, what are you doing out of school?” I ask.

“Finally put two and two together did you?” His grin sends a wave of embarrassment over me, and I feel my cheeks heat up.

“Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. You haven’t been to church that much since I started leading. That’s probably why you didn’t recognize
me right away.”

“I have deadlines,” I mumble. “And four kids. Wednesdays are nearly impossible to make.”

“I understand.” He smiles down at me.

I tense, looking for condemnation, judgment, that all-knowing look I get sometimes from the regular attendees. But that look
isn’t there with him.

“You didn’t answer my other question.” I’m just glad there’s another path to go down in this little encounter.

At first he frowns like he isn’t sure what I mean, then he nods and I know he gets it. “Why am I not in school?” He holds
up a bandaged finger. “Got it smashed in the door.”

“Yowch.” I shudder. I don’t do injuries and blood very well.

He grins. “Tell me about it.”

“Broken?”

“’Fraid so.”

By now, we’ve been standing next to my minivan for a couple of minutes. An awkward silence tenses the air between us. A sure
sign it’s time to tear myself away and head for home. Clearing my throat, I press the automatic unlock button on my keychain.
“Well, thanks again for coming to my rescue.”

“My pleasure.” He reaches around me and opens my car door with his uninjured hand. My heart sort of picks up and for a second
I think maybe I’m panicking again. Then I vaguely recognize the feeling. The first sign of attraction. Increased pulse—something
I haven’t experienced over a man in a really long time. Now I’m nervous. I’ve steered
way
clear of men since my ex-husband’s defection from our marriage. And really, I see no reason to give in to these high-schoolish
butterflies wiggling around in my stomach.

He closes the door after me, and then hesitates while I roll down the window. Casually, he rests his elbow on the window frame,
his face so close I can almost feel his breath when he speaks. “I’ll be sending home parent/teacher conference notes next
week. Make sure you fill in a time to come see me about Shawn.”

“Sure.” Obviously, he’s feeling the same irresistible pull to me that I feel toward him, the magnetic attraction that causes
man and woman to fall in love. But of course he can’t just blurt out a proposal. And I respect that. First we must meet over
what is sure to be an exemplary academic file—after all, this is my Shawny we’re talking about. Perhaps he will suggest we
meet for coffee afterward.

I flash him a lovely smile (I know it’s lovely because as soon as he walks away I check it out in the rearview mirror). He
smiles back and says good-bye.

I pull the minivan from the parking lot and into full-blown traffic. My heart rate is returning to normal and so is my common
sense. I mentally begin to berate myself for my naïveté. First of all, a man like that would never fall for a chunky mother
of four who is going to be forty (in three years). And second of all… well, I guess there really isn’t a second of all.
The first reason is enough to bring me back to reality.

I admit it. I’m jaded where men are concerned. The only heroes in my life, besides Jesus, are the ones I create. Even though
Greg rescued me today (and I really credit that to God; after all, I had just prayed when Greg showed up), he’s not a heroic
fictional character.

Anyway, I’m not comfortable playing Maiden in Distress. I’ve been taking care of myself quite well for the past five years.
And how many people are actually living their dream? I really should thank Rick, the kids’ father. In a way, his complete
lack of respect for the sanctity of marriage is the sole reason I pushed so hard to become an author.

I couldn’t afford to sit around and whine. As a matter of fact, I divided child support four ways and banked it every month
for our kids. I worked two jobs waiting tables from 5:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. five days a week, with a two-hour split between
jobs when I ran home and fed my kids. While the rest of the world slept, I learned to be a writer, pecking away for at least
one hour every night. The first six months I turned out two completely ridiculous (although at the time I thought brilliant)
and unsellable novels.

I got the hang of writing by my third manuscript and—happy day—sold it to a tiny publisher with a tight budget. Not much in
the way of revenue, but I was a published author. Finally. The day my first check arrived in the mail, I spent the whole thing
by taking the kids out to McDonald’s, buying them each a pair of Nikes, and paying the electric bill mere minutes before they
shut it off. The next day I went to work on a new book between shifts. In due time, that one also sold.

A year later, I quit my second job as more titles were added to my résumé. I finally caught the attention of a hotshot agent
who took a liking to my “way with words,” and wouldn’t you know it? The publishers started lining up. When I was finally able
to make a livable wage, I gave two weeks notice and said
sayonara
to my handsy, cheapskate boss, who I swear wiped away a tear as I floated through the door. There were no tears on my face,
though. As a matter of fact, I might have clicked my heels together midair as I left that greasy spoon.

My memories fade as I pull into my drive. With the kids in school and the manuscript sent off to my editor (yes, Blaine and
Esmeralda finally sealed the deal with an earth-moving kiss), I have no plans for the rest of the day. I go into the kitchen
and pop a couple of ibuprofen to help with pain and inflammation in my arms (and try not to think about what the medicine
is most likely doing to my internal organs).

I head upstairs. My desk is a disaster area. I figure I might as well clean it up between answering e-mails and adding my
two cents worth to the latest discussion on my writer’s loop.

I think about Mom leaving right now and tears burn the backs of my eyes. At first I blink them away, then I realize, who’s
there to see them anyway? So I let them go, grabbing a tissue from the box on my desk and swiping at my nose.

I answer an e-mail from my editor. She got
Esmeralda’s Heart
and will read it ASAP. After that, I shut off my computer—a rarity—and sit back in my chair, my mind mulling over the conversation
with Mom, carpal tunnel, the panic attack (if that’s what it was). Then it dawns on me that maybe God is orchestrating Mom’s
departure around my surgery. Like maybe she’s right about all those things she said.

Would You do that to me, God?

Instinctively, I realize that like any good parent trying to teach a lesson, God most definitely
would
do that to me. I’m feeling the strongest sense of betrayal when I think I hear Him say something deep in my heart. I’m still.
There’s silence. So I decide to nudge Him.

Why, God?

And then I sense His voice again. In the deep places of my heart where only He can go. I suddenly know exactly how my kids
feel from time to time when I give them an answer and they expect more.

Because I said so.

I know I’m facing a choice. I’m about to have all this time on my hands (no pun intended). Perhaps it’s time to learn to live
in the world again. To reconnect with the kids, face my fear of crowds, go back to church.

My gut clenches at the thought of the mountains ahead of me. Mountains I have to climb alone. I don’t know if I’m up for such
a task. I know I need a plan. So I snatch a pen and look around for paper. Nothing. Not even a sheet of printer paper. I grab
a Wal-Mart receipt from the middle drawer of my desk and start to make a list on the back. Lucky for me it’s a long receipt.

During the next three months I will:

1. Go to church more. (This includes daily prayer time and maybe a Beth Moore Bible study.)

2. Clean my house. (Or probably hire someone. My wrists, you know.)

3. Reconnect with my children. (Will have to plan further for this one.)

4. Exercise—maybe. (But then again, I will be recovering from surgery. Wouldn’t want to hurt myself. Could probably walk on
the treadmill. We’ll play this one by ear.)

5. Figure out why my only socialization revolves around my computer. I mean, I love the writing groups, but does lunch with
the girls always have to involve trying to negotiate a turkey sandwich while instant messaging one-handed?

6. In response to #5—Join ladies’ group at church. Perhaps read the book
How to Make Friends and Influence People.
Or maybe one of Dr. Phil’s.
I glance back over the list and add one more thing:

7. List to be amended as necessary.

Theory:
a plausible or scientifically acceptable general principle or body of principles offered to explain phenomena

Opinion:
belief stronger than impression and less strong than positive knowledge

O
kay, here’s my theory about morning people—and in reference to Merriam Webster’s online dictionary, this is more than mere
opinion
, because I’m convinced that someone in Roswell has evidence to prove me right.

First, imagine a big green pod. I’m talking a really, really big one with bunches of sunshiny flowers sprouting from it like
a multicolored Chia Pet.

Got that mental picture?

My theory is that morning people emerge from these. They are not human, born of two loving parents like you and I were. Beneath
synthetic skin and bone beat alien hearts with no regard for those of us who are night people.

I know this, because every time I’m presented with the chance to sleep in, some wide-eyed morning person breaks free from
his or her pod and rings my doorbell at the crack of dawn (and just for the record, anything before 9:00 a.m. qualifies as
said crack). Or calls me on the phone, lets it ring fourteen times, then hangs up just when I finally answer. Either that,
or they
stay
on the line and then say something ignorant like, “Gee, I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?” Like, duh!

Today is no different and I am
so
not happy. The kids have gone camping with their dad for the weekend, it’s Saturday morning, and the doorbell must be stuck
or something because no one has the guts to just keep pushing it like that.

I’m not sure how I got from my bedroom, down the steps, and to the front door but here I stand, fury igniting my rapidly beating
heart. I fling the door open. My pod theory is definitely one for further consideration. Darcy’s on the porch. Her finger
is poised above the doorbell, about to push it again.

“Don’t!” I command.

She jumps, curls her finger back, and lowers her arm to her side. Her bright grin fades to an uncertain (and maybe a little
fearful) quiver of a smile.

She’s wearing a pair of snug-fitting Tommy Girl jeans and a St. Louis Rams sweatshirt. Being a Kansas City Chiefs fan, I find
myself annoyed. I take a really deep breath. “Why aren’t you camping?” I ask.

Her eyes scan over me, and I can only imagine what she’s taking in. But you know what? I didn’t ask her to wake me up. So
there.

“I’m sorry. I obviously woke you.”

Obviously. And pretty much beside the point now.

“Did you and Rick decide not to go to Bear Park?”

“Rick took the kids.” She looks uncomfortable. “I—don’t like bugs and stuff.”

“Well, who does?” I say, of course being facetious, but she smiles like I’m defending her sissy reason for staying behind.

She places a warm hand on mine. “I’d hoped you’d understand.”

I’d like to slug her in the arm for not getting the fact that I don’t make nice in the morning—especially at the pod girl
responsible for my awake state of being. One look at her hopeful eyes and smiling (perfectly shaped and colorful) lips, and
I know she’s clueless to my true feelings. Now I feel like a jerk. She’s Melanie, I’m Scarlett—only there’s no Rhett in my
life, and Rick is
not
Ashley Wilkes. And, well, I’m not beautiful. The analogy is flawed. Shoot. I really wanted to be Scarlett.

Darcy is just standing there, on the step, looking all Darcy-ish and perfect. I know she’s waiting for an invitation to come
in, but I have no desire to do the polite thing.

“Did you need something?” Yikes. I can hear Mom’s voice in my head telling me to play nice.

Her cheeks color and she looks away. “No. I’m, uh… Go back to bed. I’ll call you later or something. Maybe we can have
dinner.”

If I were alone I’d growl my frustration into the air. But I practically never growl when anyone is present. “I was just getting
up anyway,” I say, and her face relaxes. I want to add, I had to get up to answer the door. But I know I’d better not. God
is watching.

“The kids told me about your hands,” she says softly. “Is there anything I can do around the house to help you out?”

Man! Why does she have to be such a Pollyanna? Does that make me Aunt Polly? I really need to get off this analogy merry-go-round.
Every scenario puts me in a bad light. We won’t even think about the Wizard of Oz.

“I think I have it under control.” I give her a tight smile. “Thanks, though.”

She glances over my shoulder. I really think it’s instinctive, but still… a little nervy if you ask me. I clear my throat.
Now I’m the one who’s embarrassed because my house is a bit cluttered (and “a bit cluttered” is my way of saying “pigsty”).
The kids’ schoolbags and yesterday’s socks are slung across the living room. Not to mention books, papers, and all four remotes—one
for the satellite, one for the DVD player, one for the VCR, and one for the TV. I’ve never figured out how to program one
remote to run all of our home entertainment devices, so we just make do with a little clutter. You should see the mad scramble
when one of them is missing.