Leave It to Claire (12 page)

Rick scowls at me. “Nice, Claire.”

“I didn’t teach him that,” I defend myself.

“Claire, what are you doing up?” Darcy returns, carrying a suitcase, which I assume is filled with the kids’ clothes. “See,
this is what I’m afraid of; you’re not going to take care of yourself.”

Rick steps forward and relieves her of the bag. “Claire can handle herself, Darce.” He walks toward the door. “Kids, hug your
mother good-bye, and let’s go.”

“Can I drive?” Ari asks them while giving me her obligatory squeeze.

I have to grin when Darcy looks at Rick with an expression of pure delight. “Of course you can, Ari. I’ll take the boys with
me, and your father can give you a driving lesson on the way home.”

Rick’s face turns red. But in helpless surrender he hands over the keys to the excited teenager holding out her palm.

“Have fun, you guys,” I say as the boys hug me with a little more enthusiasm than did their sister and follow the exiting
group milling about the foyer.

When the door closes behind the kids, I sink down once again. Loneliness washes over me. I close my eyes, but for some reason
the image of little Rick and Darcy clones won’t leave me be. They’ll be their kids, brothers and/or sisters to my kids. But
what will that make me? Auntie Claire? My lips tighten into a grim smile. But I’m not feeling the humor. Not one bit. Because
I have a dreaded feeling in my gut. And my gut is hardly ever wrong.

My life is getting ready to change once again.

And I really hate change.

I
’m an hour into
The Mirror Has Two Faces
with high hopes of getting to the end this time when the doorbell rings. It’s 6:15. With a sigh, I work around my bandaged
arm and shove up from the couch. The wood floor warbles below me, like a time-warp special effect, and for a sec I think I’m
about to land in the waves. I close my eyes and the feeling passes just as the doorbell rings again.

I pad across the room, my socked feet slipping along the floor as I walk through the tiled foyer. I look through the peephole,
squint to make sure I’m seeing things right, then turn the knob with my good hand.

Linda is smiling and holding what appears to be a casserole dish between two blue potholders. “Hey, I heard you were alone
tonight and in pain. Mind if I come in?” Her eyes twinkle in the dusky sunset, and she lifts the dish just a little to draw
my attention to it. “I brought dinner.”

She’s dressed in a pair of loose, yellow exercise pants with a matching yellow jacket, and her long red hair is pulled up
in a clip. And to my utter amazement, she’s not wearing a spec of makeup. And hey, she doesn’t look that great. Yeah! That’s
more like it. This woman is normal. When Darcy doesn’t wear makeup she just looks like she’s a gorgeous woman without makeup.
When I don’t wear makeup in public, little children run terrified to their mamas.

I open the screen for Linda and she catches it with her elbow, pushing enough so that she can get through and step inside
my (thankfully clean) house.

Curiosity grumbles up from my empty stomach as I smell the heavenly aroma rising with the steam from that dish. Still, I don’t
want to appear too anxious. “You really shouldn’t have.” But I’m thinking how I’d like to grab the dish and run to the kitchen.

To my shock and (I admit) delight, she shrugs and makes like she’s going to turn around. “Oh, you don’t want it? Okay, I’ll
just take it home and freeze it for the family.”

Her teasing smile is infectious and very much does the trick to lighten me up. “Don’t you dare. I’m starving. I was just about
to order myself a pizza.”

“Oh, girl. This is way better than pizza.”

I think my new friend and I have just had our first disagreement. But since she’s the one doing the cooking, I am not going
to argue the superiority of pizza to any food on the face of the earth. Not until I’ve eaten anyway.

She looks at me, eyes questioning, head cocked to the side. “Should I take this to the kitchen?”

Oh, duh. For the record, let me just admit I’m a terrible hostess. “It’s that way.” I jerk my thumb toward the kitchen and
she leads the way. As I step into my second-favorite room in the house (the first one being my office), I’m surprised to see
the sparkly clean everywhere I turn. My dream kitchen had always been furnished with stainless steel appliances. Then, when
I got them I realized they are so much harder to keep looking nice than the other kind. Smudges jump out from them and call,
“Hey, slobby housekeeper, you want to grab a towel and wipe me down? I’m way too expensive for a dull shine. Perk me up, already.”
Apparently, Darcy heeded that call earlier, because my appliances haven’t looked this good since the cute Sears guys delivered
them two months ago.

So Linda sets the dish on my counter. “Are you hungry now?”

She must see the famished-wolf look in my eyes, because she doesn’t wait for an answer, but opens the cabinet just above the
dishwasher. She looks at four boxes of cereal and turns to me with a bewildered frown. “Where are your plates?”

A little sheepishly, I point to the cabinet next to the stove.

Okay. I know I have a funny system for organizing (and I use that term loosely) my cabinets, but here’s my thinking. We rarely
put dishes away anyhow, so bowls are almost always in the dishwasher. We grab a bowl. Set it on the counter, open the cabinet
and grab the cereal. See? Using your head a little is a huge timesaver. The same reasoning holds true for the stove cabinet.
Finish cooking, grab a plate, fill it, and go sit down. No need to use serving bowls when it’s just the kids and me, and the
plates are right there handy. I don’t know. I think it makes sense.

I don’t go into this with her, though. And to her credit, she doesn’t pry. She grabs two plates and looks around at the drawers.

No way am I going to have her trying to figure out that system. “I’ll get silverware.”

She smiles. “I hope you don’t mind if I eat with you. Trish is with Ari, and Mark is working late again.”

I wonder if I’m detecting a note of worry in her voice. I don’t know her well enough to recognize voice patterns, but as the
former wife of a man who cheated, I recognize the worry when I see it. Regaining that trust is difficult. It’s not my place
to pry, and I don’t get the feeling she really wants to open up, so I offer her the best thing I know to offer: friendship.

“I’d enjoy the company,” I reply truthfully. “With the kids gone, it’s pretty quiet around here. I’d get online, but typing
one-handed is too frustrating.”

She grabs the potholders and the casserole dish and heads for the table. “Do you have something to put down so we don’t mess
up the wood?”

I slide a forest-green place mat to the center of the table. “That ought to work.”

With a melodic burst of laughter, Linda sets the dish down. “You’re low-maintenance, aren’t you?”

I think that’s a compliment. I realize now that she assumed I’d have one of those coaster things you put down on the table,
but to me, I figured there was a place mat right there—why not use it? Part of me hates that I take the path of least resistance
in any given situation. It means I don’t have the spotless home I’d like to have or the most decorated walls. It means I wear
short, spikey hair that only takes ten minutes of wash, gel, and go instead of the long, flowy styles that are in fashion.
But there’s no need to defend myself. Linda’s guileless expression confirms that her statement was a compliment, not a criticism.

I nod. “I have to be low-maintenance. Nitty-gritty details make my busy life too stressful.”

“That’s admirable.” She sighs and dishes up a spoonful of the casserole that looks like some kind of chicken cheesy bake.

“Is it?” I walk to the dishwasher to find a couple of glasses, only to see it’s empty.

Darcy strikes again.

“Of course it’s admirable. You don’t get sucked in by the idea that you have to keep up with Mrs. Jones. Perfect house, perfect
yard, perfect figure.”

Hey, what’s wrong with my yard? That thought is eclipsed by the last remark. I don’t have to ask what’s wrong with my figure.
“Yeah, well. Perfect, I’m not. That’s for sure.”

“I hope you know, I just mean that you are yourself and don’t pretend to be anyone else. You don’t change to suit other people’s
ideals.”

“Sure, I knew what you meant.” All too well.

I open the cabinet next to the refrigerator and take out two glasses, maneuvering pretty well one-handed, if I do say so myself.
I open the fridge and take inventory.

“Okay, Linda. I have milk, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Coke, Diet Coke—don’t ask, but there seems to be a vast difference of opinion
over cola taste tests in this house—and if I know Darcy, there’s a pitcher of freshly squeezed OJ.” I lift out a glass pitcher
filled with pulpless orange liquid. “See what I mean?”

Linda laughs. “That woman is amazing.”

Whatever. “So what’ll it be?”

She chooses one of the diets, and I choose the other. Got to save those calories where we can, don’t we?

“Thanks for letting me stay. I haven’t had a girls’ night in ages.”

“Me neither.” I don’t do girls’ nights out. No girlfriends. I’m not even sure what to do. I mean, sure, I’ve seen my share
of
Sex in the City
episodes, but nothing is coming to mind. But then, a movie is always a safe bet, isn’t it? “Hey, do you like Barbra Streisand?”

She washes down a bite with a gulp of her diet soda. “Are you kidding? Who doesn’t?”

My sentiments exactly. “Ever seen
The Mirror Has Two Faces
?”

She shakes her head. “I’m married to a man’s man. The only movies I get to watch must include blood, violence, and lots of
gunfire. Barbra Streisand is definitely not on the list of acceptable choices when it’s time to pick out a movie.”

I have an opinion about that disclosure, but somehow I don’t think God wants me to toss it out there and give the devil any
ammo against this marriage. And guess what? I still feel a little bit responsible to watch over it after my book was a catalyst
for their reunion.

Still, why is it that a man won’t watch a chick flick, but he always wants his wife to watch a guy flick? Trying to explain
the word
compromise
to a testosterone-overloaded male is like trying to teach a dog not to sniff. There’s just no training them in that area.
If you try to talk them into watching a chick movie, they decide they need to build a doghouse or something.

Okay, my man-hating hormone is kicking in, so I turn to food to calm me down.

“This looks great. What is it, anyway?”

She grins. “Cheesy chicken casserole. What’s that got to do with a Barbra Streisand movie?”

“Not a thing. Except maybe we can eat in the living room and watch the movie. You got time?”

“All the time in the world. Trish is spending the night and going to school with Ari tomorrow.” Her face clouds. “And there’s
no telling when Mark’s going to be home. So why should I hang around and wait for him to remember he has a wife?”

Let it go, Claire. Let it go.

“Looks like my lucky night, then.” Okay, I’m over the hump. Once I change the subject, I almost never go back and say what
I was changing the subject to avoid saying in the first place.

“Thank you. I’ve been wanting to see that movie for years.”

She’s not the only one.

I stand and take my plate in my good hand. She takes her plate and somehow maneuvers the glasses so that she can carry both
in one hand. “You’ve waited tables, I can tell.” I grin at her.

“Is this a past we share?”

“How do you think I got through the first few years after Rick left?”

She’s leading the way into the living room, but I hear her sigh. Now that’s a cry for help if I’ve ever heard one. Anyone
who actually sighs aloud is just asking for a little advice.

I sit on the couch and Linda deposits my drink on the coffee table, then takes her seat in my tan-and-cranberry recliner.
“So, is everything okay with you and Mark?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice has dropped to such a low volume that I can barely hear her.

“You know, working late doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

She nods and turns to me. “It’s just that… last time…”

“It started with him working late?”

“So he said. Of course he wasn’t really working. He was with his mistress.”

“And you think he’s cheating now?” I wish I would have just stayed out of it. But once I opened that can of worms by asking
her if everything was okay, I pretty much committed myself to seeing the conversation through to a natural conclusion.

“I can’t know for sure. And I can’t ask him.”

“Why the heck can’t you?” I just don’t get it. I’m not built to avoid confrontation. It just bursts out of me. I should talk.
I mean, good grief. Rick had been having affairs for years before I had the courage to face it. I finally pinned him down
one night after he came home late and just demanded the truth. Of course there’s no way I can tell Linda that. Besides, I
really just want to let it go. It’s bringing back a lot of painful memories. And I’m recovering from surgery. I shouldn’t
have to think about my strong need for inner healing at a time like this.

Tears have begun to slip down her cheeks, and I know there’s no way I’m going to get out of having this talk. “Because if
I ask him, he’ll think I don’t trust him. And we’ve been through so much.”

“But—”

“I know. If I don’t trust him, I should either confront him or leave him.”

“Living in misery every time he leaves the house isn’t healthy. Not for you or Mark and probably not for Trish, who most likely
feels the tension in you.”

She swipes a tissue from a box on the table next to her chair. I don’t remember putting them there. As a matter of fact, I
usually grab toilet paper when I need to wipe my nose. Darcy must have thought I needed some in the living room. I silently
bless the dear June Cleaver wannabe, because I would have died if I’d had to offer Linda a square of Charmin for her little
nose.