Leave It to Claire (23 page)

I’m not finding anything here. The light’s going to have to go on.

As if by magic, it does just that. The light. Comes on. I gasp. That’s just too weird. “Claire, what are you doing on the
floor. Are you okay?”

The sound of Darcy’s voice does two things for me: grants me a measure of relief that my mental processes didn’t cause that
light to come on, and heaps on humiliation because I’m on my hands and knees facing away from her, so I can only imagine the
view she’s getting.

I close my eyes and shake my head. There’s nothing to do but get up off the floor, turn, and . . .

Greg is standing above me, once again offering to help me up. He’s probably starting to wonder if I see him coming and hit
the floor just so I can hold his hand. He grins that adorable, lopsided grin. “You’re either the most praying woman I’ve ever
met, or you’ve lost something.”

His silly comment eases the tension from the awkward moment and I take his hand. He eases me to my feet and hangs on to my
hand just a little longer than necessary. “What are you looking for?”

Oh, honey. I’ve been looking for you. Where have you been all my life?

He’s looking at me with a little confusion creasing his brow. Is he feeling the same thing I am? That attraction that sometimes
causes the mind to balk in its intensity?

“I know what she’s looking for.” Darcy’s bubbly voice breaks the spell, and my cheeks begin to burn with the understanding
of exactly what it was that Greg was confused about. He asked me a question, and I got caught up in his brown eyes and totally
lost my focus.

“How are you feeling, Claire?” Rick enters the room and my whole body tenses. We still have things to discuss. “Greg told
me about Tommy’s incident in the alley.”

I turn to Greg. No accusation, just wondering if he came all the way over here to tattle on my son. His face colors a little.
“Tommy won the skateboard. When I didn’t see your van at home, I took a chance he might be here.”

Pride shoots through me as I remember the skill Tommy displayed. Then I notice the angry determination creasing every line
on Rick’s face. I nod. “I don’t suppose we ought to let him keep it.”

Y
ou’re not serious, right?” My defenses rise in the face of Ari’s horrified query.

“Mother, please tell me you aren’t actually coming to the carnival.”

Whoosh.
The sound of my deflating pride.

I’m standing in my kitchen, wearing my “On the eighth day Eve created chocolate” apron, proudly holding out my pan of perfectly
baked brownies for Ari to observe, sniff, and rave over. The brownies that were supposed to make up for all those birthday
cupcakes I didn’t make for her classes at school. But far from the undying gratitude and promises of perfect behavior, my
newly turned sixteen-year-old stares at me as though I’m offering tainted food—possibly sprinkled with rat poison.

“As a matter of fact I
am
coming. I’m manning one of the booths.”

Not to mention the fact that I burned my fingers (the ones sticking out from the end of my wristband) on this stinking pan
of brownies. She could show a little appreciation for not only my pain but my efforts in the first place. There’s no way I’m
missing out on that carnival after all I’ve been through.

“I wish you’d just leave it alone.” She flounces across the room and throws herself into a kitchen chair in an Oscar-winning
performance.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Mother, I just don’t see the necessity of you showing up at the carnival.”

“Mother?”
Ari has three words to address me (I don’t even want to think about how many she has to describe me). Mom, which she uses
most of the time. Ma, which she uses when she’s trying to weasel something out of me or weasel out of a chore or punishment.
And Mother. Mother always signals a problem. She’s upset and gearing up for a fight.

I slide the pan of brownies onto the burners to cool.

If there was ever a time I needed Tough Chick, it’s now. In the face of Ari’s rejection of my sacrificial efforts, I may just
melt into a messy puddle of tears. I draw a deep, cleansing breath and turn as I exhale.

“The necessity of my showing up is that I gave my word to the committee that I would be there to oversee the baked goods booth.
I couldn’t very well do that without bringing a contribution to the effort. Now could I?”

“How about writing a check? That’s the kind of contribution we need the most.”

“You’re the one who said you wished I was more involved.”

“When I was little, Mom. It’s not necessary anymore. As a matter of fact, it’s not wanted.”

“Ari,” I say, grabbing her arm as she stomps by, thus thwarting her retreat. “Why is it so terrible that I’m coming? Are you
ashamed of me?”

Her jaw drops. “Are you kidding? How could I be ashamed of this hole-in-the-wall town’s only claim to fame? Why do you think
I’m so popular? I get it, okay! Without you, I’d be just another wannabe following after the cheerleaders and football players.”

Shock fills me as I listen to her little speech. She never wants me around because I steal her thunder? So the truth is she
thinks I made her popular. Father, how can she not see her own worth?

“Ari, honey.”

“Please, Mother. Don’t start trying to be nurturing. It’s too late. Besides, Paddy’s going to be here any sec. I need to go
upstairs. I forgot my purse.”

She jerks away and I let her go. I’m too stunned to do otherwise. She honestly thinks no one would even notice her if she
didn’t have an author for a mother?

But I do suddenly understand where she’s coming from. She wants to stand out. To be noticed for her accomplishments. That’s
why she works so hard to be the best at everything she does. It’s the reason she gets up at 5:00 a.m. to exercise, why she
struggles to make A’s, why she, as a sophomore, is already taking steps toward becoming head cheerleader in two years.

Her drive astounds me, inspires me, and induces respect in me. I admire her as an individual who makes goals, sets out to
meet those goals, and if she doesn’t achieve them, comes pretty darn close. She’s an amazing girl.

I know I must tell her so. I can’t stand the thought of her living one more second under the false impression that she has
to live up to standards I set by mere public perception. But as I walk through the living room to head for the stairs, the
doorbell rings. My heart nearly bursts from my chest. That will be Patrick Devine. My Ari is having her first date.

She skips down the steps, smiling brightly as though our conversation never happened. She even kisses my cheek as she breezes
past.

“Be home by eleven, Ari.”

“Yes, Mom, I know.”

We’ve had extensive negotiations during the past couple of weeks. I originally told her 10:30, she pushed for midnight (of
course), I settled for 11:00. She tried to push again, this time for 11:30, but I wasn’t budging. So that’s a hurdle we don’t
have to deal with tonight. A good thing, given the spirit of our last conversation—which still has me spinning a bit.

A cool wind puffs through the foyer as the door flies open, then slams shut in a beat. I’m left standing here, alone, like
the Rapture happened, only I must have overestimated my position with God.

I quickstep into the living room and hurry to the window. I am dying to watch her beginning her first date. I push the drape
aside just enough to see out. A ten-year-old Mustang sits in my driveway. Mustang? No one said anything about a Mustang. What
kind of a pastor lets his son drive a Mustang? A make-out car? Oh, no. My daughter is not going to drive away on her first
date with a boy behind the wheel of a car that wasn’t designed to inspire control and respectability in anyone, let alone
a hormone-ravaged teenage boy.

Panic drives me back to the foyer. Another burst of wind accompanies the opening of the front door just before I reach for
the knob. I jump back. Red-faced, Ari precedes Patrick into the house.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, trying to slow the rush of adrenaline storming through me.

“Patrick wanted to come in and say hello before we leave.”

Hmm. I’m not sure what to think about that. I know boys. Is he trying to get on my good side by pretending to respect and
honor me while he’s thinking about unbuttoning my daughter’s shirt? Okay, no. That’s not fair. I think back to all the times
I’ve seen Patrick, hands lifted to God with tears streaming down his face. Tears that I can’t believe he faked. “Thank you,
Patrick. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” I raise an eyebrow to Ari in a pointed look. She knows what I mean.

“My parents made it a rule.” He grins. “I can’t go on a date without picking the girl up at the door and saying hello to her
parent. So if they ask…”

“I’ll be sure and let them know.” I can’t help but laugh. Suddenly, I don’t feel like forbidding the date anymore. ’Stang
or no.

“Please, drive carefully.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get her home safely.”

Now, I know he’s too good to be true. “Eleven o’clock.”

A flush spreads across his adorable face. “My curfew is ten-thirty, so I’ll have to have her home by ten.”

Ari’s eyes widen. But I think she’s happy enough to be dating Patrick that she’ll take whatever time she can get.

“All right then. You kids enjoy yourselves. Got your cell phone, Ari?”

“Yes.” She’s a little subdued. Hopefully, it’s because Patrick’s respect and politeness are penetrating her consciousness
and causing her to see the error of her ways where her attitude is concerned.

Patrick reaches for the door, opens it, and waits for Ari to step out first. She walks past, and I barely detect a muttered
whisper. “Ten o’clock. Sheesh.”

Saying a little prayer for safety (and chastity), I close the door after them. Kids. You can’t put them in a tower, locked
away until the craziness of those teen years subsides, can you? As much as I’d like to hide her away now, I realize Ari has
to walk it out like everyone else, enduring the pain and heartache, the joys and successes, everything that goes along with
stepping out of childhood and into adulthood. Tears form in my eyes. Where did the years go?

I see her face as I held her for the first time—completely overwhelmed by lack of experience, and yet loving her with a fierceness
I’ve never known. Her precious head, swollen from her trip into the world. She barely cried. She just looked around as if
to say, “Well, Mom, here I am. Don’t screw me up, okay?” I’ve tried to do right by her. But deep inside, I know I have failed
in so many ways. The pain of regret slices through me. And suddenly the heat from the oven seems to have instantly created
a sauna. I figure it’s perimenopausal.

“Boys,” I call upstairs where they’re playing, “I’m going outside for a while, if you need me.”

No answer, which, even on a good day, usually signals trouble. “Boys!”

I hear scrambling. “Yeah, Mom?”

“What are you doing up there?”

“Playing.”

“Playing what?”

“Lord of the Rings Risk,” Shawn calls down.

Hmmm. I don’t believe it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from parenting these four children it’s that they do not play
games together until I make them do it during the occasional game night. My skepticism spurs me up the stairs. Hey, I’m not
proud of my lack of faith in the boys. Really. But come on. I smell trouble.

I quietly slip down the hall. I’m a mouse. Unheard, unseen. The little boys’ door is wide open, so I get a view of the empty
room. I slink forward in my crime-stopping venture and halt at Tommy’s room. “I’m attacking the Shire.” I hear Jakey’s voice
pipe in.

“You better not.” The warning in Tommy’s tone is unmistakable. Is he bullying his little brother over a game? I’m about to
fling the door open and confront him. But I stop short at his next words. “Look, if you attack Shawn’s Shire, you’re going
to leave yourself wide open on the other side. He’s going to take his Shire back and probably wipe you off that territory
altogether.”

“Thanks a lot,” Shawn grouses. “Stop helping him. That’s cheating.”

“He’s just a kid. I can help him if I want.”

“Yeah.” Jakey’s one-word response brings a smile to my lips. Okay, they’re getting along, after all, for the most part. Still,
I tap the door and enter.

My heart swells in my chest as I take note of the three of them, seated Indian style on the floor around the game board. I’m
suddenly feeling proud, maybe a little optimistic that perhaps the attention—and/or the family counseling—is paying off. Certainly,
they wouldn’t have been caught dead playing a board game three months ago.

“Having fun?” I ask as three expectant faces turn to me.

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

“Whatever.” It’s been over a week, after all.

“I’m going outside for a little air.”

They look at me with disinterested acknowledgment and then back to the board as Jake and Shawn roll the dice simultaneously.

I close the door and stop off at my room for a jacket.

Outside, I sit in the coolness of the autumn night, watching the last of the fall leaves sway in the breeze, as though fighting
to hang on just a little longer. The hint of a chill in the air alerts me to the fact that winter will soon be upon us—images
of the coming rush of events play like a slideshow across my mind. First Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Plus
the little events accompanying each holiday. Parties at church, family dinners, Christmas luncheons (
Ugh
—don’t want to think about the Christmas luncheon at the ladies’ meeting).

Ladies’ luncheon notwithstanding, I’m eagerly anticipating the fun of the next two months. This will be my first holiday season
in several years without the stress of a deadline. I look forward to it with relish. I intend to decorate more lavishly—albeit
tastefully—than ever before.

I turn to the glow of headlights coming my direction. As the vehicle draws closer, my heart skips. The motion light above
the garage pops to life as Greg’s Avalanche drives by. He’s rolled his window down. He waves and smiles. I wave and smile
back. Greg’s officially my neighbor now. He and Sadie have moved in. As the kids say, “It’s weird for anyone else to be living
in Granny’s house.” But you know what? It’s exciting, too. I have this feeling about Greg. I think he really likes me.