A Time to Mend (2 page)
To have the kids show up unannounced and fix dinner must have meant the world to her, though. Naturally, she had wanted him to share in the special event. That made sense. What he couldn’t wrap his mind around was her overreaction to his inability to get there in time. The circumstances were so far beyond his control.
Claire’s overreactions were few and far between. She understood the agency—the one they’d founded together almost thirty-three years ago—often had to be prioritized. It was the nature of the beast. She accepted his late arrivals to family functions with more grace than he deserved. At times she fussed, of course, often with a sarcasm that made him laugh. He always did his best to make up for it with gifts and special family trips. It wasn’t as if he was a totally absent husband and father.
So what was with tonight? Man, tonight wasn’t even close to being his fault! The jet had been out of commission!
He’d arrived home to find her not fussing but sitting there, coiled on the couch like a silent jaguar waiting to pounce. And here he’d spent most of the evening waiting in the private lounge at the Sacramento airport, thinking his backside was covered.
Should he go into the guest room and wake her? And do what? Apologize for the kids making plans without consulting him first?
He didn’t think so. If Claire wanted her space tonight, that was just fine with him.
C
laire watched the first rays of sunlight paint the distant rolling hills. She sat in the gazebo at the end of a stone path in their backyard. It was located in the farthest corner from the house—as far as she could remove herself from Max without getting in the car and driving somewhere.
Wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, bare feet propped on another cushioned wicker chair, she listened to morning birdsong and drained an entire carafe of coffee. She waited for the sun’s warm glow to invade the shadowy canyon that lay at the base of those hills.
She waited, too, she imagined, for a warm glow to seep into her own dark heart.
“Morning.” Max’s voice startled her, and she turned. He kissed the top of her head and pulled a chair from the table. “Mind?”
Well, she did. Sort of. At the sound of his voice, her stomach lurched, as if she’d eaten an entire quart of Choco-Cherry Chunk ice cream all by herself.
Rather than wait for a reply, he sat, coffee mug in hand. “The grill’s broken.” Gazing toward the sun, he sipped from the cup.
Claire stared at him, replaying his comment a few times.
“The grill’s broken . . . The grill’s broken.”
Okay. So that’s where they were. Last night hadn’t happened. She could chalk it all up to just another “Max snafu”—a phrase their daughter Jenna had coined as an adolescent when she learned “snafu” was an acronym for “situation normal, all fouled up.” Max’s late arrivals and absences were a normal part of the Beaumont household. The confusion they created had become the stuff of family lore. Someday they would all laugh about Max sitting in the Sacramento airport while the kids cooked a birthday dinner for her.
Which shifted the whole point of the fun evening onto him. It made her the butt of the joke.
The ache in her stomach burned now. It rose up into her throat.
Last night had happened. Chalking it up to a “Max snafu” wouldn’t cut it this time.
“‘The grill is broken’?”
He looked at her. “Yeah, it is.”
“Oh, I believe you. I just can’t believe those were the first words out of your mouth.”
With a slight shrug, he drank from the cup and turned his head again.
His mind was elsewhere. Though he easily functioned on four hours of sleep, he wasn’t at his best before coffee. The puffiness around his eyes told her he had not slept well. His short, thick, black hair was damp. His face, with its fifty-five-year-old creases and dimple smack-dab in the center of the chin, was smooth shaven. Dressed for the office, he wore a white polo shirt and beige linen slacks. His matching jacket would be hung neatly on the back of a kitchen chair.
She should wait, catch him at a better time.
But she always did that. She always held back, measured her words, pretended everything was fine.
The burning sensation engulfed her now. She heard her own breathing, the shallow gasps. Her thoughts raced, and she could no longer contain them.
“We have to talk about last night.”
He turned to her, squinting as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.
“Yes. Right now. I’ve finished off a whole pot of coffee here trying to figure out what happened. Then you sit down and right off the bat talk about the grill. Next you’re going to stand up and say you’ve got a seven-thirty meeting.”
“Well, actually—”
“Max!”
“It’s at eight o’clock.”
“Which gives us—what? Ten whole minutes to figure out our future?”
“Wait, hold on there. This sounds like a little caffeine overload to me.”
“I slept in the guest room.”
“That’s okay, Claire. You were clearly upset, and you had your reasons. No problem. Today’s a new day. Let’s just move on.”
“I can’t. I can’t shove this one under the rug.”
“There’s nothing to shove under the rug. This is our life. It always has been.”
As his voice gathered enthusiastic steam, Claire anticipated his monologue. She could have delivered it herself verbatim.
“I have a company to run, and sometimes, yes, it interferes with our private life. When you and I started the business, we knew it would have to come first. But we agreed to prevail, right? We would stay strong, because it’s such an important work. Every year thou-sands and thousands of people find jobs because of Beaumont Staffing. We impact society for the good. We make a difference in the world.”
“That commercial’s getting a little stale, don’t you think?”
His jaw fell.
“The point is right here and right now.” A mirthless chuckle erupted from her throat, an uncontrollable noise of disbelief that frightened her. Words flew off her tongue. “You sat down and talked about the grill. Good grief, I’m playing second fiddle to a grill! And now I know exactly what happened last night. When I said I’m tired of the charade, I meant I won’t play second fiddle to the company. Yes, we agreed ages ago that it would interfere with our private lives, and we would prevail. But, Max, we have prevailed. We’ve made it to the point where the business doesn’t need to interfere anymore. It’s no longer fighting for its life. And neither is it tripling in size. It doesn’t need your attention day and night.”
“I missed dinner because the plane broke down.”
“You’re changing the subject, but all right, let’s go there. You didn’t miss dinner. You missed Lexi all excited about her workday. She never gets excited about anything. You missed Danny’s questions about his own company. He sounds like he’s drowning in it. He needs your expertise.”
“I’ll call the twins later. Catch up.”
“You missed Erik referring to you as The Putz. Capital letters.”
He took a leisurely sip of coffee before replying but didn’t look at her. “I’m sure he had a few beers under his belt.”
“Nobody disagreed with him, and they weren’t drinking.”
He shrugged. “I suppose there’s a Jenna story too?”
Claire pressed her lips together.
Max sighed and set his mug on the table. “I suppose she has major news, like she’s pregnant or something.”
“No. She just . . . She just reminded me of myself.” Claire’s voice sank, and she closed her eyes. Her older daughter’s behavior cut her to the quick. It was subtle, something she’d noticed before but had always chosen to ignore. Until now.
“How’s that?”
Claire looked at him. “She worships the ground Kevin walks on.” “That’s pure nonsense. Jenna’s the most stubbornly independent of them all.”
“Except when Kevin says, ‘Jump.’ He makes subtle, sarcastic comments about her, about her teaching or whatever, and she smiles through it all. ‘How high, Kev?’”
“That’s harmless.”
“Well, thirty-two and a half years of asking how high isn’t harmless.”
His brow wrinkled.
“I’ve worshipped the ground you walk on, taking second place for the sake of the business. I thought I was supposed to. But now . . .” She paused. “It’s over. That’s what I quit. Max, I want to play first fiddle.”
He inhaled deeply and exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling. “You are first. I admit the company consumes much of my time and attention. But, Claire, you are my real priority.”
“Then prove it. Call in sick today.”
“That’s hardly a fair request, and you know it.” He stood, nearly overturning his chair in the process. “For crying out loud, we’re flying to San Francisco for your birthday tomorrow. We’ll have two full days together to discuss anything you want. All right?”
A pang ripped through her chest, so sharp she thought her heart had literally snapped shut right then and there. It wasn’t his red face or low, angry tone that delivered the blow. It was his blatant disregard for her in choosing to go to work.
She shook her head. “Sorry, Max. I’m fresh out of days to wait for you.”
“I really have to get to this meeting.”
She waved her hand, shooing him off like the deaf fruit fly he was impersonating.
He turned on his heel and hurried down the gazebo’s two steps. No kiss, no good-bye, no apology, no indication when he’d be home.
So much for being straightforward about her feelings. Evidently he didn’t believe her declaration that she was out of days.
Evidently she didn’t believe it either. Evidently she didn’t believe a thing she had said.
Because, of course, she would go to San Francisco with him. She would rave about whatever pricey gift he gave her and pretend last night was no big deal. Life would go on. Like always.
An image of Jenna came to mind, smiling almost vapidly and in essence asking,
“How high, Kev?”
It was way past time her daughter saw a wife who kept both feet firmly planted on the ground, no matter the consequences.
“Max!” Claire shoved back her chair and rose, whirling around and shouting across the spacious yard. “Max!”
He stopped, halfway through the sliding glass door, and turned. “If you go, I won’t be here when you come home.”
“Suit yourself !” Even from her distance, she heard the rattle of the door’s glass as he banged it shut.
And that was that.
Almost in disbelief at how quickly it had happened, Claire slumped back onto the chair and wrapped her arms around her torso, shiver-ing in the sun as her face contorted with tears. Despite everything, she had hoped for a different response. For Max to fight—to attach some worth to their relationship, to acknowledge her. It was only fair. She had given him all of herself—her hopes, her dreams, her identity—allowing him to mold her into his perfect companion until she’d lost her own identity.
And that’s what this was all truly about. She couldn’t remain the person he had created. And he didn’t have room for anything different.
A
n hour behind his usual arrival time, Max entered the front glass double doors of Beaumont Staffing.
Thirty minutes and light-years from the community where he lived, his office was located in a busy strip mall near intersecting freeways. It had a private rear entrance with reserved parking spaces, but Max preferred using the large public lot and front door.
It was his favorite time of the day.
He paused just inside the door and waited for the full impact of the scene before him to settle in.
“That commercial’s getting a little stale, don’t you think?”
Yeah, all right. He could be a jerk, but that snide remark was totally out of line. A low blow and undeserved. What was up with her? Maybe he could blame hormones. Wasn’t she in menopause or something?
“
Excuse
me.” A young woman stood before him, a glassy-eyed child on one hip, a large diaper bag on the other, an uninhibited expression of fury on her plain, narrow face. The girl was ticked.
“Sorry.” He stepped aside and opened the door for her.
She started through it without a glance or thank-you.
“Ma’am,” he said. “Ma’am!”
She turned.
“The checks will be ready by ten o’clock.” It was Friday, payday. A steady stream of people would flow through the office to pick up checks. Some, like her, would have children in tow and wear an obvious look of dire need. He figured she’d been told her check wasn’t available yet.
“I know, but I’m here now. They told me I’d get paid
today
.”
“You will. Just later.”
“I got a life for later,” she muttered and continued through the door he still held open. “Can’t spend the whole freaking day riding buses around the county.”
Max dug into his jacket pocket and quickly pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “Hang on a sec.” A quick step and he was beside her, shoving the money into the front pouch of the diaper bag.
She twisted around. “What are you doing?”
“Just giving you a little something to help tide you over.”
“Huh?” She began digging in the pocket.
He smiled and went back inside to where the lobby overflowed with people. All ages, sizes, shapes, and cultures. All in search of temporary work. Some stood at the counter, which was centered along the back wall. Others sat in the glassed-in waiting areas—one on his right, one on his left—filling out applications or watching morning news programs on the wall-mounted televisions while waiting to be interviewed.
Behind the counter were three fresh-faced, perky, bilingual women —his first line of customer service. They answered phones and fielded the one thousand job seekers who walked through the door every month. In the back offices were twenty more staff members, whose task it was to find them temporary jobs.
“Hey, Max!” one of the receptionists called over the hubbub. “Phil’s on his way over.”
“Thanks.” He gave her a wave and headed down the hallway toward his office.
He could feel his smile. Yes, it was his favorite time of the day.
The impact of this shot through him now. Sometimes it hit him like a jolt of energy, a caffeine buzz after a triple espresso. Other times it was a slow-spreading warmth, like the glow of contentment after a few sips of good scotch.
