A Time to Mend (3 page)

“That commercial’s getting a little stale, don’t you think?”

Today it wasn’t quite buzz, wasn’t quite glow. More like a brain cramp.

Five

C
laire’s finger shook so badly she couldn’t press the phone’s On button. She set the cordless receiver on the kitchen counter and balled her hands into fists.

All thoughts of safety and security had fled her home. Expressing her innermost feelings to Max and getting no response in return proved what she feared: all his years of relating to the world through the eyes of a businessman had deadened something inside of him. He couldn’t respond with his heart. Could he feel anything anymore?

Good negotiator that he was, he would smooth things over between them by helping her see things his way. He would convince her she was wrong. To emphasize his point, he would give her jewelry. Probably flowers too.

That was how it worked whenever she hinted at going negative on him, whenever she mustered enough courage to quit pretending.

A casserole dish filled with sudsy water caught her gaze. Two pots also in need of scrubbing sat nearby on the stovetop. Not bad considering that last night the kids had used almost every dish and utensil she owned.

She pictured them there, all five, dressed in white chef jackets and tall hats, bebopping to rock-and-roll music blasting from the radio as they unloaded grocery bag after grocery bag. They’d brought all her favorite foods and even a bakery cake topped with purple-frosting roses arranged in the shape of “53.”

“For you, Mom.” Erik, her eldest at thirty, grinned. “A birthday extravaganza. Six courses!”

“Seven.” Jenna corrected. “Remember, the sorbet to cleanse the palate counts as one.”

Lexi added, “We will totally clean up.”

Well, Claire didn’t buy that promise, but she did count on Danny’s guarantee, underscored by son-in-law Kevin’s solemn nod: “Dad’s on his way.”

She remembered the moment the phone had rung.

She remembered answering it gaily, expecting to hear her best friend’s voice. Naturally, Tandy had been the children’s accomplice, the one who’d made dinner plans with Claire, ensuring she’d be home at six on Thursday night. But instead of Tandy, the kids had appeared with groceries and promises that Dad was on his way.

“Claire!” It was her husband. His energetic voice rose above the chefs’ clamor. “Surprise!”

Wham. Emotional whiplash.

“Dad’s on his way,”
they’d said. Such empty words. Only a fool would believe them.

The laughter in her throat died a quick death. With a too-familiar sense of resignation, she sat on a counter stool and closed her eyes to shut out the swirl of activity before her.

The thing was, it was so typical. So nauseatingly typical. Why had she assumed for even a split second that tonight would be different?

“Claire? Are you there?”

“Mm-hmm.” Her fingers ached. She loosened her grip on the phone and noticed the ache in her stomach. There wasn’t a thing to be done except endure the discomfort. It always went away . . . after a time.

“Oh, man!” he cried.

She visualized Max slapping his forehead in that dramatic way some people thought winsome.

“Did I call too early?”

“Too early?” She shifted on the stool. “Too early for what?”

“The surprise. But I hear music. Oh, please, please tell me the kids are there already.”

“The kids?”

“Claire! Give me a break!”

Her pleasure in making him squirm really was twisted. “They’re here.”

“Whew. Were you surprised?”

“Astonished.”

She felt a hand on her arm and opened her eyes. Jenna was leaning across the counter toward her.

“Is it Dad?”

She nodded.

“Dad!” Jenna bellowed in the articulate teacher voice she’d acquired about the time she turned three. “Get your derriere home
tout de suite
or you’ll be sorry!”

Max laughed.

Claire said, “He’s laughing.”

Jenna flipped her long, black hair over her shoulder. “I’m serious, Maxwell!” she barked. “Kevin and Erik are lighting the grill even as we speak. Your grill. Your precious, brand-new, top-of-the-line grill. Need I say more?”

“My grill?” The panic in Max’s tone was not total fabrication. He adored his covered-patio kitchenette with its built-in gas grill, ceramic-tiled workspace, and surrounding low brick wall. “Not my grill.”

Claire gave Jenna a thumbs-up and got a smirk in reply as her daughter sashayed away.

“Aw, Claire,” he said.

That was when the full impact hit. Her insides felt like a rug being shaken. Up. Snap. Down. Up. Snap. Down. Max. Was not. Coming.

“I can’t make it in time. There’s no way.”

A whooshing sensation filled her ears, and the kitchen hullabaloo dimmed. Max’s litany became unintelligible. She heard bits and pieces. “Sacramento . . . jet repairs . . . three hours minimum . . .”

As he talked, she swiveled on the stool and faced the adjoining family room. Large sliding doors and wide bay windows filled most of two walls, giving a clear view of the backyard. Shadows already touched the swimming pool. Nearby, thick groves of eucalyptus trees filtered rays from the sun, while lush flowers bloomed in terracotta pots scattered about the yard. Coastal dampness thickened the scents of jasmine and citrus. The peaceful scene calmed her.

“I’m sorry, Claire.” He always was. And he did mean it sincerely.

“I know.”

“At least it’s not really your birthday, right? We’ll be celebrating in San Francisco on the real day. Hey, do you mind keeping an eye on my grill? You know how Erik and Kevin are.”

The music volume jumped to eardrum-shattering level. The Stones and her kids screamed they could “get no satisfaction,” drowning out Max’s voice. Claire turned back around toward the kitchen and watched as the five revelers danced wildly about, waving wooden spoons, beckoning her to join them.

Max was wrong. No matter the date, it was her birthday, with or without him.

“Gotta go, Max!” she shouted into the phone. “Bye!”

She hit the Off button, picked up a wooden spoon they’d set out for her, and discoed her way into the kitchen . . .

Now Claire blinked away the memory. It had solidified some-thing in her. A resolve.

She picked up the phone and pressed the number with a steady finger.

“Hello?”

“Tandy, I need a place to stay.”

Six

I
mean, since when do my kids cook?” Max groused. “If I’d known they were going to use my grill, I would’ve canceled the trip to Sacramento yesterday.”

Seated on the other side of his desk, Neva Martínez-Rhodes crossed her legs and smacked her gum. “Claire really should nail your carcass over the fireplace.”

Next to her, Phil Singleton shook his head. “Nah. He’s just being overly dramatic. Aren’t you, Max? You’re not really saying you’d cancel for the grill, but you wouldn’t cancel for Claire’s birthday dinner.”

“I didn’t know it was her birthday dinner in time to cancel! And it wasn’t her official birthday dinner. That happens tomorrow. In San Francisco. With me.”

Neva swung her crossed leg back and forth, her jaws working at the piece of gum, and studied him. The petite Hispanic woman resembled a meteor in everything she did. Compared to her, Max saw himself as a lethargic slug. Which was probably why she’d been his right-hand person forever and a day. He trusted her capabilities and usually her opinion.

“Nail my carcass?”

“That’s what I said.” She nodded. “Did she?”

“Almost.”

“Good for her.”

Neva had gone with him the previous day to visit the office in Sacramento. She overheard his conversation with Claire when he explained the company jet needed repairs and he wouldn’t be home on time. She understood his wife’s disappointment.

Phil cleared his throat. “Max, you look like something a dog would be proud to drag inside and lay at his owner’s feet. Care to elaborate?”

Max studied the two employees who also happened to be his closest friends.

Neva had been his director of operations since he created the position, less than two years after opening the doors of Beaumont Staffing. At that time he and Claire were almost bonkers trying to run things themselves. His niche was networking with clients; Claire’s was play-ing her violin with the symphony. Nobody was managing the office until Neva stepped in. Hardly out of her teens, she’d been bilingual, extroverted, and eager to work for a pittance.

Phil was tall and blond with Nordic features. He’d joined the team a dozen years ago, when technology sprouted wings, and Max realized he was Gulliver, tied fast to the ground with other concerns. Phil led Beaumont Staffing into the twenty-first century and now, as director of technology, oversaw the selling and servicing of software. He was also one heck of a tennis partner.

They weren’t just being polite. They wanted to know what was going on with him and Claire.

Max gave them the highlights. He omitted Claire’s derogatory jibe about the stale commercial—after all, they were an integral part of the agency—and ended with that nonsense about not being there when he got home.

Neva and Phil exchanged a glance and then resumed staring at him.

“What?” He shrugged. “We’re having a spat.”

Neither of them replied. He stared them down.

At last Neva said, “Yeah, right. Max, for your information, you left ‘spat’ behind about the time you went off to separate bedrooms.”

Phil added, “Most definitely by the time she announced the ultimatum about not being there when you got back.”

Max shook his head. “She won’t literally leave, no matter how serious the
spat
is. Walking out has never been an option for us. Period.”

But a memory snagged his attention. No, not so much a memory as an impression. A gut-wrenching impression of his body being ripped apart.

Walking out had been an option . . . once.

But that was—what? Thirty-one, thirty-two years ago. And there had been a reason then. Claire had done the unthinkable—

He vaulted over that thought and landed in another place.

He was back at the beginning, and he remembered it as if it were yesterday. He’d been in college, studying in the library. October. Ten o’clock at night. His last year. A stranger walked past his table. Their eyes met. He smiled. She smiled. Her name was Claire Lambert.

Hokey as it sounded, he’d been smitten. Totally, head-over-heels, dizzily so.

He still was. Always had been.

What had happened? Claire wouldn’t . . .

Max glanced at Neva. Her brows raised a fraction of an inch. She knew their history. Not the details, but she’d been there when things happened, close enough to catch the drift that walking out had at one point been a very real option.

She uncrossed her legs. “So maybe turning fifty-three is throwing her for a loop. It happens.” She shrugged. “One of life’s mysteries. You’ll work it out over the weekend.”

Phil tapped a pen on his knee. “I don’t know, bud. You’d better get the earrings to go with that diamond necklace.”

Max smiled. “I called the jeweler first thing.”

Phil chuckled. Neva lowered her gaze to the notebook on her lap.

They knew he’d chosen a special necklace for Claire’s birthday gift and debated about including the earrings. The price of the necklace alone wasn’t exactly understated. Its style was, though. Its style was pure Claire.

He glanced at the five by seven of her on his desk. She had those classic high cheekbones and chin-length, light-brown hair. The recently added bifocals with rectangular lenses framed in lavender gave her a certain dignity. She always wore tailored clothes, always radiated serenity.

Until this morning.

“That commercial’s getting a little stale, don’t you think?”

“If you go, I won’t be here when you get home.”

Max massaged a tight knot at the back of his neck.

Seven

J
enna Beaumont Mason closed up her cell phone and slid it inside the zippered pouch of the beach bag that lay beside her on the blanket. Why wasn’t her mom answering or calling her back?

A movement at the ocean’s edge caught her attention. She straightened her Gucci sunglasses and leaned back on her elbows to enjoy the delicious view of her husband as he strode from the water and through the sand.

On second thought, he didn’t stride. He swaggered. Kevin Dean Mason was indeed a hottie. Six feet even. Shoulders from here to Timbuktu. Brick-house solid all the way down to his toes. Flaxen-shaded hair, buzzed short, like during his stint in the Marines. Eyes the color of a night sky when the first stars winked on. His bronzed skin glistened with water.

“Hey.” He grinned, a meandering lift of first one corner of his wide mouth, then the other, until finally the lips parted.

“Hey, yourself.”

He sat on the blanket, his damp leg brushing against hers.

“Yow!” She jerked upright. “You’re freezing!”

“Sorry, babe.”

He scooted away, and she scooted nearer. “Oh, that’s okay. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have goose bumps already. You are one fine-looking dude.”

Laughing, he slid on his sunglasses and propped his elbows on his bent knees. “And you are one hot chick, which is the only reason I left those perfect waves.”

“We’re hopeless.”

She leaned over and kissed the tattoo on his upper arm. Years ago tats had been a definite turnoff—in her top ten of “Yuck Factors in Guys.” That was before Kevin walked into her life three years ago. And now there she was, kissing a
Semper fi
banner under an eagle perched on her husband’s bicep. She accepted it as part of his past, kind of like her boxed Madame Alexander dolls that took up an entire closet shelf.

He nuzzled her cheek. “Want to go out for dinner and a movie tonight?”

“Hmm. Is the good-looking dude asking the hot chick out on a date?”

“Most definitely. It’s time to celebrate.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“School’s out, and football practice doesn’t start for two weeks. I feel like a kid who has nothing to do but play with his best buddy.”

She leaned against him. “Oh, Kevin. Our life is beginning to resemble a fairy tale, isn’t it?”