Claire Knows Best (13 page)

He pauses to take a sip. Poor guy. He’s about as nervous as a pig at a sausage factory. “It’s all right, Greg. Just say it.”

A smile curves his lips. “You were right. Now isn’t the time for us to marry.”

I don’t have one of those stupid moments where I answer the question I thought he was going to ask. I’m not one of those people
who say something dumb like, “Of course I’ll marry you, darling,” when he never proposed. I heard him loud and clear.

Greg just keeps on talking, oblivious to the fact that I’m wishing the earth would open and swallow me in a big hole.

“Your desire to make sure your life is in order and your career on track before you settle down inspired me to want to do
the same.” He thumbs my knuckles and I have to force myself to keep from yanking my hands away. How dare he use my former
words against me when he knows it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind?

“I thought your life was already on track, Greg,” I say quietly. I’m trying to force a little
oomph
behind the words, but they fall flat. I’m totally depressed. Can’t help but wish I’d stayed home in my apartment and listened
to the loud music coming from the students on either side of me, all of whom have decided to take summer classes in order
to graduate early.

“I thought it was, too. I mean, I teach a great class of students, I lead worship on Wednesday nights, I have a great girlfriend
and a wonderful daughter and a mother who encourages me to follow my dreams. Life is great.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Hey, if the guy’s having a midlife crisis, I’d just as soon he gets it out of his system before
bringing it into a marriage anyway.

“I realize that God has called me to something more.”

“More like what? How could you possibly fit anything else into your schedule?”
And still have time for me
. I slide one hand out of his and reach for my glass.

“I’m going to Bible school. I’m enrolling full-time next year. It’s only a two-year program. But I can receive full ordination
upon graduation.”

“Ordination to do what?” I look at him over the rim of my soda glass as I sip from the straw.

“Pastor my own church.”

I shouldn’t have taken the drink. Because it goes down the wrong pipe, and I spend a few seconds coughing my head off.

“Are you okay, Claire?” I’m fighting for air as he slides around to my side of the booth. I know people are starting to stare,
but I can’t nix the coughing fit. Greg pounds my back with a little more force than I personally think is necessary. I wonder
if he’s letting out his frustration over the fact that I didn’t
ooh
and
ahh
over his dumb decision to leave me to go to Bible college—which I happen to know is in Tulsa. He nudges me over and I scoot.

“What about associate pastor? Whatever happened to that plan?” Suddenly that looks extremely inviting.

“The board offered it to me. But to be honest, I didn’t feel like I was supposed to do it. I feel like some day I’ll want
to become a pastor, and I want some training before that day comes. For now, I can attend school and when I graduate, Pastor’s
already committed to giving me the associate position.”

“Let me get this straight. You can either take the associate position now or you can go away for two years, get schooling,
come home, and take the same position you could have anyway?” Without having to go away. What is he thinking?

“I know it seems crazy when you spell it out like that.”

“You got that right.”

He smiles as though indulging a small child. “Honey, if I were interested in becoming an associate and staying in that position,
I’d take it and not think about school. But that’s not what I feel God is telling me to do.”

I harrumph a little and fold my arms across my chest. Totally pouting. I mean, gee whiz. I was planning to tell him how wrong
I was for hesitating when he brought up the associate position to begin with. I was going to tell him the heck with a big
wedding, let’s just get married. Instead, I look him in the eye and frown. “What do you plan to live on while you’re in school?”

“My dad left a large insurance policy. Mom put a lot of it aside for me. Not to mention my inheritance in general. That’s
the good thing about being an only child to late-in-life parents. They’re already established before you ever come into the
world. The house is paid for. I have a pretty big savings of my own, but I’d have to exhaust it over the two years.” He gives
me an apologetic look. “We wouldn’t have a nest egg when we get married.”

Believe me, bucko, nest eggs are the least of my worries at the moment.

There is an excitement flashing in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, and I know there’s no talking him out of this. Someone
he loves a lot more than he does me has apparently spoken loud and clear. And as depressed as what he’s saying makes me, who
am I to tell him God’s got the wrong idea?

“I’ll be coming home on weekends. Mom and I both think it’s best for Sadie if she stays here rather than uprooting her from
school and home. And it’s only a four-hour drive. With your writing schedule, you could come see me through the week at least
once a month.”

“Greg,” I say, my stomach sinking so low I’m afraid I’ll step on it if I stand up. Associate pastor was one thing. This is
way bigger than what he originally suggested. “Do you realize what this will mean?”

“It will be an adjustment.” He stretches his arm along the top of the booth. “But it’s only for two years, then we can get
married and all of this will be behind us. It’ll go by fast.”

Okay, focus, preacher boy, and listen to what Claire’s got to tell you. I turn my body to face him. “That’s not what I’m talking
about.”

He frowns. “What then?”

“Greg, I can’t be a pastor’s wife.”

T
his is Milton. I’m out of the office right now, but if ya leave your name, number, and a brief message explaining your problem,
I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”

Fury burns on the inside of me. I’ve had a rotten weekend as it is, what with Greg’s big announcement Friday night at dinner,
and I’m in no mood for this stupid message for the millionth time.

“Milt, this is Claire Everett. There are three rooms in my house that still look like a tree caved in on them. You were supposed
to be in touch with me no later than one week ago today and—”
Beep
.

Shoot.

Milt needs to buy a better answering machine.

I jam my finger on the redial button and wait.

“This is Milton…” Yada yada.

“Claire Everett again. You took ten thousand dollars of my hard-earned money, and I expect one of two things to happen within
twenty-four hours. One, you return my money. Two—”
Beep
.

Grrr. I re-redial.

“This is Milton…” Yeah, yeah, just give me the beep already.

“Okay, Milt. Claire Everett
again
. Number two, you come to my house in the morning with the materials that were only supposed to take three days—tops—to order.
Or three, I will be calling the police.”

I slam the phone down and head to the kitchen table—my office for the next two months (or longer if my contractor never shows
up). Before sitting down I grab a mug from the dishwasher and fill it with freshly-brewed vanilla coffee, shake two packets
of Sweet’n Low into the dark liquid, then finish off the preparation with a tablespoon of half-and-half.

Only it doesn’t look creamy enough, so I throw caution to the wind and just pour and stir at the same time until it looks
right. I sit in front of my borrowed laptop.

Instead of focusing on the romance proposal I’m finally getting around to working on again for Stu, my thoughts sprint over
to my great office in my great house where at this minute, there’s not much in the way of progress taking shape.

My fears about the destruction of most of my equipment in my office were correct. But by some miracle my dad’s old desk made
it through the storm damage with only a few scratches, and actually I’m not a hundred percent certain they weren’t already
there. I haven’t had the heart to refinish the desk since Dad died, so it’s pretty scarred up.

Ari’s computer is okay. The tree only damaged a little bit of her room, so she’s happy to know she’ll be able to salvage ninety
percent of her personal things.

Tommy’s room, however, looks like a… well, like a tornado hit it. Which isn’t too far off from how it always looked anyway,
with the exception of all the breakage. Of course, it was hard on him losing some of the things he prized, including a couple
of pretty expensive skateboards, his computer, and some video games.

The little boys’ room got it about as bad as Tommy’s did. But they didn’t have a TV or computer to demolish as I had to take
all video games from Jakey’s room or he’d be on them day and night. Ditto with Shawn and TV.

My office only got clipped, but like I said, the tree took out my computer and squished my file boxes, but I’m pretty sure
the files themselves will be salvageable. So far, I haven’t had the guts to step into my office because there’s a big hole
in the wall, and I’m afraid of heights. I can barely look out the two-story window without getting dizzy.

The contractor could have been a week into the repairs by now.
Where is he, Lord? Where?

I have a sinking feeling that Milt never intended to fix my house. I know if I took a peek in the mirror, right now, there’d
be an enormous
L
on my forehead.
Loser
.

I
have
to force my attention back to this proposal. As much as I resent every breathy sigh, every passionate kiss, every tender
marriage proposal, I know this is where my bread is buttered, and I need to make the most of the name I’ve made for myself.

And like Stu said, romance readers got me where I am. Right? So I owe it to my readers to write my very best and not allow
my resentment over not being able to write the book I truly feel God put on my heart to overshadow my pleasure in the simple
act of creating a new story.

I open my file and pull up the synopsis I wrote the day I met John Wells and his new protégé at Churchill’s. I need to write
up a couple of chapters since we’re having to target a new publisher; my former publisher would have taken it with just a
synopsis. Stu’s called me three times this week to ask me about the doggone thing. He’s pushing me—something Stu never does.
Apparently a publisher—and he’s not telling me which one, so that makes me a little nervous—wrote to him asking specifically
for a certain type of romance book. I can deliver. I’m a pro at this.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate every romance book God has graciously allowed me to write. I’m humbled and awed by the letters
I receive from women of all ages telling me how much the books have meant to them. But good grief. Am I chained to a certain
type of book just because that’s what people expect from me? What about creative integrity? What about obeying the voice of
God deep on the inside of me when He says, “This is the way to go, walk in it”?

My practical nature is at war with that part of me that wants to throw caution to the wind and see if I could succeed with
something else. But now is the time to play by the rules. The proverbial safety net. I have kids to feed. Rent and a mortgage
to pay. And I might possibly have to admit to losing ten grand. Drat that Milt.

Just like that, my fingers start to tingle. Dread engulfs me. My heart begins to speed up and I press my fist against my chest.
Fighting for breath. These panic attacks are coming with more and more frequency. I know I should go see a doctor. But how
embarrassing to admit life is overwhelming me.

Remembering John Wells’s paper bag trick that day in the coffee shop, I look for one. Nothing. My head is beginning to swim,
but I find a plastic Wal-Mart bag and start to breathe deeply inside. I stumble to the living room and stretch out on the
couch. I’m lying there, eyes closed, breathing into a plastic bag and hoping that I’m not sucking in carcinogens, when someone
knocks on my door. A moan stirs up from the bottom of my throat. The last thing I want to do is get up.

“I know you’re in there, Claire. I saw your van.”

Linda?

My friend isn’t normally aggressive, so I know her visit is important. But I can’t move. I just can’t bear the thought of
opening that door. “Go away, please,” I groan, knowing full well there’s no way she heard me.

When my cell phone chimes out “Going to the Chapel” I know Linda’s really, really serious.

I feel around for my phone on the coffee table. “Hello?” I say in a pitiful voice.

“I know you’re in the apartment. I heard that ring. Are you going to open up, or do I go get the manager to let me in?”

“Use the emergency key.”

She lets out a little gasp. “I can’t believe you do that when you’re living in an apartment. It’s dangerous.”

The lock rattles and the door opens. My head stays on the couch pillow and I flip the phone down.

“Claire. You can’t put your spare key under the welcome mat. Are you nuts? You’re in the college section of town.”

I hear the key clink on my coffee table and I open one eye to look up at my friend. “What’s up?”

She extends her hands palm up to take in my position on the couch. “This! This is what’s up. You’ve been ignoring your phone
all weekend. Where were you Sunday? You missed an awesome service.”

“They’re all awesome,” I say glumly, not the least bit interested in hearing about the service I had to miss. “So it doesn’t
really matter which ones you miss.”

She plants her hands on her hips. “Since when have you been having panic attacks again?” She snatches the plastic bag away
from me and plops down on the coffee table. “Stop breathing that garbage. Don’t you have a paper bag?”

I dissolve into tears. Not because she’s being a little tough-lovish with me, but because I’m fed up. First my career, then
a tornado, then dumb Greg wants to preach, and I can’t get my contractor to work on my house. I blubber pitifully while I
confide all of this to my friend. At not one red cent per hour. Maybe I’m paying too much for Emma.