Claire Knows Best (16 page)

Unwittingly, I let out pretty loud snort. Doggone it. I step back into the shadows, but of course my paranoia is misplaced.
No one is going to see me this far up. John begins to speak, and even without a microphone his voice projects throughout the
empty theater.

The children don’t make a move. I mean no whispering, no shuffling of little Nikes on the concrete floor, nothing. Not a peep,
not a finger wiggle. Nothing.

Not that I blame them. Sheesh, John Wells is obviously in charge. His ramrod-straight spine looks as though it were fused
that way. And for some reason, he’s holding a gold-handled walking stick I’ve never seen before. I suspect John’s only carrying
it for effect. To tell you the truth, it’s working. He looks suave, debonair, and not a day over sixty.

Still, that’s from a woman’s perspective. If I were a little boy like Shawn, I’d be looking for the nearest exit and forget
the whole thing. I mean, it’s one thing to be an adult and engage in a little friendly back-and-forth with the heathenistic
actor, quite another to audition for him. The very thought renders me weak with compassion over the ordeal upon which my son
is about to embark.

“Good afternoon, children.” John’s studied gaze slides from one side to the other of the front row of the middle section of
seats. “Welcome to the first audition for
Peter Pan
. Before we proceed, you will be divided into sections according to the part for which you wish to audition. Please stand.”

The children do as they are instructed. Again, with very little noise and no shuffling about once they are standing.

“All right. I want all Peter Pans to move to the left, filling the six seats in the front and second rows,” John said.

The non-Peter Pans move aside and allow the immortal child hopefuls to fill their seats.

“Next, all those auditioning for Wendy. Please leave two seats between you and the Peter Pans. Fill the eight seats on the
front row and seven on the second directly behind.”

These, too, do as they are asked. “Fine, fine. Now I would like the rest of you to leave two seats on the front row, and three
on the second, and fill in the next four seats on the front and second rows. We’ll begin with auditions for the Lost Boys.
Mrs. Jensen will call two names. You will go to those steps”— he points to the stairs by the stage door—“Through the door.
The second name called will stay backstage while the first is auditioning. When the first is finished, he or she will then
exit on the opposite side of the stage through that door.” He points to the other door. “Mrs. Jensen will then call the next
name, and you will come up and remain backstage while number two comes to center stage.”

He pauses and looks over what I’m sure are thirty blank faces. “Any questions?”

Not even one.

“Fine, then. I shall take a seat behind all of you. Please do not fidget and distract me from the auditions. If you cannot
be still or quiet, you will be asked to leave. Once more, any questions?”

Again, not a one. I bite back a laugh. No way these kids got all that on the first time through. I just know someone is going
to get lost, go to the wrong door, leave the stage on the same side they came in on.

But after four Lost Boys and two Tinker Bells, I realize I’ve been proven wrong. Knowing children like I do (mother of four
here), I’m amazed at the ease with which John’s instructions have been received and followed.

Note to self: Ask John Wells his secret for commanding the respect and/or obedience of children. I’m thinking hypnosis has
occurred and I somehow missed it.

I sit through the auditions of at least thirty kids from ages six years old (the minimum) to fifteen (the maximum—I think
they want the older boys for Hook and the other pirates). Most of the acting is passable for amateur children’s theater. The
singing is positively painful with the exception of four or five kids—all of whom are girls except the fifteen-year-old boy
who, as I suspected, wants to be the infamous Captain Hook. Judging by his performance and the fact that no one else tried
out, I’m guessing he’ll get a callback.

Over an hour later, I’m waiting impatiently as the Peter Pans finally begin their auditions. By the fourth Peter Pan audition,
I feel a sinful sense of glee that not only can’t any of them act their way out of a paper bag, but they can’t sing either.
And to be honest, most of them just aren’t all that cute.

If all the kids are like this, I think with smug assurance, Shawn’s got this in the bag.

A little frown creases my brow, and I don’t even bother to smooth it out (thereby avoiding permanent creases between my eyes—a
wretched sign of aging). A blonde girl walks onto the stage, and I recognize her as Jenny Devine. She has a little round face
and rosy cheeks. I know from memory that the pastor’s daughter has enormous blue eyes. The child could have been sent straight
from heaven. Her soul is as beautiful as her outward appearance. Only there must be some mistake because these are the auditions
for Peter Pan, not Wendy. The Wendy auditions ended fifteen minutes ago.

John’s voice creeps from the fourth row back. “Begin when you’re ready, Miss Devine.”

The music begins, and my stomach plummets. There’s no mistaking that Jenny is following the footsteps of Mary Martin. And
Sandy Duncan. She’s taking the traditional route and auditioning to play the role of Peter Pan.

Oh, Lord. Don’t let her get it. Please. She would be just as good as Wendy
.

“Ms. Everett? Is that you?”

I nearly jump out of my skin as I turn and see Patrick coming into the balcony.

“Shh,” I say with a frown.

He nods and makes his way down the steps to stand next to me. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, “Jen doesn’t know I’m here, either.
I guess I’m early picking her up. But I’m glad I get to see her audition.”

I just wish he’d shut up before he gets us busted. “Sonar Ears” Wells is glancing up here.

Jennifer has a beautiful voice. When her song is over, she does a short scene with one of the Wendy wannabes, gives an adorable
little curtsey that might have charmed me if I didn’t want to bump her off to eliminate my son’s only real competition.

“Isn’t she great?” The proud brother is nearly bursting.

“Yeah.” Trying to muster a little good-sportsmanlike enthusiasm, but failing miserably.

Finally, the moment I’ve been waiting for. Shawn walks slowly across the stage, his hands stuffed into the front pockets of
his Tommy Hilfiger jean shorts, passed down from his brother Tommy, who begged his dad for them two years ago. I wouldn’t
pay forty bucks for a pair of shorts if I had the Queen’s cash flow. But lucky for my champagne-taste son, his dad’s an overcompensating-for-abandoning-his-kids
sucker.

I lean forward in my chair so that I’m resting my elbows on the railing—the only thing separating me from certain death should
an earthquake suddenly tilt the balcony a few degrees and send me sliding downward.

Patrick’s tensing up next to me. He knows my Shawn is probably Jenny’s only real competition.

Shawn starts to sing “I Can Fly,” and suddenly my heart is soaring on the wings of a mother’s pride. I watch my son, remembering
his struggle last year, his insecurity, the anger, the notes he wrote Ms. Clark. Those things fade away as rapturous joy beams
from his precious face.

When the song ends, he acts a scene with the same Wendy wannabe that has read lines with all of the Peter Pans so far. (I
figure John must be seriously considering the little girl lead if he’s auditioning her opposite all of the Peter Pan hopefuls.)
As Shawn says his lines, he’s calm, in control, and convincing. Not like most child stars, who are more cutesy than talent.

“That’s fine, Mr. Everett,” John says.

I cringe a little on the inside at the mistake. I use my maiden name, “Everett,” but the kids have their dad’s last name,
“Frank.” I wait for Shawn to correct him, but he doesn’t. He simply nods, says “Thank you, sir,” and moves backstage. I see
him coming out the stage door a second later. He descends the four steps and takes his seat on the front row next to Jenny.
She leans over, and I wish I had a mike hooked up.

Two things I know for sure. One, my son has found his place in this world. Two, I’ll be darned if Jenny Devine is taking it
away from him.

A
fter Shawn’s audition ends, I say a swift good-bye to Patrick and sneak out of the balcony. I get back in the van and drive
around to a deceptive parking space in front of the theater, where it will look to Shawn as though I’ve just arrived and have
been waiting. My cell phone rings just as I shut off the van.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Claire,” a sexy male voice says. “This is Van.”

My heart does a little lilt. Funny how I might not have thought about him as a prospective date before Emma put in her two
cents’ worth. Now, however, my palms are sweating. “Hi, Van.” I imagine the contractor standing all grinning and heroic in
my house just after he saved my life.

I check my appearance in the rearview mirror—a knee-jerk reaction when a great-looking guy calls. I feel a little guilty at
the way my heart picks up. I mean, sure, Greg and I parted amicably and we weren’t married, so why do I feel like a cheating
toad-sucker?

“Good news,” Van says. “The damage isn’t as extensive as the previous contractor quoted.”

Sigh. My hero. “So how much are we talking?”

He quotes his price.

A thrill shoots through me and is mingled with big, huge relief. But before I can gush with gratitude, I hesitate and allow
good common sense to take over. That’s going to be ten thousand below the original estimate. That can’t be right.

“Come on,” I say. “How can it be that much cheaper?”

“Trust me, will you? I’m just starting out. The way I get contracts is to underbid the guys who’ve been around a long time.”
Amusement is thick in his Matthew McConaughey voice. “The real question is, why does it surprise you that my estimate is that
much cheaper?”

I blush like a sixteen-year-old. Sitting up straighter in my seat, I do my best to pull myself together. “When can you start?”

“I can go to the lumberyard right now and see if they have everything we need. If not, I’ll put in an order and can probably
get started on Monday, if the weather holds.”

“Sounds great.” My nerves make a stop in my stomach and form all kinds of jumpy creatures. I hate to even ask the next question
in light of my rapidly depleting savings. “How much do you need for a down payment?”

“You don’t pay me a dime until I finish the job to your satisfaction.”

Okay, that’s not what I expected to hear. I pause, embarrassed a little, because I figure Linda must have given him my sob
story. I can just hear her:
“And to top it all off she just broke up with her boyfriend because she’s too much of a disappointment in general for anyone
to possibly think she’s pastor’s-wife material.”

My defenses shoot up, incinerating the floating nerve creatures in my stomach. I’m no longer feeling like a schoolgirl. “Listen,
Van. I appreciate the thought. But I want to be treated like any other customer. I planned for a down payment equal to the
one I paid Milt.” The thieving jerk. “I don’t want any favors just because I’m friends with Linda.”

He gives a short laugh. “Trust me, I don’t hand out favors based on a person’s relationship with my sister. Just ask her how
much I charged Mark and her to add a deck to their new house.”

My neck feels hot, and I know it’s splotchy, like it gets when I’m humiliated. “Well, I’m not a charity case, either.”

“I agree,” he says, without a second of hesitation. “I have an account at the lumberyard. I prefer to put what I need on account
and pay it when I get paid—after the job is done. It’s easier for me to keep my receipts straight that way.”

“Okay, that makes absolutely no sense to me. What difference does it make?”

“I knew you were going to ask that.” His tone is so light and friendly that I can’t help but warm to him. Even if I couldn’t
picture his gorgeous auburn hair and sea-green eyes—which I can.

“Oh, you did?” I say, flirting like a coed and not really caring if he knows it.

“Yep. Always anticipate the next question and prepare the answer in advance.”

“So, what is it?”

“What is what?”

I giggle, knowing that he’s teasing me.

“The answer to my question. Or are you stalling so that you can try to think of something?” I still sort of think he’s just
taking pity on me with the whole not-taking-a-down-payment thing.

“I like to put all my supplies per job on one receipt. While I work on your house, I’m sure I’ll have to go back for nails
or whatever. When it’s all over, I’ll just pay it off, get one receipt, and that way I don’t have tons of little papers to
sort through by April fifteenth.”

Hmm. Not all that romantic. In view of that explanation, I’m not really in the mood to flirt anymore. And while I’m at it,
let’s just get a dose of reality. Why would this guy, who has to be at least five years my junior (maybe more), be interested
in an overweight, middle-aged woman with four kids and a broken house? I’m a real catch. Like a turtle on a hook.

Whack!
The sound of me getting hit upside the head with a reality stick.

From the corner of my eye, I see the glass theater doors open. Kids start pouring out.

“Thanks for calling, Van. Let me know when you get started.” I scan for Shawn, but I’m not seeing him. I picture my sweet
boy huddled in a corner somewhere crying bitter tears because a girl beat him out of the role of Peter Pan.

“Will do,” Van says. “I’ll see you at church tonight.”

“Church?” He has my attention again. But he better make it quick, because Shawn still hasn’t shown up and I’m about to go
inside and find him.

“Don’t you go where my sister goes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’re going with her?”

“Yes. I hate to give up my home church, but since I’m finally moved into town, the ninety-minute drive home is a little too
far when there’s a great church right here.”