Claire Knows Best (17 page)

The doors open again. Finally, Shawn appears. John follows, his hand on my son’s shoulder. Like he’s letting him down easy.

“Okay, Van. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Uh—okay, sure. Bye, Claire.”

I close my phone and beep the horn. I wave and smile.

To my surprise, John accompanies Shawn to the van. I think I might be about to get scolded for hiding in the balcony.

He walks around to my side and I roll down the window. John tips his hat. I can’t help it that I melt a little. Who doesn’t
secretly wish they’d had a date with Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra in their young days? Okay, maybe I’m the only thirty-six-year-old
who thinks about it. And gee whiz, how nuts am I, anyway? Ten minutes ago, I’m robbing the cradle, now I’m robbing the nursing
home? I shove aside all thoughts of the Rat Pack.

“So, what’s the verdict? Is my kid going to be the boy who loses his shadow, or what?”

His eye slides closed and open in a wink. “That, my dear lady, remains to be seen. Mrs. Jensen will do callbacks this week.
So, if he doesn’t get a call, you’ll know. If he does, well, then he’s made it to the next round.”

“Mr. Wells is giving acting lessons, Mom,” Shawn’s voice interrupts. Something he knows better than to do. “Isn’t that cool?”

I turn to my son. He’s nearly exploding with excitement. A little theater is one thing. Handing my son over to this hedonistic
Sean Connery wannabe is quite another. I turn back to John with a frown.

He presses his hat to his chest, where a deep rumble begins and ends with a chuckle. “I won’t corrupt the boy, Miss Everett.”

“Ms.,” I correct. “And I know you won’t because it’s not going to happen.”

“Mom!” Shawn seems horrified by this news, as though he had built it up in his mind that I would have no objections.

“We’ll talk about it later,” I say firmly.

“Think it over,
Ms
. Everett.” John’s mustache twitches over his full lips.

I don’t want to be the bad guy, so I take the easy way out. “We appreciate it, John. Really, it would be an honor.” Did I
sound convincing enough? Maybe I should make my voice crack as though I’m about to cry as I say the next words. No, I’m a
lousy actress. I can’t even read my own manuscripts out loud because I sound so fake. I stick with a straight, even tone.
“I’m afraid acting lessons aren’t in our budget right now. My first contractor swindled me and I’m having to hire another
one. And there’s this suspicious rattle under the van hood. I think I’m going to have to start looking for a new vehicle soon.”

Why is John looking at me and grinning smugly?

“You’ve misunderstood entirely. I’m offering to coach the lad free of charge.”

“Why would you do that?” John’s an okay guy. I like him. I really do—quite a lot, actually. But, come on, the man’s an atheist.
Not exactly the type I’d have suspected of having a generous spirit. On the other hand, basic disbelief in God isn’t necessarily
proof of low morals or a cold heart. Guilt nips at me for the second time today. I shouldn’t generalize people. He did buy
lunch for Linda and me that day. And he helped me outside. Got me a paper bag for breathing.

I know how much his lessons go for. Sharon Greene signed her daughter up and bragged about how much she paid. I learned from
another source no more than two weeks later that John had given her back her money and told her not to bother. Little Kayla
didn’t have an ounce of acting ability and even less singing ability. I laughed out loud when I heard he’d suggested if Sharon
really loved her daughter, she’d show some mercy and stop pushing her toward something that’s only going to cause her humiliation
and pain.

But that’s far from John’s opinion of my son. And he’s telling me that now. “The boy’s got some of the most natural talent
I’ve ever seen. He’s expressed an interest in acting as a profession. I thought it prudent that he have the best acting coach
possible.”

John Wells is nothing if not humble.

“Sorry, John. You know it’s not just about the money.”

“I do. I must say, I’m rather disappointed to realize that you’re so narrow-minded.”

“Not narrow-minded.” You never can tell with someone so guarded, but I think my refusal of his amazingly generous offer has
hurt him. I place my hand on his arm and offer him a smile to let him know I love him even if I won’t allow him to be a bad
example to my son. I’ve never really tried to witness to John before, but somehow, I have this urge to say the next thing
that comes to mind. “I’m just on a narrow road, and planning to keep my children on that same road until they’re safely at
their final destination—after they’ve lived to ripe old ages, of course.”

“This narrow road leads to heaven, I presume?”

“It does. And happiness and peace of mind during the journey.”

He pins me with that know-it-all gaze and I get the urge to fidget in my seat. I’m just about to tell him I have to go when
he reaches through the window and gives my cheek a fatherly pat. “Happiness and peace?” He lowers his voice so that Shawn
can’t hear, and leans closer. “You, my dear Ms. Everett, are neither happy nor at peace. Are you positive you’re going in
the right direction?”

He waves at Shawn. “You did a fine job today, son. Remember that, no matter what happens.”

We sit watching him swinging his walking stick as he strides away with regal demeanor.

“Please, Mom. He has contacts. Mr. Wells thinks with a year or so of training I might be able to get an agent and maybe get
some real stage work.”

Stage work? Hello? Who is this kid?

“Sorry, kiddo.” I pull away from the curb and merge carefully into traffic.

“Why, Mom? Why? Please. I’ll do anything you want me to do, if you’ll just let me have this opportunity. I have to do this.”

“Shawn, I know you don’t understand. But you’re just going to have to trust me.”

Not the least bit impressed or moved by my calm words of wisdom, Shawn continues to plead. “Please! I’ll clean out the garage
and do all my chores without having to be told. I’ll keep my room clean. Anything.”

I gather a steadying breath. Although his last argument almost did me in (ammunition for chores and a clean room—what parent
wouldn’t at least give it some serious consideration?). Still, I have to be strong at least until I can have another little
talk with John and reassure myself that he can be trusted not to turn my son. “The discussion is over,” I say with firm resolve,
just a notch below raising my voice.

My son folds his arms across his chest and stares silently out the window for the rest of the trip home. My heart goes out
to him. Hope deferred makes the heart sick, according to the Word. I’ll allow him time to get over having his hopes smashed
to smithereens. After all, I’m dealing with my own dashed hopes right now.

I haven’t seen or spoken with Greg since his over-dinner revelation.

Shawn sniffs. Ah, he’s crying. My heart clenches at his tears. I feel like a slug. But I have to be firm.

“There’s Kleenex in the glove box,” I say quietly.

He swipes his nose with the back of his arm and I swear he only does it to spite me. I fight back revulsion but refuse to
dignify his action with acknowledgment. I won’t be bullied into changing my mind. And that’s just all there is to it. Let
him sit there with snot on his arm.

Oh man. With one eye on the road, I reach over him—careful to avoid his arm—and grab the tissue from the glove box myself.
“Wipe it off,” I say in my most commanding tone.

Whew. He does it.

My kids know I don’t change my mind too easily. When I say no, that’s that. For the most part.

And judging from the fact that Greg hasn’t attempted to make contact since Friday night, I guess he’s figured that out about
me, too.

My heart sinks to an all-time low at the thought. It’s one thing to appreciate the attentions of a good-looking contractor.
It’s another to feel secure and loved in the arms of a man who wants to spend his life making you happy.

I shake my head bitterly. No. He doesn’t want me to be happy. Well, I suppose he does. But he wants me to be happy on his
terms.

John Wells’s words suddenly shoot through me once more.
“You are neither happy nor at peace. Are you sure you are heading in the right direction?”

That night I force myself to get ready and drive the kids to church when what I really want to do is crawl into bed and pretend
the last three weeks haven’t occurred. No tornado, no stupid apartment where partying is keeping me up all night. Not to mention
how worried I am about my daughter being so close to that environment.

As soon as I walk through the church doors, I’m able to set all of that aside. I’m glad I came. The band is warming up, and
the atmosphere is charged with energy. Just what I need.

Shawn moves ahead of me to find a friend to sit with in the section of the church designated for kids his age. He’s still
sulking, and hasn’t spoken more than two words to me all afternoon, but he’ll get over it.

Ari and Tommy head off in their own directions, as does Jakey. I find myself alone and glancing about trying to find a place
to sit. And okay, I admit I’m not only looking for a seat. I’m hoping for a glimpse of Greg.

“Claire?”

Not Greg, but definitely a man’s voice. I look up into the handsome face of Van Collins.

I gulp. In the few hours since I’ve seen the man, I’ve forgotten how gorgeous he is. He flashes that Matthew McConaughey grin
and all I can think to say is “Oh, hi!” Like I’m pretending I don’t remember he said he’d be here. “Where’s Linda?”

“Trish is sick, so she stayed home to play Florence Nightingale.” I’m trying to feel sorry for Trish, but my head is a little
woozy from watching his pullover Polo shirt strain against his carpenter-muscled pecs and biceps. Hmmm, Trish who?

Someone brushes past me and I jerk to my senses. I’ve had enough experience with guys talking to my chest that I force my
gaze to meet his amazing green eyes. “So, um, Linda’s sick? I’ll have to give her a call.” Man, I’d give anything to just
slide my gaze back to those sleek, tanned arms. Stop it!

“Trish.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Trish is the one who is sick. Not Linda.”

Ohh
, that’s right. The daughter.

“So, where are you sitting?” He flashes a boyish grin and I know doggone well he’s fully aware of his effect on me. Probably
on every female of any age. He knows how to handle himself in this situation.

I scan the seats and find an empty row. “Over there.”

“Let’s go.” His warm palm cups my elbow as he leads me to my seat. Then he just stands there. It suddenly dawns on me that
he has every intention of sitting
with
me.

Horror clutches my heart as the music begins, signaling the start of the service. I jerk around to the front and lock onto
Greg. I want to die. He’s holding his mike and standing, frozen at center stage. Staring at me. And I know he just missed
his cue to start the song. I try to convey my deepest apology by my silent gaze. Folks will assume I’m already dating. Humiliation
burns my cheeks.

“Claire, can you move over and let me in?”

Oh, good grief. Van is still standing in the middle aisle.

“Sorry,” I mutter, and scooch over.

I don’t know how I’m going to get through the service. Even more so, I wonder how Greg is able to muster the dignity to be
amazing, talented, and anointed. His voice breaks a few times during “I Surrender All.” I should be worshipping, but I can
hardly take my eyes off of him. He stands with his face lifted heavenward, tears streaming down his cheeks as he sings. His
face shines with an otherworldly glow (which in all likelihood is a result of the bright, hot stage lights overhead). Still,
when he drops to his knees, a sign of the deepest humility and yieldedness (and half the church follows his example), I can’t
help but wonder: Is he surrendering his love for me in order to follow the Lord? And as I look around, I don’t think I’m the
only one thinking it, because even Eddie Cain gives me a pointed look as he passes me on the way to the men’s room. I guess
he’s getting his revenge for my little laughing fit last month.

I feel like a total Jezebel. Potiphar’s wife. Mary Magdalene in her “before” shot—not to mention that bad girl of bad girls,
Delilah.

I know I’m not good enough for Greg. Not worthy to be the wife of a man devoted to ministry. But suddenly I feel like not
only am I not good enough for Greg, but maybe I’m just not good enough, period. Even God knows I’m not the one for Greg and
that’s why Greg has to let me go. I know it was my decision, but I feel betrayed, all the same. Like God is one of those parents
on the right side of the tracks, convincing his son that the girl from the other side just isn’t “their kind of people.”

In that moment, as I watch Greg give me up, I feel utterly abandoned. Van shifts next to me and I turn. He’s looking down
at me and gives me a wink. “Neat church,” he whispers. “I’m glad I came.”

I slide a glance to Greg, who is still singing and kneeling. Then back to hunk-a-rama. I guess I’m yesterday’s news to Greg.
Pushing aside the sudden ache, I allow my lips to soften into a smile. “I’m glad you did, too.”

S
aturday afternoon, I face an empty nest while the kids are with Rick and Darcy for the weekend. After a quick cleanup of the
apartment, I sort out a couple of loads of laundry, grab a book, and off I go to the laundry room. I’m puffing a little by
the time I get there, a reminder I’ve been neglecting my running for the past three and a half weeks. Man, I don’t want to
gain back all twenty-five pounds I’ve lost since last September. Or even five of it—although I’m sort of thinking it might
be a little late for that. I’d better find a place to run and get back with the program. I have another ten to lose, but you
know how those last ten are . . .

The laundry room is empty when I walk inside. Mercifully empty. Or, I should say, the room itself is unoccupied. When I open
the washer, I find it has a full load finished and needing to be put in the dryer.