Claire Knows Best (2 page)

I just come right out and ask. “So, what’s the problem, Stu? You don’t like the plot idea?”

“Oh, it’s a good idea. The series could easily go on for eight or nine books.”

Now
that
would be job security. I’m not picking up on his reasoning here. Guess I’m going to have to push a little.

“Improbable, unsympathetic characters?”

“No. The characters are likeable.” He pauses. “Well, the agent comes across a little Magoo, but…”

Smirk.
Let him wonder if I patterned my heroine’s agent after him. I didn’t, but let him wonder. Life imitating art imitating life.
That’s the beauty of writing. Everyone thinks you’re writing about them. Very empowering.

Anyway. “So the plot’s good, the characters are good. Then what’s the problem, Stu? My writing?”

“No, I’d say it’s some of your strongest writing so far.”

You got that right, buddy.

“Good grief, then. What?”

One of those well-all-right-if-you’re-going-to-pin-me-down huffs that Stu’s famous for blows through the receiver, and I swear
I can almost feel the breeze. “Your readers don’t want this Everywoman stuff from you, Claire. They want romance. It’s what
you’re known for, like Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel.”

Yeah, minus the furs, cars, and diamonds.

Besides, what does he mean “Everywoman stuff”? Okay, my heroine is sort of real. Okay, so maybe she’s a lot real—as in a lot
of me went into that character. But that should be a good thing. I’m an interesting person, especially since I started getting
out of the house more. And no one can argue with the fact that I have quite the quippy sense of humor. But most of all, I
am so ready to move on and write another type of book. And I thought my agent was on
my
side. Creep.

“You just said, not two minutes ago, that maybe I could make a change.”

“We were talking about changing publishers. Not genres.”

“Well, what if this new guy who hates romance is a blessing in disguise? Maybe this is my chance to really give something
else a shot.”

His silence is excruciatingly loud. My heart starts beating inside my ears.

“Stu? Come on. What do we have to lose at this point? If it doesn’t work out, we’ll just fall back on romance.”

“That’s a little risky. Can you afford to go without a new contract for much longer?”

Stu knows me well enough by now to know that I am not one of those idealistic authors who write for the euphoria of creating.
I have mouths to feed and that takes the green stuff, baby. I huff and stomp the ground like a bratty kid. “Not really.”

“Well, then.” His tone is sort of high falutin’ and smug and ticks me off just a little, but I’ve learned to schmooze in this
business, so I refrain from calling him a big jerk.

Apparently oblivious to my restraint, he says what I figured he was going to say. “How about getting a romance proposal out
there? And when you get picked up by another publisher, we can mention the other series.”

He poses the words in question form, but we both know he’s not asking. I give one last-ditch effort to salvage my pride. “You
work for me, you know. Not the other way around.”

“I know, Boss,” he patronizes. “So, how about that new romance proposal?”

“I’m going to have to think about it,” I say, aware that I’m pouting and that he’s acting like the boss (which, in all honesty,
he is). “I hate this business.”

“No, you don’t,” Stu chuckles. “You’re addicted.”

“Well, I hate writing romance.”

“Romance readers got you where you are today.”

Now Stu’s scolding me? What am I, ten?

“I really hate when you’re right.” Really, really.

“You mean all the time?”

“Funny.” Not! He may be right but he’s not
right
. Know what I mean?

“Get that proposal to me soon,” he says, and we hang up.

Instead of obeying his directive, I stubbornly grab my running shoes and head for the door. Irritation rumbles through me.
How come he just assumes my decision will be to go ahead and write the romance? I mean, true, the heart-pounding and heavy-breathing
stuff
was
my first attempt at writing and got me published. Why? Because I was in desperate need of income after Rick walked out on
our eleven-year marriage. I figured if I was ever going to do anything but work three waitress jobs, I might as well give
it a shot. I chose romance because that’s what I read to escape my crappy, lonely life. (That was back before I realized a
woman doesn’t need romance to be happy.) And guess what? Turns out a lot of people think I write it well. And my wonderful,
faithful readers have continued to buy my books, thereby keeping me two steps ahead of the unemployment line and government
cheese.

But after providing entertainment for one and a half million romance readers, I feel like I’ve earned the right to do what
I want. I mean, why can’t I just be true to my convictions for once and write the story on my heart?

Sigh. The almighty dollar. That’s why. And a mortgage, and electricity, and, oh yeah, food.

Especially pizza.

Just before I reach the door, my sixteen-year-old daughter pops down the stairs holding her cell phone to her ear. “Hang on,
Paddy,” she says into the receiver to her on-again-off-again heartthrob. “Where you going, Mom?”

“For a run. Do you mind starting supper? I bought a frozen Stouffer’s lasagna. Follow the directions on the box.”

“Yuck.” She wrinkles her perky little cheerleader nose. “Why can’t you ever cook a real meal?”

I guess she’s forgetting about the canned chicken casserole I made night before last (and that we had again last night so
as not to be wasteful). She could give me a little bit of A for effort.

Still, I hide my hurt and answer her question with my trademark rapier wit. “Because I don’t want to spoil you, honey.” Oh
yeah. Good one. Snap, snap, and snap.

Rolling one’s eyes should not be an art form, but my daughter has it perfected. “All those preservatives are killing us from
the inside out, Mother. We shouldn’t be eating this garbage. Especially the little boys. You’ll stunt their growth.”

Her concern for her brothers is truly touching. “Duly noted.” I reach for the door and give her a little wave as she resumes
her phone conversation. “I’ll be back.”

“Wait a sec, Ma. Paddy says you better stay in. He’s IMing with one of his friends in Springfield. They’re getting hammered
with a storm. And it’s headed our way.”

Yeah, like I’m really going to listen to an adolescent boy. Besides, I’m sick of people telling me what to do. I’m taking
a stand. “Thank Paddy for looking out for me,” I call, as I step onto the porch and shut the door behind me.

Patrick Devine is the pastor’s son and the boy who has captured my daughter’s heart every other month during the past six.
Intermittently, she’s dated Craig Miller, Nate Cooper, and Tyler Lincoln. But she always comes back around to Paddy. I think
he may be the one. If not, he’ll at least be the one she remembers in years to come as the first boy she ever loved.

Sitting on the step, I pull on my Nikes. The spring wind is blowing like crazy, warm and comforting, breezing up the scents
of fresh grass and daffodils, honeysuckle and roses. A sudden gust whips through the gutters with a high-pitched whistle.

I like the idea of running against a strong wind. With Paddy’s warning in my mind, I give momentary attention to a distant
rumble of thunder. Typical for a Missouri spring. Something about it always makes me feel powerful. Woman against the elements.

Still, I glance at the sky just to be sure there are no threatening clouds. The sun is making a brave showing, trying to peek
through. If the storm is moving seventy miles an hour straight down the interstate, it’s still going to take almost an hour
to get here. Plenty of time to pound my frustrations into the pavement before I’m forced to unplug the electrical appliances.
Well, okay, there’s no way I’m going to run for a whole hour, anyway. The point is I’m not likely to get soaked before I get
back home.

I slide on my headphones, clip my nifty little iPod to my shorts, and off I go. (Yeah, I should probably stretch, but I never
do. Too impatient to hit the open road.) Blasting to Hillsongs Youth band, I feel my spirits lifting at the mere mention of
Jesus being the center of my life.

I smile and wave at my boyfriend, Greg, as I jog by his house—formerly my mother’s house before she hightailed it to Texas
last fall to live with my brother, Charley. Funny, I grew up in that house, but my best memories I have from there happened
this past Christmas Eve, when I received my first Greg kiss under a construction-paper mistletoe hanging over the doorway
to the kitchen. (My second Greg kiss happened less than a minute after the first. My third and fourth happened on my front
porch before I watched him walk back to his house.)

Things are going well, I suppose. Except Greg’s been trying to pin me down for a serious conversation over the past week.
Knowing the possibility is high that he will want to talk about joining our lives, I’m excited and scared all at the same
time. So I keep avoiding the issue. And in order to avoid the issue, I’ve been forced to avoid him, as well.

Only now he’s standing on his front porch with a humongous frown on his face. His mouth moves and he jogs down his steps toward
me. My chest tightens. Can’t a girl go for a run? Spend a few minutes alone and try to figure a way to heat up a cooling career?
Bury her head in the proverbial sand so she doesn’t have to discuss a future where she might have to give up a little independence?

What is wrong with me? One minute I pray for someone with whom to share my life. The next I worry about whether or not I’ll
be able to watch what I want on TV or be forced to watch the military channel—ugh—or football.

I need therapy. I know I do. Or at the very least I need someone to help me point my life in the right direction. I’ve been
thinking of looking into hiring a life coach since they’re all the rage. Only all the life coaches I’ve found are full of
New Age mumbo jumbo. I want someone whose head is, at the very least, screwed on tighter than mine—and, really, that shouldn’t
be a tough find.

But there’s no time to think about that right now. Greg’s striding my way. The closer he gets, the more my heart starts to
pick up, and I forgive him for invading my personal space. Greg is gorgeous. Dark hair, Andy Garcia eyes. I think I’m in love.
I really do.

He’s talking, but I’m not hearing. He points to my ears. Headphones. I slip them off. “Sorry. Want to go for a jog with me?”

Jogging is something we’ve enjoyed doing together during the past few months. And given my desire to do some thinking, I consider
it a generous invitation. I flash him my winningest smile.

Only Greg isn’t liking the idea. His brows are furrowed, and his eyes look more like mean, controlling Andy Garcia in
Ocean’s Eleven
and
Twelve
. Not the sweet, ever patient one in
When a Man Loves a Woman
. He gives a frustrated grunt and waves his arms like a crazy person. “Are you out of your mind?” he questions in a voice
slightly above his normal tone. I get the feeling he’s sort of yelling at me. “There are tornados all over the place.”

Another fairly common threat during a Missouri spring.

I glance at the sky. Darkening, but still pretty bright. No telltale green clouds to indicate a tornado. “Looks okay to me,”
I say, with flippant disregard for his concern.

His darkening gaze is all I need to tell me what he thinks of my answer. “The squall line is just to our west. And storms
travel west to east.”

I swear, if he says, “Young lady…”

I squeeze my brow into a frown to match his, because quite frankly, he’s beginning to tick me off a little. “I know that.”

“I’ve been trying to call you for thirty minutes.” His high-and-mighty attitude isn’t helping to soothe my irritation. Not
one bit. “I assumed you weren’t home.”

“I had an important business call,” I say, taking a page out of Stu’s book and trying to sound superior. “I figured you could
wait. That’s why I didn’t take your call. You do remember that I
work
from my home phone, cell phone, and e-mail?”

He gathers what I’ve come to recognize as a steadying breath. “Yes, I remember.” His thoughtful gaze peruses my face, and
he hesitates like he’s going to say something, then thinks better of it—which is probably just as well. “Why don’t you come
inside? I have the radio tuned into the weather report. We can run down to the basement if a tornado gets close.”

“I can’t. The kids are home.”

“Okay. How about I come over to your house, then? Sadie’s at Mom’s.”

I hesitate. I’m not really ready to let go of my grudge, but the image of cuddling with Greg while the storm rages outside
sort of melts away any memory of exactly why his bossiness bugged me in the first place.

He gives me a fake pout. “I’m scared of storms.”

Grinning like a lovesick fool, I nod. “All right, come over. I’ll protect you.”

“Hang on while I make sure I unplugged everything.” Greg’s a double-checker. I’m usually running so late I barely check anything
the first time.

I stay on the porch, watching the gathering storm in the west as the sky grows darker by the second. I shudder just as Greg
reappears.

I take his outstretched hand and my knees nearly buckle when he laces warm fingers through mine.

“You know there’s not going to be a tornado, right?” I say. “We never actually get one.”

A crash of thunder hammers through the air like a sonic boom and I jump, glad that I’m not out running in it. As Greg’s arms
encircle me, I gather in the scent of his understated aftershave. Mmm. My stomach hip-hops and I smile into his shining face.

“I could get used to this,” he murmurs, just before lowering his head. His mouth covers mine. I don’t know if he’s trying
to make a point or not, but he’s never kissed me like this before. My ears roar. I’m not sure if it’s thunder or my heart
pounding in my ears.