Claire Knows Best (21 page)

He clears his throat. Never a good sign. My lungs begin to burn and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Air leaves my throat
with a cool
whoosh
. “Spit it out, Patrick. What’s going on? And don’t lie to me. I can smell a lie a mile off.”

“Ari was at a party.”

“What? You encouraged my daughter to sneak out of the house and took her to a party?” I’m burning up now. No, I’ve passed
burning. I’m flat-out burned up. Last year he talked his way out of being caught red-handed kissing another girl, but he’s
not going to be able to talk his way out of this one.

“No, ma’am. I didn’t take her to a party. She called me from the party. She was—uh—dumped by some college guy. And if I ever
get my hands on him…”

“Okay, spare me the macho garbage. There is no way my daughter would go off to a party on her own with someone I don’t know.”

My mind skitters back to the incident at the pizza place with the college guy. Apparently I don’t know my daughter as well
as I thought I did. What is it with her and older men?

“All right. Let’s start over.” I take a deep breath. “Where is my daughter?”

“In my car. I’m driving her home as we speak.”

I imagine Ari passed out in the backseat of this teenage kid’s sports car.

“All right. Why did she call you instead of me?”

“Fear?”

“Fear? Of me?”

I get a “think about it” silence. I guess I do tend to overreact. Or more precisely, act outside of the norm. I’m not crazy
about Patrick driving and talking on the phone at the same time. But I can’t bear the thought of losing this connection to
Ari until I can actually see for myself that she’s all right. “How close are you to getting here?”

“Pulling into the parking lot right now.”

I glance out the window and, sure enough, the Mustang is pulling into one of the few empty spaces. With all my motherly indignation,
relief, anger, and overwhelming joy to see my daughter home safely, I fling open the door. In my SpongeBob SquarePants pajamas
and an oversized T-shirt, I run barefoot from my door to Patrick’s car.

My view of Ari is pretty close to the one I had envisioned, only she’s in the front seat, and not the back.

“Thanks for bringing her home, Paddy.”

He nods and motions me aside. With the kind of tenderness normally reserved for men ten years his senior, he leans in, unhooks
my daughter’s seat belt, and gently lifts her from the car. I lead the way inside.

“Lay her on the couch and then come into the kitchen and tell me everything you know.”

Trembling, I fill the teakettle and set it on a burner. Then I roam the cabinets for anything herbal and non-caffeinated,
grab a chamomile teabag, and sit at the table waiting for the kettle to whistle.

Patrick steps partway into the kitchen and leans against the wall. The kid’s face is white as a sheet and I start to see this
whole thing through his eyes. Ari uses him when she’s alone and blows him off whenever she gets a better offer. My Ari? At
this moment, I don’t like my daughter very much.

“Tell me what happened.”

With a swipe of thick dark hair, he takes a seat in the chair I kick out across from me.

“Don’t leave anything out,” I warn. “I’ll eventually get it all out of her anyway.”

He nods miserably. “She called me because…”

I hold up my hand. “Wait. Back up the story and tell me how she got to a college-boy party in the first place.”

“She met this guy at the apartment pool. He thought she was in college, too, so he invited her to go.”

“Oh, gee, I wonder who could have possibly led him to believe she was a coed.”

His lip twitches a little and I know the poor kid got the joke. I feel a little guilty for rubbing salt into the wound. “Sorry,
Paddy. Go on.”

“That’s about it, I guess.”

“Do I even want to know how she got to the party? And please, don’t say Trish was there, too.”

“No.“ He glances around the parking lot and that’s when I notice Darcy’s SUV is missing! I gasp. Oh, she is in so much trouble.

“The party didn’t even get started until around ten. So it wasn’t in full swing until midnight. She waited until she knew
you were settled in for the night and snuck out.”

That explains that. I was down for the count long before midnight. I groan. “With Darcy’s SUV. Please tell me she didn’t wreck
it?”

“No. At least she knew better than to drink and drive.” He gives me a look of compassion.

I am amazed at how clueless I am. I’ve always prided myself on my savvy sense of reality. The way I hardly ever take anything
at face value, but rather fall back on cynicism and sarcasm as my way of getting to the truth of any issue. Keeping it real,
rather than allowing anyone to pull the wool over my eyes. Only guess what? This kid—my sixteen-year-old daughter—has me totally
blinded. I’ve been one of
those
moms. The kind who insists that all the other kids are bad, but my kid would never ever drink or have sex.

My heart jumps into my throat and forms a boulder-sized lump. “So, this college jerk plied her with alcohol and then what?”

His jaw twitches and anger flashes in his baby blues. “He took her upstairs…”

Oh, Lord.

“Apparently, that’s where the real party was. He tried to get her to do cocaine.”

Oh, thank God. Wait. What? “Cocaine?”

“Yeah. Thankfully, she had enough presence of mind to tell him where to get off. Then she called me from her cell. And I made
her call you to prepare you for her condition.”

I am so filled with love and gratitude for this kid. I reach across the table and pat his hand. “Thank you for being there
for her.”

He nods. “I’ll be over tomorrow to see her.”

Something in the way he says it sends a shot of sadness through me. “Had all you can take, huh?”

His shoulders lift and lower. “Yeah.” When his gaze reaches mine, I detect a glimmer of moisture.

Ari, open your eyes, you foolish girl!

And just like that, she appears, clutching her stomach, her eyes wide with horror as she breezes past us into the half bath
right off the kitchen. Patrick and I sit in silence as my daughter hurls in the next room. I hear her moan, and I know she’s
dropped to the floor, exhausted and miserable.

And I take that as my cue. I shove up from my chair and give Patrick a “better get going” half smile. He nods.

“Can you see yourself out, Paddy? I need to go take care of my daughter.”

He stands, casts a lingering, heartbreakingly sad glance toward the bathroom and retreats to the living room. As I kneel beside
my reeking daughter, I hear the front door close softly.

I know there is no point in kicking Ari while she’s down. There will be plenty of time for her to regret her abominably poor
judgment. Like when she wakes up tomorrow. When Patrick comes over and ends things with her once and for all, which I fully
believe he will do, when she’s not going to Mexico because, even if Patrick weren’t about to dump her for good, there’s zero
chance I’d let her go now.

I find it hard to drum up much sympathy for her as I help her back to the couch, run a fluffy washcloth under cool water,
and lay it folded across her forehead. Her chest rises and falls steadily within a couple of minutes.

I sit there and watch her sleep. I am filled with anger, outrage, hurt. How could she do this? To herself? To Patrick?

To me?

Two hours later, I’m sitting at my kitchen table. Knowing there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep, I exchange the chamomile
tea for a freshly brewed cup of full-strength caffeinated Cain’s coffee and am soon mulling over all the things that have
happened since that stupid tornado a mere four weeks ago.

I thought I was doing the right thing by bringing my kids back to me, even if we had to live in a crummy townhouse for a few
weeks. Now I’m not so sure. Or at the very least I should have found someplace not inundated with college guys.

Oh, Claire, how stupid can you be? I slap my palm to my forehead. How could I not have known that a complex full of college-age
guys would be too much temptation for my kid to handle?

It’s five-thirty in the morning but I couldn’t get back to sleep now even if I could pick up where my Greg dream was interrupted.
I grab my coffee mug and lift out all the napkins I used to sketch my new story at Ellie’s Barbecue. As I transcribe my barely
readable notes, yesterday’s experiences come to mind. Penny in the laundry room, the van breaking down, Brandi, Greg . . .

Hmm
. Greg’s offer to have me stay at his place until my house is fixed . . .

By the time I am seriously considering the offer, the clock reads almost seven. Greg’s an early bird, so I grab the phone
and punch in his number.

T
wo days later, most of the neighborhood turns out to lend a hand moving Greg’s stuff into storage and mine into Greg’s house.
Even Van shows up during breaks. (And is it my imagination or is he taking quite a few breaks more than necessary? Glad I’m
not paying by the hour.) He seems content to ignore the looks he’s getting from Greg.

I can’t help but be a little bewildered at these two guys. They’re both acting pretty macho—like I’m the little lady and they’re
about to fight a duel over who wins my hand. I’d be flattered if I weren’t so depressed over the whole breakup with Greg.

By noon, everyone is starving, so Darcy, whom I refuse to allow to lift a finger to help with the move, shows up driving Rick’s
Mercedes. She’s picked up a full meal for us, complete with barbecued ribs, fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans. You
name it, it’s here. We end up having an impromptu block party—half Greg’s going away, half my welcome back.

John Wells corners me just as I bite into juicy, spicy, tangy barbecue.

“Pork is going to be the downfall of America,” he says.

I wipe away a smeary face full of sauce and smirk. “No doubt a conspiracy created by foreign enemies bent on our destruction.”

“I would not doubt it one bit.” He gives me a wink. “So, you’ve taken up residence on our quiet street once more.”

He’s fishing for something, but for the life of me I haven’t a clue what it is.

“Yes, I have. It’s nice to be home.” Literally. Living in Greg’s house is going to take me back to childhood.

“I take it you and Mr. Lewis are finally engaged to be married then?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Wells, but no, we aren’t. He’s moving away for a year or so and I need a place to
live where I won’t constantly worry about my kids. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Quite. And how about your van? I notice it has been absent.”

Taking a bite, I chew and talk, I admit, mostly to bug John. “Had to put it in the shop. They called today and the motor is
shot.”

“Unfortunate.”

He has no idea. Rick is encouraging me to buy a used one. He even has a friend with a three-year-old Dodge Caravan for sale
for fifteen thousand. Blue Book confirms that’s a great deal. But I just don’t know if I can even swing that much. And with
my pay schedule, setting up accounts that have to be paid on a monthly basis is scary.

But I know John didn’t come in here to talk about my van. “What’s up, John?”

“I wanted to take a minute to chat about your son. I’ve already decided that he will have the part of Peter Pan.”

“You have!” Finally, something going right for a member of my family. “Thanks, John. He’s going to be thrilled.”

“Yes, well. Callbacks aren’t over yet, so keep it under wraps until we announce it officially.”

“Oh, sure. No problem.”

“Now, on to the issue we discussed previously.”

“What issue?”

“That of you allowing me to tutor Shawn.”

“John Wells, you’re a bulldog disguised as a handsome older man.”

His smile shows his beautifully white teeth. I swear John’s had tons of dental work done. There’s just no other explanation.
He leans in a little, allowing me a whiff of musky cologne. “So you admit to thinking of me as handsome?”

I give him a tap on the shoulder. “Handsome
older
gentleman, John.”

“You break my heart, Ms. Everett.”

“I’m sure you’ll recover.” I give him a dry grin and he laughs outright.

“I’m sure you’re right. But back to the subject of your talented son.”

“John, I’ve already told you. I can’t just hand him over for you to brainwash with all those anti-God, liberal, immoral ideals
you hold.”

“First of all, I am not anti-God. To be against God, one must first believe He exists. And I simply do not.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Liberal. Immoral.” An exaggerated sigh escapes. “I’m afraid you’re right about those.”

“You’re impossible, John Wells.” So why do I like him so much? Not in an I-want-to-date-a-man-old-enough-to-be-my-dad kind
of way, but more in an I-wish-dad-were-still-around kind of way. “Impossible and forbidden to brainwash my kid.”

“What can I say to assure you I will in no way try to brainwash the boy?”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about, ‘I believe in God, His Son, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, and I promise to never ever be immoral
or liberal again’?”

I give him a whopper of a wise-guy grin.

His eyes flash with a seriousness I’ve rarely seen, and his expression drops.

“John? Is everything all right?”

He expels a long slow breath and lowers himself to the only kitchen chair vacant of moving boxes. “What you say makes a lot
of sense. I wish I could believe.”

Heat spreads over me and I lean close, my heart filled with so much emotion. “John, believing is easy. Much easier than trying
to explain God’s amazing world any other way than the hand of someone bigger than you.”

“Do you really think so, Ms. Everett?”

“I truly do.”

“Then I promise to try.”

“Try?” There is no try. In the words of the one and only great Jedi master, Yoda, “Do or do not. There is no try.” But I’m
almost positive that’s not something I should say while trying to convince an atheist to believe in God. Besides, he’s sort
of looking up at me and there’s this grin . . .