In spite of myself, I can’t help but find the humor. I give a sideways grin. “Yeah. That’s probably it. Lack of communication
between heaven and the natural disaster. I wonder who I contact to file a complaint.”
My new neighbor—in the English-cottage-looking house to the right of my house—moved in during a late February storm that dumped
six inches of snow on us and knocked out the power for twelve hours. (I should have seen it coming then.) Every house on the
block participated in helping the seventy-year-old bachelor move in. Being that he’s elderly and single, we naturally assumed
he was a widower, but no. He’s recently retired from the stage, where he’s worked in New York, London, Paris. He decided to
move here to be closer to his daughter—who he unashamedly revealed was the product of an illicit affair during his forties.
And I get the feeling from his man-of-the-world attitude that “illicit affair” is John’s middle name.
He made no apologies for his life or his beliefs. And after we had him all moved in he thanked us for the help, then informed
us that he is staunchly atheist, but will respect our antiquated, outdated, and downright ignorant beliefs if we will please
not inundate him with our proselytizing efforts. That’s how he said it, too. (Except for “ignorant.” That was only implied.)
He’s pleasant enough. But how much better it would be if he weren’t headed for hell. You know?
“Hey, speak of the atheist,” Linda says, all hush-hush as the bell above the door dings.
I look up at the same time John Wells sees me. He strides my way.
Knowing I will now have to be a good example, I nix my sullen, God-blaming attitude and force a smile. “Hello, Mr. Wells.”
“My dear girl. I couldn’t help but notice the tree on your house.” Okay, if anyone else had said those particular words, I’d
have thought they were making fun of my predicament, but John is so cool, he could recite “Little Miss Muffet” and get a standing
ovation and cries for an encore. His expression is one of genuine concern and I warm to the sympathy.
“Yeah. I guess you can’t predict the weather.”
He lifts the ticket from our table. “I insist upon treating you both.”
I’m about to turn him down, but Linda speaks up first. “Thanks! That’s so sweet of you.” She beams and blushes a little like
a giggling girl. Hello? Remember your newly re-vowed husband, Mark?
“My pleasure.” His gray moustache twitches as he passes along a distinguished, white-toothed smile and heads off to find a
seat.
“Do you suppose those are his own teeth?” I ask.
“They don’t look fake,” Linda says and I swear she’s watching the old geezer saunter, all full of himself, to his seat. “Don’t
you think he sort of looks like Sean Connery?”
I take a quick glance at him. “Not really. I think it’s the hat. And the fact that he walks straight and sure, which is unusual
for a man his age.”
“Too bad he’s not a Christian. Greg’s mom is single, isn’t she?”
Having recently renewed her wedding vows, Linda is oh-so-in-love (barring the occasional ogling of attractive older men).
“I’m not fixing up my boyfriend’s mom with my atheist neighbor.”
“I know. I said
if
he were a Christian.”
A buxom blonde enters the coffee shop and we watch wordlessly as she heads over to Mr. Wells’s table. He stands, kisses her
cheek, and holds her chair for her.
“Looks like she’s not his type anyway.”
“Guess not,” Linda says, sounding a little offended for older women everywhere. She grabs her purse. “I have to be going.
Listen, if your contractor doesn’t work out, let me know. My brother, Van, is starting up his own business. He works cheap
for now while he’s building up a résumé. He’s got a couple of pretty good references.” She fishes into the purse and draws
out a business card.
Not that I’d let business and friendship mix, but I take the card anyway. “Okay. I’ll keep him in mind.”
My eyes land on another business card that has fallen from her purse and onto the table. I pick up the champagne-colored card,
and in true, nosy-best-friend fashion, turn it over and read it: “Emma Carrington, Life Coach. One free thirty-minute telephone
session.”
“What’s this?”
Her face has suddenly gone scarlet. “I took it last year when I thought Mark and I were getting a divorce.”
“Did you ever call her?”
She shakes her head. “I met you instead. Talking it over with you helped. And then I found out Mark wanted to re-marry me.”
I rack my brain trying to remember how helpful I could have been, jaded as I was over my own bad divorce. I give a mental
shrug and offer her the card.
“Throw it away,” she says. “I don’t need it anymore.”
With a wink, she turns and sashays out of the coffee shop. I turn the card over a couple of times, then drop it into my purse
just as the server appears to take away Linda’s dishes.
“I’ll be staying to do some work,” I say. “Could you bring me a cup of regular coffee and just keep it coming?”
Thankfully, she’s the pleasant sort. She smiles and agrees. I pull out Rick’s laptop and plug in my headphones and jump drive.
I have no desire to work on this proposal for a new romance novel. But now more than ever I know I have to keep the checks
rolling in.
Ignoring the angst on the inside of me, I set to work on a synopsis. It’s pretty basic. Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love
with girl. Boy loses girl. Girl has crisis. Boy wins girl back. Boy and girl live happily ever after. Yada yada. Oh, and boy
and girl are Christians.
Three hours later, feeling more depressed than ever, I stand up to leave. But when I gather my things and head for the door,
I notice a crowd has gathered. I stop short as that once-familiar anxiety shoots through my stomach. My head begins to swarm
and my heart picks up speed like a mustang on the open highway. I drop back into my chair, knowing there’s no way I’m wading
through that group. Tears well up. I thought I was done with anxiety attacks for good. God! Where are you?
“Miss Everett?” I turn to the sound of John Wells’s voice. “May I be of assistance?”
“John,” I gasp, fighting for air. “I think I’m having a panic attack.”
“It’s all right, my dear. Try to take slow breaths. I’ll be right back.”
He strides across the room and returns with a paper bag. “Breathe into this.” He strokes my wrists as I do as I’m told. Within
just a few minutes, my pulse slows.
“Thank you.” I take a glass of water from the server.
“Anxiety attacks. How familiar I am with them,” John says. “I’ve had my share. Trust me.”
I’m losing it and he wants to take a trip down memory lane? Besides, I’m not buying it from Mr. Calm-cool-and-collected. “You’ve
never had an anxiety attack,” I accuse. “You know you’re just trying to make me feel better.”
He smiles with affectionate tolerance and presses his hand to his chest. “I vow to you that I wouldn’t lie to a lady.”
I snort. “Give me a break. A man does not reach senior citizen status as a bachelor without having perfected the art of lying
to ladies.”
A nod of acknowledgment answers my observation. “All right. Because I feel I can trust you, I will admit to exaggerating a
time or two, when I had no choice. But in this case, I give you my word that I too have suffered with panic attacks. Talent
isn’t a guarantee against a case of nerves. Thirty minutes before curtain and for the first ten minutes into any performance
I had to fight panic.”
I give him a lopsided grin. “You don’t seem the type to give in to nerves. You’re way too suave and
debonair.
” (I say this last with a swanky French accent.)
“Ah, how little you know me.” With a wink, he stands and extends his hand to me. “Let me walk you out.”
“Thank you.”
We are at my van before it occurs to me to wonder why he has just spent three hours in a coffee shop. I resort to backdoor
prying. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your lunch date.”
His faded blue eyes twinkle with merriment. “Curious, are you?”
Heat spreads across my cheeks. I nod. “A little. Sorry.”
“Not at all.” He opens my door for me as one would expect from a man like John Wells. “Mrs. Jensen would like to pursue acting
as a profession and considering that I have been looking into opening a coaching studio in my attic, I agreed to an appointment
with her.”
“A three-hour appointment?” What a nosy girl I am! Like Jessica Fletcher. I’m sleuthing.
He chuckles. “She’s very enthusiastic about her prospects.”
I just bet she is.
“Thanks for coming to the rescue, John. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were an angel unaware.”
He lifts my hand and his moustache tickles the soft skin on the inside of my wrist as he presses a kiss there. “But you do
know better and are fully
aware
that I am no angel. Nor do I believe in such things.”
“You’re nothing but a flirt, John Wells. And I’m half your age.”
He chuckles. “At least.”
I drive away with a thought: Wouldn’t it be incredible if God used me to lead an atheist to Jesus?
I
sit cross-legged and stare at the card laying on the comforter in front of me. Emma Carrington, Life Coach. Should I or shouldn’t
I? It’s just so obvious that I need help. Or at least someone I can talk to who might have some sage advice to offer. I glance
at the clock. Greg will be here in about an hour to pick me up for dinner at Rick and Darcy’s. I showered and dressed early
just in case I had the guts to go through with the call.
Now I’m getting cold feet. But I really should call. I think I should. The anxiety attacks alone… Mom, Greg, I don’t
know. What’s it going to hurt just to give it one shot? The first consultation is free. Right?
Okay, I’ve talked myself into it. Without further hesitation, I dial the number. My heart pounds as I wait for her to pick
up.
“Hello, this is Emma Carrington.”
I gather a long breath and am about to respond when I hear “I’m so sorry I missed your call.” Her recorded voice is soft,
gentle, relaxing. As, I suppose, it should be. “I sincerely wish to speak with you. Please leave your name and phone number
and I will call you at the earliest opportunity.”
I blow out my breath. Doggone. I figure there’s no way she’s ever going to call me back. But for some reason—
desperation?—I leave my name and number anyway.
Now I still have an hour to kill. Make that fifty-five minutes. I pad over to the window seat. The moon shining off the duck
pond brings tears to my eyes. I lean my head against the window, not sure just why the picture brings on such melancholy.
Probably PMS. But I let the tears fall anyway. Wouldn’t the kids love this view?
The phone rings a moment later when I’m in the middle of a really great cry. At first glance, I don’t recognize the caller-ID
number. Still, I snatch it up and a Kleenex at the same time. “Hang on,” I say, and set the phone down long enough to blow
my nose. Then I pick the phone back up. “This is Claire.”
“Hello. Emma Carrington, returning your call.”
She sounds a bit put out, this woman who is supposed to be dedicated to helping people. My defenses alerted, I sniff. I suppose
she’d have preferred I let my nose run?
Politeness dictates I stuff my irritation and force a pleasant conversation long enough to blow this Emma person off and go
back to my window seat and uncontrollable sobbing. “Thank you for calling, Emma.” Only Emma sounds more like Emba because
of my stuffy nose. “I really don’t need to talk.”
“May I ask what has changed in the past ten minutes since you called my number?” Her tone is even. Practiced steadiness? No
way am I getting sucked into a conversation with a woman who can’t even be patient long enough for me to blow my nose.
“Oh, I shouldn’t have called in the first place. I was just feeling a bit overwhelmed.”
“And now you’re not?”
“Well, I…” I sigh. “I suppose I still am.”
“Claire. You have one free session. How about giving me a chance to help you?” Her voice is pleasant, seems to be genuinely
interested. I suppose it’s not going to hurt anything to just share.
Thirty minutes later, Emma has my credit card number and I have a commitment to one thirty-minute session per week for the
next twelve weeks. Funny thing, ten minutes into our conversation I started feeling better. Maybe this is going to help after
all.
Dinner at Darcy’s table is one of those affairs. I’d have to describe the entire experience as overcompensation. To explain:
Darcy was raised on the wrong side of the tracks by a mother who conceived and bore her out of wedlock—the product of an affair
with a married man. They both paid for it socially during Darcy’s growing-up years.
But those beginnings motivated her to make something better of her life. She took etiquette classes, decorating classes, any
kind of class that might help her better fit into Rick’s social lifestyle. The lifestyle I resented every single day we were
married. But Darcy is happy with it. She’s happy hanging on his arm and gracing his home with style and class. It suits her.
It definitely did
not
suit me.
Now as I sit at her gorgeous dining room table with my children, Rick and Darcy, of course, and Greg and Sadie, I wonder who
these children are. They are dressed appropriately, neat, clean, and using the proper silverware. They are polite and are
displaying exemplary table manners. I’m baffled.
“So, Claire,” Rick says as he passes a platter of roast tenderloin to the left. “What did you find out today from the contractor?”
I fill them in on the details. Tree-removal guy coming in the morning. Should only take one day. Contractor guy will be coming
back the following day to give an estimate and will hopefully begin the actual work on the rooms and roof soon thereafter.
“I’ve never heard of Milton Travis,” Rick says. “Did you check him out?”
“Don’t worry about it, Rick. He had an excellent referral.”
I ignore the way his eyes cloud at my flippant response. Even five years after our divorce, I still can’t help but push his
buttons. In my defense, though, he knows I’m going to do it, so why does he set himself up by asking annoying questions?