Leave It to Claire (6 page)

Next to the couch is a laundry basket of towels I started folding while watching The WB last night. Only I fell asleep with
the job half done. I really was planning to get the place shining today. Like maybe around noonish—definitely
not
at the crack of dawn.

Darcy backs up. “Well, I guess if you don’t need me, I’ll go home. I have stuff I could do. Sorry I woke you.”

I’m starting to lose that morning fog, and I credit that for the fact that I’m warming up to Darcy. “Hey,” I say, and she
turns around. “Do you want some coffee?” I resent that I had to do it, but I know guilt would have eaten away at me all day.
I probably would have ended up calling her later to see if she wanted to go see a movie. This is better. Get it over with
early, then I’m free to do whatever I want the rest of the day and evening.

She brightens, which makes me feel a little better. I hope God is marking this down on my God credit account because He knows
that I always read my e-mail over my first pot of coffee.

Little Darcy has perked right up, oblivious to my sacrifice. She practically bounces into the house like a toy poodle. I don’t
know why she cares, but she always seems to be trying just a little too hard to get me to like her. Whatever her reasons,
I’m feeling more like a good human being now that I’ve made this concession. I figure I can handle an hour or so.

I catch a whiff of some flowery scent as she breezes by. Yep, just like I thought, fresh out of a flowery Chia Pet pod.

We walk through the living room toward the kitchen and I watch her like a hawk. To her credit, she keeps her gaze averted
from the clutter, and once we make it to the kitchen I relax. Can’t mess up a kitchen when you order out, like I did last
night. At least I did throw the Chinese cartons away.

“Have a seat,” I say graciously, and motion toward the table. I head to the counter and put on a pot of vanilla-flavored coffee.
I figure we can have two cups each, then I will hint around about needing to shower and maybe she’ll bounce on out of here
and leave me to my e-mail.

I sit across from her, eyeing the brewing pot. Is it my imagination, or is it dripping much slower than usual? Time for a
new pot, perhaps?

Darcy’s voice distracts me from the vanilla-scented brew. “When is your surgery?”

“Three weeks. That’s the earliest they could fit me in.” I glance at the coffeepot. I think I can, I think I can. Gurgle,
gurgle.

“How long will you be off work?”

“Huh? Oh, at least two months, they say, since I’m having one arm done at a time. I don’t think it’ll take that long, though.
One of my friends had carpal tunnel surgery, and she was back to writing e-mail in a couple of weeks. So I’m hoping for that.”
I’m distracted by the gurgling from the counter, and I can hear in my own voice that I’m not exactly into the conversation.
How long before the caffeine withdrawal starts? It’s been at least fifteen hours since I had any. And being nice to Darcy
this early in the morning is stretching my limits.

“You really need your morning coffee, don’t you?” Darcy’s expression is one of amused fondness. “Rick is the same way.”

Okay, then. I shove up to my feet. Finished or not, I have to have caffeine
now
. And, for the record, that Rick comparison just slashed her two cups of coffee to one.

“It must be a difficult time for you with your mother moving away.”

I’d like to explain to Darcy that I don’t discuss personal issues with current wives of ex-husbands, but there’s no denying
the warmth in Darcy’s voice. My sense of justice won’t allow for me to hold it against her that I’m in a tough situation.
No matter how much I resent the fact that she loves the man who cheated on me, then left me with four kids to raise.

“I’d love to help out any way I can.”

I give her an airy smile and set our cups with half-brewed coffee on the table. “Just pray for a quick recovery.” Holy cow,
could I be more fake?

Her eyes sort of cloud over, and I know she finally gets it that I’m brushing her off. I do feel a twinge of sympathy for
her, but good grief. Why would I want help from my ex-husband’s wife? It’s just a little too weird, if you ask me.

Truthfully, I don’t have much against Darcy. Other than the obvious resentment that she’s beautiful, ten years younger than
I am, and a lot thinner. In my world that makes her a viable enemy. But I’d resent anyone in that position. So I don’t discriminate.
It’s just that I don’t want to be her best friend. It’s not normal.

Besides, sometimes I get the feeling she wants to take me on as her project. She invites me places, sends me “just thinking
of you” cards. Things like that. Makes sure I have plans when the kids are with their father so that I’m not all alone. She’s
thoughtful. And it’s nice, if misguided. But I’ve been surrounded by children for the past fifteen years. A full day to myself
definitely doesn’t push me into anything remotely resembling loneliness.

A small pang of guilt pinches me, and I remember my list of resolutions. Do I really have to consider Darcy as part of that?
Because if that’s what God is trying to accomplish with this whole twinge of guilt, I’m going to have to rethink it a little.

I veer off into discussing what Rick and Darcy are hoping to buy each of the kids for Christmas. Darcy is Little Miss Christmas
Sunshine, and she takes to the subject like a catfish to a worm.

We laugh and compare lists for the next few minutes and relief warms me as Darcy stands to leave without having to be nudged
along by a subtle but well-targeted hint.

I walk her back through the cluttered room; again I watch, again she averts, and at the door she pauses.

“I finished
Tobey’s Choice
last night.” She’s not looking at me, and I am almost positive I see a glimmer in her eyes. I frown and look closer; my movement
causes her to meet my gaze. Just as I suspected. Tears.

My stomach clenches, unease nips at me like an undisciplined Chihuahua. I don’t want to do this.

“Claire…”

“I didn’t realize you enjoy reading Christian fiction. I’d be happy to recommend some other authors.” I rattle off some, hoping
that in the meantime she’ll give up this desire to delve deep into a chasm she has no business penetrating. It’s not her place.
I’m starting to panic. Where is my handsome knight, Sir Greg? I’m feeling in desperate need of a little rescuing.

She places her hand on my arm, and I clamp my mouth shut.
All right. Let’s get this over with.

“I know this book was hard for you to write,” she says, her voice trembling with emotion. “I—I just want you to know how much
I respect you for having the guts to tackle such an enormously personal subject.”

I never know what to say in these situations. Again, I’m caught at a crossroads. I want to say I have fully forgiven Rick.
That the book was cathartic. Truthfully, it was supposed to be. But I realize I’m still raw from the rejection of being tossed
aside and replaced with a better model. Literally. The woman he left me for modeled underwear at the so-called high-class
lingerie shop in the mall. Of course six months later, she left
him
for a fat, balding dentist. I figure she was picturing free veneers. Vindication, but not enough to take away the bitterness.

Darcy pauses a second. She gathers a breath and I see her brace herself for what she’s going to say. I brace myself, too,
and wish a meteor would land in my yard to distract her. Or perhaps she could suddenly be hailed by the mother ship.

No such luck.

“It’s hard for me to imagine Rick as the man who cheated on you.”

“I would never have thought it of him either.”

Now why did I have to go and say that? It was catty and sort of sounded like I was warning her. I see by the wariness flickering
across her eyes that she’s not sure what to make of my remark. I know I have to undo what I said. “Look, Darcy, Rick’s not
the same guy he was five years ago when we divorced.” There. That’s my concession and that’s all she’s getting.

It seems to be enough for her because she smiles.

All right, then. She likes the book. Respects me for writing it. Anything else? Please say no. Please say no.

“Just one more thing…”

Shoot.

“I get the feeling sometimes that…”

I frown, sensing this is not easy for her to say. And fully supporting her need to just drop it. But she’s not feeling my
support, or something, because she forges ahead, heedless of my “Let it go, babe” vibes. “I get the feeling that you don’t
differentiate between the woman Rick cheated with and me.”

My jaw goes slack. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. That’s the most ridiculous . . .

Darcy takes one step down and pauses again. “And, Claire. I would never be the other woman. I wouldn’t have before I was a
Christian, and certainly wouldn’t now.” She draws a short breath and looks me squarely in the eye. “I didn’t take Rick away
from you. And I would really like to be your friend.”

Is it my imagination, or did the whole earth stop spinning?

A
mid-thirties-ish, overweight woman without makeup isn’t a pretty sight to behold. Especially when she’s frowning into my
bathroom mirror like I am and every wrinkle (which are really war wounds as far as I’m concerned) reminds me that I’m not
getting any younger. Or nicer, apparently.

I stare at the woman I’ve become. The reflection accuses me, mocks me, and worse still, reminds me of all the weight I’ve
gained over the past five years.

Darcy’s little parting remark left me speechless. And that doesn’t happen often. I’m notorious for the quippy comeback. Now
my wings are clipped, the wind has left my sails, and more than anything I wish I could rewind a couple of hours and never
answer that doorbell in the first place.

Of course her accusation or observation or whatever that was supposed to be is completely and utterly ridiculous.

She looks nothing whatsoever like Gina, the adulterous model, so how could I mix them up? I feel a twinge inside my gut. And
that annoys me. The last thing I want to do is soul-search about this. Darcy is Darcy. Sweet, wholesome, put-together like
something out of
Vogue.
Not Gina. But married to Rick.

Luckily, the phone rings, and I have no choice but to stop thinking about this and answer.

Mom.

“Hi, honey. Good news. The realtor just called and says we have a bite on the house.”

Great. How about twisting the knife just to add a little something to my day? “That was quick. You sure you priced it high
enough?”

“Yes. Anyway. The man is coming to take a look on Monday, and I need to clear out the attic.”

I inwardly groan, because I know she didn’t call simply to give me an update on the work ahead of
her.
She’s just mapped out my day. My first free Saturday in weeks, now that the manuscript is on my editor’s desk. The day I was
going to clean my house, read a book, relax. Possibly take a bubble bath. I see this vision vanish before me like a puff of
smoke.

“I have to get dressed. I’ll be over in thirty minutes.”

Twenty-nine minutes later I’m standing on the porch, wondering why she locked the door when she knew I was coming. But I can’t
hold a grudge when I see her bright smile. The one I know so well that always communicates her joy at seeing me. It’s nice
to have someone in your life you know loves you unconditionally. Sure, I might get aggravated at my mom, but the fact remains
I couldn’t have made it through the past few years without her.

As I step inside the familiar house, the home where I grew up, a feeling of nostalgia sweeps over me. I want to beg my mom
not to leave, but I’ve come to accept the fact that she needs to do this for her own sake. Even if I personally think living
with Charley is going to drive her into early dementia.

“Do you want some coffee?” Mom asks.

“No. I just had some.” But I have no intention of telling her about my morning coffee date. “Let’s just dive right into the
attic.”

Being the brave young thing I am, I venture forth ahead of Mom. I duck and beat at cobwebs, feeling like Indiana Jones, minus
the bullwhip and sardonic grin. I breathe in the musty smell of forty years’ worth of memories. My memories. Charley’s. Mom’s.
Suddenly, I’m missing my dad. A gentle giant with a voice like Sinatra. In the corner sits his fishing gear, tackle boxes,
old rods and reels. I laugh and snatch up his pride and joy: a gray fishing hat, decorated around the rim with fishing lures
and hooks taken from the lips of the unfortunate “big ones” he caught in his lifetime. I plop the hat on my head and rummage
through the tackle box. “Remember when Dad used to take us camping?”

Mom gives a snort, and I’m not feeling the love.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“I hated every second of those outings.”

My brow lifts with my utter shock. She might as well have said she never loved my dad. True, Mom never was one to complain,
but in my mental slide show, I don’t see anything that looks like misery. I have a feeling she’s overstating her case. “I
always thought you were having a great time like the rest of us.”

“It meant so much to your father to take us on these little excursions to the middle of nowhere. And you kids lived for the
summer campouts; I couldn’t very well disappoint you all.”

“I thought camping was fun. Still do. How come you didn’t like it, Mom?”

She shuddered. “Bugs. I hated the bugs.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, who doesn’t?” Okay, I’ve had this conversation once today.

“Don’t get smart with me.”

I grin. Mom so gets my sarcasm. No need for unflattering analogies.

“So, what do you want me to do with all this stuff?”

Mom shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to throw it out.”

I gasp so hard I take in a lungful of dust and start to cough. Mom pounds me on the back, and I’m thinking this woman is
not
the frail old lady she pretends to be. She could probably take me in a street fight.

When I finally compose myself and convince Mom to stop beating me half to death, I look at her to see if dust has affected
her ability to focus. “You really want to throw out Daddy’s fishing gear?”