A Time to Mend (13 page)
Now Indio was defending Max!
“Actually, I thought because it
is
in the middle of this mess, he would remember more easily than ever. A person who cared would be extra sensitive to things like anniversaries. I thought he would feel upset. I thought if I went to see him, it would help. Silly me.”
Indio didn’t respond.
Good grief.
Claire knew she’d always behaved as if it was her wifely duty to comfort Max and thereby keep him happy. Maybe, though, she’d gone to see him earlier that day more for her own sake. If he felt better, she would certainly feel better. But it had all backfired, and now she seethed with anger and embarrassment.
“Indio, am I responsible for his happiness?”
“No, you’re not.” The older woman sighed heavily. “I’m thinking about a speaker who was here once to lead a retreat. I’ll never forget what he said. According to him, the human brain is wired with a craving for relationship, for meaningful connection with other humans. We need it like we need air to breathe. We get desperate if we don’t have it.”
“Well, any loving relationship Max and I ever had has gone down the tubes, and I am feeling desperate.”
“What happened? Do you know?”
He left me. Over and over and over again, he left me.
And now she had left in a desperate attempt to what? Fix things? Or end things?
Claire said, “I don’t understand it. But, Indio, I am so sorry for hurting you.”
“Can’t be helped.” Her mother-in-law grimaced and rubbed an area around her breastbone, her stubby fingers making circular motions.
“Are you all right?”
“Hmm. Just feel a little tightness in here.”
“Have you felt it before?”
“Now and then. It’s just plain old stress. You’d think I would have learned by now how to let it go.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry for—”
“Claire, stop apologizing. That won’t make anything all right.”
Indio’s chastisement rained over her again like hot sparks from a bonfire. Claire flushed from the singeing. Sometimes she really did not like her mother-in-law.
Indio stood. “Well, I’m tired, so I will excuse myself. If you don’t want to drive back into town, you know you’re welcome to sleep in one of the guest rooms.”
Claire swallowed one last apologetic lament. “Thanks. Good night, Indio.”
The older woman walked away, her usual spry step slowed.
I’m sorry, God. I am so sorry.
Claire did not mean to remain in the courtyard. She wanted to leave, but the hot ash of Indio’s words hung thick in the air, blind-ing her to an escape route.
Indio was angry. There’d been no welcome tone in her invitation to stay. She’d told her to stop apologizing.
But how else was she supposed to deal with the guilt? Go back to Max and pretend everything was hunky-dory?
Oh, God. What do You want from me?
Hey, Mom.” Lexi slid onto the wicker chair vacated by Indio, the yellow cat draped in her arms.
The guilt crescendoed now. Claire’s ears rang with it.
“Papa won at canasta,” Lexi said. “Again. Surprise, surprise. I told him grandpas shouldn’t be so competitive. He didn’t agree.”
With effort, Claire tuned in to her daughter and hung on to her words. Lexi hurt. She needed Claire to be her mom. No matter her age, she would always need that. Claire would not—she simply would not—repeat her own mother’s behavior. Claire was a nurturer. She
was
.
Lexi was still speaking. “He is so way ahead in points, it’s not even funny. I swear, he hasn’t let me win since I turned twenty-five.”
Claire cleared her throat. “That was awhile ago,” she teased. “When did you catch on?”
“About the time I turned twenty-six last spring.” Lexi slouched and draped a leg over the chair arm, swinging her foot. “Happy anniversary.”
“Umm . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“I talked to Danny this morning. He said if you and Dad hadn’t married, we wouldn’t exist.”
“Good point. Thank you, then. I’m glad you and Danny exist.”
“Me too.”
“I was just thinking about when I first met Nana. Your dad brought me here for dinner. I actually told her while we were doing dishes that her son and I wanted to elope.”
“Really?” Lexi grinned. “I never heard this.”
“You know how she is. She made me feel so at home, right off the bat. I could tell her anything. Your dad said I was like a can of soda all shaken up. Nana popped the tab, and I fizzed out all over the place.”
Lexi laughed.
Claire joined in. “It was true. I was so excited. They were the fam-ily I never had.”
“Then why did you elope?”
“Lots of reasons, I guess.” How often had she wished she and Max had done it differently?
“You always said it was because you didn’t have any money for a wedding, and your parents didn’t either.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“But you could have had a small one so at least Papa and Nana could have come. I bet they would have liked that. They had so much fun at Jenna’s.”
“
Everybody
had fun at Jenna’s.”
“Yeah, like half the city.”
They exchanged a smile.
Lexi said, “I guess money helps. Who wouldn’t have fun with hundreds of people, live music, dancing, free food galore, and an ocean view?” She slowed her swinging foot. “But, Mom, of all places! Why did you and Dad choose Las Vegas? Major yuck.”
“It was affordable, and we thought it was really special because we had to leave town to get to it. At least the minister wasn’t an Elvis impersonator. Although I think the guy in the motel room next to ours was.”
Lexi chuckled. “Seriously, didn’t you ever dream about a big wedding?”
Claire shifted in her seat. “No. Yes. No. I guess on one level I did, like most girls. But on another, realistic level, I knew it couldn’t hap-pen. It wasn’t just the money. You know my mother’s condition. Can you imagine . . .” She shuddered even now at the thought of her mom stumbling down a church aisle, clinging to an usher’s arm, jabbering slurred words. “And my dad. I’ve told you, he never hit me or anything, but he never smiled at me either or said anything nice. I truly didn’t want him around to ruin my day.”
“That’s sad.”
Claire gazed at her daughter. Her long, straight hair fell across her face. She was slight of build, the opposite of the other three, who always seemed so solid by comparison. Lexi was like a delicate feather, her voice as gentle as the sound of a piccolo.
“Don’t you think it’s sad?”
From the mouths of babes. “No, Lexi, I always thought it was just the way things were.”
“Yeah. I can see that. Sort of like I think it’s just the way things were. With my dad.”
Claire held her breath. “How’s that?”
“He wasn’t around much.” Lexi shrugged.
“If that’s what you remember most about him, that’s sad.”
“Guess that makes for two sad stories, huh? At least he made it to Jenna’s wedding, and on time. Do you want to spend the night here?”
“Are you?”
“Yep. Paquita promised me waffles in the morning. I brought a video. We could make popcorn and watch it?”
Claire heard the little girl’s heart in Lexi’s suggestion. Her grandpa wouldn’t let her win at canasta anymore, but maybe she needed a few cards stacked in her favor. Maybe Claire could ease her sadness a tiny bit. And maybe Lexi could do the same for her.
At the moment, all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and hope the emptiness inside wouldn’t kill her.
M
ax, you can’t keep this up.” Neva stood on the other side of his desk, hands on hips.
He leaned back in his leather chair. “You look like you’re ready for a fight.”
“I am. It’s 8:30 p.m. Five women are still here working and cry-ing because you yapped orders at them that they couldn’t possibly complete by five o’clock. You’ve been fussing at staff like that for over a week now. You need a haircut. You’re walking around like Quasimodo.” She jerked up a shoulder and tilted her head at an awk-ward angle. “Why didn’t you go to the chiro after your little temper tantrum with the tennis racket?”
He could only blink in the face of her barrage.
She straightened her head and shoulder. “You know what I think? I think you’re feeling a little sorry for old Maxwell Beaumont. His wife has hurt him, so he’s going to lash out at anyone in his path, including his employees. He’s hurt his wife and doesn’t deserve to take care of himself.”
“I’m sorry for the other night.”
“You already told me that.” She crossed her arms.
“I mean I’m really sorry.”
“I know you are. Again, I forgive you for acting like a bozo. Under the circumstances—or should I say influence?—it was a one-time, understandable thing. But now it’s time to pick yourself up and climb out of the gutter.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Today’s our anniversary. I forgot.”
When he looked up, she was sitting in a chair, chin propped in her hand, a forlorn expression wrinkling her brow.
“I screwed up big-time.”
Way beyond the old “snafu” antics.
“Did you admit that to her?”
“She won’t answer her phone.”
“Did you leave a message?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Of course you did.” She paused. “You don’t want to get blitzed again, do you?”
“No. I want to work until I drop dead.”
“That’s fine. Go ahead. But your staff is not joining you in that endeavor.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Take care of yourself. Shut down the computer, and get out of here. Have you eaten anything today?”
“A muffin.” Her advice dangled before him like a hand over the edge of a cliff, ready to pull him up before he slid down any farther toward the jagged rocks below. “Will you have dinner with me?”
“What? You need somebody to keep you company?” The softness on her face removed any sting in her biting question.
“Just for a couple more hours.”
She stood. “I was thinking pasta.”
They went to Little Italy and sat on the patio in the back of the restaurant.
It was Claire’s favorite restaurant for pasta.
At least Max thought it was her favorite. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she hadn’t been real about that either.
The patio was open to the stars. It was a funky place, surrounded by two-story walls that looked like something from an old Florentine neighborhood. An open staircase led up to a second-story door. A clothesline with permanently displayed laundry hung above one corner.
He watched Neva dip a piece of foccacia into olive oil. “Is this Claire’s favorite place for pasta?”
Neva looked over at him, the bread in her hand millimeters from her mouth. “I’ve heard her say that several times. Whenever we’ve all come here together, she says it is.”
“I don’t know whether to believe her anymore about anything.” He picked up a large piece of bread, jabbed it into the puddle of oil, and crammed it into his mouth.
Neva swallowed. “Want to talk about business instead? It might be better for your digestive system.”
“She says she can’t be real with me.” He spoke around the chunk of food in his mouth.
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Says I don’t want to hear it.”
“There might be some truth to that.”
He gulped his diet cola. “I’m listening.”
“Years ago she and I talked about how she believed a wife was supposed to submit to a husband. It was when you two first started going to church. She was pretty gung ho on the subject. She went so far as to say that if you weren’t happy and contented, it was her fault. And she said it with a big smile, like she’d discovered life’s greatest secret. Like taking care of you was her purpose for being.”
He reached for the bread basket, lifted the napkin, and took out another piece.
“Oh my gosh. Max! You believe that, don’t you?”
“Not put that way exactly.”
“Put it any which way near that, and there’s no way on earth she could be real with you.”
“She keeps the peace in our home. She makes it all work.”
“Yeah! She wouldn’t dare upset the apple cart. She’s no wallflower. She speaks her mind when she wants. But like I said before, I some-times thought she should have nailed your carcass to the wall, because you can be such a bear. Like today at the office. But she couldn’t do that, could she? Not under those rules.”
“We don’t have rules.”
“Yes, you do.”
“She had an affair.”
Neva’s eyes widened. She closed her mouth on whatever opinion she was about to render. Her hands stilled at the sides of her salad plate.
“It was a long time ago. You were there. In the early days, when we were losing money hand over fist.”
“I knew you two were having problems. Who wouldn’t, with their business going down the tubes? But I had no idea . . . What . . .” She went speechless again.
“She gave violin lessons at a music store. She met someone. It was . . . brief. The guilt was more than she could handle. She started going to church. I had no clue until she told me months after the fact. Then I started going to church. The pastor counseled us. I really wanted things to work out between us. We got through it.”
“Why are you telling me this now? She’s not seeing . . . ?”
“She says no. But . . . who knows?” He blew out a breath. “I don’t think I’m hungry.”
“Max.” Neva reached across the table, turned his hand over, and laced her fingers with his. “You have every right to feel angry and confused, but you will eat.”
Is that what he felt? Angry and confused? Well, he could come up with more apropos adjectives, but the point was, he was
feeling
. That should make Claire happy.
Neva squeezed his hand and let go. “Now eat.”
He picked up his fork, speared a lettuce leaf, and tried to ignore two suddenly glaring facts. One, he was having dinner,
on his anniversary
, with another woman. And two, the touch of Neva’s skin against his burned, as if he’d held onto a blazing match too long.
I
t was after midnight at the hacienda.
Claire brushed her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. She didn’t look so good. The highlighted strands of hair struck her as overdone. She should let the color go natural, not concern herself with pretending there wasn’t any gray creeping through the brown. Dark circles rimmed her eyes; lines bunched at her mouth. Evidently she’d lost the ability to hide the fact that she was under stress.
