A Time to Mend (39 page)

A wave of nausea hit her. She lay flat, her face against her arm.

Jesus, please help me.

After a few moments, the queasiness passed.

And she knew she could keep going.

Indio’s words pressed in upon her.
Jesus is there.
Claire didn’t see anything now except that old root cellar and the angry faces of her parents. But from the depths of her being, a new understanding took hold.

In the mystery where time did not exist, Jesus was. He had been with her when she was a little girl. He had wept for her. He had died on the cross for her and for her parents and for the awful hurts they’d done and for the awful hurts that must have been done to them.

“Lord, help me forgive my mom and dad. Help me forgive Max.”

In the pitch black, Claire felt the tunnel sides give way. She must have reached the first small opening. Slowly she shifted to a sitting position.

The night of the fire, tumbling from the confines of the tunnel, she had screamed. She had known gut-wrenching terror. She had seethed with hatred for Max. She had vomited, her body rejecting it all, but the ugliness and fears were not released. They remained inside of her, where they had resided since that day long ago when she was three years old.

Until now.

A quiet flowed over her like a soft desert wind. Its warmth seeped through into her very bones.

It was over.

She smiled. “Thank You.”

“Max!” Claire called as she wiggled toward the sunlight. “Max!”

His face appeared at the end of the tunnel. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

She laughed. “I am so okay.”

At last she emerged from the tunnel. He helped her stand up and scooped her into an embrace. “I love you, Claire.”

She kissed him soundly on the mouth. “And I love you, Max. Hey.” She leaned back to look him in the eyes, seeing a flame light there that surely mirrored her own. “I was wondering. Do you want to spend the night at my place?”

His burst of laughter rolled through the hills.

Grinning, she leaned into him, her face against his chest. As the rumble of his laugh faded, his heartbeat resounded in her ear. She listened closely, as if it were a piece of unfamiliar music. She let its strong, steady cadence flow through her until her own heart pulsed with it.

And then . . . she felt safe. So . . . incredibly . . . safe.

In the cave, alone with God, she had reached at long last her true safe harbor. She understood that. Now, though, enfolded in Max’s arms, it seemed God poured yet another gift into her soul: a hus-band whose love would be her home, her earthly safe harbor.

“Max.” She looked up at him.

His half-masted eyes said they’d talked enough for one day.

When he kissed her, it felt like the very first time.

She began to imagine shoving her stuffed lion into the trash bin. She hoped it would fit, because it sure wasn’t going to fit in her bed anymore.

Ninety-three

T
he next morning, Claire smiled at Max across the small dinette table that filled up half of her small living room. “That was nice.”

His dark eyes twinkled. His lips curved into a sly grin. “Nice doesn’t begin to describe it.”

“I was talking about breakfast.”

“Breakfast was great too.”

She sighed. “Is this our future? Here it is a Friday. We spent yesterday with your parents. Today we ate breakfast together. We even cooked together. And you’re not jumping up to go to the office. I could get used to this.”

“Me too. Except the part about telling my parents I won’t be home until morning.”

She laughed. “Seriously, could you get used to this?”

He studied her face. “Hmm. Something is on your mind.”

She grinned. “You’re getting awfully good at reading me.”

“I certainly hope so.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “What’s up?”

A tingle sent shivers up and down her spine. The delicious sensation had been occurring frequently the past few weeks. She suspected it had to do with getting used to the idea that Max wanted to be with her.

“Sweetheart?”

The quiver melted into an ooey-gooey contentment. She knew she could say anything to him. “Okay, here’s what I’m wondering. Do you think consulting for Phil will be enough for you to do?”

“I’m sure it will.”

“Come on. Give it a little thought.”

“I admit it won’t be easy. And I’ve told you that for a while I will be going into the office regularly.”

“Mm-hmm.” She tried not to wrinkle her nose. It seemed a setup for him to easily slide back into the old routine, but she refused to dwell on that thought. “Regularly. Not as in the old regular sixteen hours a day?”

“No. Some days I take the reins back from him and don’t even realize I’m doing it. He’s strong enough to talk straight, though. He tells me to back off. I’ll get reprogrammed, and I will be fine.”

“You might need a hobby. Or . . . something.”

His brows rose.

“Remember when we first met? We both wanted to save the world. I jumped on your bandwagon because you had the greatest idea: a staffing firm. You could find jobs for people. What better way to save at least a corner of the world?”

He nodded.

“It was a good work you did, Max.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe there’s another corner of the world for us to work on.” She paused. “This just came to me last night. You know what the world doesn’t have enough of? Safe harbors. There used to be this perfect place up in the hills. It needs some work. A lot of work, actually. But the walls are there, solid as ever. The roof. And the reputation. The owners are aging. They need some help.” She shrugged.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm.” His tone went up.

“Mm-hmm.”

Max leaned his head to one side. “It’s something to consider.”

“And pray about.”

“Definitely. I don’t want to leave God out of the equation any longer. I think it’s time we started praying together too.”

Claire smiled. “I think it’s time I moved home.”

She watched the tears well in his eyes and knew without a doubt it was time.

“Want to help me pack?”

He nodded, and his tears spilled over.

She went around the table, slid onto his lap, and pulled him close. “I’m your safe harbor, too, hon.”

He nodded again and blubbered like a child in her arms.

Ninety-four

I
t’s a no-brainer.” Max nuzzled the back of Claire’s neck.

“What is?” She twisted around, planted a kiss on his cheek, and then turned again to the kitchen counter. “Stuffing this turkey?”

He watched her deft finger truss up the huge bird’s legs. Claire’s hands fascinated him. In years past, he’d never really noticed them. But for three weeks now, since she had moved home, they had intrigued him, most especially when she played her violin. He would sit with her, dazed, admiring their strength and dexterity.

There had been so much he never really noticed. Like stuffing turkeys.

He said, “No, I’m not talking about the turkey. I will never say again that anything related to homemaking is a no-brainer. Helping you prepare this morning—or is it night? It’s still pitch-black out there.” He glanced through the windows. “I had no idea the amount of work that goes into making Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I appreciate the appreciation.” She winked at him.

“It’s a little overdue.”

“I’m okay with ‘Better late than never.’”

She kept forgiving him like that, quick as the blink of her eye. He smiled. “The no-brainer is figuring out what I’m grateful for this year.”

“That is an easy one.”

“I mean besides all the obvious things, like we’re alive and we’re together, blah, blah, blah.” He nibbled on her earlobe and whispered, “I’m grateful my folks are still asleep, and soon as we shove this bird in the oven, we have nothing else to do until the kids show up, hours and hours from now.”

“Oh my. You do live on another planet.”

“What?”

She moved to the sink and washed her hands. “There are pota-toes to peel, crystal to wash, and a table to set. That’s just for starters. All of which I would have done yesterday, but we were too busy.”

“Like every day. What exactly did we do?”

“Exactly doesn’t matter.” She opened the oven door. “We’re together.”

He picked up the heavy roasting pan and slid it into the oven. “Like never before.”

Claire shut the door and slid her arms around his waist. “Like never before.”

He laid his hands on her shoulders. The day held more in store for them than a turkey dinner.

He took a deep breath. “Okay, here we go. Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“I am absolutely sure about this. Are you?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

She smiled.

“Claire, I love you so much.” He kissed her. And he kissed her. And he kissed her. Until time and space faded from his consciousness.

She sighed and looked up at him, her face rosy, her eyes unfocused. “That was nice, dear.” Her voice was thick. “But you still have to peel potatoes.”

M
ax stood in the living room, a crackling fire in the fireplace behind him, a white, shirt-sized gift box in his hands. Claire had tied a yellow ribbon around it and formed a simple bow on top. He never would have thought of doing that, but now, alone with his parents, he was grateful for her simple, feminine touch to soften the moment.

“Max,” his dad said from the love seat. “Today is Thanksgiving, not Christmas.”

“And besides,” his mother added, “you’ve given us way too much in recent weeks, and I have to go help Claire in the kitchen.”

“We need to do this now. It’s not exactly a gift.” He cleared his throat. Maybe he should have let Claire help him through this.

“Max?” His mother leaned forward.

“Okay. First of all, I apologize for not remembering sooner. Between the fire and the . . . uh . . .”
Divorce papers.
“Uh . . . and every-thing, I just did not remember. And you know, emotional kind of stuff just didn’t register with me . . .” His voiced trailed off again. “Before.”

Ben rolled his hand, telling him to get on with it.

“The thing is, I had a safe-deposit box in the bank. It’s full of old things I haven’t thought of in years. Things like my marriage license. Which I thought of recently. Which I wanted to see recently. So I went and, well, this was in the box too. It isn’t much, but it’s yours.” He handed the box to his mother. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mom and Dad.”

Indio laid a finger on the ribbon, as if in awe, as if she sensed what lay inside. Then, very slowly, she untied the bow and lifted the lid. “Ohh.”

It was a long, low moan.

She and Ben gazed into the box and gently touched its contents.

Long ago, after his brother was declared MIA, Max had spent an angry afternoon at the hacienda, rummaging through BJ’s room and his own childhood room. He’d grabbed things, shoved them into a shoe box, and stashed that in a trunk with his old books and other junk. Eventually the junk got tossed, the books given to a library, and BJ’s things put in the bank.

“Mom, I’m sorry there’s no baby stuff.”

She wiped at her cheeks and shook her head softly.

There were photos, mostly of BJ from teen years with friends, one of him wearing the high school homecoming king crown and a grin as big as all outdoors. There were photos of him with his fiancée, Beth, a few of him and Max as little guys in the courtyard and on the backs of horses. There were newspaper clippings of BJ’s school and athletic accomplishments. There were stones, comic books, Boy Scout patches, scraps of this and that, school reports, love notes from Beth, her class ring.

And there was a letter from BJ.

His dad found it. He turned damp, questioning eyes to Max, a faded blue envelope in his hand.

“It came after he was gone.”
A letter from the dead,
Max had thought at the time. That was the day rage almost consumed him. He’d gone to the hacienda, torn apart their rooms, grasping for pieces of a brother he already could not remember having.

“He sent it to you?” Ben read the address—Max’s apartment at the time.

“Yeah. Nothing profound. No premonition. Just totally BJ. Confi-dent, happy, missing you two, pining away for Beth. His usual crap about me getting my act together.”

Max’s throat felt thick. No more words came. His mom and dad held their arms out to him. He knelt before them, their hands on his shoulders, the box between them all.

N
ever in a million years could he conjure up such a beautiful scene as the one before him. Of course, it was one of those perfect moments that would dissipate like a downy dandelion in a puff of wind. It would probably fly away before the night was over.

But Max wasn’t going to miss it while it lasted.

He leaned back in his chair and quietly observed his noisy family gathered around the dining room table. Remains of the best Thanks- giving dinner he had ever eaten cluttered the tabletop and buffet, but no one moved to begin the cleanup.

At the far end, opposite him, sat Claire, the love of his life. He prayed that above all he would love her well, that she would never feel unsafe with him again.

Jenna glowed like a newlywed, her hand never far from Kevin’s arm or shoulder. He, in turn, was especially attentive to her. Now and then the undercurrent surfaced, though. Her smile wobbled. His jaw tightened. Max knew in those moments they counted the days to his departure.

Erik’s charm had returned stronger than ever. His gorgeous blonde coanchor, Felicia, sat beside him. Their personalities meshed in a sparkly way on and off the screen. There was no question why they were considered the darlings of local television.

Lexi reminded him of a butterfly, stretching her wings, moving in a new world and liking it. She wore the status of heroine as if it was made for her. Magazine articles about her revealed that his shy, skinny daughter had grown up. The whole family anticipated the arrival later that evening of her first-ever boyfriend, Zak the fireman.

Danny’s change was subtler. While he joked as raucously as the others, a new reserve had taken hold of him. Claire said it was because his black-and-white world had been threatened. If his parents could go off the deep end, nobody was safe. Better he learn it from them than an enemy.