Claire Knows Best (24 page)

“Yeah?” he asks, distracted. His gaze smolders, and he zeros in on my mouth.

My stomach flips, and I’m almost sure it’s not the nachos. Oh, boy. Give me strength.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” I say when my mouth is mere inches from his.

He pulls back, his brows yanked up like they’re connected to a string. “How come? Didn’t you have a good time?”

I cast him a tolerant smile. “You know I did. I had a great time.”

“Worried about the onions in the tacos?”

“What? Oh, my breath.” Well, there is that. But curiously, I hadn’t even thought of it.

“I have spray,” he says with a boyish grin.

“Thanks, but it’s not necessary.”

“No kiss? For real? Not even a tiny one?”

“I’m afraid not. I like you. Really. But…”

“Oh, no.” He gives me a mock jaw drop. “You’re brushing me off, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry. But I don’t see this going anywhere.” I laugh at his fake heart failure as he clamps his hand to his chest. “I
know you’re not used to rejection from women.”

“At least not until they realize what am immature jerk I am. Never after just one date. And I always at least get kissed.”
He leans in. “Was it the putt-putt golf that gave it away?”

“Maybe a little.”

“I can be more grown up. How about I take you to the opera next time?”

I shake my head. “Good night, Van. I really did have a good time. Thanks.”

This time he leans in and does kiss me… on the cheek.

I watch him walk down the steps, and I can’t help but wonder if there will ever come a day when I can date again. Because
if I can let go of a guy like that, then Greg truly has ruined me for anyone else.

L
ist of things I’m satisfied with and not satisfied with.

Okay, I’ll start with my satisfied list.

WHAT I’M SATISFIED WITH

I stare at those words, racking my brain, trying to come up with something. Anything rather than pathetically conclude that
at over three-and-a-half decades of life, I haven’t found the state of contentment the apostle Paul wrote about in the epistles.
Finally, I write:

1. Jesus

Okay, Jesus definitely satisfies me.

Smile.

Frown.

Hmmm. If Jesus is more than enough, then why do I want more?

Oh, man. Am I going to have to scratch Jesus off my list? What’s wrong with me? I cringe as I make a mark through the Name
above every name. I feel like I’ve just committed a sin.

But this is about honesty. How can I expect Ina to help me get to the bottom of why every area of my life seems to be filled
with discontent if I am not honest about the basic things? I guess I have to face the truth about my own spiritual condition.
Bottom line: Jesus
should
be more than enough for me. But He’s not.

Fifteen minutes later, I come to the conclusion that I’ve pretty much exhausted my “satisfied with” list. And there’s still
a big fat blank space staring at me.

THINGS ABOUT MY LIFE I AM NOT SATISFIED WITH

1. Relationship with God (apparently)

2. Ari’s destructive behavior

3. Direction my career is taking

4. I have no home of my own

5. My van is in the shop

I’m going to stop there. There are many more things I could write down. Like my extra ten pounds, Darcy’s assumption that
I’m part of her family with Rick, Greg’s absence from my life.

Okay, on second thought, Greg’s going on the list.

6. My inability to hang on to a man.

Having finished the list, I set it aside and grab my laptop.

Since it’s Saturday, the kids are with Rick and Darcy. So I’ve decided to go work where I can watch my “inspiration” in action.

I pull into the parking lot of Ellie’s Barbecue just before eleven. Only one other car is visible. I hop out and grab my laptop,
but the door to the restaurant is locked when I try to go inside. Brandi is preparing for the day—filling salt and pepper
shakers, etc. She glances up and her face lights with a smile.

“Hey there,” she says a minute later when she opens the door for me. “Nice new ride.” Her eyes scale past me to Darcy’s SUV.

“Oh, I wish. It’s borrowed.”

“Must have some good friends.”

“Believe me, you don’t want me to go into it. And even more so, I don’t want to.”

She gives a little laugh as I step inside and head for the same booth I occupied last time.

“I’m ordering lunch. Can I stay and work?”

“Of course.”

So I do. Brandi’s smile is unstoppable. For three hours customers come in and out. One leaves, another arrives. Brandi’s pleasant
demeanor never fails. I wonder if she ever just wants to toss a plate of food on someone or tell them to get their own drink.
As a former server myself, let me just say that I was not as patient as Brandi. While she’s cleaning up the dining room after
the rush is over, I ask her just that.

A smile steals over her lips as she grabs a salt shaker from the table next to mine. I watch as the snowy white grains pour
from a large container into the smaller. “I like to make people happy. When someone comes in and they’re obviously angry or
sad or hurting, I consider it a mission to bring out a smile.”

“Do you ever fail?”

Her own smile widens, bringing her dimples to the surface. “Not very often.”

“I guess it must run in your family.”

She gives a soft laugh and glances at her grandmother.

“Grandma is the only one I can’t make smile on a regular basis.”

The old lady leans closer as though she’s really going to be able to hear us all the way across the room. She frowns like
she knows we’re discussing her. I give her little wave. Then turn my focus back to Brandi.

“I was talking about your dad.”

The light in her eyes dims. “What about him?”

“I’m sure he feels the same way about acting that you do about serving people. You both want to make your audience smile.”

Her lip curls in the same bitterness I saw the last time I spoke of John to her. “My father lives to please only one person:
John Wells.”

In part, I want to respect her unspoken desire to drop this subject that obviously brings her so much pain. But I feel that
tug to draw it out. “He’s giving my son acting lessons for free.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Well, that’s the first unselfish thing I’ve ever heard of him doing. Don’t get your hopes up. In a year
you’ll probably get a big fat bill in the mail.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I doubt it. But if I do, I’ll tell him to lump it.”

Making people smile must be an inherent goal of writers, too, because I watch closely and when I see her mouth curve upward,
my spirit soars.

Brandi looks across to her grandma, who is cleaning up in the kitchen and keeps peeping out from the order-up window. “I’m
going to take a break, Grams.”

“Do you want something to eat?” the old woman calls, much to my surprise. I figured she’d complain about how lazy young people
are these days. That’s what I get for judging a book by its cover. Smile.

“No, thank you, Grams.” Brandi’s gaze shifts back to me. “More coffee?”

I glance at my empty cup. “No, you take your break.”

“It’s okay. I’m going to get myself some.” She grabs the pot and comes back to my table. “Want some company, or you getting
back to work?”

“I’d love to stop and take a break.”

“Good.” Brandi slides into the seat across from mine. She sips her coffee then stares a little past me. I get the urge to
turn around and see what she’s looking at, but something in me recognizes a pensive moment.

Silence yawns between us, and it’s starting to get pretty uncomfortable when she finally says, “I know he came back to make
amends. I just don’t know how to forgive him for what he did to my mother.”

“Cheated?”

She shook her head. “There was no need to cheat. He never committed to her. My mom went to New York in rebellion against my
grandparents. Imagine a girl from this area thirty years ago.”

I get the mental image.

“Anyway, just when she was on the brink of starvation, she landed a walk-on role in one of my dad’s stage productions.”

“Broadway?”

Amusement lights her brown eyes. “So far off Broadway it might as well have been Connecticut. Anyway. John got
discovered
and left the theater. Left Mom two months’ pregnant. When she finally found him again, I was two months old.”

I see raw pain, bitterness, anger—all those things in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Brandi.”

“You know what I’m most sorry about?”

I shake my head.

“I’m sorry that my mother got mixed up with a man who swore to love her forever. A man who got her pregnant and then became
too full of his successful new life to share that life with the woman who adored him.”

“What happened?” I ask quietly.

Brandi sips her coffee, swallows as she sets her cup back on the scarred wood tabletop. “He gave her money, sent her back
here to her parents, and sent money every month the whole time I was growing up.”

“And your mother is… ?”

A short laugh bursts from her throat. “Mom married Jerry Ray Boggs when I was ten years old.” She clutches her coffee cup
between both hands until her knuckles grow white. “Jerry Ray liked me a little too much, if you know what I mean. So, Mama
left me to live with my grandparents and off she went with Jerry. She ODed on heroin five years later.”

“Oh, Brandi.” Oh, man. God, give me words. I feel so inadequate to hear this.

Caught up in her memories, Brandi goes on as though I’ve never even spoken. “Of course, John never knew any of this, so he
just kept sending money here.” She gives me a little grin. “I remember the first letter we got from him after Mama moved off,
Grandma took it, unopened, and marched it right back down to the post office. Wrote ‘Return to sender’ on the envelope along
with a short note—all on the outside of the envelope, mind you—that conveyed the message we didn’t need any of his dirty money
and he could just go to the devil.”

Well, he’s taking her advice. I hate it. I hate that John was a jerk. I hate that Brandi has to live with the heartbreak of
those choices. I am most impressed at what a wonderful human being she’s turned out to be. I reach across the table and pat
her hand. “You are an amazing woman to have survived such a life and still have any sense of goodness and compassion in you.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Thank you, Claire. It’s funny. I know my dad has come back to love me and to build a relationship
with me, but somehow I just can’t play Daddy’s little girl with him.”

“Maybe you don’t need to do that. Maybe for both of your sakes, you could just start with getting to know one another.”

A barely discernible nod inclines her head. “We’ll see.” She frowns and leans forward. “You and he aren’t… ?”

It takes me a second to get where she’s going. My eyes go big. “Good grief. No way.”

Relief washes over her and I realize that Brandi cares a lot more about what goes on in her dad’s life than she wants to admit—even
to herself. “Sorry,” she mutters. “It’s really none of my business.”

“Trust me. John’s a good neighbor, and besides being an atheist, is becoming a good friend. But there’s nothing even remotely
romantic going on between us.”

She tips her head to the side and purses her lips as though coming to a conclusion. “I see… you’re the daughter he never
had.”

Pain lurks just around the edges of that comment and I see how deeply she wants to love her father—to be able to put her heart
out there and be assured he won’t trample it.

“You could say that I’m a very poor substitute for the daughter he actually does have.” I glance at my watch and close my
laptop. “Time to go.”

I stand and give her a look. “Listen, Brandi. I don’t know what’s right for you. My heart is telling me you should call John
and set up a meeting. But regardless of what you choose, the unforgiveness will eat you alive.”

She stands. “Tell me about it. I can’t even date because of him.”

“You’re a Christian, aren’t you?” She reads my books, so I assume . . .

“I guess,” she says with a shrug. “I went to Sunday school some as a child. I still pray every night at bedtime.”

I jot my phone number on a napkin and hand it to her. “Anytime you want to talk, day or night, give me a call.”

Her dimples wink as she smiles and tucks the number into her apron pocket. “Thanks, Claire.”

I drop the cash to pay my check, along with a nice tip, onto the table and head to Darcy’s SUV. I can’t help but think about
Penny, the Laundromat girl, and John, my atheistic friend. Now Brandi. It’s like the song says: people need the Lord. I’ve
stayed tucked away in my little corner of the world, writing my little books, avoiding close relationships so that I don’t
have to leave my comfort zone. No wonder I didn’t really know just how much need there was until this relocation forced me
to open my eyes.

Sunday-morning service is depressingly empty without Greg’s subtle presence. Over the past few months, Sunday morning service
has been my favorite because once I talked him into attending the later service so I could sleep in, I have relished the warm
smile as he greeted me. That shoulder pressed against mine during the whole service (since he only led worship on Wednesdays),
sharing a Bible.

I miss him so much.

Blinking back hot tears of self-pity, I glance across the church and locate Helen in her regular spot. Surprise shifts through
me when my gaze locks onto Sadie’s. I frown, only because I’m wondering why she isn’t in kids’ church with the rest of the
six-year-olds.

Apparently the little girl mistakes my frown as a challenge because in a flash, her pink tongue shoots from her mouth and
right in my direction. Then she does it again. And again.

Heat moves across my face and I fight an inner war. I want to reciprocate. Really bad. I’d like to say that my spiritual strength
took over, Joyce Meyer’s teaching about rising above offense, but that’s just not the case. I’m about to totally give in to
my flesh and stick out my own tongue when Helen catches Sadie in the act. Greg’s mom glances at me with horrified apology.
I nod and give the best (and I know a little guilty) smile I can muster.