Claire Knows Best (30 page)

“Honey, the Bible says there are seasons in our lives. Seasons that God creates for us. Maybe the season for you and Stu to
work together is over.”

“Maybe.”

Mom stands, pushing back her chair. She walks around, kisses me on the head, and pats me on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it
out. I have to go get ready for my date.”

I can’t help but grin. She says “date” almost like she’s trying the word on for size. Like when a kid gets his first job and
keeps saying, “I have to go to work.” Or new writers who say “my editor” or “my agent.” It’s fun.

Just as she’s about to disappear through the doorway, I remember something. “Hey, you never told me where Jakey is.” He’d
better not be playing Nintendo.

“Oh.” Mom peeps back around the corner. “Helen and Sadie came by and asked if he could go over and play at their house. I
know I should have asked, but you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. I just didn’t have the heart to say no.”

My heart jumps into my throat. “It was just Helen and Sadie?”

Mom’s eyes twinkle. “Yes. But I understand they all three came in for the fourth. Apparently Greg has a few days off to celebrate.
And they wanted to come home to do it. Now don’t forget about the cornbread and stir the chili again in a few minutes.” And
with those instructions, Mom dashes off to get ready for her date. While I settle in for an evening in front of the television
with a bowl of comforting chili.

Ari’s so excited when she comes home that I think I’m going to have to peel her off the wall. “Mom!” she calls as she slams
through the door.

I jump up from the table and rush into the living room, my heart in my throat as I picture her with broken bones or blood
pouring out of some wound. Instead she’s waving a newspaper around. “I’m published,” she says as soon as she sees me.

Excitement rushes through me. “You are? Let me see. What is it?”

“A letter to the editor about those stained baby clothes at Hope House.”

“You wrote a letter to the editor?” I’m so impressed and proud. “And he printed it?”

“He sure did. In last night’s paper. Only he made it into an article instead of the letter to the editor page. When Dad and
I got to Hope House today, there were tons of donations. Nice things, Mom. Some people just went out and bought new stuff.”

“Oh, my goodness. Give it here and let me read it.”

My name is Arianna Everett Frank, and I am sixteen years old. I volunteer at Hope House—our local home for pregnant teens.
I hated it at first. I thought I was too good to work at a place like that. But I got into some trouble, and my parents thought
volunteering at a home like that would open my eyes.

And guess what? They were right. No, I didn’t learn that I should abstain from sex. My Christian beliefs already taught me
that. No, I didn’t learn that pregnancy is difficult. My stepmom is going through that right now and believe me, I’m in no
hurry
.

I smile at this. What a great kid.

What I have learned is this: The world is divided into two kinds of people. Those who have and those who don’t. The Haves
never worry where their next meal will come from or how to buy clothes for their new babies, while the Have Nots must often
depend upon the Haves for their next meal or clothes for their babies
.

My job at the Hope House is sorting the donations. Anger is a mild word for what I feel day after day as I sort through stained
and ripped clothes. Clothes I wouldn’t put on a dog, let alone a sweet, beautiful baby.

Why do people think that just because someone is poor that she’ll take anything?

My dad is an obstetrician, and he volunteers twice a week so these girls can have good prenatal care. My mom is an author,
and she donates her books for the girls to read while they’re waiting for their babies to be born. But just because the girls
don’t have the money to pay doesn’t mean my dad only gives them half the care he would provide for someone with insurance.
My mom doesn’t give ripped up or discarded books just because there’s no royalty in it for her. Beyond that, my mother saved
a man’s life last week. He had a heart attack right out in the open. She gave him CPR and kept him alive until the paramedics
arrived. What if she had stopped to think about his breath? Or didn’t push hard enough on his chest because she just had her
nails done?

Come on, people. Don’t send us clothes you wouldn’t wear. If they’re ripped or stained, we’re throwing them in the garbage
anyway. So why bother?

Volunteering at Hope House has changed me. Every baby should have an equal chance starting out. Life is hard enough as we
grow. Let’s give the babies clean clothes and soft blankets. You can make a difference.

Thank you,

Arianna Everett Frank

Tears well up as I hand it back to her. “This is fantastic.”

“Thank you.” She folds up the newspaper and sets it on the coffee table. “The best part is that donations started coming today.
That’s why I stayed late. It was incredible.”

She hugs me fiercely. “Now I know how you feel when you get a letter from a reader who says your books have touched her life.
I love making a difference.”

“Don’t forget to watch that cornbread, Claire!” Mom’s voice carries down the stairs.

“I’m watching it.” I shoot Ari a grin. “Congratulations. Do you want to come into the kitchen with me?”

“I can’t. I want to go call Paddy and tell him.”

“Paddy? Are you two…”

Ari shakes her head; her eyes reflect such sadness after being so filled with joy a second ago that I wish I hadn’t asked.
“He says we can only be friends. I don’t blame him. His friendship is better than nothing. So, I’ll take it.”

I watch my daughter walk toward the steps and I realize that her dad was actually right about making her volunteer. Come to
think of it, he’s the one who gave Tommy permission to be sponsored, too. And look how that’s turning out.

I mull this new twist around in my mind. As much as I hate to give him credit in the kid department, I have to say, God must
have given him some wisdom.

I’m just finished taking the cornbread out of the oven when I hear the front door open. “Mom!” Jake calls out.

“Shh, Jakey,” I hear Greg say in low tones. “Your mom might be sleeping still.”

“No I’m not,” I say, as I enter the living room.

My heart does a loop-de-loop at the sight of him. And as I stare into his eyes, I’m speechless. Love bursts through every
valve of my heart, and I want to tell him so. I step forward, but he turns and reaches for the door at the same time. I know
it’s not intentional, that he didn’t know I was moving toward him. But it’s enough to bring me to my senses. Stopping dead
in my tracks, I push aside these thoughts of romance.

“So, how long are you here for?”

“We’re going back on Sunday after church.”

“Okay, then I guess I’ll see you in church.”

He nods. “Hey, I read Ari’s article.”

My chest swells with motherly pride. “Isn’t it great?”

“You’re pretty great, too. A real hero.” A smile tips his lips and for a second, he looks like the old Greg.

“I was just in the right place at the right time.”

“Sounds like God to me.”

“Yes. Definitely.”

He gives me a lingering look, and I know he wants to talk. I hold my breath.

The click-clack of Mother’s black one-inch-heel pumps signals her descent on the stairs.

“Mom’s got a date,” I whisper to Greg.

He smiles just as she enters. “Greg! Nice to see you.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to see you, as well.”

“Staying for supper?”

“No. Mom’s cooking lasagna.”

One thing I get to take away from my relationship with Greg: I learned how to make lasagna because I knew he loved it so much.

Silence becomes awkward in this moment when I want to beg him to stay—but won’t—Mom wants to put in her two cents’ worth—but
doesn’t—and Greg just wants to escape.

Which is what he does.

T
wo evenings later, the house is in an uproar because of Shawn’s nerves. Tonight is the opening for
Peter Pan
. He’s exercising his voice in all manner of funky-sounding exercises. “Hee hee hee hee, hoo hoo hoo hoo, ha ha ha ha.”

Which has the expected effect on his siblings. The house is filled with echoing choruses of “Hee hee hee, hoo hoo hoo, ha
ha ha ha.”

On one hand, who can blame the other kids for cracking up? On the other hand, Shawn has to do what he has to do so that he
can be heard across the auditorium without harming his vocal cords.

“Can the mockery, you guys.”

“Just exercising my voice so I can project when I cheer on my brother,” Tommy says. He grins that heart-melting, no-way-I-can-resist
grin.

I smile. “Nice try.”

“Mom! Mom!” Shawn takes a break from all the
hee, hoo-hoo
’s and sounds nearly panicked as he glances at the clock. “I have to go right now. I’m going to be late. Mr. Wells doesn’t
permit tardiness.”

Good grief, the kid’s a basket case.

“Calm down. Everyone out to the van.”

Yesterday I cashed the check Tom Travis gave me, pulled the rest out of the bank, and bought the three-year-old Dodge Caravan.
It’s nice to have my own wheels again. The way I drive, I was petrified I’d wreck Darcy’s SUV. Now the fifty-thousand-dollar
truck-slash-minivan is safely tucked in the Frank garage next to Rick’s Mercedes.

I drop Shawn at the stage-door entrance and find parking two full blocks away from the entrance. When you live in a small
Missouri town, anything new like a children’s theater is going to draw a crowd. Only who knew they’d all get here an hour
before curtain?

Thankfully, the performers were allowed to reserve seats for family and friends. The number of seats directly correlate with
the actor or actress’s importance in the show. Shawn, being the title character, has the entire third row roped off. I frown
a little because even with Rick, Darcy, Mom, my kids, and me, there are a few more empty seats reserved. I just don’t want
to be accused of hogging.

The dilemma is solved as the curtain goes up. Helen, Sadie, and Greg slide into the row and take the last three seats. Greg
sits next to me. “Shawn invited me. Do you mind?”

Is he kidding? My heart is lodged firmly in my throat. I smile. I can’t stop staring into his eyes. He looks different somehow.
At peace. I hate to admit it, but Bible school possibly might be a good thing for him.

He seems as mesmerized as I do. His hand slides over mine. I automatically turn my palm to his and our fingers clasp.

I gather the first full breath since our breakup and settle in to enjoy my son’s debut.

And enjoy I do. He’s brilliant, flawless. There is no doubt that he is Peter Pan. Jenny Devine snagged the role of Wendy and
plays the part to perfection alongside my boy. During the thimble scene where Wendy wants a kiss, I glance back at Pastor
and Tina Devine. Tina catches my gaze and grins.

For some reason, I start to think about her role in the church. She sings, takes care of some behind-the-scenes stuff, but
I’ve never once seen her lead a Bible study. I’ve never known her to organize a bake sale. Polite, yes. Godly, definitely.
Committed to the ministry and doing her part, but not so overrun with responsibility that she isn’t enjoying every second
of her children’s lives.

I take a second to look at Greg. He looks back and squeezes my hand. I don’t know.
Could
I be a pastor’s wife?

During intermission, I make a little stop at the ladies’ room. Tina Devine had the same idea. We both wash our hands at the
same time using antiseptic-smelling soap. We smile at each other’s reflection in the wall-length mirror above the sinks. “Jenny’s
knocking them dead,” I say.

Her eyes brighten. “So is Shawn.”

“She wasn’t too disappointed about not getting to be the next Sandy Duncan?”

Laughter bubbles from Tina’s lips. “Not too bad. She told me later that as soon as she saw Shawn’s audition she knew he was
going to get that role. She was afraid she wouldn’t get to be in the play at all since she hadn’t tried out for Wendy.”

“John has a sharp eye. He picked the perfect lead actors.”

“I agree,” she says, punching the button to start the air dryer. “I notice Greg’s sitting with you. You guys back together?”

Heat crawls across my face. I shake my head. “Shawn invited him.”

She hesitates. I can tell she’d like to help but doesn’t want to pry.

I open it up by stating the obvious. “Greg’s going to be a pastor.”

“I know. I think that’s awesome.”

You just can’t help but warm up to a woman like this who says “awesome.” Only, I don’t know what to say. Because I don’t happen
to think this situation
is
awesome. She picks up on my negative vibe.

“You’re against it, I take it?”

My shoulders lift in a shrug. “It’s really not my place to be for it or against it. That’s Greg’s decision.”

“But you don’t like the idea?”

“Not so much.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“I’m too cranky to be a pastor’s wife. I couldn’t be nice to someone who wasn’t being nice to my husband.”

She laughs again. “You just have to let
him
deal with those people.”

“Really?”

“Greg has the temperament for it. He’s got a lot of experience dealing with critical people. He’s a schoolteacher, after all.”

She’s got a point there.

“Look.” Her bony hip is leaned against the counter and she’s facing me. “You and Greg love each other. Your ministries complement
each other—”

This is where I stop her.

“I don’t have a church ministry. And,” I confess, “I don’t even like doing nursery.”

“You don’t have to. I don’t.”

Well, that’s true.

“Being the wife of a pastor is like being anyone else’s wife. If he’s a good man, he puts you before his church responsibilities.
And you don’t demand his attention when you know he’s needed at the church. Otherwise you end up competing. And that’s not
good.”