Delivered with Love (14 page)

T
he phone call set him on edge. "What do you mean my mother isn't with you?" Michael's jaw flexed.

"Has she been known to take off by herself?" Claire's voice was shaky, obviously upset.

"On occasion," Michael said flatly. "She doesn't go far." He paced the family room. "Where are you?"

"King's Paint."

"I had the house painted. Why are you there?" Michael's voice was louder than he planned. "Never mind, I'm on my way—"

"Mr. Thompson, I mean, Michael, wait a minute . . ."

He heard women's voices in the background. Then, his mother came on the line.

"Michael, dear, I'm fine. I stepped out of the car for fresh air, then I spotted a furniture store. I'd like a new chair in my bedroom."

His mother sounded chipper, like her usual self.

"You went by yourself?" Michael couldn't hold back his agitation.

"I had my cane with me. I can't lose
all
my independence. Claire didn't see me is all. Go back to what you were doing."

"Mother?" Michael knew his tone was reprimanding. "What are you and Claire doing at King's Paint?"

"We have a little project going, so mind your own business." Her voice held a teasing tone.

"Okay, I get the point." Michael sat down on the couch. "How's it going with Claire? Are you two getting along?"

"Splendidly. Now I need to go. Blake will be showing up at the house any minute to make dinner. My, that man can cook. Nice-looking, too."

"I think he's more Claire's age, Mom." Michael laughed into the phone, the conversation shifting to lighter things.

"You're right. There are sparks there. I'll weave my magic like I did on you."

"That's right, you're the one who introduced me to Sandy." Michael remembered the day he met his wife. He was graduating from UCSC in a week, and his mother thought he needed to give a tour of the campus to her friend's niece. Sandy would be a junior at UCSC when she transferred from a school back east.

His mother whispered into the phone. "I was thinking more along the lines of the summer after you graduated from high school."

"I've got to run. Tell Claire I'm glad you're all right. I'll check in with you later in the week. Love you, Mom." Michael hung up the phone before his mother had another chance to remind him of his past mistakes—especially in front of Claire. He tossed the phone on the couch. Why couldn't his mother leave him alone? It was bad enough that the letter had resurfaced after all these years. He didn't want to be reminded of that time in his life. And he certainly didn't want to admit he knew exactly who wrote that letter.

Michael stomped up the stairs to his bedroom. He opened his closet and saw the box of memorabilia. Was it time to face things head-on? He pulled the box from the shelf and placed it on his bed. With sweaty hands, he slipped off the lid. A musty aroma hit his nostrils. He hadn't opened the box in a long time. A scrapbook of his high school years greeted him. His mother had spent countless hours cutting and pasting newspaper clippings, photos, and souvenirs to create the book. He ran his hand over the cover.
1968-1972.
So long ago.

Michael turned the scrapbook over and opened it from the back. A picture of his friends, the
Rat Pack,
like the popular entertainers of the 50s, brought a smile to his face. He chuckled at his bell-bottom pants and disco shirt. Martin, Willie, and Glen all wore the same style. They were quite the foursome. They hung out together, worked on cars, and chased girls. Michael touched the photo, running his index finger over Martin's face.

"Honey, I'm home," Sandy called, her voice interrupting his recollections from the past.

Michael shut the scrapbook, placed it in the box, and shoved the memories back in the closet.

He walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. "How's my wife?" Michael greeted her from behind, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her toward him. He nuzzled and kissed her neck.

"What's gotten into you?" Sandy reached into a grocery bag and pulled out lettuce, carrots, and tomatoes.

"What do you mean?" Michael turned her around and cupped her face with gentle hands. "You, my dear, are the most beautiful woman on the planet." He lowered his face to hers and gave her a tender kiss, then wrapped his arms around her. "I haven't been the best husband lately, and I want to change all that."

"Oh, yeah." Sandy glanced up at him with a smile. "And how are you going to do that?"

"First of all, I'm going to show you how much I love you." Michael leaned down for another kiss. "And then, I'm taking you out on the town. Anywhere you want to go."

"What
has
gotten into you?" Sandy squinted her eyes. "Do you have bad news to tell me and you're buttering me up?"

He pushed the guilt away. "Now, why would you say that? I'm trying to be a better husband to you." He ran his hands down her arms, and hugged her close.

Sandy looked deep into Michael's eyes. "What are you afraid of, Michael?"

"What are talking about?" He took a step back, the intimate moment gone. She had no idea of his long list of fears—one of them buried in his closet.

"Is it because your baby girl is getting married?" Sandy closed the gap between them and brought her arms up, clasping her hands behind his neck. "You've been on edge. It's natural to feel sad and old. Remember the movie
Father of the Bride?"

He let out an exasperated sigh, his shoulders sagging.

Sandy's face softened. She stood on her toes and kissed his chin. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything. Now where were we?"

Michael put his hands in his pockets. "Forget it. Another time. Think I'll go shoot hoops with Eric. He's been wanting to get in shape."

Sandy let go of his neck, clearly wounded. She turned away from him and continued to unload the groceries. "You'd rather spend time with your coworker?" She grabbed the milk and put it in the refrigerator, slamming the door shut.

He felt his guard slip a notch. Why was he making such a big deal of the letter? The answer was clear—he couldn't risk Sandy knowing the truth before Julia's wedding.

"Go ahead. If that's what you want." Sandy turned away from him and placed the dried fruit and canned tuna fish in the pantry.

No, that's not what he wanted. He wanted to make love to his wife. Why couldn't he say so and fix what was wrong between them?
Pride.
It had gotten him into more messes than he could count. He inhaled deeply and let out his breath. "I'll be back in an hour."

Michael threw the basketball to Eric. "Okay, man, show me what you got." Michael didn't want to poke fun of a man attempting to get back in shape, but the sight of Eric had doubled him over with laughter. Long white athletic socks came up to his knees, his knit shorts clung to his body, and his T-shirt was a few sizes too big.

Eric bounced the ball. "Before you called, Jennifer had asked me to get the kids ready for bed. But when she found out you wanted to work out, she shooed me out the door." He threw the ball, missing the hoop by a good two feet. "Wow, I'm rusty."

Michael jogged over to the ball and picked it up. He dribbled as he ran toward the hoop, stopping abruptly to take a shot. It bounced off the backboard and swished through the net. "Do you want to run around the gym a few times to loosen up?"

"Anything to get my body moving." Eric stretched from side to side.

"Great. Let's go." Michael allowed Eric to set the pace.

"So, what's been going on with you?" Eric's breath came out in short, quick bursts. "You've been reclusive lately."

"What do you mean?"

"We're friends, right?"

"Yeah. Of course we're friends."

"Then answer this. Where've you been hiding out?"

The slow run hurt Michael's knees. "Work. Home. Setting my mother up in the rental. Planning a wedding. Life's been busy."

"Hey, everyone's busy. That's not what I mean." They rounded a corner of the gym and kept running. "You seem to be deep in thought all the time."

Leave it to Eric to drill him. He was a good man, husband, and father who seemed to take things in stride. Michael liked that about him. Eric would say it was his faith that kept him going and gave him peace. Did that mean he didn't have enough?

"Do you have any regrets?" Michael voiced the question that filled his mind. Did he just dig himself a hole?

Eric laughed. "Are you serious? Of course, we all have."

They completed a lap. "Do you want to keep running?"

"Oh, yeah!" Eric waved them on. "I need to show my wife a sweat-soaked shirt when I get home." He flexed his biceps.

Michael laughed. "Okay, your call." He hoped Eric had forgotten his question. No such luck.

"So, what do you regret?" Eric pumped his arms and legs.

"I wrote a letter." The words slipped out before Michael could stop them.

"Who'd you write to?"

"A young woman I had a crush on a long time ago."

"Whoa. When did you do that?" Eric's forehead creased.

"1972."

Eric stopped abruptly. "That's over thirty years ago." He laughed. "Let it go."

Michael grabbed the basketball and ran to the free-throw line. "I wish I could." He cradled the ball, bounced it a few times, and then took the shot. The basketball hit the rim and dropped through the hoop.

"What do you mean?" Eric ran to get the ball. He dribbled it down the court, turned suddenly, and took a jump shot. Once again he missed. Eric shrugged his shoulders and retrieved the ball. He tossed it to Michael.

"I thought the letter was long gone, and then it showed up. I denied writing it or knowing anything about it." Michael took off running and made a layup. He picked up the basketball and passed it to Eric. "I'm surprised this ol' body can still make that shot."

"Back to this letter . . . If you signed it, why would you deny writing it?" Eric held on to the basketball and motioned for them to sit down on the bleachers.

"I didn't sign it. I wrote my first initial. But that's the least of my problems. I have other skeletons in my closet."

C
laire dug her toes into the soft sand. Seagulls squawked overhead as the waves crashed on the shore. Geraldine had given her the afternoon off. She told her that she didn't expect Claire to be at her side twenty-four hours a day and insisted she take time for herself.

The afternoon turned out to be sunny and warm, a perfect day to walk along the beach. With her sunhat on her head and her tote bag over her shoulder, Claire had walked through Capitola Village and down to the shore. She kicked off her flip- flops and tucked them in her bag, then wandered up the beach close to the water's edge, feeling the cold water swirl around her feet. Two joggers ran past. A woman with a golden retriever walked in the opposite direction. Claire breathed in the salty air. Time alone felt good.

She didn't have a plan for how far she'd walk, but she'd keep going until she'd collected enough shells or was too tired to go any farther. As she rounded the cove, she spotted an elderly couple sitting on beach chairs. The man was reading a magazine while the woman knitted. They looked strangely familiar. Claire picked up her pace. "It couldn't be."
Harry and Pearl?
She darted up the beach.

"I thought it was you." Claire stood in front of them, blocking the sun's rays.

Pearl looked up. "Land's sakes, Harry, it's our friend Claire. "She scrambled out of her beach chair, dropped her knitting needles, and hugged Claire so tight she could barely breathe. "How've you been, darlin'?" Pearl finally let her go.

A couple of months ago, Pearl's use of the word
darling
had made her uneasy, but today it felt comfortable. In fact, she would have been disappointed if Pearl didn't call her by that name. "It's so good to see you two." Claire tucked her hands in the pockets of her shorts. "I'm renting a house on Depot Hill."

Harry sat forward. "And how's that car of yours?"

"Almost fixed. Blake, my neighbor, is working on it."

"Blake, huh? You sure he knows what he's doing?" Harry crossed his thick arms over his chest. "That car of yours is a classic. You wouldn't want just anyone tinkering with it."

"Oh, Harry, for goodness' sake. Leave Claire alone." Pearl tugged on the bill of his baseball cap. "I'm sure this Blake knows what he's doing."

"Congratulations on your new grandson." Claire grinned. "Samantha told me." She reached into her bag, grabbed her flip- flops, and slipped them on.

"We're coming from San Francisco. We helped John and Melody with our new grandbaby. But it was time to go. You know that old saying, 'When the fish start smelling, it's time to leave.' "

Claire laughed. Pearl was a woman of wisdom. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"New Brighton Beach has always been one of our favorite spots. We've already been here a week. Our RV is right up there on the bluff." Harry pointed behind him.

"About your RV . . . I still need to pay you for the repairs."

"Oh, honey, we're not going to get a new bumper for a little scratch." Pearl twirled her long braid between her fingers. "You keep your money and put it toward something you've been saving up for."

Savings? It would be a while before she could save for anything. With all the new stuff for her bedroom, she'd be paying her friends for a long time.

Claire took off her sunhat and wiped her forehead. "How long are you going to be at New Brighton?"

Harry finally stood. "We leave first thing in the morning." He tugged on the waistline of his jeans. "We're heading south to L.A. Our son Albert wants us to pay him a visit."

"Who knows what cause he's marching for now." Pearl shrugged her shoulders. "I can't keep up. Say, have you ever been to L.A.? Albert's about your age and if I do say so myself, quite good-looking."

"There you go, woman." Harry grabbed his baseball hat and slapped it against his thigh. "Albert will find himself his own bride. Stop matchmaking. Although, Claire would be a nice catch." He grinned.

"Yes. I've been to L.A." She wrinkled her nose. "And I'm not going back there anytime soon if I can help it."
Unless I can't make it on my own.
The thought unnerved her.

"I know I've said this to you before, Claire, but I firmly believe it. Remember, the Lord provides." Pearl winked and patted Claire's arm. "Ready to go, Harry. I'm done baking in the sun." She reached over, folded her beach chair, and picked up her knitting supplies. "Claire, can you come up for dinner? We have plenty."

"Thank you, but I—" Claire pointed down the beach.

"We understand." Harry folded his beach chair. "You need to check on Blake and that car of yours." He gave her shoulder a grandfatherly pat.

Claire momentarily toyed with the idea of following Harry and Pearl to their campsite. It would be so nice to be in their company for a while longer. But Harry was right. She needed to check on her car.

"Nice to see you, Claire. Keep in touch." Pearl smiled.

Claire watched as the couple ambled up the beach toward the path that led to the campground.

The Lord provides.
Pearl had said this to her before. At that time, Claire didn't have a job or a place to live. Did she believe it now? Maybe. But did God really care about her? She still had unanswered questions, such as who wrote the letter to her mother? Why was her picture frame the same as Geraldine's? And why did her heart skip a beat whenever Blake was near? Claire's breath caught in her throat. Where did that come from?

She walked home so deep in thought she nearly ran into her favorite neighbor on the sidewalk in front of her house.

"There you are." Blake fit the image of a mechanic. He wore blue pants and a button-down shirt with a few tools sticking out of his shirt pocket. "Can you come over and take a look at your car?"

There was a magnetic pull between the two of them that she couldn't describe. At that moment she'd follow Blake almost anywhere.

"Claire, what's wrong? You have a silly look on your face." Blake walked closer, grabbed her hand, and pulled her toward his carport.

"Oh, it's nothing." The last thing she wanted to do was ruin any chance she had with this man. Not that she thought she had a chance with him. If chemistry had anything to do with two people getting together, then they were the perfect match, but she knew there was more to love than physical attraction. Her thoughts drifted to Haley and Mark. They married before they knew each other. Mark's addiction to alcohol has been an ongoing problem since their first year of marriage. No amount of flirting on Blake's part would force her into an irrational decision.

"Take a look at the bumper and hood I found at Gino's Auto Recycling."

Claire picked up speed. She couldn't wait to sit behind the wheel of her car and drive again.

"Now, I haven't been able to work on your engine yet." Blake led her to the carport. "But your car will look better once I get the new bumper and hood in place."

Claire gasped when she saw her dismantled car. In a way, it was a relief—she didn't have to look at the evidence of her neglect. She ran her hand over the side of her VW.

"Here they are." Blake pointed. "The color of the hood doesn't match your car, but it fits perfectly." He picked up the hood and laid it on top. "And this silver chrome bumper was an amazing find."

Claire bit her lower lip, then smiled. "Blake, it's going to look perfect." She touched the new hood. "I can see you know what you're doing." Harry's words echoed in the back of her mind.

"It's a hobby, but I've been at it for years." Blake grabbed a rag from his back pocket and wiped a dirt spot off the front window. "The engine's what may cause me trouble . . . oh, and I found replacement headlights. I noticed yours were cracked."

"Thank you, Blake." Her eyes filled unexpectedly, and she turned her back. Blake was so considerate. She didn't want to take advantage of his kindness. "I'll have to figure out how to pay you for all this."

"Let's figure that out when I'm done." Blake walked over to Claire and nudged her arm. "In the meantime, you can cook
me
dinner. After tonight, I'm working the next four days."

"I better get going, then." Claire bumped his arm back, and a smile tugged at her mouth. "I'll check the fridge for leftovers. "She tossed her hair over her shoulder and walked away.

"Hey, I like my steak medium rare." Blake called to her retreating back. "I'll be by at 6:30."

She walked up the sidewalk hoping Blake was watching her. As she reached the sidewalk, she took a quick glance over her shoulder. No! He was working on her car instead.

Claire cut through Blake's front yard to her own. The UPS truck was stopped in front of her house. A postal worker hopped out with a wrapped brown box in his hand.

"Your package, Miss." The man had a friendly smile that reached his eyes.

Claire took the parcel from him, signed her name on the tracking device, and looked at the return address.
Haley.
She ran to the front door and burst through.

Michael and Sandy Thompson were sitting in the family room talking with Geraldine. All three craned their necks at her noisy entrance.

"I'm sorry." Claire retrieved a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and scooted past them to her room. She sat down on her bed and quickly tore open the package.

She found a note on top from her sister.

Claire,

I know these were your favorite stilettos, so I'm

giving them to you.

I thought you'd like to see this journal. Hopefully it will answer the questions you have about Mom.

And here is a small portion of what was yours in the first place . . .

I miss you.

Haley

Claire peered inside the box and found the bright red stilettos. She pulled them out and slid them on her feet. She stood up and wobbled across her room, positioning herself in front of her full-length mirror. There was something about a pair of high heels that made a woman feel glamorous. She posed in different positions, admiring the look.

Claire walked back to see what else was in the box. An envelope sat wedged against the side. When she grabbed it, a handful of twenty-dollar bills tumbled out. Claire stifled a scream as she counted the money . . . two hundred dollars! Why was her sister sending her cash? Money she knew Haley couldn't part with right now with a baby on the way.
The Lord provides.
Claire smiled, remembering Pearl's words. She'd give each person she owed—Harry and Pearl, Geraldine, Nancy, Vivian and Blake—forty dollars. It was a start. She tucked the money inside her wallet.

At the bottom of the box was a journal in her mom's own handwriting dated from September 1972 until May 1973. She flipped through the pages, then turned to the first entry.

I'm in love with Martin DeWitt. We had a fun summer together, and today I received a letter. He signed it with his first initial. Isn't he cute? He's trying to keep his identity a secret, but I know it's him.

Claire tossed the journal across her bed.
Martin DeWitt?
Who in the world was this man and how did he know her mother? What about Michael? She thought he had written the letter. Claire kicked off her heels and paced the room. She could come right out and ask Michael again, but with Sandy sitting next to him it might be awkward. If she waited until Michael, and Sandy left, she could show Geraldine the journal and ask her. Claire opened her door a crack and peeked out. Geraldine, Michael, and Sandy appeared to be in the middle of a deep discussion.

Claire leaned back against her door. Were the answers right in front of her in the journal? She dove back on her bed, grabbed the journal, and turned to the first entry. Claire shifted against the pillows and reread the opening line again.

I'm in love with Martin DeWitt.