Claire Knows Best (8 page)

“Yes. He was close to his father until Jim passed away during Greg’s senior year of high school. He went a little wild. I
don’t think he would have married Kimberly if she hadn’t gotten pregnant.”

Startled, I drop the book back into place and step out of the library. “What?”

Her face goes white and I get the distinct feeling Greg’s mom has just let the cat out of the proverbial bag. “Greg hasn’t
told you about Kimberly?”

Well, he definitely hasn’t said anything about getting her pregnant before marriage. The thing is I am not one to throw stones.
I wasn’t a paragon of virtue before my wedding night to Rick. My shock has nothing to do with judgment, but rather the fact
that he’s never bothered to tell me such an important detail. I try to hide my rising irritation. “Other than the fact that
he loved her and she died three years ago, no.”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t go into it.”

Come on, sure you should. I mean, you’ve already spilled more than I knew.

I think the lady must be a mind reader, because she echoes my thoughts. “Well, I suppose I’ve already opened my mouth, I can’t
really leave you hanging, can I?”

“I’ll sleep better if you don’t.”

She pats her mattress and I pad across the soft, rose-colored carpet and climb up into her bed. “I don’t understand. If Kimberly
was pregnant that long ago, shouldn’t Greg have a teenager?”

Her face clouds and she nods. “They were married a week after Greg found out about the baby. By a judge, of all people. I
wanted them to at least have a minister do the service, but Kim wasn’t much on church.”

I’ve rarely seen Greg’s mom with anything but a smile on her face, but now there’s definitely a scowl, and I’m tempted to
assure her that when I marry Greg, we will definitely do it at the altar, complete with a communion service and our pastor
presiding over the whole thing.

I’m relieved when she continues without awaiting a response from me. “She lost the baby within a month of their marriage.
Greg never actually said anything, but I knew he felt cheated out of so much in life. He had planned to go to college on a
basketball scholarship.” She gives me a sad little smile. “He really was good enough, I think, to have gone on to play professional
basketball. But he couldn’t go off and play college ball with a wife at home. Kim still had one year of high school.

“Not long after the marriage, Kim’s mother left her father and moved to Arizona. Kim cried until Greg felt he had no choice
but to try to make her happy.” She expels a soft sigh. “She was so young. Too young to be separated from her mother. She didn’t
even wait to graduate. They moved to Tucson at the end of the summer. Kim finished her last year of high school and Greg went
to college and got his teaching degree.”

“That shows a lot of character. How many guys would have had such a sense of responsibility?”

She nods, but her eyes are staring at the comforter as though she’s reliving the past. “Greg grew to love Kim in his own way.
They began attending church and she eventually found the Lord. I think that helped his feelings toward her. At any rate, he
chose to make the best out of his life. I think he would have had children sooner, but Kimberly was afraid after the miscarriage.”

“No wonder he’s so close to Sadie.”

“They have a bond that’s even stronger than most little girls and their daddies.” Her gaze pierces me. “But it’s not a substitute
for the bond between a man and a woman. I thank God for bringing you into my son’s life.” Her eyes get a little misty and
I’m feeling like a big jerk for turning him down earlier. “I think he’s really in love for the first time in his life, Claire.
He’s happy.”

“I’m glad. He makes me happy, too.” A lame response, but I’m at a loss for words, so it’s the best I can do. “Well, I better
get that book and let you get some sleep. Thank you for telling me all of this. I guess if Greg had wanted me to know, he
would have told me. So I feel a little guilty knowing.” I send her a grin. “But I’m still glad you told me.”

“Well, he should have told you months ago. I think he just wants to let it go.”

“I guess so.” Back in the library, I grab the first book I come across that looks even remotely engaging. When I come out,
Helen still seems to be deep in thought. “Good night,” I say.

“Good night, dear. I hope you won’t be angry with Greg about all of this.”

“Naw. I’m sure he would have told me eventually.”

But on the way back to my room, it rankles me a little that Greg hasn’t been very forthcoming about his first wife. I never
really thought to ask too much. I guess I just thought he loved her too much to talk about her. Now I know it was just that
he didn’t want to rehash all of his past mistakes. I guess I can appreciate that, but it still doesn’t help my suspicious
side cope with one nagging question: What else has he kept from me?

T
he next afternoon Greg has made good on his promise to find me a contractor. I’m more than a little worried that the guy is
so readily available on such short notice in the spring—the beginning of a busy season for most contractors. Nevertheless,
Milton Travis is standing upstairs in my house, wearing a ratty red cap, looking over the damage so he can give me an estimate.
His presence helps me to push aside the whole “associate pastor” situation. It’s a welcome relief, and I can’t help but breathe
a little easier that I’m moving forward on my house so quickly.

Milt, the contractor, lets off a long, low whistle. “That is some big tree.”

His uncanny penchant for understatement just fills me with raw emotion. And not in a good way. To make matters worse, the
guy has that bend-over butt-crack syndrome that guys with beer bellies and tool belts tend to get. And every time he bends
over to look at the tree from another angle, I’m forced to avert my gaze. We may have to work out some sort of warning system
if he’s going to be a permanent fixture around here for the next few weeks.

“So, what do you think?” I ask.

“Well, hon,” he says, and this is my second indication I’m not going to like this guy (the aforementioned butt-crack syndrome
being the first). I don’t have any patience with “hon”-calling men. “First thing you’re gonna have to do is get yourself a
tree-removal service.”

I assumed he would just take care of it all. Take off the tree, fix the roof. This is going to be a step-by-step process involving
more people to hire? I feel my stomach sinking down to my toes. The more people involved in anything, the more complicated
things become.

“Oh, sure. Mostly they take care of trees that folks want yanked out of the ground and moved. But most of ’em take care of
storm damage kind of stuff, too.”

Well, this one is already yanked out of the ground, compliments of Mother Nature, so there’s one step eliminated. “Okay, so
first we have to move the tree.”

“Yep.”

“Then what? How much and how long will it take to get you to fix my roof and the inside of the rooms?”

“Well, I cain’t be for sure until I get a good look. But more than likely it’ll run you in the ballpark of thirty or forty
thousand. And I’ll need a third of that up front.”

I do a mental assessment of my bank account. Thanks to years of saving every extra penny, I could just come up with the money,
and then replace it when the insurance check comes through. But gee whiz, if the guy makes that kind of money on one job,
surely he can afford a pair of pants that fit.

“All right. Can you recommend someone to do the tree removal?”

He scratches his nearly bald head through six strands of hair, strategically combed over to the side and held there with some
kind of goop. Either that or it’s just greasy. Ew. “Have you tried the yellow pages?”

Okay. Big help, buddy.

“Uh, no. But I’ll do that today and get back with you as soon as I can.”

Milt grabs his belt loops and jerks his ripped jeans back up over his behind like it’s no big deal that he’s mooning the world.
He works his way back down the steps as his pants make their way back down his body. I follow him to the door, keeping my
eyes firmly focused on his neck, and bid him good-bye at the door, watching for a sec as he meanders to his work truck, a
beat up 1980-something Chevy with “MIL ’S C NTRA TING” painted on the side. Not someone who takes a lot of pride in the little
things, I see.

Totally lacking confidence in my new “c ntra tor,” I shake my head and turn back to the kitchen to grab my phone book. I sit
at the table, praying the ceiling doesn’t cave in while I thumb through the yellow pages.

The phones must be ringing off the hook for these people because the first three companies I call have their answering machines
turned on. Finally I find a guy who answers.

“Yello,” he says.

“Hello?”

“Yello.”

Okay, that’s what I thought he said.

“Um, Roy’s Tree Removal Service?”

“Yep.”

“I have a tree on my roof. Any chance you could come and take it away?”

“You say you got a tree on your roof?”

“Yes. The tornado last night yanked it out of the ground and dropped it there.”

“That’s tough luck.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

“Got a permit?”

“A what?”

“A permit from the county. Got to have a permit before I can move it.”

“I need a permit to remove a tree from my own yard?”

“Yep. Some of ’em are protected under law.”

“Good grief.”

“Well, now, hold on. You say the tree was pulled up out of the ground?”

“Yes, by the tornado last night.”

“That right? My wife and I didn’t hear a thing. Didn’t even know about a tornado until we started getting calls this mornin’.
Must’ve come whilst we was watchin’
Jeopardy
. The wife has bad ears, don’t ya know, and we have to turn the dern thing up so high, it ain’t no wonder we couldn’t hear
no tornado.”

Fascinating story. I fight to squelch my impatience. “Mr. uh-Roy. Who do I have to contact about a permit?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re gonna need one.”

“What do you mean? I thought you just told me the law requires—”

“That was before I found out it was pulled up. Ain’t much chance it’s alive anymore. Is there?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Do you think you can come over any time soon to do this? I really should get started on repairs.”

“Oh, sure. I need to round up my boys and we can be over there first thing in the morning. Probably take the better part of
two days to get it all gone.”

I press my forehead into my palm. “All right. I’ll be here in the morning.” I give him the address and hang up the phone,
not feeling extremely confident in my chances of ever actually moving back into my house.

No, Mom. For the tenth time, no one was hurt.” Except now my head hurts from incessantly slapping it with my palm for the
last five minutes. What in the world induced me to give her a call? I’ve refrained from telling her about the house until
now because I knew she’d freak out and ask a bunch of questions that I have no answer for.

“I think I’d better come stay with you for a while until you sort this out.”

Hasn’t she been listening? “I don’t even have a house for you to stay with me
in
.”

“Where are you living? Not with Greg, I hope.”

“Of course not.” I almost tell her that I’d thought about it, but decide there’s no sense in opening a can of worms. “The
kids are at Rick and Darcy’s, I’m staying with Greg’s mom.”

“How long until you get back into your own house?”

“I’m not sure. I’m working on getting some estimates for now. The guys are coming tomorrow to get the tree out of the house.”

Okay, saying that just doesn’t seem right.

“I just wish I were there to help out.”

“Now, Mom. Remember, you moved to Texas so you could live your own life. The way you want. You have to stop feeling guilty.”

“I know. I just miss you and those kids so much.”

“We’ll get you here for a good long visit as soon as I’m back in my house. Okay?” I search for a topic to divert her attention
to my situation. “Hey, how’s Bob?”

Mom’s shaky sigh reaches my ears, causing a frown and raising my concerns. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

“Bob and I broke up last night.”

Now, I was never big on my mom seeing the Texas Cowboy college president in the first place, but how dare he break my mom’s
heart? Loser.

“What happened?”

“It was just one of those things. He wanted to marry me and I wasn’t ready to take that step.”

Stunned déjà vu kicks me in the teeth. For years I’ve been fighting gravity, gray hair, and annoying mom-type sayings like
“As long as you live in my house, young lady, you’ll do as I say,” so people can’t compare me to her. Only, as I think back
to Greg’s proposal in light of her own reason for breaking up with Bob, I realize something: I really am becoming my mother.
There’s just no escaping the inevitable. No matter how hard we fight it, girls grow up to be their mothers. Someone just shoot
me and put me out of my misery, will ya?

I’m telling you, Linda. I think I’m being punished for some unconfessed sin I committed in my youth,” I say an hour later,
sitting in Churchill’s, a local coffee shop, with my best friend and pouring out the details of my sad, storm-ravaged story.

Linda looks like Ginger from
Gilligan’s Island
, only without the sleazy Marilyn Monroe imitation. With red hair and luminous green eyes, my friend has “romance heroine”
written all over her. I usually eat light when I’m with her so I don’t feel so bad about myself, but today I forego the “skinny”
and go straight for the creamy, whole-milk mocha latte with sugar and whipped cream. I add to my calorie/fat-laden binge an
apple turnover. Total comfort food, but I don’t care. After all, if anyone needs comforting, it’s me.

Linda chuckles at my theory of God-correction. “More likely the tornado just hit the wrong house. It was probably headed for
John Wells. Isn’t he an atheist?” She’s talking with her mouth full and still looks classy. I hate my life. She swallows down
her bite with a mouthful of chai tea. Then she gives me a quirky smile. “Seems like if God was going to teach anyone a lesson
it’d be him. Know what I mean?”