A Time to Mend Page 14

  “Really?”

  “Yes. They lied about the year.”

  He shook his head. His in-laws were idiots.

  “The thing is,” she said, “it explains a lot. Like why my dad resents me. Maybe why my mom drank and why they fought.”

  “And you felt like it was all your fault.”

  She stared at him. Her eyes filled up with tears.

  “Hon, you’re preaching to the choir. Somehow it’s my fault my brother got shot down in Vietnam.” He shrugged. “BJ’s the hero, but I’m the one left to take care of the fallout. Mom and Dad couldn’t think straight for six months. I moved home. Made sure they took care of themselves. Handled all the military communications. Not that I did any of it right, according to them.”

  “You understand.”

  “Probably not. Does this have something to do with us?”

  She nodded. “I told you I don’t feel safe with you.”

  “Except when I was your knight in shining armor.”

  A smile lit her face briefly. “Right. You rescued me from my unsafe childhood.” She paused. “Understandably, I craved peace and security. You offered that. I thought I’d better not make any waves. You might rescind the offer.”

  “How would you ‘make waves’?”

  “By causing you to be unhappy. If you didn’t like the violin, then I didn’t like the violin. I shaped my opinions around yours. I ignored my wants and needs.”

  He stared at her. She echoed what Neva had talked about, how in the early years Claire believed her purpose for being was to keep him happy. “You got a little carried away with that submission thing.”

  “I did. And you let me. But why wouldn’t you? It kept the peace in our household.”

  He let that settle in. “Then we were both wrong?”

  “Yes, Max, we were both wrong.”

  “Okay. And listen, you are not responsible for your parents’ mis-takes.”

  “Neither are you for yours.”

  He smiled.

  She tapped her temple. “Head knowledge. My heart still hurts.”

  The smile fizzled. “Come home. Let me make it all up to you.”

  She turned and stared toward a window. “You can’t make it up.”

  “Claire.” He reached across the small table and touched her arm. “I’ll do anything. Talk to a marriage counselor. Take some time off. Whatever. I don’t want to live like this, apart from you.”

  She leaned back in her chair, shifting her arm out of his reach, and studied his face for a long moment. “Whatever? Do you really mean that?”

  “Yes, whatev—” What had she said that other time? Sell. Sell the whole kit and caboodle. “Whatever within reason.”

  Her mouth twisted, a quick but distinct expression of disappointment. She understood what he was saying. “Well, there isn’t any-thing you can do, anyway. This is about me.”

  “No, it’s about us. It’s our marriage.”

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “We’re two separate people. We can’t be a real couple until I find me again.”

  “Until.” Max clung to the word as if it were a lone tree sticking out the side of a sheer cliff. His feet dangled a fatal distance above the earth. His heart boomed in his chest.

  “The truth is, I’m not sure we’re even friends. I hear these sappy stories about husbands and wives who break up and wish they could talk to their best friend about it. But they can’t, because their best friend is their spouse.”

  That stung, but he had no response. He’d never considered Claire his best friend. Phil and Neva were his closest friends. Claire was his wife.

  Abruptly she pushed back her chair. “I have to go.”

  “Claire, wait. What about Saturday? The mayor’s wedding.”

  “I know. I already sent a gift.”

  “Will you go with me?”

  “Max, I just told you my first concert is Saturday.”

  “This isn’t business.” He caught sight of her raised brows. Okay, yeah, he wanted to keep channels open with the city by going to the mayor’s wedding. “Not totally business. We’ll see the Landons and the Greenes there.”

  “Give them my regards.” She stood. “And regrets.”

  “Claire, please.”

  “You’re pressuring, Max. I can’t take that.”

  He hit his limit. “Well, I can’t exactly take what you’re doing!” he hissed in a low tone. “Talk about a bombshell out of the blue! What am I supposed to tell people?”

  She walked away.

  With great effort he remained in his seat and forced himself to take deep breaths. He would not chase after her. He would not grovel. Palm trees would grow in the Arctic before he called her again.

  He noticed the plastic cup on the table. Condensation streamed down its sides. Melting ice pushed the coffee against the clear lid. The straw stuck out, no lipstick marks on it. Claire hadn’t touched the drink he’d gone to such effort to arrange just so.

  Right there in the middle of a busy coffee chain store that he despised, Max Beaumont nearly lost it.

  Thirty-seven

  Whoa!” Tandy pumped her elbows higher and lengthened her strides. “Again she pushes the envelope!”

  Alongside her friend, Claire huffed and puffed and stepped in double time, trying to keep up with Tandy’s brisk speed as they rounded a corner.

  “You really told Max he was in the way? That it was his fault you stopped playing your violin?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Tandy punched the air, her arm raised high. “Yes!”

  “Gloria Steinem, here we come.”

  “Oh, lighten up. I’m not going off the deep end. I’m proud of you for telling him the tough stuff.”

  “But I’m not totally blaming him. I was at fault too.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But still, you did good, girl. You did real good.”

  Claire ignored the compliment. “Life in general got in the way too. You know how it is with kids. They’re wonderful and all-consuming. Something has to give.”

  “For a season. We haven’t been full-time moms forever and a day. Ergo, Max got in the way too. It wasn’t just life. I know he never wanted to do concerts with us. You two always seemed too busy with other things.”

  As they zipped along the blocks, past condominiums and palm trees, Claire thought of how true that was. Max even pooh-poohed her time on the symphony board. Raising money for hospitals and charities was one thing, but for music? For the arts? Forget it.

  “Music is a mystery to him. He has no background in it. I guess it just doesn’t make sense to him, and he never cared to learn more about it. He resented the time I put into it, time I could have spent doing something productive for the agency or our home. He went so far as to say I acted snooty when it came to my violin. So that’s where the need to keep the peace entered in. I eventually quit playing, even for myself when he wasn’t around.”

  Tandy dodged a fire hydrant. “You had it really bad, didn’t you? I mean, you lost your own identity. You totally conformed to what he wanted you to be. Just to keep the peace.”

  “And now, come to find out, it wasn’t really peace and safety. Only an absence of conflict. I think I just got tired of holding my breath.”

  “Claire, why did you hold it for so long?”

  In the two days since she and Max talked, she had pondered his challenge: “Was I in the way?” And her straightforward reply: “Yes.” She’d thought about her parents, about her determination not to repeat their marriage.

  She said, “I think my life has been lived as just one long reaction to other people. I do and think this or that because my mom drank, because my dad ignored me, because my husband will be unhappy if I don’t.”

  “Eww.”

  “Eww.”

  “Guess you’d better forgive them.”

  Claire halted in the middle of the sidewalk. “What?”

  Tandy looked over her shoulder, turned around, and stepped back to her. “Forgive them. Th
ey all hurt you, Claire. Don’t deny it, but let it go. Don’t allow them to define you any longer.”

  Claire stared at her friend. Her cheeks were as red as her hair, her mouth set in a grim line, her green eyes unflinching in the shadow of a visor.

  Tandy touched her arm. “It stinks. I know. But let me tell you. Big-Hair Bimbo from Bishop and Trevor the Toad both would have been long dead by now. If I hadn’t forgiven them, you’d be visiting one tough prison mama.”

  Claire frowned. “You never told me.”

  “I’m pretty sure I did. It probably didn’t click.”

  “You’re strong and independent. You moved on.”

  Tandy shook her head vehemently. “I forgave them.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I had to learn how to move on. Now I’m convinced I could live through anything. In a sense, I’m grateful Big-Hair came into my life.” She smiled. “Strange, the things that teach us what we need to learn. Nasty women, surprise birthday dinners. You never know, Claire. You just never know.”

  Forgive her parents? Forgive Max?

  Not likely.

  Thirty-eight

  Saturday evening, her violin and bow in hand, Claire walked onto the outdoor stage. Located at the Embarcadero, the small peninsula jutted out into Mission Bay. The marine air felt warm. Yachts and sailboats glided by. The stage backdrop gave the effect that she was inside a giant concave shell. Before the evening was over, the sun would set, and she would be able to see stars.

  It was a glorious setting for a pop concert.

  Giddy almost to the point of hyperventilating, she hoped with all her might that she would be able to sit still and read the score. She knew Mozart; she didn’t know Gershwin.

  How she loved everything about her new venture! The rehearsals . . . the camaraderie with other musicians . . . the music. And tonight! The setting sun . . . the fragrant summer’s eve . . . the air crackling with energy from hundreds of people gathered in anticipa-tion of the music, an unparalleled expression of beauty.

  Why, oh why had she waited so long? Why had she denied her-self this good thing?

  Claire found her chair, sat, and smoothed her long, black skirt.

  Her girls were in the audience, along with Tandy and friends from their musical group. Kevin was at a ball game. Erik and Danny had wished her well but begged off with other plans. She teased them about filling their music quota years ago by attending their sisters’ recitals. They didn’t disagree with her.

  Max, most likely, was at the mayor’s wedding. Not only did his offer of doing “whatever” to get them back together fall short of sell-ing the agency, but it even fell short of supporting her efforts in music by coming to the concert.

  So what else was new?

  Claire exchanged smiles with other orchestra members as they wove their way between chairs and found seats.

  She wondered what excuse Max would give for her absence at the wedding tonight. Surely people were already talking about them. In six weeks she had missed two high-profile social events, one of which she had spent months helping organize. People would have noticed. She imagined he was uncomfortable. She hated putting him in that position. She hated how she was throwing out all the good with the bad.

  But, as Tandy remarked, none of that was her problem. To give up her concert for his agenda would be to step right back into the old way of ordering her life around his reactions.

  Claire felt a pain in her jaw. She unclenched it. Maybe she was a raving feminist already, sloshing through deep, muddy waters of backlash.

  Across the stage, behind other violinists, a trumpeter moved between chairs and music stands. He was a young man, probably a student at one of the nearby universities. She had noticed him at rehearsals but hadn’t met him yet. He played with such intensity it was almost painful to watch him. Painful in the way beauty could evoke pain, a longing and aching for something unnamed.

  In another lifetime she had known him. Or, rather, one very much like him.

  Now the concertmaster stepped onstage. In the split second before the applause began, Claire felt her lungs expand as if great drafts of air were pumped into them. She smiled.

  Not only was she done holding her breath, but she was taking in a brand-new one.

  His name was Petros Melis, that other one, the trumpeter she had known so many years ago. The man who came alongside her when Max worked twenty-four hours a day. Literally twenty-four hours a day.

  They met at Creighton’s, in the back corner of the old music shop where the sheet music was shelved. Or, rather, not shelved.

  “Excuse me, miss?” The accented voice had come from behind her.

  She turned. At first sight, there was nothing particularly remark-able about Petros Melis. He was of average height, with an olive skin tone, large chocolate brown eyes, and dark, curly hair. The mythological Apollo, god of music, did not come to mind—not until later. Much later.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you work here?”

  She smiled. “No. I teach lessons here, but I don’t work for Creighton. If I did, this place would not be in such chaos. I still don’t understand why any self-respecting musician sets foot in the store. It’s enough to unhinge me.”

  “Unhinge?”

  “Unglue.” She noted his blank expression. “It confuses me. Music is an orderly language. I would like sheet music filed alphabetically.”

  “Ah. Let me guess. You play violin, and you play by the rules.”

  “How did—Well, of course I play by the rules.”

  “Music is the language of the soul.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Not the head.” He tapped a finger against his temple.

  “I have a twelve-year-old student who thinks he’s a musical genius. He refuses to practice the scales or to hold his instrument correctly. He plays cacophony.”

  His full lips parted in a grin. “A twelve-year-old hears only cacophony in his soul.”

  Claire shook her head and turned her back on the stranger. She began to flip through a stack of sheet music lying in an open wooden box set atop a table. Two of her more advanced students needed a challenge beyond what the lesson book offered. Despite the discomfort of feeling unhinged, she knew she would find the perfect piece at Creighton’s. He carried the best selection south of San Francisco; that was why everyone frequented his shop.

  “Excuse me.” The uppity stranger again.

  She looked over her shoulder.

  “I apologize. I did not mean to offend you. Music is my passion. I—how do you say it?—I am too spoken out.”

  “Outspoken.”

  “Yes. Tell your twelve-year-old he must learn the rules. Then he can bend them and create music.” He smiled softly. “Can you help me find something? This mess is unhinging me.”

  And that was how it began. At a time when Claire heard only cacophony in her own soul, someone came along who knew how to pull from the din a melody of wondrous beauty.

  Thirty-nine

  Claire swung her arms in two windmill swoops and clipped along at a quick pace on the sidewalk. “Life feels so good, Tandy.”

  “It shows.” Her friend scurried to catch up. “I’ve never seen you walk like this.”

  Claire ignored the comment. “I suppose life shouldn’t feel good, though, I mean, given the circumstances.”

  “Stop sighing, hon. You’re entitled to a respite from life as a pit. Forget my question. We don’t need to figure out why it feels good now. Just enjoy the positive energy.”

  “I haven’t talked with Max in eleven days.”

  “That’s reason enough for the euphoria.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t be.”

  “Stop with the ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’ already.”

  “You’re right. I have to keep Max on the back burner for now. I’m determined to figure out me before tackling us. So in answer to your question . . . music is probably why life feels so good. The impact of playing with the symphony is nothing short of amazing. I
feel like I’ve come home.”

  Tandy thrust her arm skyward.

  “Other things are falling into place. The kids aren’t on the phone twice a day asking how I’m doing. Indio and I talk more about guests at the hacienda than my marriage status. She doesn’t seem as angry. I’m liking your church more and more. The preacher deals with real issues more than mine does. And there’s no pretense.”

  “Told you so.”

  Claire laughed. “Well, I guess I wasn’t listening.”

  “Nope, you weren’t.” Tandy playfully punched Claire’s arm. “And what about that real biggie falling into place?”

  “I called my dad.”

  They exchanged a smile and paused at an intersection to wait for traffic.

  Claire didn’t know if forgiveness entered the picture with her dad. But she had talked to him. She asked him straight-out what the deal was with the marriage license. He confessed to shielding her and her brothers from the truth. He didn’t apologize, but he confessed. And his voice changed. The conversation left them in a place they’d never been before.

  She and Tandy crossed the street. “And last but not least, I don’t notice the lumps in the mattress anymore. But I am thinking of apart-ment hunting.”

  “You don’t have to. Wait until you’re ready to face all that entails. You’re a great roommate. Especially since we got rid of your boxes.”

  “Speaking of Max . . .”

  “We weren’t.”

  “I need to think out loud. You can charge me counseling fees.”

  “Cook me dinner again, and we’ll call it even.”

  “Deal.” She slowed her pace; Tandy stayed with her. Like always. Claire wondered why she’d never totally opened up with her before now.

  “Speaking of Max?”

  “Right. I think I figured out why he’s always been so dead set against the symphony. I had a friend who played in it. His name was Petros Melis.”

  “Oh?”

  Claire nodded. “I met him about a year after we got married. I wasn’t playing in the symphony. I had quit in order to work with Max and Beaumont Staffing. I was totally inept managing the office. Then Neva walked in one day, wanting a temp job, and just sort of stayed. She whipped things into order in no time and worked for next to nothing. Max was released to go out and sell more. I took a backseat, trying to assist both of them. Again, ineptly.”