A Time to Mend Page 4

  What about Lexi?

  Jenna blew out her frustration. Lexi had been born aloof. The two sisters hadn’t connected on an intensely deep level since Jenna was in third grade and Lexi in first. That was the year Danny was sick a lot and some bully attached himself like a fungus to Lexi until Jenna punched the kid during recess, breaking his nose.

  Lexi was still aloof, except when it came to Danny or Nana and Papa.

  Bingo. Forget both twins. Jenna hit the speed-dial number for Indio and Ben Beaumont.

  Ten

  Before she’d finished saying, “Hacienda Hideaway,” Indio Beaumont heard a familiar yammer through the telephone.

  “Nana!”

  That would be Jenna, her effusive granddaughter. Indio intuitively turned off the stovetop burner and made a beeline for her favorite chair in the corner of the kitchen, next to the fireplace.

  “Jenna. What’s wrong?” She settled into the overstuffed rocker, planted her cowboy-booted toes against a small footstool, and set the chair in motion.

  “Oh, Nana! You’ll never believe what happened! Dad missed Mom’s surprise dinner last night. Not that you wouldn’t believe that part. You probably wouldn’t believe it if I said he did show up.”

  The girl had inherited all of Max’s dramatic tendencies. Indio knew it was best to just let her emote without interruption until she got to her point. She still hadn’t figured out how the girl taught English lit.

  After skittering down a myriad of rabbit trails, Jenna paused and drew in a breath. “Mom left Dad. She moved in with Tandy!”

  Indio stopped rocking.

  “And that’s all I really know except this is so awful. They’ve always been the picture-perfect couple.”

  Dear God. “What exactly did she say?”

  “That she needed some space. Why would she need space? My gosh, she’s fifty-three years old. She sounds like one of my sixteen-year- old students.”

  “Jenna, what else did she say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Not to worry. Stuff like that.”

  “So we leave things at ‘stuff like that.’ We won’t worry.”

  “But she’s never done anything like this before!”

  And only the Lord could say why not. Indio rubbed her forehead. “I know. This isn’t like your mom at all. Oh my. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But . . .” Indio had no words to give her upset granddaughter. The truth was, she felt as though she’d had the wind knocked from her. Max and Claire, separated? There remained only one thing to say. “But, well, God is good. Hallelujah.”

  “Nana, please!”

  “Can’t help it, dear.” Her habit of praising God annoyed most people. In particular, it drove her four grandchildren up the wall. No matter. If they were listening, she simply explained it to them again. “Jenna, you know I say those things to remind myself God is right here with me, and He’s waiting for me to say, ‘Help.’”

  Jenna moaned. “I don’t have your faith.”

  “I think you do, dear, but you haven’t exercised it as much as I have. I’m going to pray now, okay?”

  “Okay.” Jenna’s voice was barely audible. “It’s probably why I called.”

  “Okay.” On the heels of another ‘Hallelujah,’ the prayer took flight. “Holy Father, we need Your help. Thank You that You are with Max and Claire right now. Please heal the wounds between them. Bring them to reconciliation. Please comfort my grandchildren. In Your precious Son’s name, I ask this.”

  “Amen.” Jenna sighed. “I’m sorry I fussed at you. I just don’t get why you say God is good when things are so awful.”

  “It takes practice.” Indio laid a hand on her chest. There was a tightness inside, as if a clothespin had clipped itself onto her lungs. “It takes years and years of choosing to recognize that God is God. He alone deserves praise and glory, no matter how awful things look.”

  “How can you be so sure He’ll answer?”

  “Because He has answered, time and again. Now you’ll probably start to worry later tonight. Simply say, ‘Help.’ He doesn’t want you being anxious.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jenna’s tone indicated the subject was closed. “Speaking of grandchildren, I told Erik but not Danny or Lexi. They should know, too, don’t you think? As soon as possible?”

  Indio waited for her to continue. If she’d learned one thing as a nurse for thirty years in the rest home, it was to refrain from assuming another’s burdens. One resident alone bore far too many heart-breaking situations for a caregiver to involve herself with.

  But Maxwell was her son. Claire was her daughter-in-law and a friend. Their situation was not Jenna’s burden alone to carry.

  “I’ll call the twins.”

  “Thank you, Nana.”

  “You’re welcome. Put this out of your mind, and don’t feel guilty.”

  A few moments later they said good-bye, Jenna obviously calmer than when she’d called, Indio struggling for breath.

  Hand on her chest, pressing at her lungs, she sat there. What was that feeling?

  Guilt. That old reminder of how she had wounded her son in ways only a mother could. Unwittingly and out of her own immaturity, yes, but still, she was at fault.

  She’d borne two sons: BJ, the perfect prince, and Max, the trouble-maker. They seemed to come out of the womb already labeled. She never realized until it was too late how blatantly she’d communicated to Max that he was just a loser, a pain in the neck, a grave dis-appointment.

  Tears of shame burned her eyes. Lord, help!

  Indio swiveled the big rocker toward the wall. Only about six feet in width, it ran from a corner to a doorway’s edge. Of the countless walls in the age-old hacienda, though, it was the most important to her. Floor to ceiling, it held her collection of what she called “Jesus reminders.”

  Fifty-nine at last count, the reminders included a variety of crosses and crucifixes—all styles, sizes, and materials, from large to tiny, simple, squared-off polished oak to intricately twisted wrought iron, Mexican to Celtic. Interspersed were framed paintings and drawings of Jesus, from the early Italian rendition of a chubby babe on His mother’s lap to a sketch downloaded from the Internet. That one depicted Jesus laughing, His grin so infectious she could almost hear His guffaw.

  But that one was not for tonight.

  She eyed the display one piece at a time. Two were left over from the original chapel, which had been a small room off the kitchen. A hundred and fifty years old, they were tiny and carved from wood. Most of the other pieces had been gifts, treasures from her family as well as from guests who stayed at the Hacienda Hideaway. Everyone saw how Indio drew strength from the Crucified One.

  At last she settled upon a crucifix made of rough-hewn pine. Though no taller than eight inches, its carved details left little to the imagination. There were the thorns on His forehead . . . the spikes in His hands and feet . . . the speared hole in His side . . . the trace of a loincloth that gave the sense it was not part of the real-life version. The body drooped. The wounds bled.

  “Lord, haven’t we dealt with this already? Haven’t I already received Your forgiveness? Please, please remind me that I do not have to feel guilty either.”

  A peace slowly enveloped her. Her breathing grew regular. She was forgiven.

  Thanks to her, Max had grown up believing himself unforgivable. He made all the wrong choices a kid could make. His grades were the worst, his friends punks, his young body poisoned with legal and illegal drugs.

  Yet he pulled himself out from the pit by working hard and starting his own business. He married Claire, the best influence that had ever touched his life.

  And despite all that, things were not right with her son.

  Eleven

  Like clockwork the three of them called, one after another.

  Claire fielded questions from her offspring while cooling down from her power walk. She sat in the early evening shadows on Tandy’s small patio, water bottle in one hand,
cell phone in the other.

  Erik called first. He was a local newscaster with the looks, charm, and honeyed baritone voice that could easily woo a national network.

  “Bravo, Mom.”

  “Erik, don’t take sides.”

  “He’s a putz.”

  “He . . . We’ve both let business take priority over everything else for far too long. Now we need to make some adjustments, that’s all.”

  “Whatever. Can I do anything for you?”

  “Just don’t worry, all right? I’m okay.”

  “You’re comfortable at Tandy’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, if you need a place to stay, you could call Jenna.”

  She chuckled with him.

  “Just kidding, Mom. You’re always welcome at my condo. I’ll sleep on the couch. If I can find it. Bye.”

  Lexi was next.

  “Mom?” Her voice always hovered slightly above a whisper. “Nana called and told me.”

  Claire shut her eyes. Of course Jenna would call their grand-mother. Who would in turn tell Max’s dad . . .

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “I’m okay.” The words grated, but she had to be okay for the kids’ sake. “Don’t be upset.”

  “Well, I am. How could this happen? You two have always been the model-perfect couple.”

  Claire sighed. Her twenty-six-year-old internalized the whole world. “Lexi, I’m upset with your dad. I’m at Tandy’s, trying to figure out how to straighten things out with him. All right? No big deal.” She winced. No big deal. I moved out, that’s all.

  “It’s—I don’t know what it is! It’s not you.”

  “Sweetie, you can come over if you want.”

  Claire continued consoling until her phone beeped. She glanced at the ID screen. “Danny’s calling. We’ll talk later?”

  “Yeah, okay. Bye, Mom.”

  “I love you.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Claire cut the connection and opened the incoming call. “Hey, Danny.”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “I know Nana called you. Yes, it’s true, I’m at Tandy’s. I’m cooling down.” In more ways than one. “I’m fine. Erik, Jenna, and Lexi are fine too.”

  His laugh sounded forced. “I’m the last to know? I’m always last, every which way.”

  “Lexi was born last.”

  “Yeah. I made it six whole minutes before her. So how’s Dad?”

  “Uh, I don’t know.”

  “You haven’t talked?”

  “Actually, he may come in last on this one.”

  “Good grief, Mom. You leave him and don’t tell him?”

  “I haven’t left—” She sighed. Of her four children, Danny most easily disarmed her. He made her forget she was the parent who really should have all the answers.

  “But you moved in with Tandy.”

  “For now. And I did tell him.” She gave him an edited version of the morning conversation, carefully tap-dancing around certain details so as not to point the finger at his father. “I wanted to talk then, but he had a meeting to go to. The last thing I said was I wouldn’t be there when he got home. So he knows.”

  “No way does he know, no matter how straight you think you said it. I can’t believe it myself. This just isn’t like you, Mom. You never bail out on anything.”

  “I’m not bailing. I’m . . . restringing the violin of our marriage. The notes have gone sour.”

  “Ha! And you just now noticed this? After all these years of playing—what? What would you call it? Bach’s Mass in XYZ Minor? Beethoven’s Symphony no. 6,071?”

  “Danny! Just back off a little, will you? I can’t explain it right now.”

  “Okay, okay. Chill. All I know is you always said divorce was not an option. That you wanted to do things the right way—”

  “Divorce! I’m not talking divorce!”

  “You left him.”

  Claire pressed the water bottle against her forehead. Everything was so black-and-white for Danny. “I need some space for a while. I’m not considering divorce. All right?”

  “Sure. If you say so.”

  Silence hung between them for a long moment. Her heart ham-mered in her ears.

  “Nana told me to stop leaping to the worst-case scenario. Mom, I’m not leaping. We’re already dead center in the worst-case scenario.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Do you know how totally unreal this whole scene is? You and Dad, separated? You just turned everybody’s world upside down. Yours, Dad’s, mine, Lexi’s and Jenna’s, Erik’s—well, maybe not Erik’s. Who knows what that would take.”

  Claire doubled over.

  “So you can’t be fine, Mom. You can’t even be anywhere near okay.”

  “I am.”

  “Give me a break! If you’re fine, then I guess you just don’t give a rip that you turned our worlds upside down.”

  Oh, Daniel, don’t do this to me! “Danny, I have to be fine. I’ve always had to be fine. It’s what a mom does.”

  “You’re in denial.”

  Indignation surged through her, and she straightened up in the chair. “Daniel, that’s enough. Stop being such a bulldog.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Her shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry I hurt your dad and everyone else. It just—it just can’t be helped right now. I have to figure this out.”

  “Nana said she’s praying for reconciliation.”

  “That’s . . . appropriate. Are you okay now?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “Probably not.” She sighed heavily. “I have to hang up now. Good-bye, Danny.”

  “Yeah. See ya.”

  A light breeze chilled her arms. Claire hugged herself.

  Reconciliation.

  A good word. A good goal.

  She couldn’t imagine what it would look like.

  She wasn’t even sure she wanted it.

  Maybe she wasn’t fine. Maybe she was contemplating divorce.

  God, I followed all the rules! Why is this happening?

  Zero hour approached. Any minute now, Max would arrive home and find the note she’d left for him.

  Claire shivered in the corner of the sofa. Was it really less than twenty-four hours ago she’d sat in just the same way, waiting for Max to show up long after the surprise dinner?

  Tonight, though, the sofa was floral and in Tandy’s condo, and Claire had no idea if Max would come or even call. Tonight, some-how, was worse. So much hung on his response to her ultimatum. Her first-ever ultimatum.

  And there was the aftermath of her conversations with the kids. Danny’s relentlessness especially had shaken loose ugly things that wouldn’t go away. She wasn’t okay. She didn’t have answers. She was becoming acquainted with anger. Rage. Fury, even. Her nerves tingled. She imagined them to be like power lines with electricity pulsating, waiting for a switch to be thrown.

  She was certain of only one thing: there was no turning back now.

  Twelve

  Max stared at the small piece of linen stationery in his hand. The words, written in Claire’s neat cursive, shimmied and bounced before his eyes.

  He set the paper back down on the kitchen counter and placed the decorative frog figurine back on top where he’d found it—above the “Max,” which was underscored with a wavy line.

  Max.

  He blinked and tried reading the note again.

  I’m at Tandy’s. Overnight. I need space. Maybe I’ll stay longer. I don’t know. I only know that something has to change between you and me. I’m sorry.

  “She’s at Tandy’s? What has to change? I still don’t get it.” He spoke aloud to the empty kitchen, set the jeweler’s gift bag next to the note, and pulled his cell from his pocket.

  Claire answered on the second ring. “Hi, Max.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  After a moment, she said, “You’re referring to the note?”

&
nbsp; “Right.”

  “Let’s start with this: How does the note make you feel?”

  “Claire, I’m not in the mood to play games—” He clamped his mouth shut. He might be slow on the draw with whatever female crisis she was going through, but he understood that a description of his long day or his two trips to the jeweler to pick up her birthday gifts because they hadn’t been ready the first time was not what she wanted to hear.

  “And I’m in no mood to skirt the issue. It’s a simple question, Max. I need a response.”

  “All right. I feel confused.”

  “That’s a mental condition. How . . . do . . . you . . . feel ?” She slowly enunciated each word. “Happy, sad, angry, relieved?”

  “I’m starting to get annoyed, because we’re talking on the phone instead of packing for our trip.”

  “Annoyed. This is progress.”

  His head pounded. Add migraine to the list. But she’d probably call that a mental condition.

  “You just read my note, which says, in essence, I have left you.” Her voice jumped a few notches above its usual alto. “Your reaction to that information is to feel annoyed because the schedule changed. Excuse me?”

  He didn’t have to wonder how she felt. The wonder was over the fact that he couldn’t remember her ever having displayed such blatant anger.

  Okay, she had his attention.

  “Claire, why aren’t you here? I can’t fathom what’s going on.”

  “Fathom it, Max! I packed a bag, and I’m not coming home.”

  His feelings from that morning burst upon him, vicious in their intensity. Instantly he was reliving a moment from thirty-some years ago—the moment Claire had told him there was someone else. “I feel like I’m being ripped open and turned inside out. We promised we’d never do this.”

  Not even the sound of her breathing came through the phone.

  “Is there someone else . . . ?” His lungs burned. They offered no more air for speech.

  “No! No, Max.” Her voice sank to a hushed tone. “I would not do that to you. It’s nothing like that.”

  Air rushed into him again. “Then what is it? What do you want from me? I’ll do anything.”

  “Oh, honestly, Max.” She sounded near tears now. “I told you last night. I told you this morning. I told you in the note. Can’t you comprehend a thing when it comes to our relationship?”