Danny.” Claire grabbed her son’s arm. “Let her go.”
They stood in the hacienda’s courtyard, watching Skylar scurry off like a deer at the first bang of a shotgun.
Claire felt Danny’s resistant strain against her hold, but he didn’t break away. “She’ll work it out, hon.”
Skylar reached the far end and turned the corner toward her room.
At last Danny relaxed. “I thought we were making progress.” Frustration laced his tone.
Claire let go of his arm. “We can’t push these things. It was clear that church moved her in some way. But that’s between her and God. She doesn’t need lunch with us to help Him.” A memory flashed and she chuckled. “I can’t tell you how I used to loathe coming here for lunch after church with Nana and Papa. I carried around so much guilt and hurt that their talk about what went on in the service only made it worse, no matter how good their intentions.”
“I never knew that.”
“It was before you were born. Later I got fairly adept at faking it.” She smiled. “You probably can’t relate. You were born with Tigger’s bounce and St. Paul’s faith. Why would anyone not accept what Jesus taught? Why wouldn’t they want to hang out with the likes of you and Nana and wax eloquent about His life-changing truths?”
“Well.” He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Because she’s not ready just like I wasn’t ready. The Spirit has to work in her. I suspect that like with me, there’s a lot of heavy baggage in there that’s been piling up.”
“I could at least take lunch to her.”
“Danny, are you not listening? Give her a break.”
“But—”
“No buts. Besides, Jenna’s ready to leave. I’ll pack you a lunch and you can take her home. Then maybe you could take yourself home.”
“Mom.” He protested, a pinched expression on his face.
She felt a Danny collision in the making. What was going on with him? In the faith department he’d been light-years ahead of her his entire life. He knew more Scripture than she would ever even have time to read. As a toddler he’d pray about everything—Lexi’s lost paintbrush, rain, a parking spot for his mom, limping seagulls. Why would he lose sight over an obviously hurting young woman?
Unless . . .
Claire studied his profile. He gazed toward where Skylar had been, his eyes half-shut. A jaw muscle twitched. His hands on his hips expressed a sense of determination, as if he’d hound her until she was his.
Danny was falling in love with Skylar?
Okay. That would take some adjustment on her part.
Danny was her traditional, most-like-Max child. He focused on his two businesses and spent downtime with friends from his church. His church—where all the young women were traditional, focused on their careers, and spent their downtime with friends from church. Couples kept forming within that circle of friends. Danny seemed destined to hook up with one of them sooner or later, whenever he got around to realizing that sharing life with a special woman beat rooming with Hawk.
Or was that a mother thinking with her heart?
Skylar was a free spirit who did not have an interest in career. She resembled Danny’s dearest childhood friend after she had abandoned the traditional route and broke his heart.
Skylar carried a whole lot of baggage. Absent parents. Poverty.
Much like Claire had herself when she had met Max.
Oh, my.
Her most-like-Max child.
Ohhhhh.
“What did you say?” Danny was looking at her.
“Nothing.” She kissed his cheek. “Let her be for now.” Turning, she walked toward the kitchen and breathed a soft prayer. “Lord, have mercy.”
Max grinned across the kitchen table. “In love with Skylar?”
“I really think so,” Claire said.
“That’s, well, that’s . . .”
“Exactly.”
He took a bite out of his tuna sandwich.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Danny and Jenna had left; Skylar had not reappeared after they got home from church; Indio and Ben, Lexi, and Tuyen had gone to their respective homes on the property.
Max said, “We let it go.”
“I like her a lot. I would hate to try to run this place without her. She’s giving, loving, quirky, but—”
“Sweetheart.” He touched her hand. “We let it go. Do you know how often you tell me that? It’s all about surrendering, you say. Give up the past; it’s over. Give up the future; it may never come. Live in the moment.”
“But—” The whine grated on her nerves. She lowered her voice. “She has baggage.”
Max laughed. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“Well.”
“Like none of us have baggage?”
“That’s not the point. What if Danny’s coming at this relation ship, consciously or not, with the attitude that he’s going to rescue her? He couldn’t rescue Faith, but now he can make right that failure. He’ll just hurt her and himself in the process. They’re too different on every level to become one.”
Max squeezed her hand. “Listen to yourself, Claire. What do you hear?”
“A concerned mother who just wants the best for her son.”
He shook his head. “It’s fear.”
Her stomach twisted and she heard the truth in his statement.
“This is why we reserved the weekend for us, right?”
She nodded. “We thought the memory of the fire might do a number on us. What do you think?”
He smiled gently. “What do you think?”
She closed her eyes. Things crept in now and then and undermined her peace. A sense of unreasonable fear. A sense of not being able to cope with the everyday. A sense of reluctance not to do something innocuous. Flashbacks of dark and smoke that triggered a rush of panic.
Max knew of such episodes. Often he was the one who pointed them out to her, much as he’d done just now about her overreaction to Danny and Skylar.
She looked at him. “Why isn’t it finished yet? God has brought me so far, but . . . it has been worse these past couple weeks.”
“It’s the same time of year. The earth is at its hottest and driest. Nothing like last year’s condition with the rain we’ve had, but similar enough for your unconscious to react to.”
She sighed. “I just accept and give myself a break.”
“Yep. Still.”
“Where are you?” Although Max’s experience with the fire was not hers, that night had been his worst. He’d had to process emotions as well.
“Ever since I told Dad yesterday that I’d go to Vietnam with him, I’ve regretted it. It seems the right thing to do for him and for myself, so why the worry? It finally came to me in church. It’s all about fear too. I’m afraid of being away from you. I’m afraid you’ll need me and I won’t be able to get to you.”
“Like that night. I’ve had similar thoughts.”
“I’m sure.” He leaned across the table, his eyes locked on hers. “I do believe it’s the right thing. I need to deal with this bag of trash—say good-bye to BJ and let go of my anger toward the government and the Vietcong.”
She winced. “I agree. I don’t like it, but I think I’m supposed to push through this one. Your absence doesn’t mean abandonment to me like it used to.”
“You’re not just being stoic?”
“No.” She smiled. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“Okay.” He straightened. “Did you and Mom decide if you want to formally mark the passing of this year?”
She’d been avoiding the subject like she’d been avoiding mention of his spur-of-the-moment trip idea. She sighed. Enough with the ostrich mime routine.
“Yes. We want to make a memorial, kind of like BJ’s, leave some mementos. Your mom has a stone angel. I have a wrought-iron garden cross. The gold mine seems the most appropriate place, but it really is too difficult for your folks to get there. We decided—” Her throat closed up.
“Aw, sweetheart.” Max moved to her side of the table and knelt beside her. “You decided what?”
That night rushed at her. Ben kept driving the Jeep up to a high point. From there he could see the fires in the far distant mountains. Although he knew what shifting winds could do, he initially believed the fires would not reach them.
She had ridden with him one time to view the scene. And that was where it all started, the gnawing deep inside of her that the world was being flung out of control.
“Claire?”
“Your mom and I decided to go up to that spot where your dad watched.”
Max nodded. He knew the story and the place. “I’ve got something to add. Wait here.”
He went through the side door, into the laundry and mud room. A moment later he reappeared, a twist of blackened metal in his hand. He walked over to her.
“It’s a cross,” he said. “Not very pretty but I made it from—” Now his voice cracked. “From your car.”
Her car. They’d had to leave it in the parking lot when they evacuated. It burned, its trunk and backseat loaded with Indio’s special things.
“Oh, Max!”
“I remember that morning, when we drove up behind the ambulance. The first thing I spotted was your car. It was just a black shell. All I could think about was if you’d died.” He laid his gift on the floor and pulled her into his arms.
And then they both cried.