A Time to Mend
© 2007 by Sally John and Gary Smalley
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Scripture quotations are taken from THE NEW ENGLISH BIBLE © 1961, 1970 by the Delegates of the Oxford University Press and Syndics of Cambridge University Press. Reprinted by permission. HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Page Design by Mandi Cofer.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
John, Sally, 1951–
A time to mend / Sally John, with Gary Smalley.
p. cm. — (Safe harbors ; Bk. 1)
ISBN 978-0-8499-1889-6
I. Smalley, Gary. II. Title.
PS3560.O323T56 2008
813'.54—dc22
2007044358
Printed in the United States of America
07 08 09 10 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Tim
Content
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Sixty-seven
Sixty-eight
Sixty-nine
Seventy
Seventy-one
Seventy-two
Seventy-three
Seventy-four
Seventy-five
Seventy-six
Seventy-seven
Seventy-eight
Seventy-nine
Eighty
Eighty-one
Eighty-two
Eighty-three
Eighty-four
Eighty-five
Eighty-six
Eighty-seven
Eighty-eight
Eighty-nine
Ninety
Ninety-one
Ninety-two
Ninety-three
Ninety-four
Ninety-five
Acknowledgments
Reading Group Guide
He has committed to us the message of reconciliation.
—2 Corinthians 5:19 NIV
The Beaumont family
Ben and Indio—Max’s parents. Their grandchildren call them Papa and Nana. Their home, the Hacienda Hideaway, is a retreat center located in the hills above San Diego, California.
Max—Married to Claire. Founder and owner of Beaumont Staffing, a nationwide staffing firm.
Claire—Married to Max. Volunteer for community organizations and violinist.
Max and Claire’s four grown children
Erik—News anchor for a local San Diego television station.
Jenna—High school English teacher. Married to Kevin Mason.
Danny—Lexi’s twin. Software guru and surfer.
Lexi (Alexis)—Danny’s twin. Gardener. Artist.
Others
Kevin Mason—Jenna’s husband. Teacher, coach, and Marine.
Tandy Abbott—Claire’s friend.
Neva and Phil—Max’s employees and friends.
One
Huddled on the sofa in the dimly lit living room, Claire Beaumont gazed through the bay window. Car headlamps swept across a stand of eucalyptus trees. The automatic garage door rattled up. A long moment passed. The door rattled back down.
Its rumble vibrated through her. She clutched a throw pillow tightly at her waist.
The door between the garage and laundry room opened and shut. Her husband’s footsteps clicked against the ceramic-tiled floors, across the kitchen.
Claire moaned. There was still time. She could scurry off to bed, feign sleep, forgive and forget. Carry on.
His footfalls clacked into the foyer and passed the front door. Then they went silent, muffled by the hallway carpet.
Claire’s breath caught, squashed under the unbearable weight produced by the thought of carrying on.
Max appeared at the wide entrance to the living room and halted. “Claire! You’re still awake?”
It was now or never. “I quit,” she whispered, more to herself than to the man across the room.
“It’s 2:00 a.m., hon.”
As if she didn’t know what time it was. Her heart slammed against her ribs and thrust the words upward again, more loudly this time. “I quit.”
“It sounds like I’ve walked into the middle of a conversation here.” With a distinct air of weariness, Max draped his sport coat and tie over the back of the nearest chair and then plopped onto it. “Okay. What do you quit?”
“I quit . . .” She froze. Normally she would not have waited up for him. Normally she would not have confronted him while the anger still boiled. No, normally she would not even have admitted she was angry.
Nothing about the night, though, resembled normally.
The grandfather clock struck two fifteen.
She’d had hours to figure out what she was quitting. Or had it been years?
“Look, Claire.” His patient tone exuded sympathy. “I imagine you’re upset because I missed the birthday dinner the kids had for you. Even though I’m taking you to San Francisco on Saturday, on your birthday, tonight was important. When you think about it, those four hardly ever get together anymore. They only did it for you. So it was your special time with them. You really didn’t want me here.”
“Don’t tell me what I didn’t want.” Ignoring the pathetic warble in her voice, she pressed on. “You always do that. You always
think you know what I want or how I feel.”
“I’m lost here. What are you talking about? I missed one lousy dinner.”
She shoved the throw pillow against the cushion and unfolded her legs. “It’s not that you missed one lousy dinner.” Her voice steadied. “It’s that you’ve missed thirty years of dinners and events. I can’t live like this anymore. All of a sudden, I’m tired.”
“Hon, we’re both tired. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“No, Max. I mean I’m tired. I’m tired of the whole charade.”
“How about we take a vacation? We’ll do the cruise thing again. You enjoyed that. September might work—”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “I’m tired of pretending everything is fine. I’m tired, really, of letting you off the hook. I quit. Tonight was the last straw.”
“‘The last straw’? What in the world does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” She stood on unsteady legs. “I just don’t know. But I can’t talk any more right now. I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
She sidestepped the coffee table and breezed past him, heading toward the hall.
“Claire, honey, come on.” He used his husky voice—the one with the unmistakably masculine timbre, the one that always assured her things would be all right.
She didn’t break stride.
Shaking from head to toe, Claire spread an extra blanket over the bed and climbed in. She was wearing flannel pajamas in the middle of July in Southern California, and she couldn’t get warm.
Her thoughts whirled as she stared into the dark with wide-open eyes. She’d never slept in the guest room before. She probably wouldn’t literally sleep in it tonight either.
Dear God, what just happened?
No. She couldn’t go there. Not yet. She’d wait until the sheer emotion of it dissipated. She’d wait for rational thought to return.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
A picture of the evening came to mind—the evening Max had missed. Their grown children and one son-in-law had treated her to a surprise birthday dinner. Erik, Daniel, Alexis, Jenna, and Kevin cooked and danced like five wild chefs in her kitchen. They made her laugh. They made her feel like a queen.
But in the end the scullery maid won out.
Claire rolled onto her side, curled herself up into a tight ball, and prayed for the night to end.
Two
Hunkered down outside on the patio flagstones, the area lit by spotlights, Max fiddled with his grill and swore under his breath. Things were gummed up. He rose, thumped the lid with his knuckles, raked his fingers through his hair, and swore again.
The kids had used it tonight. Specifically, Erik had used it. Or, rather, dismantled it. Their thirty-year-old son never could be trusted with anything mechanical.
Had Claire been so ticked off she refused to keep one eye on his prized possession? It wasn’t like her to ignore such things. And what was all that nonsense about quitting and pretending? Pretending what? And waltzing off to the guest room! That was a first.
He shook his head and walked across the patio. Long strides carried him toward the pool. He rounded it once, twice, and kept on going for a third.
Sure, she had a right to be upset. It was her birthday dinner with the kids, a rare occasion in recent years. He should have been there. But his workday had been scheduled long before they decided to sur-prise their mom. When business involved other people, his day was not his own. Besides, he and Claire would celebrate her real birthday in San Francisco on Saturday the seventeenth. Just that morning she had mentioned how she was looking forward to it.
To have the kids show up unannounced and fix dinner must have meant the world to her, though. Naturally, she had wanted him to share in the special event. That made sense. What he couldn’t wrap his mind around was her overreaction to his inability to get there in time. The circumstances were so far beyond his control.
Claire’s overreactions were few and far between. She understood the agency—the one they’d founded together almost thirty-three years ago—often had to be prioritized. It was the nature of the beast. She accepted his late arrivals to family functions with more grace than he deserved. At times she fussed, of course, often with a sarcasm that made him laugh. He always did his best to make up for it with gifts and special family trips. It wasn’t as if he was a totally absent husband and father.
So what was with tonight? Man, tonight wasn’t even close to being his fault! The jet had been out of commission!
He’d arrived home to find her not fussing but sitting there, coiled on the couch like a silent jaguar waiting to pounce. And here he’d spent most of the evening waiting in the private lounge at the Sacramento airport, thinking his backside was covered.
Should he go into the guest room and wake her? And do what? Apologize for the kids making plans without consulting him first?
He didn’t think so. If Claire wanted her space tonight, that was just fine with him.
Three
Claire watched the first rays of sunlight paint the distant rolling hills. She sat in the gazebo at the end of a stone path in their backyard. It was located in the farthest corner from the house—as far as she could remove herself from Max without getting in the car and driving somewhere.
Wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, bare feet propped on another cushioned wicker chair, she listened to morning birdsong and drained an entire carafe of coffee. She waited for the sun’s warm glow to invade the shadowy canyon that lay at the base of those hills.
She waited, too, she imagined, for a warm glow to seep into her own dark heart.
“Morning.” Max’s voice startled her, and she turned. He kissed the top of her head and pulled a chair from the table. “Mind?”
Well, she did. Sort of. At the sound of his voice, her stomach lurched, as if she’d eaten an entire quart of Choco-Cherry Chunk ice cream all by herself.
Rather than wait for a reply, he sat, coffee mug in hand. “The grill’s broken.” Gazing toward the sun, he sipped from the cup.
Claire stared at him, replaying his comment a few times. “The grill’s broken . . . The grill’s broken.”
Okay. So that’s where they were. Last night hadn’t happened. She could chalk it all up to just another “Max snafu”—a phrase their daughter Jenna had coined as an adolescent when she learned “snafu” was an acronym for “situation normal, all fouled up.” Max’s late arrivals and absences were a normal part of the Beaumont household. The confusion they created had become the stuff of family lore. Someday they would all laugh about Max sitting in the Sacramento airport while the kids cooked a birthday dinner for her.
Which shifted the whole point of the fun evening onto him. It made her the butt of the joke.
The ache in her stomach burned now. It rose up into her throat.
Last night had happened. Chalking it up to a “Max snafu” wouldn’t cut it this time.
“‘The grill is broken’?”
He looked at her. “Yeah, it is.”
“Oh, I believe you. I just can’t believe those were the first words out of your mouth.”
With a slight shrug, he drank from the cup and turned his head again.
His mind was elsewhere. Though he easily functioned on four hours of sleep, he wasn’t at his best before coffee. The puffiness around his eyes told her he had not slept well. His short, thick, black hair was damp. His face, with its fifty-five-year-old creases and dimple smack-dab in the center of the chin, was smooth shaven. Dressed for the office, he wore a white polo shirt and beige linen slacks. His matching jacket would be hung neatly on the back of a kitchen chair.
She should wait, catch him at a better time.
But she always did that. She always held back, measured her words, pretended everything was fine.
The burning sensation engulfed her now. She heard her own breathing, the shallow gasps. Her thoughts raced, and she could no longer contain them.
“We hav
e to talk about last night.”
He turned to her, squinting as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.
“Yes. Right now. I’ve finished off a whole pot of coffee here trying to figure out what happened. Then you sit down and right off the bat talk about the grill. Next you’re going to stand up and say you’ve got a seven-thirty meeting.”
“Well, actually—”
“Max!”
“It’s at eight o’clock.”
“Which gives us—what? Ten whole minutes to figure out our future?”
“Wait, hold on there. This sounds like a little caffeine overload to me.”
“I slept in the guest room.”
“That’s okay, Claire. You were clearly upset, and you had your reasons. No problem. Today’s a new day. Let’s just move on.”
“I can’t. I can’t shove this one under the rug.”
“There’s nothing to shove under the rug. This is our life. It always has been.”
As his voice gathered enthusiastic steam, Claire anticipated his monologue. She could have delivered it herself verbatim.
“I have a company to run, and sometimes, yes, it interferes with our private life. When you and I started the business, we knew it would have to come first. But we agreed to prevail, right? We would stay strong, because it’s such an important work. Every year thou-sands and thousands of people find jobs because of Beaumont Staffing. We impact society for the good. We make a difference in the world.”
“That commercial’s getting a little stale, don’t you think?”
His jaw fell.
“The point is right here and right now.” A mirthless chuckle erupted from her throat, an uncontrollable noise of disbelief that frightened her. Words flew off her tongue. “You sat down and talked about the grill. Good grief, I’m playing second fiddle to a grill! And now I know exactly what happened last night. When I said I’m tired of the charade, I meant I won’t play second fiddle to the company. Yes, we agreed ages ago that it would interfere with our private lives, and we would prevail. But, Max, we have prevailed. We’ve made it to the point where the business doesn’t need to interfere anymore. It’s no longer fighting for its life. And neither is it tripling in size. It doesn’t need your attention day and night.”
“I missed dinner because the plane broke down.”