Leave It to Claire Read Free Page A

the question with her next sentence. “I hope you don’t think this is inappropriate of me, but…”
    Oh, brother. Here it comes.
“I’m a member of Weight Watchers… Low Carbers… Weigh Down…”
You name it, I’ve heard it. Well-meaning ladies who honestly feel that inviting me to a weight-loss class is just the thing.
     After all, I have such a pretty face.
    My defenses are rising and I want to cut her off before she even has a chance to say anything. Instead, I take the less-than-truthful-but-necessary-for-my-reputation
     approach. “No, you’re not bothering me at all.”
    Not so friendly as to invite conversation, but not so rude that she can spread the word about what a snob the published author
     is.
    Instead of getting to the point, she clears her throat and looks toward the building. “I notice you didn’t let her wear the
     crop top.” She inclines her head toward the group of cheerleaders still milling around the doorway to the gym.
    I relish the approval in this virtual stranger’s face and give a superior laugh at her observation. “Not in my lifetime.”
    She nods in agreement, and again I’m feeling an unusual sense of camaraderie with this stranger. “Trish threw a fit, but I
     told her either she could wear the old top or they could have a crooked pyramid.”
    I give a weak laugh. It’s the best I can do. Funny how you think you’re the only one with quick wit—your one claim to self-worth—only
     to find there’s a Linda Myers in town who is not only beautiful
but
thinks up the exact same jokes. How can that be fair?
    “Anyway,” Trish’s mom is saying, “I’m so glad I caught you. I’ve tried to call several times but can never seem to get an
     answer.”
    Not that I’d tell her this, but that’s largely because I never answer my phone. As a matter of fact, it stays unplugged most
     of the time. Drives my mom perfectly nuts. But it’s the only way I can write without being interrupted every fifteen minutes.
     People inevitably believe if I’m home, I’m available. That’s the drawback to working at home.
    I don’t unplug the phone to be hateful; it’s a matter of self-preservation. Gotta meet those deadlines or we’ll be eating
     government cheese.
    Still, this lady isn’t one of my regular callers and I really don’t have a good reason to hold a grudge against her for something
     other people do. Besides, she seems sort of sweet and genuine. So I smile for real. “I’m so sorry I missed your calls. What
     can I do for you?”
    “It was nothing, really. I just… Mainly I wanted to thank you for your last book.
Tobey’s Choice
.”
    Well, then… Maybe I should give her my cell phone number, because if we’re going to talk about my books I can talk all
     night.
    Only, she has tears streaming down her face. I feel this is more than an average fan gusher. I sense the Holy Spirit leading
     me to be still and listen. To get over myself for once. This is not all about me. Sufficiently chastised, I get a grip and
     cover the hand she has placed on the halfway-down window. “I’m so glad you enjoyed the book,” I say, in order to encourage
     her to continue.
    She gulps. “I—I could so relate to her. My husband did the same… Well, reading your book gave me the strength to confront
     him. God is healing our marriage and I want to thank you for listening to Him and writing what I needed to hear.”
    Tears fill my eyes. I say a little prayer aloud right there in the circle drive of Jefferson High School, heedless of the
     watchers. God has performed a miracle.
    Moments later I leave the school behind, all thoughts of Dr. Phil pushed firmly to somewhere in the back of my mind. Who needs
     that guy when God is in the office?
    I drive home on autopilot. Humbled. Thoughtful.
    Feeling like an utter hypocrite.
    Tobey’s Choice
. My book about forgiveness. My heroine’s cheating husband didn’t deserve a second chance. I wanted to kill him off—after
     Tobey did the