Chapter 1 : Part 1

Leave It to Claire
by Tracey Bateman

Unexpected surgery drags Claire Everett, single mother and writer, away from her computer and back into the real world. During her recovery, she faces how disconnected she has become while immersed in her career. As she has been toiling on her fiction, her kids have grown distant, her mother has decided to move away, and her life has spiraled out of control.

Scrambling to get her footing, Claire invents a six steps to a better life game plan, determined to renovate everything and everyone around her. Family movie nights, commitment to Bible study, determination to try to exercise, and the recognition that she must reconnect with people outside of cyberspace fuel her personal whole-life makeover.

But can Claire fix her family and herself? Will her plan help her to salvage old relationships and avoid sabotaging new ones? Or, will she realize that sometimes the only way to truly grow is to let go of her own plans and embrace God's?

Chapter 1

When I'm sitting in front of the computer, time means nothing to me. Whether I'm staring blindly at the screen, praying without ceasing as I beg God to take away writer's block, or whether I'm on a roll, burning up my keyboard as the words pour forth-like I just won an Oscar and this is my list of people to thank. I completely lose my sense of time and space and go on and on, oblivious to the orchestra playing "Get off the stage!" Or in this case, oblivious to the fact that my daughter is about to go ballistic because I forgot she needed a ride. Like five minutes ago.

"Come on, Mom! If you don't get down here, I'm going to miss kickoff."

I picture Ari downstairs in her cheerleading outfit, and I feel anxiety building. I don't want to be the one to make her late. I'd never, ever hear the end of it.

"Hang on!" I call down, hoping to buy a little time. "Just a couple more minutes, and I'm all yours." After two full days of writer's block, I'm finally on a roll.

The characters in my latest novel opened up to me today and started living out the story faster than I could type. "Time's ticking away, Ma. Are you coming?" Sheesh. What does "Hang on" mean?

My jaw clenches. Interruptions drive me crazy. Especially now, when my hunky, albeit reluctant, hero Blaine Tyler is making his long-awaited move.

My novel-which, really, should have been on my editor's desk two weeks ago-is finally wrapping up. The romance is coming together just like every romance should (only I was starting to worry that this one wouldn't). And Ari is worried about kickoff?

In a few well-placed words, Esmeralda is going to get the kiss of a lifetime. Her toes will curl, her pulse will race, she'll feel things in her stomach she's never felt before-although if I were Esmeralda, I would have stopped waiting for Blaine a long time ago and either made the first move myself or started dating Raoul, the pool guy. But that's just me. My faithful readers want that happy ending, and Blaine's the one with the steady job, so . . . "Mo-om."

"Sheesh. Okay, already," I yell down to my impatient offspring. "And we do not raise our voices in this house, young lady!"

Duty calls.

I push away from my desk, rereading the last sentence as I stand. How can I bear to leave them like this? Blaine's hand cups Esmeralda's flushed cheek as he lovingly moves in for the . . .

"Fine, Mom. I'll walk." Never thought I'd say this, but I can't wait until that girl gets her driver's license.

I sigh. Yeah, I really do, just like a breathy character in one of my novels. I punch Ctrl+S to save my work. Blaine's waited this long, I guess he can hold that pucker for twenty more minutes until I get back. Then I'm wrapping up this last draft, taking two days-tops-to read over all four hundred manuscript pages, and off it goes to my longsuffering editor.

I'm still muttering as I slide my feet into leopard-spotted slippers and yank my jacket from the coatrack. I jerk down the stairs, every inch the martyr, and find my daughter in the kitchen, pacing like a caged dog. She pauses mid-step and stares, her eyes alight with horror-like she's Janet Leigh and the shower curtain just opened. What?

"Mo-ther." She gives me an exasperated huff to show me she cannot believe how few brains-if any-I actually have. "Please tell me you're not going to wear that."

I look down at my outfit. A pair of SpongeBob SquarePants loungies that I slept in last night and a fiveyear- old faded blue long-john shirt my ex left when he moved out.

Okay, she might have a tiny point. But that teenage expression of utter disdain is just begging to be wiped off her face. I grin. "What's the problem?" Sometimes I just can't help myself.

Rolling her eyes, she huffs to the door. "Fine, but just drop me off in front of the school. No, at the side, okay?" "Fine." I sling my purse over my shoulder. The strap immediately starts to slide. I end up dangling it from the crook of my elbow. I hate that. I'm turning into my mother. Before long, I'll have blue hair and false teeth and be calling everyone "honey." It's okay for her. But I'm not ready for the association. People already tell me how much I look like my mom-like that's supposed to be a compliment. I'm so glad they think I could be a twin to a seventy-year-old.

No woman under forty, especially me, wants to believe she's going to look like her mother one day. But denial notwithstanding, every time I pass a mirror, I say hi to Mom.

Ari gives me another once-over (clueless to the fact that in twenty years she's me). I snatch the keys from the counter. She rolls her eyes again. This time at the slippers. But at the end of a great writing day, I'm way past caring what a fifteen-year-old considers acceptable attire. On me, anyway.

I do, however, care what she considers acceptable on her own body. And I think we've just hit an impasse. I'm looking at a good two inches of skin between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her cheerleading skirt. Mentally, I fast forward thirty minutes to when her arms (and consequently her shirt) will lift during a "Go, fight, team" cheer. Yeah, I'm thinking, no way, José.

Copyright © 2006 by Tracey Bateman

About the Author

Tracey Bateman is a slightly neurotic mother of four, wife of one, and owner of three dogs, two blue bloods and one mutt (the mutt is the only one who will come to her when called). Lifetime movies, chunky monkey ice cream, and frantic late night Instant message chats with friends, who are only slightly less neurotic, keep her moving forward when deadlines loom and insanity is nipping at the heels of her mind. When not franticly pressing toward deadlines, Lifetime movies, chunky monkey ice cream and frantic late night instant message chats with pals give her inspiration for the next project. Being president of American Christian Fiction Writers gives her the chance to give back to a community of writers who have helped shape her career and her writing style.