Help Wanted (13 page)

Again, Paul frowned at her, then nodded.

Remembering the promise she had made to Claire to preserve her anonymity, she smiled and sighed. "Never mind."

*   *   *

Claire had one more reviewer's set of comments to incorporate into one of the manuals she was updating. It was nearly 5:50 before she was finished. Having lost track of the time, she called home to let them know she was running late, and got Luke. Their conversation was cryptic.

"Hey, hon. Is Dad home?"

"No," her completely bored fifteen-year-old replied.

"Huh. Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know when he's coming back?"

"No."

"Ok, thanks. I'll try his cell."

"He won't answer."

"Why not?"

"It's sitting here on the counter, charging."

"Ah! Well, I just wanted to let you guys know that I was going to be late tonight. There should be pizzas in the freezer for dinner."

"Ok, thanks."

"Hey, is everybody all right?"

"Yeah. No worries. Bye."

"Oh. Ok, bye, hon."

Claire hung up feeling a little unsettled. She was just about to hit the key that would send her newly generated, uneditable files to the review team, when she got an instant message from one of the engineers containing a link to a new software load and an explanation that his latest bug fix would mean a change to the user interface—which would affect just about every screen shot she had just put into the manuals.

"You're killin' me," she said, not caring that a few people were still working.

Despite her better judgment, she got up and went to see if Amanda was still there, hoping for an extra pair of eyes to check her rushed work. When she saw that Amanda's lights and PC were dark, she went back to her desk and started the tedious work ahead of her—accessing her source files and replacing the screen shots, one by one, as quickly as she could, with the new image.

Once that was done, she would have to regenerate the files and load them into a compressed zip folder, then ready them for distribution to the team. She worked at a furious pace, oblivious to the time. When she was finally finished, she hit the "Send" button on her email, yawned, stretched, and shut down her computer.

Stepping outside, she was stunned to see that it was already dark, and looked at her watch. It was 9:15. If she ran, she could catch the 9:40. If she missed that, she had to wait until 10:40. Arriving at the station red faced and winded, she ran out onto the platform and asked a pair of conductors chatting nearby, "Nine forty to Ravenswood?"

"Number four," they responded in unison.

She sprinted to the train, found a seat in the nearly empty car, and phoned home.

"Hey, stranger," Paul answered.

"I'm just leaving downtown now."

"Oh man. Long day, huh?"

Claire glanced at her phone to be sure she dialed the right number.

"Yep. How's everybody?"

"Oh, we're fine. Just be careful coming home. We'll see you when you get here. Well, the guys will be in bed, but I'll wait up for ya."

Who are you and what have you done with my indifferent, financially myopic husband?

"Uh, see ya."

What's with him?

In all her years of working late at a job she hated, Paul never offered to wait up for her. Not once.

So weird.

Well, whatever he was up to, she wasn't falling for it. Knowing full well her contract job was temporary, she'd be crazy to sacrifice her shot at being a full-time advice columnist just because he still wasn't ready to go back to work when the time came.

No siree, bub.

As her train hummed along, Claire thought for a moment about checking the Plate Spinner's inbox. Taking a deep breath, she logged on to the Pandora's box that was Mattie's old email address.

Never sure what she'd find, one thing was certain—her readers had an uncanny way of making her feel better about her own life, no matter how bad she thought she had it. Why just in the past week alone, she got letters asking:

My husband has let himself go—what should I do?

My wife has let herself go—what should I do?

I got laid off, and my wife isn't being supportive—what should I do?

I feel as if my family takes me for granted.

My spouse constantly countermands me in front of the kids.

She let out a long sigh. Her deadline at her job was fast approaching, and it seemed she couldn't dole out advice fast enough. Never in her life had she felt so exhausted. Her head rolled against the back of her seat.  

In what seemed like a second later, from very far away, she heard someone call out, "Ravenswood. Next stop, Ravenswood." Then the voice went away for a while, but soon she felt pressure on her shoulder, and that voice again, this time much closer.

"Ravenswood!"

Claire started. "Huh?" She wiped the drool that had started down the side of her mouth while she slept and looked out the window. The train was not moving. She looked up into the lined face of the conductor smiling down at her. "Long day?"

"Yeah. Thanks." She gathered her bag and got up to exit the train. "Thanks a lot," she called back to him.

The cold air was invigorating. Glad she parked her car under a streetlight, she approached it quickly with her car keys placed between each of her clenched knuckles, a trick she learned from a self-defense class she took in college. Getting into her car and locking the doors, she sped out onto the street and made her way home. She was hoping to squeeze at least five hours worth of zzz's in before starting all over again in the morning.

Closing the back door quietly behind her, she left her backpack and coat in the mudroom and found Paul stretched out on the couch, dozing with ESPN playing silently on the flat screen TV over the fireplace.

She looked down at him. He had one arm behind his head, and the other lay at his side. His flannel shirt, rolled up at the cuffs, was untucked and unbuttoned, revealing a white T-shirt underneath. His jean-clad legs were crossed at the ankles.

Dang.

Turning off the TV, she watched him sleep, so glad she wasn't in the same boat as "Enabling in Elmhurst," who had asked for advice on what to do about her junk-food addicted chubby hubby.

Suddenly, it was everything she could do not to lean down and press her lips against his.

He wouldn't even know.

She carefully sat on the little bit of couch that his—let's face it—magnificent body was not occupying and leaned over him. Just as she was about to make contact, his big browns opened, and he gave her a drowsy smile.

Standing up rod straight, she asked, "Ready for bed?" 

He looked up at her a minute before responding. "I'll just stay down here tonight." He pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and started draping it over his legs.

"Well, ok then."

She had every intention of heading upstairs, but something kept her cemented to the spot.

After he fluffed the pillow under his head, he studied her with an expression of amused confusion. Scooting over a bit, he asked, "Care to join me?"

Do it. Say yes. Get in there. What are you waiting for?

Claire blinked. "What? Oh, no." She motioned toward the stairway. "I should, uh, get up to bed."

"Suit yourself."

When, still, she didn't move, he raised an eyebrow. "Good-night, Imp."

Something in his tone and that dangerous glint in his eyes told her getting five hours of zzz's alone in her bed, while infinitely safer, would be far less fun, tantalizing, steamy, satisfying.

She narrowed her eyes and bit her bottom lip.

She just had to hold out for a few more weeks to find out if he was ready to step up on the job front. She just had to.

Call me crazy.

"Good-night."

She turned and tromped upstairs, settling in for what proved to be a futile attempt to catch those zzz's.

"I have yet to hear a man ask for advice on how to combine marriage and a career." —Gloria Steinem

On the weekend before Halloween, Claire spotted the three younger boys poring through a local costume shop's ad. Reflexively, she did the same thing she did every year before slapping down a ridiculous sum of money for an overpriced getup—she pulled out the big bag of old, retired costumes to see what could be recycled into something wearable for one more round of trick or treating.  

With the boys surrounding her, she pulled out the first costume selection and announced with a small degree of flourish, "And this year, we have a ghoul!"

She unfurled the gruesome black polyester gown with tapered sleeves before them.

"No. Too scary," Jonah reasoned.

"I'll take it," Marc offered, adding that he would need new batteries for the light-up bloody eyeball glasses that went with it.

"You can have it," Tomas muttered, never caring for the frightening aspect of the day.

"Deal," Claire answered as she plunged her hand back in the bag and pulled out a dinosaur costume complete with a stuffed tail.

"That's mine," Jonah shouted.

"No, honey, you're too big for that one. How about, let's see, um, Tomas. How'd you like to be a knight?"

With a bored shrug, he replied, "All right."

Claire's heart sank.

"What's the matter? Luke wore this. It's a cool costume."

"Yeah, but I can't bring the sword to school."

"True, but you can bring it trick or treating."

His face brightened. "All right."

Claire looked at Jonah, still standing expectantly, about to burst with excitement.

"My turn."

Smiling, she reached into the bag, "You, young man, have the most choices of all. You can be a fireman…"

"No."

"Ok, how about a ghost?"

Jonah considered this, then on realizing his face would be covered, held his hands out in protest and said, "No way."

"Cowboy?"

"I was that last year."

"Oh, right. Sorry. Ok, pal"—she started digging deeper into the bag—"well, that leaves, let's see…a pirate?"

"That's perfect!" he shrieked as he reached for the hat.

"You realize, of course, that you'll have to wear an earring and be willing to let me safety pin a stuffed parrot on your shoulder?" Claire confirmed.

"Yeah, Mom, of course. Just like Tomas did. This is perfect," he repeated and threw his arms around her in a hug. "Promise you'll come to the costume parade."

Feigning disappointment, Claire looked into his sweet face and broke the bad news. "Honey, Halloween falls on a Sunday this year."

"That's all right. The parade is on the Friday before."

Rats.

At the end of her rope, she used the one response she always hated hearing from her own mother, "We'll see."

Thankfully, Jonah was too young to know that the translation for this oft-used phrase was, "Not gonna happen."

Relieved that this year's holiday would only cost her a pack of batteries and a bag or two of candy, Claire made a sign of the cross, said a quick "Thank you," and threw the bag of rejected costumes into the back of the closet.

Paul, in the meantime, had gone to watch Luke run in his cross-country regional meet. Knowing that they would be gone for most of the day, Claire headed outside to watch as her three youngest sons rode their bikes up and down the block in the late morning sun, checking to see if any of their friends were out and about. Not comfortable just sitting and relaxing on her front porch steps, she went inside to retrieve her laptop.

Before she knew it, she had completed one column and drafted another. When the mail truck pulled up, Marc hopped off his bike, ran over and grabbed envelopes from the mail carrier, and then sprinted up the stairs to hand them to Claire.

"Thanks, sweetie."

Rarely home to get the mail, she relished going through it. A couple of utility bills, and a complimentary copy of
AARP
The Magazine
for Ruth Watford, the previous owner of their house.

Satisfied, she returned to the kitchen to figure out what to make for dinner before venturing back out the front door to see what had become of her sons.

Looking up the street, she noticed that Patty Dupree, an Atlanta native, was talking to Allison Sinclair a few doors down. Claire shuddered, never having gotten over an encounter with the latter several years back when their two older boys were still in daycare.

Arriving home after a particularly long day, Claire had slammed her car door shut and, glancing down at her leg, had noticed the run in her nylons that must have been in plain sight throughout her afternoon presentation in front of the entire executive management team.

That's. Just. Perfect.

She'd scooped Luke, just a toddler at the time, out of the backseat while Paul grabbed Marc, still in his infant seat, from the other side. As they turned to approach the front door, there had been Allison, blocking their path.

With her hands resting on the handle of her top-of-the-line baby stroller, she had slowly arched her back, emitted a groan, and purred, "Wow, I just can't imagine paying someone else to raise my kids."

Letting out a defeated sigh, Claire had begun formulating a sharp retort, and would have done—if only Luke hadn't wiggled out of her arms, causing the contents of her briefcase to spill out onto their driveway. She'd muttered an expletive and started shoving her staff's performance evaluations back into place while he made a beeline for a bouncy ball he spotted on their front porch.

That's when Paul had done just about the sexiest thing ever. In a suit and tie.

He'd come to her rescue.

Setting Marc on the grass, he'd dropped down on one knee to help Claire scoop up her papers while muttering under his breath, "Like she doesn't have anything better to do than watch for you to come home so she could come out here and tell you that. She oughtta go home and polish her knife collection."

Talk about hot. Nine months later, we had Tomas.