Help Wanted (7 page)

After swallowing, she asked, "What are you going to make?"

At this, Paul, who had been shooting her curious glances during this entire exchange, laughed out loud. "I'm not cooking anything. The parents volunteer to bring everything—pasta, salad, bread, water, fruit. It's all taken care of."

Seeing that everyone had finished eating, he announced, "Marc and Tomas. It's your turn to clear and wash tonight. Luke, homework. Jonah, lay out your clothes for tomorrow and pick out a book for bedtime."

Try as she might, Claire still couldn't manage to keep the thrill of a potential new career opportunity at bay. Apparently, Paul noticed.

"What's with you?" he asked, sounding more annoyed than inquisitive.

"What?"

"It doesn't faze you in the least that we're about to be invaded by sixty boys?"

"Please. We already have four. What's fifty-six more?"

Paul stood and picked up his empty plate. Pointing to hers, he asked, "Finished?"

She shoved it toward him. "Thanks. That was good."

After rinsing them off and placing them in the dishwasher, he returned to his seat at the table with a stack of recently clipped coupons in one hand and a little collapsible coupon holder in the other.

 "Seriously, what's with you today?" he asked as he started categorizing the clipped coupons into neat little stacks on the table before him, squinting carefully at each one before placing it in the correct pile and tossing any that had expired.

Knowing full well she should tell him about her interview, she just wasn't sure how to do it without sacrificing her good mood in the process.

Stop stalling.

"Listen, I've got an interview first thing tomorrow morning. Shouldn't take long."

Her insides contracted, bracing for the argument she was sure would follow.

Paul's head shot up. "Oh? Where?"

"Downtown."

When she said nothing more, he asked, "Permanent or temporary?" 

Claire frowned. "I'm not sure."  

His narrowed eyes shot a question at her. "How can you not know?"

Then he ventured, "Is it a start-up?"

Biting her lower lip, she raised her eyebrows and answered brightly, "No, actually. It's a newspaper."

When Paul didn't respond right away, she could feel her happy mood dissipating faster than a one-pound box of Frango Mints at a Weight Watchers meeting.

"Doing what?" he finally asked.

"Something I think I'd really like," she replied, making quotation marks around the last two words.

"Yeah, but how much does it pay?" he asked flatly.

"Don't know. I'll find out more tomorrow."

Paul stood and went upstairs.

Here we go.

She followed him into the office and closed the door so the boys wouldn't overhear. Paul was sitting in the desk chair rifling through the top drawer of the file cabinet.

Leaning against the arm of the recliner, Claire asked, "What are you looking for?"

When he didn't respond, her already low reserve of patience abandoned her altogether. "Please be ok with this."

Nice.

In that one statement, she skipped reason and went directly to begging.

Head bent over his files, he responded, "With what?"

"With me doing the kind of writing I want to do."

He pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and handed it to her. It was a printout of a spreadsheet.

"And this is…?"

"Our monthly expenses."

As her eyes grazed the piece of paper, she recited the categories listed aloud, the irritation growing in her voice with each one. "Groceries, mortgage, clothing, school expense, electric, gas, cable, car repairs, and house expense."

She looked at him expectantly. "So you track every dime we spend. To the penny."

He reached over and pointed. "That total at the bottom? That's how much we spend each month. I don't know what reporters make, but I'm guessing it's not gonna cover that."

Claire stared at the figure, frustration welling up inside of her. Fighting the urge to wad up the piece of paper and pelt him with it, she shoved it back into the folder, not caring if she jammed, wrinkled, or tore it, and slammed the file drawer closed with a bang.

"Hey." Paul jerked his knee away just in time. He shot an angry glare in her direction.

Just wanted to level the playing field. 

"Well, if you hadn't—" she started.

"Hadn't what?" he prompted, his mouth in a tight line as if he already knew what she would say.

"Lost our nest egg."

There. She'd said it. Out loud.

Dredging up the unfortunate chain of events during which his stock portfolio evaporated before he could reinvest it was a cheap shot. He had always referred to it as their "nest egg." Before he knew it, they went from contemplating paying off their hefty mortgage to trying desperately to reclaim some of its lost value from federal regulators.

His expression was a mixture of shock and defeat. "Really. Wow."

She felt awful, as if she had just kicked a kitten.

"Please understand," she said about a thousand times softer as she laid her hand tentatively on his arm. "This might be my only chance to be a real writer." 

Her voice sounded as small as she felt.

Looking in the direction of the wall behind her, Paul replied, "I don't know what more to tell you."

With that, he got up and went back downstairs, leaving her in the fading light of the office-slash-man cave. Uncomfortable under the admonishing glares of Michael Jordan and Walter Payton, she headed to Jonah's room to help him pick out a bedtime book, grateful that she didn't have to recite any stupid fairy-tale lies.

*   *   *

The next morning, Paul had no sooner gotten back home after dropping everyone off at school than Luke called to tell him he needed a pair of running spikes for practice after school. That was the only reason he found himself kneeling in front of a small mountain of shoes piled high in the bedroom closet of his two youngest sons. Some had belonged to the older two boys, but one pair had belonged to him.

He started removing the shoes a pair at a time. With vigor.

By the time he had gotten back from his run that morning, Claire was already gone, presumably on her interview at the newspaper. He had no idea which one. While he knew there were about a dozen better ways he could have reacted to her news the night before, her asking where she could find their marriage license was, to say the least, a low blow. What she intended to do with it, besides riling him, he had no idea. 

He nearly fell over backward when he tugged out a beaten-up pair of black running spikes with a jerk. Holding the bottom of one up against a newer running shoe of Luke's to check the size, he was relieved to see that it was a perfect match.

Yes.

Paul set them to the side and started returning the other old shoes to the closet, weeding out any that were too small for Jonah or too beat up for anyone else to wear again. When he was finished, he gathered the discarded shoes and carried them out to the garage. After dumping them in the garbage can, he secured the lid and looked around.

"What else can I get rid of…?" he asked out loud as dust bunnies swirled in the stream of sunshine coming in through the opened door.

His eyes fell on a gray plastic storage bin sitting under the tool bench. Swatting at the cobwebs that clung to its plastic edges, he dragged it to an open space and snapped the lid off. A pair of black glass eyes sewn on a cloth face surrounded by red yarn stared up at him. He picked up the doll and examined it.

Everything in the bin seemed to belong to Claire. Under the doll was a collection of paperbacks. Pulling out a few, he read the titles as he stacked them nearby. "
Harriet the Spy
,
Caddie Woodlawn
,
Witch of Blackberry Pond
,
The Great Gatsby
,
Mr. Blue
,
To Kill a Mockingbird
."

Next came what appeared to be a photo album. When he opened it, two pictures slipped to the garage floor. Paul sat on the cool cement and examined each. In one, Claire must have been four or five, scowling as she stood next to Kate in front of a Christmas tree. They were in matching party dresses and both looked as if they had just been scolded to stand still. Paul recognized that look all too well from his many failed attempts to get a group shot of the boys for Christmas card photos.

The other picture was of Claire at her college graduation, wearing a cap and gown and an I-did-it grin plastered on her exultant face.

Holding it close so he could better examine it, Paul smiled back at the image and whispered, "There's my girl."

Peering into the box, he pulled out her yearbooks and rifled through some old letters and greeting cards before he pulled out what looked like a page from a magazine that had been folded down to a two-square-inch cube. He opened it carefully, not sure what he'd find.

Smoothing it out on the garage floor in front of him, he saw that it was a full-page ad for a jewelry store with a half dozen different engagement rings and wedding band sets circling around the words "Diamonds by Delbert."

One of the wedding band sets, he couldn't help but notice, had been circled several times with red ink. Little hand-drawn hearts drifted above it.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

A dark cloud settled over him as he recalled the disappointment in Claire's face when he'd explained that he thought they should stick with simple gold bands so they could pay off their debt that much quicker. It was the same reasoning he'd used to convince her that they could do without a honeymoon too.

No wonder she's miserable.

Folding it neatly back into its square shape, he was about to return it to the bin, when he noticed a beat-up red folder that was stuffed with loose-leaf paper covered in handwriting and computer paper covered in twelve-point Times New Roman, double-spaced. In the upper right corner of the folder were the words "Advanced Creative Writing."

Her favorite class.

Like a light bulb illuminating his dusty memory banks, the deal Claire had referred to during their most recent argument came to mind with stunning clarity. They had been in his Old Town apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the morning sun and the noise of the Brown Line train as it rattled by on its way to Lincoln Park and points north. The sheets were tangled all around them as they struggled to catch their breath, and he remembered feeling nothing short of charmed. He had just landed a plum position at Creiger Capital, and the girl of his dreams had just agreed to spend the rest of her life with him. He was walking on air. They had their whole lives in front of them and spent those lazy, post-passion minutes putting words to their deepest dreams and desires.

The memory of it choked him with a yearning he had tucked away in a failed effort to guard his heart against any further damage.

He took a deep breath and carefully opened the folder. In the left-hand pocket was a typed assignment sheet with a description:

"Write two obituaries. In the first, write one for the life you hope to lead. For the second, write one for a life you would dread. Determine which was easier to write, and be prepared to discuss why.—Professor Natasha Duncan, Central Illinois University."

Pulling out a sheet, from the right-hand folder pocket, that was filled with her large block-letter print handwriting, he saw one word at the top: "Obituaries." Two paragraphs followed.

Oblivious to the time or the noise from a neighbor's lawn mower, Paul read: "Claire Elizabeth Nelson—Best-selling author, world traveler, philanthropist, died of natural causes in her London penthouse, surrounded by friends and admirers. Born in Chicago, Illinois, to Burt and Louise Nelson, Ms. Nelson graduated from Central Illinois University and quickly became a literary sensation with her first effort, entitled,
As Seen through Leaves
, which was later turned into the classic film of the same name. Her twelfth novel,
Lullabies and Lilies
," earned her the Nobel Prize in literature. Never marrying, Ms. Nelson was romantically involved with a number of celebrities and dignitaries. She is survived by her sister, award-winning photographer, Kate (Gordon) Nelson-Sumner, four nephews, and several grandnieces and nephews. A private memorial is planned."

Next to this one, Claire had written the word "DREAM" in all caps.

Paul kept reading.

"Claire Elizabeth (Nelson) Schlepinski—Devoted wife and mother of twelve children, PTA and garden club member, and beloved sister of Kate (Gordon) Sumner, died of exhaustion and a broken spirit alone in aisle seven of the A&P while buying diapers for her youngest and a case of Schlitz for her husband of sixteen years, Ralph, manager of a Blitzies Burgers franchise. Funeral Mass will be held at St. Gertrude's, followed by a private burial at Old Souls Cemetery."

Next to this one, Claire had scrawled "DREAD" in all caps. And underlined it twice.

*   *   *

Dianne looked at her watch and shifted in her seat facing Lester Crenshaw's desk, behind which he was still not sitting. The publisher's habit of ordering people to his office while he himself was not there was wearing on Dianne's already short supply of patience.

"I've got a possible replacement for Mattie," he had announced. "Meet me in my office in ten minutes."

That was twenty minutes ago.

Since Mattie's very public outing a few months back, during which her readers learned that the beloved working parent advice columnist was actually single and childless, the pressure was on to line up a replacement. An authentically married-with-kids replacement who could sling snark with the best of them.

"Hey there, Di. Thanks for coming." Lester, a man in his mid-fifties, graying but fit, patted Dianne on the shoulder before settling into the leather chair behind his desk.

She managed a forced smile. "I've been sitting here for ten minutes. If you don't think I have anything better to do with my time, you are sadly mistaken."