Help Wanted (8 page)

"Listen," Lester started, completely ignoring what she had just said. "I want to throw something by you. Nothing's set in stone, but what would you say to reinstating Carlotta as the Plate Spinner?"

Dianne, still demonstrating impressive restraint, sat on the edge of her chair, folded her hands in her lap, and said, "Over my dead body. Besides, she's not even married." Remembering that she was addressing Carlotta's ex, she added, "Anymore, that is."

Lester put his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands together. "Listen. I'll be the first to admit that before Mattie took it over, the column had gotten a little, uh, stale, irrelevant. But I gotta tell ya, Carlotta's been breathing down my neck about coming back ever since she heard Mattie's looking to move on to something else after the marathon."

Di remained silent but leaned forward and continued to look him in the eye.

After a long pause, he relented. "All right, all right. I'll"—he pulled at the collar of his shirt and winced—"I'll tell her."

Pointing his finger at Dianne, he continued, "But you'd better make damn sure whoever you hire is every bit the writer that Mattie is." 

"Actually," Dianne started with a wry smile, "I've got a writer coming in this morning who I believe will be a great fit."

What she didn't say out loud was, "As long as she can cough up a marriage license and her kids' birth certificates."

Lester drew a deep breath in through his nostrils, pressed his lips together, and placed his hands palms down on his desk. "I sure as hell hope so."

Leaning forward, the savvy editor placed both of her hands palms down on his desk and said, "Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

She got up to leave. As she started for the door, she heard Les mumble, "She's gonna make my life a living hell." 

Assuming he was referring to his ex-wife, she let the words hang in the air behind her as she walked out of his office.

*   *   *

Claire arrived at the
Gazette
building's lobby fifteen minutes prior to her interview. Once there, she paced back and forth, blending in with the sightseers reading the famous quotes on free speech inscribed on the walls. She absorbed the inspiration like a camel does water. So much was riding on the next hour of her life that she could barely swallow. She couldn't even manage any breakfast that morning. Unlike other job interviews in which she would vie for a decent salary and benefits, this position held captive a shot at her dream.

Checking her watch, she drew a deep breath and exhaled. Five minutes later, she found herself standing across the desk from Dianne Devane, a stylishly dressed middle-aged woman who appeared to be in a tremendous hurry. On introducing herself, Claire watched as she stood, extended her hand, and said, "Call me Di. Everyone does."

Claire returned a somewhat awkward "Hi, Di" and sat in the chair facing her desk.

Di spoke as quickly in person as she had on the phone two days earlier.

"So, tell me a little about yourself. Mattie showed me your responses. You know this is a freelance job, right? I mean, it may turn into something permanent down the road, but time will tell. Did you bring a copy of your marriage license and your children's birth certificates?"

Claire leaned forward in her chair and handed Dianne a manila folder containing the requested documents. If Paul didn't embrace the idea of her going on this interview, that she asked where she could find their marriage license probably hadn't helped matters.

While the editor scanned each one, Claire asked, "With all due respect, can I ask why you wanted to see these? Granted, it's been a while since I've been on an interview, but I'm pretty sure I didn't have to provide proof of my marital status nor my children's legitimacy."

Dianne looked at her over the top of her reading glasses. "We just need to make sure the next Plate Spinner we hire is actually married and has kids, that's all. A formality, really."

For a moment, Claire held her breath, afraid the editor would add the caveat, "happily married."

Redirecting her gaze to the documents, Dianne exclaimed with a smile, "Four boys? Really?"

Whew.

 "No wonder you're looking for a job outside of the house."

Claire's relief was short lived. Arching an eyebrow, she announced, "Ms. Devane, I'll have you know I've spent the past sixteen years in the corporate sector. My husband is a"—she paused and took a deep breath as if she were about to reveal a drinking problem or gambling addiction—"well, he's the stay-at-home parent."

Dianne's face lit up as she exclaimed, "Even better. We're looking for an authentic Plate Spinner. Someone who's actually slaving away in the working parent trenches day in and day out."

Claire pictured herself in a WWI uniform, carrying a bayonet on one shoulder and her briefcase in her hand as she marched the length of a muddy trench while her boys sat in the foxhole playing video games and texting their friends.

Returning the documents to the manila folder, Dianne handed it back to Claire with a smile. "Think you could manage two columns a week? Five hundred to seven hundred and fifty words a piece. Flat rate for each submission?"

Feeling as if she had just been thrust into suspended animation, Claire forced herself to don a contemplative expression.

Think, think, think…

She wasn't ready. She hadn't thought this through.

"Uh, well, that depends," she started.

A crease appeared between Dianne's perfectly shaped eyebrows, and Claire asked, "What's the rate?"

"Two-fifty per submission, to start."

Claire narrowed her eyes.

Crap. Paul was right about the pay. And no benefits.

Not only was she clueless as to the going rate for freelance journalists, as much as she hated to admit it, she didn't have Paul's calculator-like brain. She suddenly wished he was there with her.

Let's see. My old salary divided by fifty-two, divided by forty…

A wave of guilt started to wash over her, but she pushed it back by blurting, "Make it three hundred per submission, and we have a deal."

Again, Dianne opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Claire added, "And I have one condition."

The editor raised both eyebrows so high they became invisible under her trendy, short-cropped bangs. "A condition?"

Claire nodded once. "My name can't be attached to it. At all."

"And why's that?"

Ready with an argument that readers would be drawn more to an anonymous figure than an actual person, she was taken aback when the editor asked with a wary expression, "Say, you're not a fugitive, are you?"

Letting out a hearty laugh, Claire leaned forward and started explaining. "No, but here's the thing…" 

When she had finished the story about Paul's resistance to her taking a freelance position coupled with her desire to build their nest egg back up again as a surprise for him, Dianne held her manicured hand to her chest.

"How romantic. No really. That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard. I mean, it's not diamonds and roses, but still."

She glanced at a text she had just received and then looked back at Claire.

"Ok. I'm in. I've got your back."

Relieved, Claire nodded. "Thanks."

"Think you can have your first piece to me by next Monday? I'd like to get the format back to what it had been before Mattie started training. Advice, anecdotes, recipes. In the meantime, she'll wrap up her marathon training assignment and can segue over to Metro."

A grateful smile cracked across Claire's face for the first time in a very long time. She tried not to gush but couldn't hold it back. "Really? Sure. I mean, yes, I can get my first column to you by next Monday. Absolutely."

Returning her smile, Dianne instructed, "Good. Now, in that first one, I'd like you to introduce yourself to your readers. You don't have to use your name. Just try to use the same voice I heard in the responses you sent to Mattie. Make sure you send it to me first so I can give it the go-ahead. After that, you're on your own, but you won't be wanting for topics. You'll get plenty of inspiration from your readers."

At this, Claire's eyes started to gloss over.

My readers.

Already, she was feeling so much better than she ever did at her former six-figure job.

Claire just had one more question.

"Shoot, sweetie."

Her eyes wide with excitement, she asked, "Is Mattie here? Could I meet her?"

"Of course. She should be in by now. Let me check." She picked up her cell phone and punched a text message. When it bleeped back a response, she looked at Claire and said, "She's on her way."

While they waited, Dianne explained that she'd have her administrative assistant email the contract and direct deposit form to Claire.

Before long, a young woman burst through the door wearing a pretty red floral-print dress. Her long curly hair was pulled back with a big plastic tortoise-shell clip.

"Hi." Out of breath, she dropped into the chair next to Claire. "I'm Mattie Ross. It's nice to meet you."

Then she looked at Dianne and asked, "So, are we good?"

Dianne smiled and with a confirming nod replied, "We're good."

Turning to Claire, Mattie pointed to her and asked, "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

Her appetite finally returning, Claire pointed back and said, "Only if I can get us some muffins to go with it."

Mattie faced Dianne, looking as if she had just taken a big bite of double-chocolate cheesecake, and exclaimed, "Yep, we're good. I'll be back in a few."

Laughing, Dianne replied, "Take your time."

Stepping into the warm September sun that was bathing Michigan Avenue in golden light as it gained on the downtown skyscrapers, Mattie led Claire a few doors down to a little storefront shop that had big block letters spelling out Chez Doug across its gleaming front window.

Mattie placed the order for their coffees while Claire bought the muffins and searched for a table. Finding an empty booth, they slid into their respective sides.

"So," Mattie started. "Tell me about yourself. I have to say, you're not at all what I pictured."

Claire smiled and said, "Right back at ya."

Grinning, Mattie replied, "Touché."

Breaking her jumbo bran muffin into edible chunks, she continued, "Seriously, you seem—I don't know—younger and happier than I expected."

"Really?"

"Yeah. After I read your letter, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry." Then Mattie leaned forward and said, "You seemed pretty desperate. If you don't mind me asking, has something changed?"

Claire finished chewing her muffin and washed it down with some hot coffee. Wincing, she replied, "Yeah, something changed. I got laid off."

Mattie cupped her hand over her mouth and mumbled, "I'm so sorry."

Reaching out to pat her arm, Claire reassured her. "Don't be. I'm not sorry to be out of that place. When I wasn't actually working, I was worrying about it. So, anxiety twenty-four hours, seven days a week." She shuddered and said, "I'm not ever doing that again."

She was surprised that she hadn't given the place she had spent nearly every day for the past sixteen years a second thought.

Good riddance.

Looking at her over the rim of her oversized coffee cup, Mattie ventured, "So, your husband. Is he going back to work?"

Claire pressed her lips together and shook her head, wondering why she suddenly felt ashamed. "If he started back to work now, there's no way he'd be able to make what I had been earning. Besides, he was in investment banking, so he'd have to get caught up on his licensing and the new regulations."

Good Lord. Where did that come from?

She turned her gaze to the interior of the coffee shop and changed the subject. "This is a cute place. Is it new?"

Mattie tilted her head and looked at her with a whimsical look on her freckled face. "No, but there's a great story behind it. See that guy over there?"

Claire looked over at the middle-aged man wearing dated aviator-rimmed glasses and sporting a thick mustache. He was sitting behind the counter with his nose deep in a well-worn copy of
The Hobbit
. When a customer approached, he stashed it on a ledge behind him and said with a broad smile, "Morning. What can I get ya?"

"That's the owner, Doug Johnston," Mattie continued. "He used to be a seventh-grade parochial school teacher. The way he tells it, on the day after he hurled a white board eraser at a kid in the back row for shooting his mouth off, he chucked it all and followed his dream of opening a café—like the ones he visited while backpacking through Europe after college."

Mattie held out her hand toward Claire. "Rather like you."

"Me? I've never thrown anything at a child, well—except a dirty look, and I've never been to Europe, unfortunately."

She stared down at her plain gold wedding band, thinking of the diamond ring and dream European honeymoon she had agreed to sacrifice so she and Paul could pay off their student loans and save for a house that much faster. Back then, they were poor, but they were in love. Now, they were debt free and acted as if they had restraining orders filed against each other.

"No, that's not what I meant," Mattie said with a laugh. "He switched careers. Ditched the one that wasn't bringing him joy and started one that would."

Claire had forgotten that there were people in this world who actually used the words "joy" and "career" in the same sentence. She just wasn't one of them. Never had been. Not yet anyway. Her mom probably did though. And Kate. Once, she suspected even Paul had felt joy on the job.

"You're going to get a lot of that." Mattie winked.

"What?"

"Parents, like you, burned out, looking to make a change."

Suddenly, Claire didn't think taking on the role of advice columnist was such a good idea. "What am I supposed to tell them? My degree's in English, not psychology. And what if readers don't send any questions that week? Then what?"

Mattie laughed. "You'll be fine. I'm sure of it. Just be yourself. You can write about whatever you think is relevant to working parents. And Dianne will have your back. No worries there."