Help Wanted (17 page)

Pulling his socks on, Paul addressed his sister-in-law. "I still can't believe you got Derrick Rose to come over and talk to the guys before the game. Marc is over the moon. Hell, I'm jealous."

Kate pulled a face. "Please. He owes me after I got him on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
."

"You did?" Claire and Paul asked in unison.

Tugging her camera out of the bag at her side, she just about shrieked, "I will after they see this." 

She showed them the exquisite shot she had taken of the Chicago Bulls point guard, coiled almost three feet off the ground just before he tossed the ball with exactly the right amount of lift to have it fall directly through the hoop without even touching the net.

"You got it." Claire leaped up intending to give her sister a hug, but she had to brace herself against her chair when the kitchen began twirling around.

She heard Paul caution, "Easy, Imp."

"You know," she started, "I think I'm just gonna go lie down. I didn't get enough sleep this weekend." Her face flamed at the blatant admission.

Cocking an eyebrow and pursing his lips, Paul murmured, "Me neither. Need some help getting up there?"

The look he gave her sent tingles coursing through her body. Pressing her lips together to hide a blushing smile, she replied, "Nah, I'm good."

She leaned down and gave her sister a quick hug. "Thanks again for taking the boys."

"Anytime," Kate sang after her.

After Paul made sure Claire got upstairs in one piece, he returned to the kitchen and pulled a beer out of the fridge and asked Kate if she wanted one. Sharing a birthday and a mutual love for Chicago sports teams, deep-dish pizza, and, well, Claire, the two were close and comfortable in each other's company.

Popping the caps on both bottles, he set one before her and said, "Cheers."

"Cheers," she replied, clinking her bottle against his. "What are we celebrating?"

"A brilliant idea," Paul stated matter-of-factly.

After a few minutes of silent listening, Kate stood and pulled the calendar off the pantry door. Returning to the table with it, she flipped to December and started mumbling to herself, "Let's see, December 20
th
is on a Monday this year. We could do it on the 18
th
. Mom and Dad are coming for Thanksgiving and staying for, what, a month before they leave on their cruise, so that would be perfect, actually."

She checked something on her phone. "Yeah, that could work."

Well aware that she was thinking out loud and not requiring a response, Paul gave one anyway. "What could work?"

Kate looked up and replied, "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything. All you'll have to do is show up."

The last time she said that to him was right after he and Claire had set a date with Father Benzing. Six months later, they were feted at a lavish reception at the Palmer House Hotel.

Biting down on his lower lip, Paul wasn't sure what to say. Kate could throw one hell of a party. Her parents may have footed the bill for their wedding reception, but she was the one who had arranged everything, even for his cousins to teach their bridesmaid partners how to merengue before the big day. The corners of his eyes tilted into a smile as he thought of the private lessons he gave Claire. To this day, he still couldn't listen to anything with a fast two-four beat without remembering the feel of her hips swiveling against him. Hence, his aversion to nearly every Hispanic restaurant in the entire Chicago metropolitan area.

But that was before this weekend.

Pushing back the urge to kick Kate out, take the stairs two at a time, and lock the bedroom door behind him, he shifted in his seat.

Focus.

There's no way he could cough up a boatload of cash now, even if he did want to spend it on something as frivolous as an anniversary party.

"Thanks, Kate, but as I said, I was thinking of something simple, like maybe renewing our vows at Mass, then—I don't know—maybe having some family and friends over here."

He could hear his voice trailing off into nothingness while his closet party-planner sister-in-law gave him a disparaging look.

Chuckling, he surrendered. "Ok, ok, just tell me where to be and when. But remember, do
not
tell Claire."

"Where words fail, music speaks." —Hans Christian Andersen

Smiling, Dianne took off her glasses and gently rubbed her eyes. She could see from Claire's email time stamp that she had sent her most recent column at 11:30 p.m. the night before.

In reply, she typed, "Thanks for this."

She was about to tap the Send button when she decided instead to call Claire's cell phone, knowing that she most likely turned it off after she went to bed.

She left the following message with her usual clip: "Claire? Di. Gotta talk. How 'bout coffee before heading to work tomorrow morning? That would be, uh, Tuesday. How about Chez Doug? He's open early. Say 6:30? Lemme know."

*   *   *

Several hours later, Claire's alarm buzzed to life, and like bread out of a toaster, she popped up. Dressed and in the kitchen for coffee in the space of twenty minutes, she unplugged her cell phone from the charger. Turning it on, she saw that she had a voice mail. She listened to Di's message and, pit forming in her stomach, called her back to say she was on her way.

The door to Chez Doug's was open just enough to entice passersby with the aroma of freshly baked pastries. Claire followed her nose and edged in, pulling her backpack behind her.

Spotting Dianne in a corner booth, she slid in on the opposite side.

"Good morning," she sang out.

"Well, hello, Claire." Di put her menu down and folded her hands on the table before her.

Claire waited expectantly. When her editor said nothing more, she asked, "Is everything all right?"

Di chuckled quietly and then leaned forward. "I wanted to tell you in person," she whispered. "You're a hit."

Claire felt as if a tiny bolt of lightning had just zapped her. "What?"

Dianne nodded her head in the direction of a nearby table at which two women sat elbow to elbow, reading the paper. Claire watched them for a moment then looked back at Di, whose gaze lingered on the women a bit longer.

While clicking her French-manicured nails on the tabletop, she said in a hushed tone, "They were reciting their favorite parts of your column right before you came in."

Oh my.

Looking directly at Claire, she continued at her usual businesslike pace.

"We're getting an unprecedented amount of emails. All saying how fresh, how fun, how relevant your column is. One reader even went so far as to say that she finally feels she can relate to our paper knowing, uh, let's see…" She pulled a folder out of her tote bag. "Oh, here we go. 'Knowing that you're targeting working mothers, giving them a much-needed laugh at the end of a long work week.'"

Claire didn't know what to say except, "Ah, well, that's nice, huh?"

A waitress stopped by their table, and Di ordered a French roast and a chocolate croissant with fresh strawberries.

Claire said, "Ditto."

Di continued. "Now listen. I told you you're on to something here, and I meant it. You're hitting an older but broader demographic than Mattie did. Les wants to expand your circulation to other affiliates. He wants to add a Sunday column too. Oh, and he's agreed to raising your rate. You know, it's too bad you don't want your own byline. You'd be a celebrity around these parts."

She held a white envelope out to Claire.

"What's this?"

Using a knife to slice open the envelope, Claire pulled out the contents that were printed on thick white stock paper.

"You are cordially invited to A Night to Remember Dinner Dance and Silent Auction on Friday, December 17th, at the Palmer House, to benefit the Infant Welfare Society of Cook and Surrounding Counties. Cocktails at 6 p.m. Dinner at 7:30 p.m. Music provided by Johnny Carbone and his Orchestra. Formal attire." 

She looked expectantly at Dianne and repeated, "What's this?"

"Per Lester, that's mandatory, that's what that is."

Claire stuffed the invitation back into the envelope before slipping it into her laptop case. Before she could formulate an excuse for not going, Dianne started talking. Fast.

"Here's the thing. The paper is a major sponsor of this event. Les has been telling patrons that if they come, they can meet the Plate Spinner. The Plate Spinner! And that's you. So, I'm sorry. There's no getting out of it, kiddo. If it's any consolation, I'll be there too."

With a frown, Claire responded, "Uh, I don't know what to say. It sounds pretty exciting, but I'll be honest. I don't think I'm ready to be 'outed.' And I'm not ready to tell Paul. Not yet. Not like this. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to say no."

The waitress appeared bearing coffee, enormous chocolate croissants just out of the oven, and a bowl of strawberries the size of small apples. After an unnerving moment of silence, Di looked across the table to her and spoke slowly, much as one would to a small child who was poised to jab a fork into a plugged-in toaster.

"Ok, listen. I promised my year-end bonus that I wouldn't tell you this, but—"

Dianne paused.

Claire held her breath.

Giving her head a quick shake, Dianne said, "I can't. You're just going to have to trust me. You must go, and that's all there is to it."

"Oh, come on. Don't do this to me," Claire nearly shrieked, causing the proprietor to look up from his book.

Tearing her pastry in half, the managing editor relented. "That little favor you're doing for your husband? Building his account back up?"

Claire nodded.

"Well, let's just say, it won't take you as long to pay it back as you may have originally thought." With a shrug, she was done talking.

Until she added, "And make sure you look stunning, because Lester wants to introduce you around to some of our affiliates."

Claire's voice sounded small and far away, even to her own ears. "Affiliates?"

"Yes." Dianne chuckled as she stabbed a fork into a strawberry and started dissecting it with her knife. "That's the first step in the syndication process, sweetie."

Somebody pinch me.

Taking a deep breath, she looked out at the people walking by on Michigan Avenue for a moment before redirecting her gaze back to Dianne.

"Define 'stunning.'"

On her way to her contract job at John's company, she dialed her sister's number. Kate was panting when she picked up after several rings.

"Hey. What's up?"

Claire chuckled. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No, I'm getting a deep-tissue massage. What's up?" she repeated.

"Kate. I've got big news. Big. News. What are you doing on December 17th?"

"Uh, why?"

"Because…I need a date," Claire cried into her phone. "And your purple dress."

*   *   *

On her lunch hour that day, John joined Claire in the break room. Sitting across from her, he started, "Tell me something—"

"Yes, I think Amanda is in serious need of a good—"

"Whoa!" John let out a loud, long laugh. It was something she hadn't seen him do since she'd started working there.

"What? I was just going to say 'haircut,'" Claire replied innocently.

"Yeah, right." Regaining his composure, he continued, "No, seriously." He leaned closer over the table. "I wanna ask you something."

Having just taken a large bite of her sandwich, she raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"What would you say if I told you I was leaving?" he whispered hoarsely.

Claire quickly swallowed her food and whispered, "What? You can't. Where are you going?"

"Oh, don't worry. Nowhere yet. But I've got some feelers out. I need something different." He took off his glasses and stared out the window at the high rise next door, not focusing on anything in particular.

John had hired Claire at her first job out of college and had been her mentor and friend ever since. Over the years, he and his wife frequently accompanied Claire and Paul to concerts and parties hosted by mutual friends. They knew each other's professional likes and dislikes (free coffee good, dress codes bad) and could practically recite each other's résumés blindfolded.

"Is it the politics?" Claire asked. She detected the empire-building mentality that the privately held company had embedded in its culture, and though she knew it was not unusual, she knew her friend had a low tolerance for it.

"Yeah, that, and…I don't know. I'm just burned out. I've been thinking about teaching." He smiled as if laughing over some old, private joke. Shrugging his shoulders, he gave her a quick smile, looked at his watch, and told her he'd be late for his meeting.

"Catch you later." He threw out his trash and rushed back to his office.

On her way home that night, Claire opened her laptop and began typing a column she had drafted during a software code review meeting to which she had been invited but had discerned within the first five minutes that she had little to gain by attending.

*   *   *

That evening, the gym at St. Matthias was already teeming with families by the time Paul slid into the concession stand kitchen across the hallway from the entrance. His stomach growled as he breathed in the enticing aroma of frozen pizzas warming in the oven.

He found Sherry Evans, his concession stand partner for the evening, dissecting a crate of chips with an open pair of scissors.

"Hey, Sherry. Sorry I'm late. Couldn't find a parking space." He slipped off his jacket, laid it on top of an unopened carton of plastic spoons, and started rolling up the cuffs of his flannel shirt.

"Hi, Paul." She pushed the bangs of her boxy haircut out of her eyes and remarked, "Yeah. We're expecting a big crowd tonight. I'm glad you could make it."

She hoisted the cash box at him. "We should have about two hundred in small bills and change in there. Can you check, please?"