Help Wanted (22 page)

"This one." Kate held up a plum sheath dress with a matching wrap.

"That is gorgeous."

Kate examined it. "Yeah, it's all right. I've worn it a million times."

"You're killin' me."

When a second, much louder thunderclap shook her bedroom windows, Kate asked, "Wanna stay? We can order a pizza."

Claire waved off the weather and replied, "No, thanks. I'll be fine. But I'd better get to my car before the rain hits."

As they descended the stairs, they ran through the details of their story one more time. That she had to tell Paul Kate had invited her to a fundraiser was her biggest concern. Another lie in the name of surprising her husband, the justification was losing its charm as time wore on.

*   *   *

With Claire at her sister's for the day, Paul put a call in to the menswear shop not far from home to ask about tuxedo rentals. Always preferring to do business with local establishments instead of megastores, he walked through the doors of Sundstrum's just before lunch. 

An elderly, distinguished-looking gentleman approached Paul in the otherwise vacant store. "May I help you, sir?"

"Yes, I need to rent a tuxedo."

The man eyed Paul's lean frame and motioned for him to follow him. His nametag read "My name is Henry."

With a bemused expression that bordered on patronizing, Henry smiled as if he had just sucked on a lemon. "Of course, sir. Might I interest you in one of these?" He waved his arm at a rack of black suits against the wall.

Paul walked over and started looking through them, pulling one out to inspect. "Nice."

"Fitting rooms are right over there."

"Ok, great."

Paul changed and returned to find a shorter man with slicked-back hair, a tape measure dangling from his shoulders, and a piece of white chalk in his right hand, standing next to Henry.

"Stand here, please," he directed.

Paul obediently stepped up onto a small wooden platform while the tailor secured a tape measure snugly around his chest, waist, and inseam.

A little too snuggly.

While he marked the cuffs of the black jacket and hems of the matching pants with white chalk, Henry pulled a small appointment book and pencil from his vest pocket and asked, "And when do you need this, sir?"

"Oh, two weeks from yesterday. Sorry, I don't know the date."

"The seventeenth?"

Paul nodded.

Henry looked up at him over the rim of his reading glasses.

"Impossible," he said.

Paul glanced around the empty store before countering, "Really? How come?"

Reading off a list of customers' names, each of whom would be celebrating weddings and other important events in the weeks ahead and whose orders superseded Paul's, Henry recited, "Harris, Tomlin, Bach, Powell, Crenshaw…"

He looked over his glasses at Paul. "Do you want me to continue?"

On hearing Lester's last name, panic welled up inside Paul. "Please? I'm desperate."

Henry sighed and flipped several pages of his book, counted on his fingers, did some air math, flipped through his book some more, then looked at Paul and said, "Very well. Pick it up by noon on the seventeenth."

Paul hopped off the stand, pumped Henry's hand, and said, "Thanks, man. I appreciate it."

Driving home, he tried again to think of a way to get out of the house the night of the fundraiser without raising suspicion. Lying to Claire came as easily to him as roller-blading on sheets of ice. He just couldn't do it. As he drove, he practiced what he might say to her.

"Claire, I've got something to tell you. I've been working at this job for a while now, and, uh, well, there's this fancy dinner thing I gotta go to, and you can come with me, and it'll be like a really fancy date night." 

He pondered this for a while, then dismissed the idea, figuring that he'd never make it past, "I've been working at this job…"

Assuming that her first question would be, "Why didn't you tell me?" he was at a loss for how he would answer.

"Why didn't I tell you?" he muttered to himself as he pulled in to the driveway. He sat there talking to himself, reviewing the facts.

"I have to go because my boss asked me to. Why? Why would Les ask a temporary employee to attend something like this? 'Cause he's nice guy? Yeah, but if it's running, what, a hundred bucks a plate? He's nice, but he's not that nice."

He turned the car off and sat staring at the dashboard.

I wonder.

He raised his eyes to the windshield, remembering the conversation he had with Les when he called to tell him about the event. All the casual questions about whether he liked working at the paper, asking him if he was getting along with everyone. Could he be thinking of bringing him on full time?

Deep in thought, he jumped when he heard Tomas rap at his window and wave. Paul rubbed a hand over his face and got out of the car.

"Hey, sport. Come on. Let's go inside."

"What time's Mom getting home?"

Paul glanced at his watch. It was 3:30. "I honestly have no idea. Why?"

His son shrugged. "No reason. Did you send the letter?"

With a nod, Paul replied, "Mailed it this morning."

The day after he'd overheard Tomas boasting to his buddies before school that his mother was the new Plate Spinner, Paul called him on it. Much to his son's credit, he wouldn't betray his mother. That dubious honor fell to Sherry Evans. After assuring Tomas he wouldn't rat on him, his son became a most trusted ally. Unable to figure out the best way to let Claire know she didn't have to work in secret, together they decided he should ask for advice on the subject from the Plate Spinner herself.

"It might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories." —W. Somerset Maugham

Rushing, rushing, always with the rushing. That's how Claire felt whenever she left her contract job at Madison and Franklin in the Loop and made her way to the
Gazette
building several blocks away, doing her best to get there by half past three, especially on Thursdays so she could catch Dianne's staff meetings.

Turns out, it was the highlight of her week. The eclectic bunch was usually gathered around a conference table before she burst in, but they had grown accustomed to her late entrances. And she was growing accustomed to them, learning their names and becoming part of the team. Nancy Braley, the assistant food editor, was very friendly and super eager. Aubrey Thomas, a travel writer, was somber and guarded, which Claire thought odd considering her area of expertise—until she shared with Claire details about her extreme sport-loving husband's untimely death. Then there was Sara Cleff with her dyed black hair, heavy makeup, and
too cool for her own good
persona. Claire suspected there was a lot more going on with the rock critic than people gave her credit for, and she hoped she had the chance to find out for herself.

Dianne's meetings, during which they discussed upcoming feature ideas, assignments, and budget issues, were mercifully short, giving Claire plenty of time to plug in and get some work done before heading home.

The gala was the next day, and she wanted to answer as many letters as she could in the event that her time there was limited. Scrolling through the Plate Spinner's inbox, only one new email appeared.

A light day.

It was from an elderly reader in Elgin who was looking for Christmas gift ideas for her teenage grandsons who only wanted cash.

She rubbed her eyes and started typing.

"If you're looking for noncash Christmas gift ideas for teenage boys, the best place to start is with them. Without knowing your budget or what kind of relationship you have with them, I can't be too specific in my suggestions, but find out what they like—sports, movies, music—and work from there. For instance, if they like a particular sport, you could get them a jersey from their favorite team. If they like movies, get them a gift card to a nearby theater. If all else fails, all teenage boys love to eat. Home-baked goodies could work, or you could get them a gift card to their favorite restaurant."

Claire read her response. Boring, yes, but she could hardly be snarky with a doting grandmother.

She hit Send.

Onward.

She checked her snail mail bin and found a short stack of pieces, including an ad for a new software package, a brochure for an Illinois Women's Press Association conference, and a letter in a plain white envelope, with a typed label and no return address. She didn't get many letters, but when she did, they were mostly from older people or young kids who didn't have computers, let alone email accounts. She stuffed it in her backpack and headed home.

On the morning of the Night to Remember gala and silent auction, Claire dug out and pulled on a pair of her reviled panty hose and her least favorite business suit and interviewed for John's job. Lying through her teeth, she pulled every catchphrase out of her corporate lexicon to secure the position. At the end of it, the director of all things dull and soul sucking made her an offer she knew she shouldn't refuse.

After she thanked him and promised to think about it over the weekend, she left, hoping to never look back.

*   *   *

Knowing he had so much to do and so little time in which to do it, Paul stopped by Sundstrum's after getting his hair cut that Friday morning. Henry was there, handing out tuxedos as if they were paychecks going to steel mill workers after a prolonged strike.

"Mr. Mendez. How nice to see you again, sir. I believe you remember where the fitting rooms are."

"No time, Henry. I trust you."

"Suit yourself," the proprietor quipped. "Enjoy your evening."

"Thanks very much, Henry." Paul headed for the door, then stopped and asked, "Hey, how much to keep it until Monday?"

Henry narrowed his eyes and sucked his cheeks in. After a moment, he winked and said, "On the house. See you Monday."

*   *   *

Another wave of nausea hit Claire as soon as she made it home.

I have got to calm down.

Worried that her dependence on coffee, coupled with her stress-sensitive stomach, was putting her on the fast track to an ulcer, she finally put a call into her doctor to see if he had any immediate openings. Knowing it was a long shot, she settled instead for an appointment at the after-hours clinic the next afternoon.

Figuring a shower would help ease her nerves, she turned on the hot water, put on some music, and stepped into the steamy mist, trying to envision each step of the plan that she and Kate had worked out.

Then she thought about the generous offer she had just received.

And all of the stress and office politics to go with it.

Letting the hot water course over her, she closed her eyes and prayed that the
Gazette
offered her a deal that she absolutely could not refuse, because she had made up her mind—she would not be asking Paul to go back to work. Not now. Not ever.

Because I love him. With every fiber of my being.

She shut off the water and got dressed, feeling more resolute than she had in quite some time.

"So what are you guys doing tonight?" she asked Paul when he returned from picking the boys up after school.

He leaned on the frame of their bedroom door, watching her shove her pajamas, toiletries, and a change of clothes into her backpack. "I'm not sure. Marc's got a sleepover. I don't know—maybe watch some movies.

What time do you think you'll be home tomorrow?"

"No idea. I can call when I'm on my way, if you like."

"Nah, that's all right."

"Sounds like a plan," she replied, too preoccupied to carry on a normal conversation.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, Paul sat on the couch pretending to watch a football game, wondering why she hadn't replied to, or at least acknowledged, the letter he had sent.

Maybe she just didn't get it yet.

 He turned as he heard Claire come down the stairs. With her hair tucked behind her ears, she was wearing the same jeans and a generic blouse she always wore when she went out. 

Not exactly formal attire, Imp.

Still, he felt compelled to tell her, "You look nice."

She mumbled a thank you and then seemed to come to her senses. "Oh, I'm not wearing this. Kate's loaning me a dress."

Ah, that explains it.

She kissed him on the head and was out the door.

He waited for a few minutes after she pulled out of the driveway before retrieving his tux from the office closet and heading to the bathroom to get ready. After all, if the evening went as he expected, he wanted to look good when he broke the news to Claire.

*   *   *

Pulling into the empty side of Kate's two-car garage, she retrieved her bag from the backseat and knocked on her door. While she waited, she took a deep breath and forced herself to forget about all her troubles. Aside from her wedding reception, she had never been to a black tie event before and was really looking forward to it. Besides, if there was any joy to be had in her career with the
Gazette
, she'd find out tonight, one way or another.

When Kate let her in, she was surprised to see two other women sipping coffee in her kitchen.

"Hi, I'm Claire."

Remembering her manners, Kate apologized. "I'm sorry. This is Natasha and Mallory."

"Nice to meet you," they chimed.

Claire gave Kate an inquisitive look.

She introduced the women again, this time using the reason they were there as opposed to their names. "Hair and makeup."

Sweet.

They went upstairs to get ready. An hour later, Claire didn't recognize herself. Her hair was in a sophisticated updo, and she was wearing false eyelashes.