Help Wanted (4 page)

"Ok, Jonah, bath time. Go get clean underwear and your jammies. I'll be up in a minute."

After his youngest rushed past him, he spoke to Tomas. "Make your mom a plate and keep it warm in the oven, then go stand watch. I'll get Jonah started in the tub. When she gets here, I want you upstairs. Jammies. Brush teeth. Bed. Got it?"

Taking two stairs at a time, Paul rushed to the bathroom, filled the tub, and eased Jonah into the billowing bubbles.

He had just finished washing the boy's hair when he heard Tomas call up, "She's coming!"

Scooping his son from the tub, Paul said under his breath, "Man, if she gets one more speeding ticket…"

He pulled the plug, wrapped Jonah in a towel, and flew down the stairs. Shooing Tomas along, he directed, "Make sure your brother brushes his teeth, and keep it quiet up there."

Paul grabbed a damp towel from the kitchen counter before calling after him, "And don't forget your prayers."

Leaning over the kitchen table, the former athletic champion who graduated at the top of his class and was voted Most Likely to Succeed began wiping the surface that was peppered with crumbs and stray bits of rice.

*   *   *

Claire yanked her overstuffed briefcase out of her car, slammed the door, stormed up the back porch stairs, and shoved open the door. The smell of her father-in-law's rice and beans recipe hung in the air. From the mudroom, the first thing that caught her eye was the kitchen counter cluttered with dirty dishes.

Perfect.

Her head beginning to throb, she let her briefcase fall to the floor with a thud. Taking a deep breath, she stepped toward the kitchen and promptly tripped on a running shoe the size of a small boat.

Paul managed to catch her arm, stopping her fall.

"Whoa. You ok?" he asked, frowning as he steadied her.

The expletive that she was about to fire off when she tripped was all but forgotten as she looked down at her arm, now damp, where he was holding her with the towel still in his hand.

This just keeps getting better.

"Sorry 'bout that." Paul tossed the towel in the sink and started to brush some stray crumbs off of her elbow before she jerked it away.

With a sigh, he nodded toward the kitchen. "We saved some dinner for you."

He slipped on a silver quilted mitt, pulled a plate full of steaming rice out of the oven, and set it on the table before her.

Grasping the back of a chair, she looked down at it. "No thanks."

"Come on," he prodded, extending his hand like he was about to rub it against her back. Apparently changing his mind, he dropped his hand to his side. "Ya gotta eat some—"

"I'm not hungry."

Paul raised his hands in surrender and leaned against the stove. "Fine." 

Claire felt his eyes rake over her messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes before landing on her clothes that felt like they were two sizes too big lately.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?"

With one hand on her hip and the other massaging her forehead, Claire took a deep breath and exhaled. "Depends. You ready to go back to work yet?"

Looking up at the ceiling, he muttered, "Not this again."

He reached over and closed the kitchen's pocket door, then leaned back against the stove.

"Imp, we've been through this before. A dozen times, at least. Look, I know it's frustrating—"

Claire held up her hand. "Ach. Save your breath. I know how this ends."

Paul crossed his arms and covered his mouth with his hand. After a minute, he ventured, "Even if I
was
ready, you know I'd only be making a fraction of what you do, and that's
if
I could even find anything."

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "Like I said, save your breath."

He took a deep one and let it out. "Ok, then how about I remind you that we've got four kids and a mortgage. Between your salary cut and no bonus last year, money isn't exactly growing on trees around here."

Planting both hands on her hips, Claire shot him a look that said, "So why don't you go out and make some?"

She resisted the impulse to make an
L
with her hand and press it against her forehead.

He shifted his weight before venturing, "Look. You're upset. Maybe this isn't a good time to be talking about this."

Narrowing her eyes, Claire arched an eyebrow and jabbed her index finger at him. "Don't patronize me."

His voice dripping with measured restraint, Paul replied, "Like I said, there's no way I'd be able to make anywhere near what you do. I've been out of the market too long. And keep your voice down. The boys are in bed."

"You were in finance, Paul," Claire whispered as loudly as she dared. "I'm fairly sure the fundamentals of math have not changed since you dropped out of the work force."

"It's not that easy. There are new regulations, licensing requirements—"

Here we go…

Standing directly in front of him, she cut him off. "This isn't about anything other than your wounded pride, and you know it. Those jerks that fired you? You let them defeat you."

Fighting back the urge to poke him in the chest, she stepped back and said in a quieter voice, "That's not the Paul Mendez I know. The man I married would have
taken them down
."

Paul pulled himself together and suddenly seemed taller, his eyes darker, if that was even possible.

"Claire. Taking care of the boys is a full-time job. You know that. And I'm all in. I've got scout meetings, car pools, cross-country meets at two different schools this year, taking care of the house, grocery shopping, laundry, getting the kids around, being here for them when they get home, and don't even get me started on taking care of my dad." 

Checking her volume, she edged closer to him. "So, just to be clear, you're telling me, again, to put up and shut up while you get to do whatever you want. Is that right?"

Still towering over her, Paul let out a laugh before hoarsely whispering, "You really think I'm sittin' around all day, don't you? I barely have a minute to myself. But if you want to have a little pity party, go right ahead." 

Wanting nothing more than to pitch her briefcase through the closed kitchen window, Claire sputtered, "I don't feel sorry for myself, Paul. I feel as if I'm serving a prison sentence for a crime I didn't commit and you're the judge who keeps denying me parole."

Paul let out a short laugh and shook his head. "Christ. Why don't you tell me how you really feel?"

Claire responded as loudly as she dared without alarming the boys, "Don't make me the bad guy here. We made a deal, Paul, and you've completely dropped your end of the bargain."

He scowled at her. "What are you talking about? What deal?"

Claire sucked in her breath.

He doesn't even remember.

For the second time that day, she felt as if the floor had been pulled out from underneath her. Swiping away a traitorous tear that had escaped her right eye, she did her best to remind him.

"After we got married, we were both gonna work, earn enough to pay off our student loans and save for a down payment on a house. Then
we agreed
that I could stop working so I could write."

The crease in his forehead deepened. 

After a long minute, he nodded. "Yeah, I remember, just not about the bit where you'd stay home to write. Write what?"

Worst freakin' day ever.

Claire shook her head. "Forget it," she said, her voice barely perceptible.

Looking down at her shoes, she whispered more to herself than to him, "This isn't what I signed up for."

The next thing she knew, Paul was in front of her, grasping her upper arms. In a low raspy whisper, he started, "What about the deal we made at our wedding, before God—a lifetime together with all the trimmings?" 

Before he barely finished saying the last word, Claire shot out, "Yeah, I remember, just not about the bit where
I
was the one who had to single-handedly finance all the trimmings."

Paul dropped his hands to his sides. Before he could formulate a response, she announced, "I'm gonna go check on the boys."

*   *   *

Claire awoke the next morning to the sound of the front door closing. Suspecting that Paul had left for his early morning run, she checked her alarm clock in the predawn darkness. It read 5:15. Her usual wake-up time. Except today, she couldn't find any particular reason to get out of bed. Not that early anyway. The boys were used to getting themselves ready for school, and she had nowhere particular to be until eight o'clock, when the unemployment office opened.

As the soundtrack of the previous night's argument started to replay in her head like a bad dream, she burrowed back into her pillow and surrendered to the battle fatigue.

*   *   *

"Good morning. This is Tracy Decker-Sloan," the snippy female voice said.

Paul pulled Claire's phone away from his ear and quickly checked to make sure he dialed the right number. The word "Manager" appeared under the picture of a tiny poster from the movie
Psycho
.

"Uh, yeah, hi. This is Paul Mendez. Claire's husband? I just wanted to let you know that she's not feeling well today."

Scoffing, Tracy responded, "And you're telling me this, why?"

Taken aback, Paul ventured, "Aren't employees supposed to call their managers when they're taking a sick day?"

The uncomfortable moment of silence that followed was broken when Tracy snapped, "Didn't she tell you?"

Suddenly feeling as if he was in an elevator that was descending way too quickly, Paul asked, "Tell me what?"

*   *   *

Claire, deep in a dream in which she was reading glowing reviews of her latest best seller while perched in a penthouse embedded like a glittering jewel somewhere in Chicago's stellar skyline, was roused by a warm hand on her shoulder, gently pushing it back and forth. Then came the warm breath on her ear.

"Mama."

Her eyes flew open.

The sweet little voice continued, "Daddy said not to wake you up."

Groaning, Claire put her arm around Jonah and pulled him close. "So why are you?"

"I wanted to see you before I went to school."

"Yeah? How come?"

The little cherub reached up and patted her cheek. "I miss you."

Aw, just shoot me already.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she squeezed him tightly and planted a kiss on the top of his head. "I miss you, too, little man. All the time."

Sitting up, she yawned and eyed Jonah's outfit, noting that he had his shoes on the wrong feet.

"Is Dad dropping Luke off?"

"Yep. He said I could wait here 'cause you're sick today, but you don't look sick." He gave her cheek another pat and smiled.

Uh-oh.

Claire swapped his shoes. "Well, I feel better now that you're here." She inhaled the scent of his hair as he leaned against her and was about to plant another kiss on his plump cheek when they heard Paul call out, "Jonah, ya ready?"

"Daddy!" he shot off the bed and made a beeline for the stairs.

Claire hopped out of bed and made her way to the bathroom, listening as their conversation continued in the foyer below.

"Hey, sport. What were you doing upstairs? You didn't wake your mom up, did you?"

"No, she was already up."

Not.

Claire switched on the light. Clothes were strewn on the floor, used towels heaped on top of the overstuffed hamper, an open tube of toothpaste dribbling onto the counter, and the sink—words couldn't describe, except to say that she was ready to mandate a no-shaving policy to her two oldest until they learned to clean up after themselves.

She closed the door and reached behind the shower curtain to turn on the hot water. Ten minutes later, she was pulling on a pair of capri jeans and a camisole.

I'm so not going to miss panty hose.

Eager to grab some coffee and escape to the sanctuary that was their back deck before Paul returned, she rushed down the stairwell. She had to think. If she didn't decide what her next steps were going to be, the reality that was her life would dictate them for her.

And that would be bad.

She was about to hop over the last step, when Paul walked through the front door.

Grabbing the banister, Claire stopped just short of colliding with him. When he turned toward her, their faces were just inches apart.

Certain that the goose bumps covering her skin were from the rush of the cool air that came in when he opened the door, she couldn't help but notice that, with the exception of a few flecks of white that popped out of his otherwise dark hair, time had done little to alter Paul's appearance since the first time she'd laid eyes on him.

So unfair.

Even now, with her approval ratings of him still in the single digits, his good looks were not lost on Claire. She used to love the way his thick hair curled up when it got long and his dimples came out when he laughed, and his brown eyes were big enough and warm enough to swim in. And he hadn't shaved yet.

Boy, you smell good.

"How'd you sleep?" His voice was low, almost a whisper.

Claire checked herself. The first time she had looked into those eyes, she dove right in—no life preserver in sight. The next thing she knew, she had four kids and was stuck in a career that demanded more than she ever cared to give.

"Fine." Her mouth suddenly felt dry.

Not about to deliver a lip-quivering apology for the things she had said the night before, she leaned to her right to step around him just as he leaned to his left.

She scratched her nose and folded her arms.

"You're in my way."

"I know."

When he didn't move, she noticed his raised eyebrow and the hint of a flirtatious grin playing at one side of his mouth. Usually, this heralded a
how about we just forget about all of the stupid things we said to each other last night
moment.