Help Wanted

by Barbara Valentin

  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."

  Raising her mug, she waited for Claire to do the same and said while clinking cups, "To the new Plate Spinner. May this new adventure jump start your career and bring you—" Pausing, Mattie leaned forward and asked, "What do you want?"

  Only one word sprang to mind. She felt her heart thud in her chest as she said it.

  "Joy."

  Mattie nodded and exclaimed, "May your new career bring you joy."

  Claire sat up and raised her cup higher. "And syndication."

  "That's it. Aim big."

  Their ceramic collision was loud enough to draw Doug's attention away from Tolkien, causing both women to duck for fear of flying dry erase markers.

  * * *

  "Hey, Mr. Mendez, wait up."

  At the sound of his name, Paul stopped. He had just dropped off his old pair of spikes for Luke at the front desk of the high school and was halfway back to his car. Turning around, he saw Coach DeRosa jogging toward him.

  "Sorry to hold you up," he started. "Do you have a minute? I'd like to talk to you about Luke."

  Paul felt his guard go up faster than the McMansion they were building down the street from his house.

  "Sure, Coach. What's up?"

  "Please. Call me Nick. Listen, I was thinking of having Luke run in the varsity race at the Wauconda Invitational next week. I think he can carry his own, and I'd really like to give him the exposure."

  Guard going down.

  "Oh. Wow. That's great."

  But Nick didn't look as if he was delivering great news. He looked like he was about to deliver really bad news.

  "Is there a problem?"

  Removing his cap, the coach looked back at the school building, then at Paul. He lowered his voice and explained, "Not exactly. I mean, I'm sure he can handle the pressure. It's just…well, when word got out, one of the other freshmen called him on it, and Luke sort of snapped his head off. If I hadn't stepped in, I'm pretty sure it would've gotten physical."

  Paul scowled. "That doesn't sound like him at all."

  Sensing there was more to the story, he asked, "What did the kid say?"

  Nick tugged his cap back on and studied Paul's face before he responded, "Um, I didn't exactly catch all of it."

  When he hesitated, Paul urged, "Well, what did you catch, Nick?"

  The coach pressed his lips together and shrugged. "I don't know. Something like, 'At least my dad has a real job.'"

  And just like that, Paul felt as if he was falling down that damn elevator shaft again. Only this time, he pictured himself latching on to a cable and hanging on for dear life.

  How self-centered had he become since losing his job that he didn't even think for a second about the effect it would have on his boys? For the first time ever, he deplored the example he had been unconsciously setting for them.

  If you hit a brick wall while chasing your dream, just give up.

  Three words rang in his ears.

  Claire was right.

  From far away, he heard Nick's voice say, "Listen, Luke's a great kid. I'd hate to see him not get the most out of this season. If there's anything I can do, please just let me know."

  At that, Paul met his gaze. With a smirk on his face and a hell, why not tone in his voice, he asked, "Know anybody looking for an accountant?"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "The road to success is always under construction." —Lilly Tomlin

  Wrestling with optimism and trepidation for the entire duration of her train ride home, Claire's insides were in knots as she bounded up the front steps. Just as she reached the front door, Paul burst through it with car keys in hand, presumably on his way to pick up Jonah from school.

  Even after he blew by without so much as acknowledging her presence, she called after him, "Do you want me to get him?"

  He stopped and, without making eye contact, said quietly, "No, thanks. I gotta…I gotta run some errands anyway." And he was off.

  Trepidation, one. Optimism, a big fat zero.

  On the kitchen table, she saw a message he had taken for her. A former colleague of hers, John Coleman, had called. She knew he was working at a small software company in the Loop. And she knew why he had called.

  With the house to herself for a few minutes, she called him back.

  He answered on the second ring. "Hey, stranger. Tell me you haven't landed a new gig yet."

  Claire's whole countenance relaxed at the sound of her old friend's voice. "That depends. What's up?"

  "Well, look no more. I've got a short-term assignment to update a set of user manuals. Something you could do in your sleep."

  Ding, ding, ding! Tell her what she's just won, Johnny.

  "You can name your rate," her friend continued, "but I'd need to you start as soon as possible."

  She didn't know what to say. Updating user manuals? She hadn't done that for ages, before she was able to hire a team of writers to do it for her. Still, the pay would make up for shortfall in the Gazette's compensation. Question was, could she do both?

  "Wow. Thanks for thinking of me. When do you need an answer?"

  "Is an hour ago too soon?"

  She laughed into the phone. "No, that's perfect."

  She wrote down the details and promised to get back to him with her answer. By the time Jonah burst through the door, she had a PBJ ready and sat him at the kitchen table with his favorite book while Paul put the car keys on the hook by the door and joined them. He looked tired or, for lack of a better word, deflated. And he had gotten a haircut.

  "Did you see John called?"

  "Yeah. I talked to him." She tried not to sound too enthused. "He's got a position for me. It's a short-term contract, but I can name my rate."

  "So, what did you tell him?"

  "That I'd get back to him."

  He shot her a glance as he poured Jonah
a cup of milk.

  "And…what about the newspaper thing?"

  Before she even stepped foot into Dianne's office, Claire had made up her mind to use every cent she earned to help replenish their nest egg if she got the position. She also made up her mind to not tell Paul, going as far as asking Kate for the routing number of her savings account so he wouldn't see any payments coming through.

  And she made another decision—no more railing him to go back to work. Like it or not, she was resigned to treading down the path to career fulfillment solo.

  "Look, I'm very sorry about last night. Really. You didn't deserve that."

  Paul took a deep breath and relaxed his posture, but he avoided looking directly at her. "I know you've been frustrated. With me." He set the cup in front of Jonah and brushed the hair out of his eyes as the boy gobbled his sandwich.

  Eager to change the subject, Claire said, "Hey, well, if I'm gonna work for John, I'd better get a new monthly train pass, right? Want to come with me to the station, Jonah? We can watch the trains go by for a bit."

  Looking up at her with a milk mustache, he nodded. Paul handed him a napkin, and said softly, "Wipe your mouth first, buddy."

  While Jonah ran to the door, Claire turned to Paul. "Before I call John back, can you give me an idea of what rate I should charge?"

  He furrowed his eyebrows and with a quick nod, said, "Sure. I'll take a look at the numbers."

  Later that afternoon, Claire accepted John's offer to work for him as a contract technical writer and agreed to start the following Monday.

  With little to no time to transform her current business professional suit–heavy wardrobe to business casual, Claire got up extra early on the big day, took a shower, and stood in front of her closet, wondering what to wear.

  I hate Mondays.

  Feeling crabby and more than a little disappointed over having to once again be the breadwinner, she tightened her towel around her torso with a huff. Her tangled wet hair dripped onto her bare shoulders while she reached, on tippy-toes, for a folded sweater set on the shelf above the clothes rod. She just about had it too, when a low voice behind her asked, "Need a hand?"

  With a gasp, she lost her grip on the sweater. And her towel.

  Shit.

  Apparently back from his morning run, Paul's heated, sweat-covered body did little to keep the goose bumps away.

  Her hands flew to her chest, and she stood frozen to the spot.

  "Allow me," he offered. She could actually hear the smirk in his voice.

  Not daring to turn around while he retrieved it, she let out another gasp when the hair on his head brushed against the back of her upper thigh.

  With a quick glance to the floor to make sure he had picked it up, she held a hand over her shoulder and said, "Thanks."

  But he didn't hand it over.

  What. A. Jerk.

  Not sure what to do next, she reached into the closet and yanked out a white button-down shirt of his that he hadn't worn in ages, slipped her arms in, and wrapped it around her naked body like a robe.

  She turned to see him standing there, towel in hand, shirt off, smirk on.

  I knew it.

  Try as she might, she couldn't keep her angry eyes from falling on his chest, then his abdomen, then his—

  Coffee. Must get coffee.

  She refused to let her guard down. Not until he went back to work. If she gave in now, it would never happen.

  Her voice, however, didn't cooperate. Cracking like a prepubescent teenage boy, she announced, "Shower's free."

  With that, he reached over her head to pull her sweater set off of the shelf and whispered, "That's too bad."

  Half an hour later, Claire boarded her train into the city, still struggling to focus on the day ahead and not on how it had started.

  Away from her commute for just a couple of weeks, it was as if she had never left. On the lower level, the same three professionally dressed women of various ages sat in facing seats, contentedly knitting and crocheting, working silently, heads down, focusing on their craft, and exchanging occasional compliments. On the top level were the same businessmen and women, working on laptops or talking on phones, coffee at their sides. Students and young professionals filled in the rest, eyes glued to their phones and listening to their music as they watched the near north neighborhoods of Chicago fly past the windows of the train.

  As it approached the station, the commuters turned to face the doors that would open once they came to a complete stop. When they did, everyone lined up to step down and, like sand pouring through a sieve, flow toward the exits that would lead them to their destinations. All except one.

  Claire noticed a very pregnant woman standing next to her. Taller by a good four inches, the pretty blonde was struggling to keep her backpack strap on her shoulder while finding a piece of railing to grasp as she attempted to exit the train. Seeing that her girth prevented her from maneuvering down the stairs safely, Claire shot ahead of her, then turned and reflexively held out her hand with a smile.

  "Thanks," the expectant, breathless mother said to Claire as she joined her on the platform.

  "No problem," she called over her shoulder as she was absorbed into the flow. Some commuters poured down the stairwell to the lower level. Others flowed down the platform to the station doors that led to one of the city's main east-west arteries.

  Claire knew to exit through the Madison Street door. On her way, she passed a trim, tightly muscled man in a black short-sleeved T-shirt and black pants with a gun in a holster at his waist. He stood looking out over the crowd, restraining a bomb-sniffing dog on a leash—an unpleasant reality in the post-9/11 world. Nonetheless, she filed the image of the buff middle-aged handler away in the "where to find hunky men" mental list she always maintained for her sister, Kate, placing him right after the paramedics and firemen who frequented her grocery store between eight and ten every Saturday morning.

  * * *

  Nina Crenshaw hiked the strap of her backpack higher up on her shoulder and started walking slowly down the train platform. With commuters flying by on either side of her, she hoped to God that she would find a cab waiting on the curb outside. One day past her due date, her OB informed her that since her baby was still very high, it wouldn't be coming anytime soon. Since the idea of eating her way through the contents of the fridge while waiting for Lester to return from his business meeting in New York didn't appeal to her, Nina knew she had to get out of the house. Heading into the office to make sure her replacement had everything he needed to take over for her while she was on maternity leave seemed like a perfect idea.

  As she settled into the backseat of the first cab she could flag down, she found herself very much looking forward to meeting the man who told her that he had spent the past four years at home raising his boys while his wife worked full time. Something in the tone of his voice told her that she wouldn't be the only one benefiting from the arrangement.

  * * *

  Arriving ten minutes early to her contract assignment at the corner of Madison and Franklin in Chicago's Loop, Claire was greeted by the receptionist, a cheerful, meticulously groomed woman who gave Claire a temporary ID badge and told her to wait while she notified John Coleman of her arrival. Within minutes, he came bursting through the door, already looking harried, and greeted her with, "I'm so glad you could start today."

  "I'm fine, thanks, and how are you?" Claire laughed and off they went. John showed her the cubicle she'd be using, in the corner of which sat a dusty, worn desktop PC and some picked-through office supplies. On the floor opposite sat a few obsolete monitors, computer towers, and keyboards.

  "Oh, hey, we'll get that stuff out of here for you this afternoon. Sorry about that." He tried shoving the mess closer to the cube wall with his foot.

  "Please. I'm just a contractor," Claire replied. The words sounded like music to her ears. While being a contractor meant no benefits and no paid time off, it also meant no office politics and, best of a
ll, no work after clocking out.

  John made sure she could log on, showed her some drafts of user manuals that she'd be tasked with updating, arranged to meet her for lunch, and gave her a quick tour of their floor. After showing her where to find the bathrooms, kitchenette, and copy room, he introduced her to the software development team and the company's lone staff technical writer.

  Plopped in her well-worn office chair, Amanda Warden halfheartedly held out her pale hand to Claire as she examined her over her thick, tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses.

  "Welcome."

  "Ok, I gotta get to a meeting," John announced before dashing off to a conference room down the hall, laptop in hand.

  Chicken…

  After watching him for a moment, Claire turned her attention back to Amanda, who had already turned to face her computer screen.

  "Well, hey, nice to meet you."

  Back in her cube, Claire spent the remainder of the morning skimming through dusty old drafts of documentation, proofreading as she went. After a long while, she looked up at her cramped, cluttered surroundings. It was a far cry from the spacious office she had at her last job. Still, she was grateful.

  Finding a nearby vacant cube, she shoved all of the ancient equipment into it and pulled out her notebook to reread the draft of her first Plate Spinner column. Anything to keep her mind off Paul and that smirk. Her pulse raced every time she thought of it. The jury was still out as to whether lust or loathing was to blame.

  "I'm a plate spinner," she read. "No, not the kind you might catch in Vegas or even on a rerun of an old variety show. My 'plates' aren't so much objects, but those elements of my life that get me out of bed in the morning faster than the promise of a hot cup of coffee.

  "With four young boys and a full-time job, I have plenty of plates to spin. My 'act,' while not nearly glamorous enough for Vegas (and a little difficult to simulate on a stage), does seem to provoke the same sense of awe in just about anyone I meet who, on hearing that I have four boys, inevitably exclaims, "How do you do it?