Relaxing a bit, Claire asked, "So how's everybody?"
Ignoring her question, the two women again made eye contact and smiled. Allison spoke first.
"You still work, don't you?"
She may as well have asked, "You have a family of squirrels living in your attic, don't you?"
"Yes. I work. Why?"
"Oh, just wonderin'. You're some sort of writer, aren't you? What exactly do you write?"
As a matter of fact, I'm doing an exposé on the emergence of cliques among smug token wives in the Ravenswood neighborhood.
"I'm a technical writer," Claire admitted, feeling her cheeks begin to burn. "Computer manuals and stuff."
When neither woman said anything, she plastered on a smile as fake as theirs and asked a second time, "Why?"
Patty cocked her head and shot out, "Oh, come on now. I was just telling Allison here that you must be the gal who writes those cute stories for the Gazette. You are, aren't you?"
Cute?
When Claire didn't respond, Allison, who had been scrutinizing her during this entire exchange, piped up. "I could've sworn it was you. I was just telling Sherry Evans the other day, that sounds like that Mendez family down the street, with all of those boys."
Claire lifted her chin. "Oh, I'm sure there's lots of other families with four boys in the greater Chicago area."
With a most-welcome interruption, Tomas, who had been circling the trio on his bike, said loudly, "Hi, Mom. Is dinner ready? I'm starving."
Claire averted her gaze to her son just as he winked at her. "Oh, yeah. Definitely. Wow. Look at the time."
Turning from the vultures masquerading as neighbors, she walked away calling over her shoulder, "Sorry, gotta go."
"Bye," they cawed out in unison before Claire overheard Patty say to Allison, "Well, that's a shame. These columns are so much better than the ones that athletic gal was writing."
Then Allison said, "I'm still not convinced it isn't her."
Feeling their eyes on her back as she and Tomas walked away, Claire breathed a little easier with each step that brought her closer to home.
But her heart skipped a beat when her son turned to her and whispered, "Don't worry, Mom. I won't tell anyone."
Tomas was relatively small in stature for his age and, maybe for that very reason, always worked hard at everything he chose to tackle. Exceedingly articulate, he could argue his point better than the best trial attorneys in the country.
Claire shooed him into the privacy of their garage and closed the door behind them.
"What are you talking about?" she asked, trying to sound ambivalent while a nervous smile twitched at her mouth.
Tomas looked her square in the eyes. "Mom. I know it's you." When she continued to stare at him, speechless, he blurted, "The Plate Spinner? In the paper?"
She opened her mouth to speak but said nothing, narrowing her eyes instead.
As he carefully edged his bike into the corner of the garage, all she managed in way of a reply was, "Ok, how did you find out? It was them, wasn't it?" She pointed in the direction of the vultures.
He approached her, sweaty despite the cool air in the garage, with his helmet in hand.
"No, Mom. They asked me if it was you. I told them I didn't know what they were talking about."
"So how did you know it was me?"
"I didn't until just now."
Busted by a twelve year old.
Then he repeated earnestly, "Don't worry. I won't tell anybody. I swear."
Claire looked down at her son who was wiser than his years and hugged him tightly. "I believe you."
As he pulled away from her, he asked, "What's the big secret anyway? It's kinda cool that you're in the paper."
Mulling her words carefully, she said simply, "It's a surprise for Dad."
"Oh, ok. When are ya gonna to show it to him?"
"I'm not sure. But I won't be ready to for a long, long time." She gave up trying to calculate how long it would take to replenish their lost nest egg with what she was receiving from the paper. "Think you can keep it quiet for that long?"
"Piece a cake," he assured her as he went inside.
"Hey, wait a minute," she called after him. "Go get your brothers. I am not goin' back out there."
* * *
After the Knollwood Knights boys' cross-country team moved up a couple of notches from the year before and took second place at state, Paul was sorry to see the season end but happy to have one less thing on his plate.
On this particular chilly November day, Claire offered to drop Luke off at school before heading to work so Paul could stay home with the younger three boys, who had a day off. Heading into the kitchen after getting five miles in, the first thing he noticed was a note she had left for him.
He filled a glass with cold tap water and picked up the white piece of paper lying conspicuously on top of the black coffeepot.
Paul—Sherry Evans called. Asked if you could help work the concession stand at Marc's basketball game next Tuesday night. Didn't think you'd mind. She'll be in touch.
His face contorted as if someone had just told him he had to run another five miles—across the Sahara.
While he appreciated the reminder that Marc had a game, he didn't appreciate the sarcastic undertone of Claire's note.
Didn't think I'd mind, my ass.
Little by little, he had managed to put that caustic performance review she had given behind him. Hell, since he had started working again, it rarely came to mind. But Claire, on the other hand, seemed to go out of her way to make it abundantly clear that, unless he got a job, he could expect more of the same.
He set the note on the counter and started getting the boys' breakfast ready.
So why not just tell her I got one?
The answer came to him as he stirred the slow-cooking oatmeal and cut up some oranges.
Because I want—no, I need her to love me regardless of whether I have a paycheck in my back pocket.
He filled three bowls and set them on the table.
Cause if she can't…
He swallowed hard, not wanting to think about what would happen if she never came around.
Instead, he started running over all that he had yet to do to finish the third-quarter reports for work. Plus, he remembered, he had a call at 10:00 a.m. and had until 3:00 p.m. to get his numbers into Lester.
Reluctantly, he woke Marc up to hold down the fort while he got to work. Locating one of his second son's feet under his comforter, he held it, slowly moving it back and forth until he saw movement underneath the blankets. In response, Marc rolled over on his back and moaned, "Get outta here."
Paul gently patted him on the leg. "Come on, pal. Gotta get up. I got work to do."
At this, Marc sat up, his straight black hair going in every direction. "Oh. Sorry. I thought you were Tomas."
Satisfied that his son was awake and semi-alert, Paul went into the office and logged on to the paper's network. As he patiently waited for the interface to boot up, he caught his refection in the monitor and was surprised to see himself looking so happy. He sat there reflecting on how lucky he was—four great kids, a nice house in a nice neighborhood, good friends, and a wife he still loved, even if the feeling wasn't reciprocated.
Ok, so not so happy.
Still, having a job was pretty sweet, even if it was temporary.
Maybe not so sweet.
The unknown lurked just beyond the start of the New Year, when both he and Claire's temporary assignments would be over. What then? Should he start looking for a new job now so he'd have something lined up when the time came?
Claire hadn't brought up the subject of him going back to work since their big blowup a couple of months back.
Maybe she's just been too busy to think about it.
Maybe she likes working for John.
Maybe she does love me, even if she thinks I'm not working.
Knowing better, he shook his head at that last one.
Maybe she's found something else.
A dark cloud settled over him.
Maybe she's given up on me and found somebody else.
There was a time when he'd never entertained the idea of Claire being unfaithful. These days, he couldn't shake it off with the same level of confidence.
Pushing these thoughts from his mind, he focused on getting ready for his call. When it was over, he finished up the reports he needed to get to Lester and hit the Send button two full hours before they were expected. Satisfied that everything would reconcile, he got up and stretched. A stack of mail caught his eye. Rifling through it, he started separating the junk mail from the bills. At the bottom of the pile was a big white envelope. He tossed it on the top of the desk and went downstairs to make the boys some lunch.
He had no sooner pulled out the makings for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, when his phone rang.
Lester.
Before answering it, he made his way back up to the office and closed the door behind him.
"Les?"
"Yes. How are ya, Paul?"
"Good, thanks. Did you get my files?"
This seemed to catch Lester off guard. "Uh, no."
"Well, I just sent them a couple of minutes ago. So, what's up? Everything ok? How are Nina and Emily doing?"
The warm chuckle of a proud papa sounded on the other end of the line. "Aw, they're fine. They're just fine. That little pumpkin actually slept through the night last night."
Paul remembered when the boys reached that monumental milestone. "Nice. And how many times did you get up to make sure she was still breathing?"
Lester cackled into the phone. "Just once, but I'm sure Nina got up at least five times."
The publisher cleared his throat, then continued with the purpose of his call. "Listen, Paul, Griffin Media sponsors a big year-end event that I wanted to talk to you about. I think it's important that you make every effort to be there."
Event? Paul felt a knot tug in his chest.
Before he could respond, Lester continued, "Listen, I gotta tell ya, when Nick said he had found a stay-at-home dad to fill in for Nina while she was on maternity leave, I'll admit—I was skeptical. But I trust his instincts. Always have."
Knot tightening, Paul asked, "And?"
"And I wanted to tell you, the comptroller dropped me a line to tell me that he's impressed by how quickly you've gotten up to speed with everything."
Whew.
"Well, that's great. When is it?"
"When's what?"
"The event?"
"Oh, right. It's not until December 17. I think the invitations are going out this week."
Paul picked up the white envelope he had tossed on his desk before lunch.
"Uh, I think mine came today. Give me a second."
After ripping apart the envelope, he read it out loud to himself before responding, "Oh, that's gonna be tough. A Friday night. And what's this? Formal attire?" He laughed before adding, "I haven't worn a tux since my wedding."
"Hey, well, bring your wife. I'd like to meet her. Somebody for Nina to talk to."
Paul tossed it back onto his desk and stuffed his free hand in the front pocket of his jeans. Leaning back on his heels, he took in a deep breath. "Can I get back to you, Les?"
"Sure. Yeah. No problem. I think there's a date you have to respond by. The first, maybe? Whatever." He sounded flustered.
"Paul, what do you think of working for Griffin Media so far? I know it's only been a couple of months, but how do you like it?"
"Oh, it's great. Better than I expected. I haven't worked for a media company before, so that's new. And the people are pretty great."
Still worried that maybe Les was calling to let him know that Nina was coming back to work and that he wouldn't be needed anymore, he half joked, half asked, "You didn't call to fire me, did ya?"
"No. No, not at all." Les chuckled. "Quite the contrary. I've been very happy with your work. As I said, you're doing a hell of a job. Listen, I'll let you go. We'll talk soon."
"Sure. Ok. Thanks for calling." Paul set his cell phone down, not sure what had just happened. As he sat in front of the computer, he caught his reflection in the monitor. The happy guy he saw earlier was long gone.
"How the hell am I supposed to get to a black tie dinner alone on a Friday night?" he asked no one in particular.
He rubbed his eyes. "Crap."
Getting up, he opened the office door and shouted down to the boys to get in the car. There had to be a G-rated movie out there somewhere that could take his mind off of this.
When they got home a few hours later, he could hear Claire belting out the old Carly Simon song "You Belong to Me" as soon as they got out of the car. And the kitchen windows were closed. Once they passed through the mudroom, they all stood in the entrance to the kitchen, waiting for her to turn around.
After hushing the boys' giggles, Paul stood behind them and took in the sight of her, relaxed and happy, stirring something that smelled really good on the stove.
"Don't you know I'll always be your girl?" she sang.
He didn't realize how much he missed the sound of her voice until he heard it again. The only thing better was the sound of her laughter. When she really let loose, she actually snorted. It used to crack him up.
His thoughts were interrupted when she turned around and let out a yelp. The boys surrounded her before she could get all grouchy about it, and soon they were all hugging her and telling her about the animated comedy they had just seen.
Paul stayed in the doorway, taking it all in.
When Tomas launched into a perfect impersonation of her performance, she laughed so hard, her eyes started to water.
Wait for it.
A moment later, he heard it. That little snorting noise that would happen when she tried to inhale and laugh at the same time. It sparked a whole new round of giggles.
She's back.
That yearning for how things used to be between them tugged at his insides. He couldn't help but feel as if he was still on the outside looking in, afraid to have his heart trampled on.
When she glanced at him, smiling and wiping the corners of her eyes, the yearning blossomed into an ache.
He wanted to freeze that moment in time. The moment that he knew, eventually, they might be all right.
He made up his mind then and there that he'd do everything in his power to keep her from having to go back to work after her contract job ended. No job was worth losing her again.
For the next few days, he eagerly immersed himself in the paper's quarterly reporting activities, tucking the thought of the paper's fundraiser deep in a far corner of his mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"A good wife always forgives her husband when she's wrong." —Milton Berle
On the first Friday after cross-country season was over, just as it had each day since they moved in, the Gazette lay rolled in a tight, clear plastic bag on their front porch. Claire snatched it up, pulled out the Lifestyle section, and crammed it into her backpack as she made her way to the train. She left the rest, as usual, for Paul—although, she noticed lately, he never even took the paper out of its bag. Several were piled in a heap near the recycling bin.
And they wonder why print media is dying.
On her train ride home after a long day spent translating technical specifications into user-friendly prose, she settled into her seat and retrieved from her backpack the draft of the latest column she'd submitted to Dianne. Rereading it for the umpteenth time, Claire prayed to the god of second chances that the managing editor continued to like her work enough to offer her full-time employment.
"Dear Snoring in Suburbia, I hope you take comfort in the fact that you are not alone. Insomnia is a common affliction among plate spinners. Sleep is something I have a love/hate relationship with. I would just as soon end a sentence with a preposition as I would designate eight hours of my day to spend completely unconscious and drooling on my pillow. Y
et the benefits of sleep are well documented and, I readily concede, so are the effects of sleep deprivation—kryptonite to any high-functioning plate spinner.
"Still, sleep and I have a checkered past.
"I don't remember being especially hard to rouse though. That was my older sister's department. On Christmas mornings, when our parents would declare that we couldn't open a single gift until she joined us, I always rose to the occasion. Armed with a squirt gun, I'd have her awake and happily tearing through presents in no time flat.
"These days, she'd likely enjoy the fact that I seem to be suffering from some cruel form of reverse insomnia. Falling asleep is a breeze. Like you, I just can't stay asleep. It brings out the worst in me and my grammar. While I've tried all sorts of ways to rectify the matter—everything from deep breathing to watching C-Span to reading my AP style manual—nothing works better than making a list.
"The act of transferring the 'to dos' swirling around in my head to paper relieves the burden entirely. The list, however, is never ending. Even at the end of my most productive days, a stray task will wake me up at 3:00 a.m., nagging at me to get up and write it down. Granted, I may not always be able to make out what I scribble down during the course of the night. It's not unusual for my family to find me, first thing in the morning, squinting at the piece of paper, trying to determine if I am supposed to 'buy garbage stickers' or 'bag gorilla slickers.'
"Choosing to not be hampered by this sleep disruption, I consider this tactic the first tier of my three-level, no-fail wake-up system. If, after transferring the item to my list, I happen to fall back to sleep, my alarm clock stands at the ready. In the event of a power outage, there's always the last resort—a child, and I'm not naming names, packing a loaded squirt gun and thinking that waking me up is more important than making it to first grade."
Claire had no sooner finished reading it when her cell phone buzzed. It was Kate.
"What's up?" she asked, slightly annoyed at the distraction.
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