Help Wanted

by Barbara Valentin

  "I don't know." Her sister laughed. "You called me. What time do I need to have the boys home on Sunday?"

  Cripes. She had completely forgotten that Kate was taking her sons to the Chicago Bulls basketball game that night and then keeping them for the rest of the weekend so she could get her kid fix. Which left Claire in the uncomfortable position of being alone in the house with Paul. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep her steely resolve intact. Not having the boys around as a distraction would truly put her to the test. Still, if Paul hadn't started making the moves to find a job by now, chances were slim to none that he would anytime soon, especially with the holidays right around the corner.

  In the blink of an eye, she managed to convince herself that he was no nearer to getting a job than he was back in August, and ergo, no longer in love with her, because if he was, he'd have gotten one by now.

  She took a fortifying breath and girded herself for the long weekend ahead of her.

  "Um, I don't know," she replied. "Anytime midafternoon would be ok."

  "Ok. Perfect."

  "Has the game started yet? I can't believe you got courtside seats. Make sure you keep an eye on Jonah, and don't let them eat too much junk."

  She heard a deep sigh come through her phone.

  "You're no fun. We're going to grab a bite to eat before we head over to the United Center." In a muffled voice, Kate added, "I think I can get some of the players to come by and say 'hi' to the guys. I had Marc bring his ball for autographs, just in case."

  "That's so awesome. You're such a cool aunt."

  "Yeah, well, being a photographer to the stars helps, even if I do say so myself." Kate laughed. "My mission is to get a shot of Derrick Rose in a layup. Tonight's the night. I can feel it in my bones."

  Claire laughed back. "Oh, that would be awesome. Good luck."

  "Thanks. I'll catch you later," Kate sang into the phone.

  But before she could hang up, Claire blurted, "Oh, hey, I've been meaning to ask—" She hunched over her phone so no one around her would overhear. "I really need the routing number to your savings account."

  Her request was met by silence.

  "Kate?"

  Her sister's voice was laden with hesitation. "Uh…and why's that again?"

  Getting up, Claire jostled her way to an empty area by the exit doors and took probably the most inopportune time to finally bring Kate up to speed with her attempt to change careers and the dicey state of her marriage.

  Making no effort whatsoever to hide the anger in her voice, Kate asked, "How did I not know you and Paul were on the rocks? When were you planning on telling me—after you did something stupid like divorce him?"

  Claire closed her eyes. "Tell me the boys did not just hear you say that."

  "Don't worry. They're upstairs fighting over who gets which room."

  "Ok, good." Then she huddled in a corner, while another commuter passed through, so she could ask, "And why do you always take his side?"

  "Because," Kate replied, "he's the best thing that ever happened to you. If it weren't for him, you'd still be waiting tables someplace, trying to pay off your student loans."

  Claire held her phone away from her ear and looked at it. "Really, Kate. Your confidence in me is touching."

  Her big sister ignored her and just kept talking. "He's crazy about you, you dope. He's been whipped since the day you guys met." After a pause, she nearly yelled, "And nothing irritates me more than knowing you don't realize how good you have it."

  With one hand on her phone and the other over her ear, Claire stared out the window, watching buildings fly by until the words sank in. Before she could reply, the train jolted to a sudden stop. Losing her footing, Claire's head banged hard against the edge of the metal phone box that was mounted to the wall next to her.

  Ow…

  She blinked. As the train lurched forward again, she braced herself against the handrail while fighting the sudden urge to vomit. Feeling dazed, she touched her fingers to a sticky spot above her ear.

  "Kate, I gotta go. Mail me that number, would ya?"

  Looking down at the amount of blood on her fingertips, she called Paul and said, "I need you."

  * * *

  Paul relished the quiet of the house as he tapped a series of numbers into a spreadsheet and attached it to an email to the comptroller at Griffin Media. When he hit Send, he could actually feel his self-esteem shoot up a couple of notches.

  If it weren't for that bittersweet pang in his gut, he'd be mighty happy right now. As it was, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling he had to figure out a way to make things right with Claire, and fast. If not for the sake of their marriage, then at least for their sons.

  Paycheck or no paycheck.

  One thing was certain—he was not looking forward to being alone in the house with her all weekend. Figuring she'd probably ignore him by hiding behind her laptop or sticking her nose in a book, he made his way downstairs to crack open a celebratory bottle of a local microbrewery's finest ale.

  His cell phone rang as he yanked open the refrigerator door.

  Speak of the devil.

  "I'm sure it's nothing," Claire kept saying as they sped through rush-hour traffic on their way to the emergency room at Chicago General.

  Unlike childbirth, Paul learned all there was to know about concussions in his Boy Scout leader training. Above all, he knew he had to keep her talking.

  "How ya feeling?"

  Holding a big wad of almost-saturated gauze the conductor had given her to the side of her head, she stared out the passenger side window and replied, "Like a dope."

  Unable to spin a conversation out of that, he asked, "How was work today?"

  "Fine."

  Checking the rearview mirror before passing a car in the left-hand lane that was not even doing the speed limit, he struggled to think of questions that didn't require one-word answers.

  "Uh, what kind of stuff are you working on at John's company?"

  He waited for her to reply while dodging around a car that was stalled, clogging one of the main thoroughfares leading to the hospital.

  Stuck in traffic, he looked over and saw that she was resting her head back against her seat. Her eyes were closed, and her hand had fallen into her lap.

  "Hey, hey, hey, wake up, Imp. Talk to me."

  He reached over to squeeze her chin and smooth some baby-fine hair off her face, careful not to put his hand anywhere near the gash over her ear. Relieved to see her take a deep breath and sit back up, he redirected his gaze to the road before him and said, "Stay with me, sweetheart. We're almost there."

  Sweetheart? Where the hell did that come from?

  When she turned to look directly at him and asked if he remembered to get diapers as she'd asked, he cut into the next side street and zigzagged his way through a shortcut that led to the back entrance of the hospital.

  He pulled up to the emergency room with the precision of an Indy racecar driver roaring into his pit, and hopped out.

  Offering his hand to help her down, he was surprised and somewhat amused when she pulled him toward her, brushed a kiss against his cheek, and murmured, "My hero."

  He knew people were apt to say and do some uncharacteristic things after sustaining a blow to the head, but still—his heart swelled, just a little.

  Three hours, seven stitches, one MRI, and a painkiller the size of a Tootsie Roll later, they were on their way home. With Claire resting her bandaged head against his shoulder and clutching his arm as he wove through the dark streets, he made a mental note to send the train engineer a thank you for slamming on the brakes when he did.

  "Be sure to keep her awake for the next several hours, just to be on the safe side," the doctor had instructed.

  Paul thought of the overstuffed couch in the family room and decided they'd camp there for the night. They could watch movies, the news—hell, he could even teach her how to play a video game if she was up for it.

  He also thoug
ht of the way she looked up at him from the stretcher and told him she was glad that he was there. Not exactly an "I love you" or "Please forgive me for ever making you feel as if I was disappointed in you," but he'd take it all the same.

  That she only let go of his hand when they took her in for the brain scan, which, thank God, came back clear, made one side of his mouth twitch into a smile, and a warm wave washed over his chest.

  After slipping the SUV into the garage, he eased Claire back against her seat. She was awake but had grown quiet—either from the painkiller, the hour, or the concussion. Whatever the reason, he didn't mind. He was too busy enjoying this glimpse of the old Claire, the one who made him feel as if he was her sun and moon—even if it was induced by blunt-force trauma.

  As he walked around to the passenger side, he glanced up at the stars dotting the sky and breathed in the homey scent of neighborhood fireplaces warming the cool early November evening.

  A little surprised she hadn't gotten out yet, he flicked the handle up. When she turned toward him and nearly tumbled out, Paul pulled her against him.

  "Easy," he whispered in her ear.

  He had forgotten how good she felt in his arms, all soft and warm, and the way she smelled like the inside of a bakery.

  When she slipped her arm behind his back and gripped his waist, his breath hitched, and he felt his chest tighten.

  I miss this.

  He indulged his urge to pull her close and kiss the top of her head as they climbed the back porch stairs. Fumbling to get his keys out of his pocket while balancing her with one arm and her backpack with the other, he glanced at his wife—the one who always had to feel as if she was in complete control of every situation. Only now, she was clinging to him for dear life and swaying a bit, as if she'd had too much to drink.

  He wasn't used to seeing her off her game.

  He kinda liked it.

  After gaining entry to the house, he deposited her things in the mudroom and led her to the red microfiber couch in the family room.

  As soon as Claire sat down, she crinkled her eyes and informed him that the room was spinning.

  The doc told him she might feel dizzy on and off for the next couple of days, partly because of her injury, partly because of the painkiller. Other things to watch out for, he'd pointed out, were nausea, confusion, and heightened emotions.

  Feeling a grin tug at his mouth, he leaned down and held her face in his hands until her eyes met his. "Sit tight, Imp. I'll be right back."

  After she nodded her acknowledgement, he stood and took a step away from her before returning to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  Better squeeze in as many as I can before the meds wear off.

  Making his way up the back stairway, he grabbed a pair of her pajama bottoms and a matching tank top out of her—their room—along with a sheet, a couple of blankets, and pillows out of the linen closet. On his way back down, he realized he was looking forward to being alone in the house with her more than he could ever have imagined four hours earlier.

  Thank you, Kate.

  When he returned to the couch, he was relieved to find Claire awake, although looking a little dazed and wearing a bit of a smile, the reason for which he couldn't exactly pinpoint.

  Sitting next to her, he set the clothes in her lap. "I thought you'd be more comfortable in your jammies."

  "Right," she replied. But she just looked at him. And still with that smile.

  Well, ok then.

  Kneeling in front of her, he slipped off her shoes, unable to keep his grin at bay. Next, he helped her tug off her sweater, one sleeve at a time and then oh-so-carefully over her head until all that was left on top was her bra. Her beige, lace-trimmed, open-in-the-front bra.

  Have mercy.

  How to undress one's wounded wife while she's under the influence of painkillers was definitely not a topic that was covered in his Boy Scout leader training. Sitting on the edge of the couch next to her, he waited, half amused, half aroused.

  Way more than half.

  He figured the right thing to do in this situation would probably be to walk away and let her manage the rest by herself.

  "Ok, so are you good here?" he asked without getting up.

  With that, she turned toward him. In a move that took his breath away, she grabbed his face with both hands, looked in his eyes, and rested her forehead against his.

  "Say it," she whispered.

  His breath caught in his throat. "Claire, I don't think this—"

  She pulled his hand to her bra clasp, pressed her mouth against his, and ran her tongue lightly over his bottom lip.

  "Say it," she demanded.

  Standing on the edge of the empty, dark elevator shaft, he whispered "Te llamo, querida" and executed a perfect swan dive into its depths.

  * * *

  When Claire blinked in the morning light, she cast a bleary eye to her surroundings.

  Why am I in the family room?

  Her head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton, but it didn't matter, really. She was so comfortable and…content. Exceedingly so, but she couldn't figure out why and was too tired to try. Closing her eyes, she was aware of one thing and one thing only—aside from the slight stinging sensation on the side of her head, she felt different. Lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted.

  Snuggling back against her pillow, unable to place its familiar scent, she was vaguely confused as to why it felt so firm and warm. And it was moving ever so slightly. Up and down, up and down. She willed her eyes open only to find that she was curled up against a body. Paul's body.

  Seeing that he was wearing nothing but a blanket (and was that a hickey?), she sucked in a breath.

  What the…?

  Her heartbeat accelerated as a heated rush coursed from her scalp to the tips of her toes, reminding her of the sensations she had enjoyed just a few hours before.

  Not sure whether to shove him to the floor for taking advantage of her concussed condition or to rouse him for round two (or five—she had lost count), she pulled away just far enough to watch him sleep. The thick waves of his hair were mussed, and his long, dark eyelashes curled upward from his closed lids. His full lips were redder than normal, a tad swollen (no wonder) and slightly parted.

  Like the Grinch in Dr. Seuss's yuletide fable, she felt her heart grow and grow and grow until it was near bursting.

  So gorgeous. And he's all mine.

  Her sister was right. She was a first-class dope. Thinking of all she had put him through over the past several months, and for what? Her eyes began to fill.

  His fluttered open. When they focused on her face, his lips curled into a smile. "Hey."

  "Hey," she whimpered.

  "What's the matter?" Alarmed, he edged onto his side to get a better look at her.

  She ran her fingers against the dark stubble on his cheek and sniffed, "I'm so sorry, Stretch."

  His expression softened. Wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb, he asked, "For what, babe?"

  She widened her eyes, desperate to list every infraction, only she didn't know where to start, so she gasped, "Everything."

  Paul reached over her head for the box of tissues on the end table, plucked one out, and handed it to her.

  "That's a pretty big thing to be sorry for."

  She leaned into his touch as he tucked her hair behind her ear.

  Puppy-dog eyes were not in her arsenal of sympathy-begging expressions—maybe because she made a point of never begging for anything. Whatever it was that the muscles in her face tried to do, they made a mess of it.

  Paul scrunched his eyes and cupped the side of her face with his hand. "Did I hurt you?"

  Claire attempted to sit up, despite her throbbing head. "No. I'm fine."

  Which was a lie. The more she woke up, the more frustrated she became with her inability to articulate her feelings in a way that wouldn't make her sound like a blithering idiot.

  "Liar." Paul sat up, fluffed the pillows th
at had been smushed behind them both, and laid her back down. "Now stay put. Can I get you anything?"

  Before he could turn away, she grabbed his arm and laced her fingers between his. "What I really want to say is, if you don't want to go back to work, it's all right with me."

  What the hell?

  Her plan was to stop fighting with him about it, not give him carte blanche to live the life of leisure while she slaved in the trenches all day.

  Regardless, she rather expected him to leap for joy. Instead, he just narrowed his sleepy eyes and gave her a faint I'll believe it when I see it half smile for a long minute.

  "I already have a job, Imp," he replied as he unlocked his fingers from hers and bent to grab his jeans from the floor.

  Right. Stay-at-home dad extraordinaire. Yada, yada, yada.

  Not wanting to spoil the mood and reopen old wounds, she ran her hand up and down his back and teased, "I'll let you call me Sugar Mama."

  At this, he laughed. "And what would that make me? Your Cabana Boy?"

  Now you're talkin'.

  Not waiting for her response, he started turning his jeans right side out and asked, "How about something to eat? You hungry?"

  Certain she could find a more effective way to convince him, she replied, "Not for food, CB," and she pulled him on top of her. "Not for food."

  * * *

  "So, let me get this straight," Kate started. Having brought the boys back late Sunday afternoon, she had just settled in for a long chat.

  Now that Claire and Paul's unplanned lost weekend was behind them and the haze of her pain medication was beginning to lift, she sat at her kitchen table clutching her favorite mug that was filled with her favorite caffeinated blend. Like a repentant drunk nursing a hangover, she struggled to remember all of the dumb things she said or did while under the influence.

  Instead, she listened as her sister recounted what she had just told her.

  "You bang your head on the train, Paul takes you to the hospital, and now everything is right as rain between the two of you."

  Claire squirmed. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled, "Yeah, I wouldn't go that far."

  Paul had barely left her side all weekend, but even after her all-encompassing apology, an olive branch the size of the Sears Tower, and a whole lot of unbridled, narcotic painkiller-induced promiscuity, she had a nagging feeling all wasn't forgiven. Not completely.