She shook her head, swallowed and then instinctively brought the bouquet to her face. She inhaled. It was odorless, but still—she nearly hugged the blossoms. It’d been so long since anyone had brought her flowers. Even for an occasion as innocuous as this one. “Thanks, Aaron,” she murmured.
He grinned, crossed his arms and struck a confident pose. “Well, there you go, Ms. Smarty Pants. How’re you gonna beat that?”
“Well, I don’t know yet, Mr. Green Giant, but I will.” She wrinkled her nose at him, then turned to fill a tall glass with water for the wildflowers. “A marginally impressive little show you just put on.”
“Marginally impressive?” he cried with mock indignation. “That was a slam dunk, and you know it.”
She relented and laughed, which was not how the game was played, of course. If she were totally en pointe, she would have teased him for far longer. Made him work for any hint of defeat and her ultimate admission. Been nonchalant. Feigned obvious boredom. Dragged out the charade so it’d be more fun for him. But she couldn’t hack the simplest of tasks that day. Not even elementary level flirting. “You caught me at an off hour,” she confessed. “I’m truly at a loss for words.”
He took a step back, dropped the alpha male pose and raised a dark blond eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
Her gaze shot to the piece of paper/pseudo résumé on the other end of the counter. “More or less.”
His gaze followed hers, squinting to read her heavily slanted scribbles. “Job search?”
“Maybe.” She snatched up the sheet before he could get to the embarrassing stuff farther down the page. “So, working at home. Pros? Cons?”
His expression turned thoughtful. “Kinda depends. On you. On your relationship.” He exhaled for somewhat longer than she thought necessary before continuing. “Not to be sexist about it, but some of the disagreements Isabelle and I had over it might not affect you because you’re a woman and Jon is already accustomed to your being at home during the day. For men, it has its challenges, though more guys are doing it now, so it isn’t seen as quite so strange. Still, I worked for a company for a couple of years before I launched the magazine. Isabelle had a hard time adjusting to my suddenly being home when she wasn’t. She resented having to be the one to go out on cold mornings, start the car, deal with the commute, put up with the social dynamics of the people at her law firm and—”
“Jesus, she was a lawyer?”
“Yep. Was and still is.” He rolled his eyes and couldn’t hide a painful grimace.
They shared a moment of mutual, though nonverbal, commiseration. It was hard being a lawyer’s spouse. At least with certain lawyers. Draining to always have to put on a show for the other people in the firm, who—let’s face it—often looked down on a stay-at-home mom as being a dependent slacker. She had spent her entire marriage struggling to prove to most of Jon’s colleagues that she wasn’t “a brainless housewife” (one of Jon’s partner’s favorite terms), and even then they would usually dismiss her as soon as someone more interesting showed up.
Heaven only knew how many little digs guys like that would have given Aaron at those tedious cocktail parties. How, in major ways and minute ones, they would have shown how little they respected someone who wasn’t wearing a tailored suit and clocking billable hours at a “real” office somewhere, no matter how successful he was at home.
“For you, it might be win-win. Though it’s still a career,” he said cryptically. “There can be other issues you won’t be immune to.”
“Like?”
“Like knowing when your workday is really over. It’s tempting to check your e-mail ‘just one more time’ or fix ‘one last document’ or make ‘only one super-quick phone call.’ And, before you know it, it’s eleven o’clock and you haven’t had a conversation with your spouse about anything other than the mundane operations of the house.”
“I can see how that could happen,” she said.
“Also, there are other people who don’t understand how much you actually do need to work. They don’t realize you have to call clients or freelancers during regular business hours. That you might be less rigid as far as timing, but not all the people you work with have the same flexibility.”
She agreed. And, though she didn’t tell Aaron this, she’d heard Jon make such assumptions about his few nontraveling, corporate-lawyer buddies who worked from home as consultants. Jon still considered this to be a cushy job for “old” men. Something done for fun in between golf games.
“Pros, though, are many,” Aaron said. “You do set your own hours. You base your work on what’s most significant to you. You can more easily screen out phone or e-mail distractions—or at least postpone them to more convenient times. You can work on your garden for an hour before lunch and mull over project ideas or take your dog for a walk when he needs to run around. If you need to schedule a root canal in the middle of the week, you don’t have any hoops to jump as far as taking time off or filling out paperwork. But, unless you work for an established company, you also don’t get any built-in health or dental insurance, paid vacation time or other special perks. I’m sure you know that.”
She bobbed her head. She loved the way he logically ran through the details and was willing to explore all the options with her, but he didn’t do it condescendingly. He accepted without question her intelligence as being sound, and he treated her immediately as an equal. The law spouted off about equal opportunities and mandatory women’s rights and blah, blah, blah, but that didn’t mean this was her day-to-day experience. Not by a long shot.
“There are financial issues to remember, also. Start-up costs and such that you’ll want to explore with your husband, because they can be seriously high at first.”
She’d run into Aaron the week before and, when she told him about her aunt’s death, he expressed his condolences and asked her about the funeral services. She told him about Al and about her few days in Vermont. She did not, however, tell him about Aunt Eliza’s will, and the inheritance bequeathed to her. As the details had yet to be divulged to the other recipients, Tamara hadn’t mentioned the sum to anyone. Jon hadn’t asked, but even he didn’t know the full projected amount once estate taxes and other fees had been deducted. Tamara, however, knew her start-up costs wouldn’t be an issue, even if Jon didn’t agree to spend a cent.
“The deal is,” Aaron said, “if you can learn to maintain some kind of balance that works for you, working at home is a beautiful thing. The flexibility, the control, the environment, the opportunity to mesh your real life with your work life and tailor your unique skills to a career you largely create…it’s phenomenal. For me, it helps me stay passionate about what I do. Since I’m accountable for everything, if I’m finding I hate some aspect of my job, I can’t blame that dissatisfaction on the boss in the other office. I have to work to either creatively fix the problem or to eliminate it.”
“How long did it take you to achieve a balance like that?”
He paused, his gray blue eyes scanning the ceiling unseeingly as he considered. “A little over three years.” He shrugged. “Most of my marriage.”
“Ah,” she said.
After Aaron left, she read through her résumé, such that it was, again. She wasn’t without skills, no matter how little experience she’d had in the corporate world. But much of what Aaron said appealed to her, especially since she could fashion numerous aspects of a new career to the abilities she did possess, slowly building up her experience and, eventually, taking on work opportunities she might not be privy to now. She’d always wanted to be a marketing consultant. To help small businesses look their best. To get their products recognized and purchased by the right buyers.
But money couldn’t buy everything. Not skill proficiency. Not client respect. Not marital support. She wouldn’t deny that money was extremely helpful…simply not an all-inclusive solution.
She continued to ponder this during the remainder of the day. Quite honestly, the allure of ha
ving an identity beyond her role as wife and mother was as strong as the opportunity to, at last, flex her career muscles. Jon would be home that night and maybe, just maybe, he would prove both supportive and insightful. It was not a matter of intelligence with him. He would understand the issues in an instant. It was merely a matter of inclination.
And, indeed, it turned out that Jon did surprise her, though not at all in the manner she’d expected.
“Got any plans for next weekend?” he asked all of four minutes after he’d burst through the front door. His face was unusually flushed, an expression more smile than smirk gracing his lips.
“For Columbus Day?” She thought about it, coming to the almost immediate conclusion that, no, she hadn’t put anything pressing on the calendar. She told Jon this.
“Good,” he replied. “How about we go visit our son in Austin?”
And in that instant, all thoughts and feelings of new careers and marital frustrations fled. She actually rushed into Jon’s arms, squeezing him, unable to keep the tears from flowing down her face and splashing onto the shoulder of his white dress shirt.
“Oh, Jon. Thank you.”
To her surprise, he squeezed her back just as tightly. And when she looked into his eyes, they were damp, too.
12
Tamara
Saturday, October 9
Tamara and Jon flew out of O’Hare Airport the following Saturday, just before noon, while Bridget and Jennifer dealt with their families—and their respective problems—at their individual homes.
Tamara was relieved to go to Texas for several reasons. First and foremost, she’d get to see Benji again. But, also, she hated to be alone in their house without him. Her friends might complain about the noise and general chaos of life with their crew of little ones and teens underfoot, but the other ladies didn’t know what the alternative was like.
“Want a glass of wine?” Jon asked her moments after takeoff. She’d noticed he’d been trying harder lately to be solicitous. To anticipate her needs a little more. To be kinder. At least since Aunt Eliza’s death.
“Sure. White,” she said. “Thanks.”
He ordered for them both, wines and luncheon sandwiches, and then got comfortable in his leather seat with his Chicago Tribune. They were flying business class—free because of all of his frequent-flier miles—and it occurred to her they could do this anytime. They were limited not by expense or even by distance, but by whether their son would welcome the intrusion.
Not that their visit was in any way unexpected. They’d cleared it with Benji before purchasing tickets. It was just that she couldn’t shake the feeling they were somehow disrupting his life.
“What do you think of this Lance kid?” she asked Jon, after the flight attendant had poured their drinks and moved halfway down the aisle. “You’ve talked to him more than I have.”
Her husband glanced up from the Real Estate section. “The roommate?” He shrugged. “He’s okay. Kind of squirrely, but I’ve seen worse. At least he’s from a bigger city in Georgia or South Carolina or somewhere like that, so he’s not too much of a hick.” He shrugged again. “Still Southern, though.”
Jon wasn’t fond of Southerners. Or most Northerners, for that matter. She noticed he immediately returned to reading his paper.
“I meant more in terms of him being a friend to Benji. Do you think they’re a good match? Neither of them knew anybody before starting at UT. Do you think they’re becoming real friends or just hanging out together so much because they don’t have anyone else?” Both boys were drawn to UT because of its stellar engineering program, but maybe that was all they had in common.
Jon sighed and folded his paper shut. “We’ll see what it’s like this weekend, but I don’t know if I’d expect any long-lasting friendship. They’ve got the facade of youth right now, but it won’t last. Especially this early in Benji’s college experience. Everyone he gets to know this year is in the same place. It’s like the army.”
“What? No, it’s not.” She shot him an annoyed look and gulped half of her wine. “They’re choosing their own classes, learning to manage their time, differentiating themselves as much as possible from—”
“College is a leveler, Tamara,” he said, with more than a hint of irritation. “They may all be from different backgrounds coming into it, but when they get there they’re struggling with the same mean calculus prof, the hard-to-understand career counselor, the hot new girls on the floor above them, the cramped dorm rooms. They’re bonded—both by being young and by being new to the big campus. And, for a while, that bond masks a person’s deeper, truer qualities. It all changes once they’ve chosen their majors. And it changes even more once they start their careers. Their real priorities emerge and, a couple of years after graduation, they’re not in touch at all anymore.”
She remembered that this had been Jon’s experience exactly. That his two best friends from his undergraduate years stopped calling not long after she and Jon got married. That Jon always acted as if this were irrelevant, but how could it not hurt? How could he not care?
Jon unfolded his paper again. “We’ve just got to hope Benji doesn’t do something stupid and end up committing to some girl before he knows who he is and what he wants out of life.”
The undercurrent of criticism and regret was unmistakable. She and Jon hadn’t met as college freshmen, true, but they did as Northwestern grad students. He could have easily been talking about them and how—as a law school hotshot—he’d curtailed his career options and done “something stupid” by tying himself to a business student with few connections, limited cultural experience and a high student loan balance.
“I’m sure Benji won’t be stupid,” she murmured, snatching the in-flight magazine from the seat pocket and pretending to read an article entitled “North America’s Top 10 Horticultural Marvels” until Jon returned to his newspaper. She didn’t ask any further questions.
As it turned out, roommate Lance was absent upon their arrival to Benji’s dorm.
“Hey, Mom and Dad,” their lanky and still boyishly good-looking son said, side-hugging them in the lobby. His straight light brown hair flopped into his eyes and he brushed it away in a move reminiscent of the goofy little kid he’d once been.
Tamara’s heart overflowed with a month-and-a-half’s pent-up adoration. She didn’t know how to turn it off. Like too much water in a bathtub, anything Benji said or did only added to the increasing level of feeling, until her love for him displaced every other possible emotion and sploshed and spilled everywhere.
“Don’t cry, Mom,” Benji whispered, glancing furtively around the packed lobby, and she saw Jon’s jaw tighten. Neither liked teary displays.
She swiped at her eyes and turned to face the wall, not wanting to embarrass her son further or incur the wrath of her husband. “Sorry, Benji.”
“S’okay,” her son said, moving quickly away from her. She pressed her lips together to try to rein in the hurt. But her boy was back a couple of seconds later. “Here,” he said, prodding her arm gently with a small box. “I was just looking for the tissues. They keep ’em at the front desk.” Then he hugged her again.
She grabbed one, dabbed her eyes with it and pocketed two more. She had no doubt she’d need them.
Meanwhile, Jon asserted himself into the middle of the lobby and said loudly, “Good to see you, Ben,” overemphasizing, Tamara thought, the shortened version of their son’s name. “Want to show us around campus?”
“Yeah. That’d be cool,” her kind, thoughtful, amazing son replied. “Let me just grab my keys and stuff.”
So, they trailed after him to his room. The place looked studiously clean, and Tamara surmised the guys had spent a whole half hour at least sprucing it up.
They’d met Lance and his dad in August when all the students were moving in. The roommate and his father seemed like a friendly pair, but they’d all been preoccupied with the unpacking and the transition, so they’d just shaken hands, chitc
hatted superficially for twenty minutes and then parted, mostly in relief. Tamara had spoken to Lance on the phone all of twice since then and wondered what he’d been up to in the intervening weeks.
“So, uh, where’s Lance?” she asked, hoping the answer wasn’t “scoring drugs in Zilker Park” or “out getting his gun license.”
“Crashin’ with this ho’ he picked up at a party last night,” Benji replied evenly.
She stared at him. Jon’s eyes widened, too.
Her son glanced seriously between her and his father several times before breaking into a grin. “Totally kidding, you guys. Lighten up!” His smiled broadened. The same sweet grin he’d had as her darling ten-year-old. “Lance is a hard worker. He got a job at one of the stores in SoCo, the South Congress district,” he explained. “Lots of coffee shops and some kinda wild stores, but it’s a pretty safe area. He’s working until six, which is what he usually does on Saturdays, and he’s a good guy, okay?”
Tamara could see he was being utterly sincere, and she relaxed enough to smile back. “Okay. Well, maybe he can join us for dinner or something tonight. We could take you both out to a restaurant you like, a late movie even. And if you want to stay—” She’d been about to suggest that Benji could have a couple nights of luxury at their four-star hotel, but the expression on his face stopped her.
“Oh, um, no. Not for Lance. But thanks. He’s already got plans for tonight. Tickets to a concert downtown.” He chuckled at some private memory. “This is a wicked cool music town. There are some really hot acts that come here, and we saw these local guys at the Austin City Limits Music Festival two weekends ago that are performing by the riverfront tonight. So, Lance’ll be at that.”
Tamara swallowed, suddenly understanding. “And you had a ticket, too,” she guessed. “You cancelled out because of us, right?”
“Hey, it’s no biggie,” Benji said, suddenly interested in the contents of his upper-left desk drawer. “Someone else’ll be able to use it. I get to go to stuff like that all the time, but I don’t get to see you two very often.” He exhaled fast and beamed another of his trademark grins at them.
Friday Mornings at Nine Page 16