CHAPTER TWO

 

"Getting divorced just because you don't love a man is almost as silly as getting married just because you do." —Zsa Zsa Gabor

 

Hanging up the wall-mounted kitchen phone, Paul stared at it a moment, a dozen unspeakable sentiments running through his head. He could tell from the tone of Claire's voice that something was wrong. With the resolve of a stay-at-home dad navigating the grocery store cereal aisle on double-coupon day, he braced himself for the imminent battle.

Dropping into the paint-chipped cane-back chair at the head of the kitchen table with a sigh, he tried to remember the last time he heard her laugh, the sound of which used to trigger a tingle from deep within his chest that would travel all the way to the tip of his toes and back again.

Coming up empty, he bent his head over his plate filled with steaming arroz con gandules, or Puerto Rican rice. About to shovel a forkful into his mouth, he shifted in his seat as he felt two pairs of eyes bore holes into his forehead. Without looking up, he announced, "That was your mom. She had a bad day. Eat up."

Tomas, just twelve and the youngest student ever to be named editor of his school's monthly newsletter, asked his father, "What did she say?"

With his mouth now full of hot rice, Paul glanced at his son and mumbled, "That she's on her way home."

"What else did she say?"

Swallowing hard, he replied, "Nothing. Eat."

"So how do you know that she had a bad day?" the child asked while making quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

"Because when you know someone as long as I've known your mother, you just know."

"And how long is that exactly?" Tomas persisted.

"That we've known each other? Uh, sixteen years? Married for fourteen. It'll be fifteen years in December. Wait, that can't be right." Paul squinted at the calendar hanging across the room on the pantry door.

"How come you call Mommy 'Imp'?" Jonah, the youngest, asked.

"What?" Paul shifted his gaze from the calendar to his five-year-old. The only one of the boys with any resemblance to Claire, Jonah's khaki green eyes bore into him—just like Claire's did when she was about to launch an attack or, in better times, an invasion. Of him.

He gave the boy a nod. "Never you mind."

Idly wiping his mouth with his sleeve, the child repeated, "How come?"

"Aw, come on, bud. Use your napkin. I just washed that shirt."

Pulling it up over Jonah's head, Paul tossed it to Tomas. "Squirt some of that prewash stuff on it, would ya, pal?"

Nodding at his little brother before leaving the room, dirty shirt in hand, Tomas called over his shoulder, "It's 'cause she's short. That's why she calls Dad 'Stretch.'"

Jonah countered. "No, it's not. Mama told me it's because Daddy thinks she's imp-something. I can't remember."

Tomas bounded back into the kitchen, asking, "Impatient? Impetuous? Impertinent?"

All of the above.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Paul clapped his hands together once and addressed his sons. "All right. That's enough. We've got a half hour, tops."

He walked into the foyer and called up the stairs, "Luke, Marc!"

A bedroom door flew open, and his two oldest sons appeared on the second floor landing.

"Mom's on her way home. I need it to be quiet when she gets here. If you're done with your homework, start getting yourselves ready for bed."

After seeing them each nod in agreement, he returned to the kitchen, addressing the youngest two boys, who typically took the longest to clear their plates.

"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.

Not this time.

She narrowed her eyes and continued, "Seriously. The absolute worst place you could be right now is standing between me and the coffeemaker."

While part of her wanted to shove him out of the way, she'd be lying if she didn't admit that there was a tiny part of her, miniscule really, that was hoping he'd fling her over his shoulder and take her back upstairs.

"We're out."

Looking over his shoulder into the kitchen, she saw that the crystal-clean coffeepot was indeed sitting cold and empty on the kitchen counter, surrounded by the boys' dirty breakfast dishes.

Caffeine-deprived wife throttles husband. News at ten.

Before she had a chance to react, Paul closed the gap between them. He was standing so close, she could feel his chest rise and fall against her rapidly beating heart.

Bristling, she drew in a breath and moved her head back as far as she could, unable to focus on anything but his eyes that were riveted on hers—until they dropped to her mouth.

The chemistry that used to flow between them like lava surged to the surface, evaporating Claire's defenses. With questions flying through her mind, she had to force her hands not to reach up and grip his shoulders. His big, strong, muscular shoulders.

Did I remember to brush my teeth?

Divorce? What was I thinking?

I wonder where I can get coffee on sale this morning?

He started lowering his face.

Just as she closed her eyes, thinking of nothing but his mouth and how much she missed what he used to do with it, he whispered, "Is there something you want to tell me, Imp?"

Claire's eyes popped open. Feeling a little hazy, she started to ask, "Wha…?"

Not budging, he simply raised an eyebrow and waited for her to reply.

So much for lava.

Composing herself, she edged around him and stepped into the foyer as she clipped, "Why yes, there is."

For reasons unbeknownst to her, Claire began speaking in the same chirpy tone used by tour-boat guides on the Chicago River. 

"I'm happy to inform you that you are free to reenter the workplace at your earliest possible convenience, as it appears that I have been relieved of my job."

And on your right is the iconic Merchandise Mart. Opened in 1930, it has four million square feet of space.

When he didn't respond, she asked, "No? Still not interested in pursuing gainful employment?"

"Claire—"

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "Unbelievable."

Reaching down, she pulled on her ballet flats and yanked her purse from an antique coat hook affixed to the wall.

"Where're you going?" he asked.

"The unemployment office. After that, the grocery store for some coffee. But don't worry. I'll be sure to get it on sale." With that, she reached for the doorknob, but Paul's hand covered it first.

In a flash, she imagined him smooching the stuffing out of her while his warm hands slid around her waist and up her back, pulling her close. "Stop it," she would mumble against his mouth, resisting the urge to sink her fingers into his thick, soft overgrown hair. He'd pull back, look into her eyes, and with every ounce of his molten appeal, say, "No worries. I'll take it from here."

Instead, he yanked his hand out from under hers, backed a step or three away, and asked, "Why didn't you tell me last night?"

"What difference would it have made?" Her voice sounded husky. Clearing her throat, she added, "You made it quite clear that I'm in this alone."

Paul thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I did."

When that appeared to be all he had to say on the subject, Claire announced, "Well, off I go. If you'll excuse me."

She had just opened the front door when he asked, "How about we grab some breakfast first?"

He leaned over and pulled a hoodie of hers off of the same hook her purse had occupied. "It's a little chilly out. Better put this on."

Feeling leery, Claire did as she was told but protested, "I don't want to be stuck at unemployment all day. I ought to get in line."

In response, Paul tilted his head toward the front porch. "That can wait. Come on. We need to talk."

She stood firm. "I said everything I had to say last night, Paul."

"Yeah, well, I didn't, Imp, so let's go."

 

*   *   *

 

The little brass bell on the door to the Cozy Cup, a local breakfast dive, chimed as Claire and Paul entered.

A waitress, wearing a pink uniform that looked about as dated as the black-and-white checked floors and red sparkly vinyl seat covers, called out from behind the counter, "Sit anywhere you like. I'll be right with yuz."

Claire, with her guard on high alert, was relieved when Paul didn't say a word to her since they left the house. Sliding into the opposite side of a booth from him, she pulled a menu off of a little metal holder that was flush against the wall in between the napkin holder and a little container that held a slim assortment of jams and jellies.

Before long, the waitress appeared, clutching the handle of a pot filled to the brim with steaming caffeinated goodness. "Coffee for you, folks?"

Thank you, Jesus.

Turning the mug before her right side up, Claire spied the woman's nametag. "Thanks, Peg."

The waitress rewarded her with a pink-frosted smile before looking at Paul.

He put his hand over his cup. "I'm good, thanks."

"Ah, ok. Suit yourself. Ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?"

"I'm ready," Claire announced without bothering to look at her husband. She had, after all, skipped dinner the night before and was famished.

"What can I getcha?"

"Blueberry pancakes and a side of bacon."

Peg set the coffee down and scribbled on her pad. When she redirected her gaze to Paul, he squinted at the menu. "Uh…I'll have the special. Eggs over easy. Rye toast."

"Ok. Be back in a bit."

Claire leaned over her coffee and blew on it while Paul started to verbalize his financially wired stream of consciousness, assuring her that all was well. At least for a couple of months.

"Seriously. We're fine." He seemed to convince himself.

I wouldn't go that far.

He repeated it eight more times over the next ten minutes while delivering a detailed assessment of their familial balance sheet. By the time her pancakes arrived, she was almost ready to buy his line about the indefinite break sprawling in front of her being more of a fully funded sabbatical rather than the non-income generating abyss that it was.

Images of the unfinished manuscripts she had abandoned after the boys arrived swirled in her head, filling the space that used to be cluttered with little more than deadlines and project plans.

Awash in guarded optimism, she ran her finger around the rim of her now-empty coffee mug.

"So…" she started. "Was that all you wanted to talk about?"

Paul took a sip of his ice water. In a hushed voice, he continued the first conversation they'd had in she didn't know how long that didn't require both sides to pull on boxing gloves.

"When I lost my job," he started, "my paycheck went toward paying for the boys' day care and the sitters. Yours took care of most everything else."

Claire nodded. Nothing to argue with there.

He continued, "When I uncovered what Ed was doing with other people's money—well, you remember. Then Mike, of all people, turned on me."

Hunching his shoulders together as if he had just caught a chill, he continued, "Had me blacklisted. Killed my prospects."

When he stopped and looked at Claire, his eyes were clouded with bitterness, hurt, and betrayal—much like when it first happened.

And then again when she'd leveled him with that scorching performance review a while back. But with the house looking and (worse) smelling like a locker room and the kitchen in a constant state of nutritional bankruptcy (save for a box of corn flakes), who could blame her?

But things between them hadn't been the same since. She regarded him with little more than disdain, and he made a point of keeping his distance, physically and emotionally. In essence, they were barely going through the motions for the boys' sake.

Go us.

Thinking of the vow she had made to herself to not stay in a loveless marriage as her parents had, she squirmed in her seat and started idly tearing off bits of her napkin and collecting them into a small pile.

"That was a long time ago, Stretch."

The term of endearment rolled out of her mouth before she could stop it. She scrunched her face into a grimace.

Way to keep that guard up.

Still, the dark cloud that had settled over him seemed to lift a little at the sound of it.

"Ed's probably still in jail," Claire continued. "They did arrest him, didn't they?"

Paul smirked and in a quiet voice said, "No, they didn't, and he's not."

It was Claire's turn to shiver. "How do you know?"

Sitting back in his seat, he raised his eyebrows and said, "Because I saw him at the cross-country parents' meeting over at Knollwood yesterday."

Feeling her jaw drop, Claire managed to ask, "Are you serious? He doesn't work there, does he? Doesn't that school run background checks? I told you we should've sent Luke to St. Patrick's."

Paul held up his hand. "Turns out, it wasn't Ed. Last I heard, he fled the country. But he's got a twin. They're identical."

Unimpressed, Claire sat back and frowned while he continued, wondering what this had to do with anything.

"Here we are," Peg sang out as she placed their orders on the table in front of them. "Can I get you anything else?"

When they both shook their heads, she placed a check on the table and waved to a new customer who had just walked through the door. "Be right with ya."

Claire didn't realize how hungry she was until she shoved a forkful of hot, buttery pancakes in her mouth. Stifling a moan, she listened as Paul kept talking.

"So yeah, Ed's twin is the new coach. Replaced Burt. Started last year. I hear he's pretty good."

With a shrug, Paul poked at his over-easy eggs with a piece of toast and added, "He's actually a pretty nice guy. I introduced myself. I didn't tell him about, you know, but he knew who I was."

Still frowning, she asked, "What do you mean?"

"Remember when I found out all my old high school records were broken?"

Um…

"Well, he's the one who broke 'em."

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, and studied his expression before venturing, "Is there a point to this story?"

He shot her a look that landed somewhere between annoyed and hurt.

With another shrug, he jabbed at his hash browns with his fork. "Seeing Ed, or who I thought was Ed, brought up a lot of bad memories."

He set his fork down and scrubbed his face with his hands, as if trying to erase every last one of them. "That's all."

When he raised his eyes to hers, she somehow knew what was coming next. Her stomach clenching, she suddenly regretted wolfing down her pancakes.

"Listen, hon…"

Great. Now I'm "hon."

That's what her parents used to call each other when they were pretending to be nice—like when they had guests over or they didn't want the girls to know that they had been fighting. But she and Kate always knew when they'd been fighting. The icy coldness between them was hard to miss, as was their mother's vindictive spending sprees that always came after. Ironically, some of Claire's favorite outfits were the bi-product of their especially bitter altercations.

"I do know how hard it's been for you," she heard Paul continue. "But if you can just find a job you really like, I'm sure you'll be happy."

With a wry chuckle, Claire replied, "Right back at ya. Hon."

She snatched a section of the newspaper sitting on the table next to his plate.

There's got to be an ad in here somewhere for a divorce attorney.

As if reading her mind, Paul narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. "I do love you, Imp."

Claire couldn't manage more than a glance at his chest.

I don't believe you.

With her heart feeling like a big hunk of mud, she tore open the Lifestyle section, looking for her favorite advice column.

Very much hoping to see a reply to a letter she had submitted the week before, she was disappointed to find nothing more than a call for pasta recipes for an upcoming pre–Chicago Marathon carb-loading contest. After scanning it, she sensed movement on the other side of the booth and snuck a glance at Paul, who was folding up the Sports section while scooting out of the booth.

Without looking at her, he asked, "Shall we?"

He glanced at his watch as he stood. "You can pick up Jonah. He'll love that."

Ten minutes later, Claire approached a horde of other mothers waiting to pick up their little ones as they huddled near the St. Matthias kindergarten door. Some were idly pushing baby strollers back and forth while chatting. Some, Claire noted with no small amount of concern, were paying more attention to their phones than their toddlers who were attempting to scale the nearby playground equipment with reckless abandon.

Not recognizing a single face, she looked for a spot away from the crowd but close enough to have a clear view of the door. A minute later, the teacher burst through it, took one look at her, and announced loudly, "Jonah, your mommy's here!" as if Claire herself was on the cover of People magazine just last week. The other mothers stepped back and looked at her, clearly unimpressed.

Relieved to see her youngest barreling in her direction, she leaned down to catch him in a hug. Clutching his backpack and his still-wet finger-painting project, she led him onto the sidewalk.

Once home, she asked Paul, who was stripping the beds upstairs, "Ok, now what?" 

Pressing around her with his arms full of jumbled linens, he replied, "I've gotta get a load of laundry going, prep for a Boy Scout committee meeting—"

Claire held up her hand to silence him. "I'm going to unemployment."

 

*   *   *

 

After spotting the Illinois Department of Employment Services sign on the side of a nondescript, brick one-story building, she pulled into the parking lot on Diversey Avenue, eager to get that uniquely unpleasant task out of the way. She soon found herself sitting at a Formica table with other defeated souls filling out applications for government aid with stubby eraser-less pencils. Numbly, she filled in the forms, insensitive to the shame she supposed others felt. After all, she had done her best, and it still wasn't enough.

Right?

She spent the next three hours scanning the crowd for any familiar faces, bracing herself in the event she ran into any spiteful former employees, all from the discomfort of a government-issued folding chair.

The wait was interminable and held little reward at the end.

"Claire Mendez," an expressionless woman announced in a voice that barely made it over the din of the other applicants. If Claire's cell phone battery hadn't died, she would have missed her turn all together.

After giving her paperwork a cursory glance, the woman pulled out an information packet and circled an 800 number on the front of it.

"This is the number you call in two weeks to file your claim."

Claire was incredulous. "That's it?"

"Everything you need to know is in there," the state employee replied, pointing to the packet. "Have a nice day."

On her way out, Claire scribbled How about installing a drive-through window? on a scrap of paper and dropped it in the suggestion box bolted to the wall.

 

*   *   *

 

By late afternoon, Paul had apparently retrieved the remaining boys, because the foyer had once again transformed into an obstacle course of backpacks, instrument cases, and shoes.

Making her way to the kitchen, she saw that the pantry door hung open, as did the refrigerator. Her youngest was seated at the table, while the older three prowled the kitchen like young cougars hungry for fresh kill. With a vague recollection of Paul mentioning something at breakfast about their monthly grocery bill being bigger than their mortgage payment, Claire stood in the doorway. She watched, agape, as Paul maneuvered between the boys, pulling frozen snacks from the microwave and leftovers out of the oven before pouring drinks into glasses lined up on the counter.

If he won't go back to accounting, he could always be a short-order cook.

Catching his eye for a quick moment, she nodded up at the clock on the wall with an expression that read, "You're feeding them now?"

Paul acknowledged her inquiry. "It's like eating Chinese food," he explained over the sound of clanking dishes and scooting chairs. "They'll be hungry again in an hour."

Sure enough, they managed to polish off a dinner of salad, baked potatoes, and barbecue chicken that he had made on the grill an hour later.

Feeling like a stranger in her own home, Claire offered to clean up afterward while the older three boys tackled their homework and Paul took Jonah to his soccer practice. It was almost ten o'clock by the time she sat on the family room floor across from him and pulled a laundry basket, full of newly dried items, into the space between them.

While he had his eyes glued to the TV, switching between the three major networks' sports coverage on the news to avoid commercials, her eyes fell on the basket.

A basic, rectangular white plastic bin, it was not unlike the one that had sat unattended in the laundry room of her residence hall on that fateful night (sorry, but really—who knew?) when she first encountered Paul Mendez.

It all came flooding back—especially the instant but unexplainable recognition.

Never one to consider herself sappy, emotional, or romantic, she had been surprised and a little embarrassed when she came close to blurting "It's you" at the sight of him.

And then there was the physical attraction. While they spent the next hour talking, and she heard him say that he was a finance major who had his sights set on becoming the CFO of a major global conglomerate someday, what she saw was that he was an incredibly h-o-t finance major who had his sights set on becoming the CFO of a major whatever—who cares? She just wanted to rip his clothes off. They were practically setting off sparks by the time he finally asked if he could kiss her.

Claire felt her heart race at the memory and wondered if she would have fallen for him if he had divulged that he'd had his sights set on becoming the best stay-at-home dad ever?

Hmm…

"Earth to Claire."

Paul, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him on the floor, nudged her knee with his foot. With his arms folded, he narrowed his eyes as he waited for her reply.

Claire blinked while the whisper of a thought crossed her mind. You are so not who I thought you were.

To him, though, she mumbled, "It's been a long day."

"See what I mean?" he asked in a not unpatronizing tone.

"Oh, I know. I get it," she surrendered. "Your days are crazy."

Together, they began silently folding the contents of the laundry basket while watching the news. On a commercial break, Claire brought some towels up to the linen closet. When she returned, Paul had turned off the TV and was pairing socks.

She took the opportunity to counter with, "So with all you've got going on around here, when exactly do you expect me to job hunt?"

With a shrug, he replied, "Well, after the boys get off to school in the morning, just head up into the office and do whatever you need to do. It'll be as if you're working from home."

I.e., nothing's changed.

"And you'll be doing what?" Not wanting to start yet another argument, she added, "Besides bringing me coffee refills."

"Don't push your luck," he responded, throwing a rolled up pair of socks into the basket. "Two points."

The day over, her vision of resurrecting a long-shelved manuscript had all but evaporated. Despite Paul's assurances on their financial viability, the weight of responsibility and the gnawing disappointment she felt poked her wide awake at one in the morning.