CHAPTER THREE

 

"If love is the answer, could you please rephrase the question?" —Lily Tomlin

 

With a mug of steaming coffee in hand, Claire once again made her daily ascent to the smallest bedroom in their house that had been dubbed "the office" ever since they had moved in. While it contained a PC, a wireless laptop, and a combination printer/fax/copier sitting on top of a two-drawer file cabinet, the room had all the markings of a man cave. Futon couch. Big comfy chair in the corner. Small flat-screen TV attached to the wall between posters of sports greats. A pull-up bar in the walk-in closet doorway. Paul's dusty old trophies sitting on a rack of shelves affixed to the opposite windowless wall. All that was missing was a neon beer sign and a pool table.

She flipped on the computer and opened her email inbox. It appeared to be filled with more meaningless messages from job search sites and recruiters trolling the Internet for fresh blood.

Her shoulders slumped. She had about as much desire to job hunt as a woman who found herself suddenly single and was loathe to jump back into the dating pool.

Still, for the next hour, she reset her search engines on popular job boards so they would stop sending her notices of openings for funeral directors and collection agents. After getting herself a coffee refill, she had just returned to the office when she saw a new message appear in her email inbox.

It was from platespinner@gazette.com.

She stared at it for a few minutes before deciding to reread the email she had sent a few weeks back. When she had finished, her pulse sped up several notches as she tried anticipating the reply.

Dear B.O.B.—Get some professional help. Or better yet, Dear B.O.B.—You're a whiny, self-centered woman whose sense of entitlement rivals that of Donald Trump.

Taking a big gulp of hot coffee, she winced and opened the email. It read: "Dear Burned-Out Breadwinner—You didn't mention what you do for a living, but I wonder if you've ever given any thought to becoming a working parent advice columnist. I have a hunch you'd be great at it, and I can promise you two things: the salary will definitely not hold you hostage, and you can get your life back. If interested, please send me brief responses to each of the sample letters below. Your prompt reply would be appreciated. Sincerely, Mattie J. Ross, Chicago Gazette."

Claire's mouth fell open as she stared at the monitor.

For the past three years, she had looked forward to reading every single Plate Spinner column almost as much as she looked forward to having her first cup of coffee in the morning or watching her boys sleep on the nights when she'd get home too late to see them awake.

Each new column held its own treasure, whether it was pertinent advice, a snarky smack down, outrageously good but easy recipes, or wickedly funny tales of the writer's own familial multitasking feats. At least Claire assumed they were supposed to be funny. She couldn't imagine a working mother tackling all that this one allegedly did—not without a full support staff working feverishly behind the scenes anyway.

At the start of the New Year, though, the Gazette changed the column when it not only revealed the author's identity, but also announced she'd be chronicling her efforts to train for the Chicago Marathon. Since then, Claire had held out hope that, once the event was behind her, Mattie would revive her old format. But that all changed in July.

After she completed the Firecracker half marathon, it came to light that Mattie was not married and did not have a family. While this revelation ought to have made it easier to denounce the columnist as a fraud, Claire instead felt vindicated and remained a loyal fan.

 She reread the email. Mattie must be moving on to something else after she completes the marathon in October. Why else would the Gazette need a new columnist?

You can get your life back.

She clapped her hands together once and cried "Seriously?" to the Chicago Blackhawks 2013 Stanley Cup champions who were looking down at her from a poster hanging over the desk.

They each seemed to grin "Seriously" back in reply.

While advice columnist was definitely not topping her list of preferred career choices, she had to admit, it was a step—albeit a small one, like in a size two shoe—in the right direction.

She gave her head a quick shake and read the first statement: "I can't say 'no' to my kids."

Channeling the snarky tone Mattie used to use when doling out advice, Claire typed the first thing that popped into her head.

"I'm guessing you're making up for not being indulged as a child. If this is the case, get thee to a spa and pamper the heck out of yourself so you can remember how amazing you are. Then go home and show those kids who's boss. Otherwise, get used to the fact that you're one of 'those parents' who will forever be credited with increased crime rates, the popularity of reality TV, and eventually, the downfall of modern civilization."

Satisfied with her reply, she moved on to the second statement: "My spouse spends more than I make."

Although this concept was completely foreign to her, she took a stab at a response.

"Since you don't specify what exactly your spouse is spending your hard-earned money on, or provide a suspected reason for the overspending, I'll go out on a limb and suggest that he or she is seeking to fill a void in their life. Whether it's caused by a lack of quality attention on your part because you're working so hard to support their spending habits (a vicious cycle, I know) or an innate need to 'keep up with the Joneses,' my advice is that you help him or her fill it with nonmaterial things like an unexpected picnic lunch, a bunch of hand-picked flowers, a back rub, or an offer to help them make dinner, clean the house, or do the laundry."

This is so easy. And so much fun.

Feeling more energized than she had in ages, she moved on to the last statement.

"My fifteen-year-old daughter wants to get a tattoo."

With notably more confidence than she had writing the first two, Claire responded with what she would do to her boys if they ever approached her with a similar demand.

"Assuming you are opposed to her desire to permanently deface herself, I recommend the following. First, ask her to hand you her favorite thing ever—be it an article of clothing, a poster, an iPad, a stuffed animal, etc. Then, holding up a black permanent marker, ask her how she would feel if you were to use it on her favorite thing ever. When she balks, explain to her that she is your favorite thing ever. Case closed." 

A smiley face emoticon next to her name and contact information followed, as did a call later that afternoon from Dianne Devane, managing editor of the Gazette's Lifestyle section, requesting that she come in for a face-to-face the very next day.

So enthused was Claire over this unexpected but wildly exciting career development that she didn't mind in the least when Paul announced over dinner that they would be hosting a cross-country team dinner. In two days.

Having never so much as broken a sweat in high school, the concept of team dinners was completely foreign to her. As she sat at the opposite end of the kitchen table from Paul, stabbing green beans with her fork, she asked, "So the entire team comes here for dinner the night before the meet to carb load?"

He nodded his reply.

"How many boys are we talking? A dozen?"

Paul smirked. Looking toward his oldest for confirmation, he ventured, "What, sixty?"

Luke, a mini-me of his father, shrugged. "Sounds about right."

"Sounds like fun." Claire tore her roll in two and shoved one half in her mouth.

After swallowing, she asked, "What are you going to make?"

At this, Paul, who had been shooting her curious glances during this entire exchange, laughed out loud. "I'm not cooking anything. The parents volunteer to bring everything—pasta, salad, bread, water, fruit. It's all taken care of."

Seeing that everyone had finished eating, he announced, "Marc and Tomas. It's your turn to clear and wash tonight. Luke, homework. Jonah, lay out your clothes for tomorrow and pick out a book for bedtime."

Try as she might, Claire still couldn't manage to keep the thrill of a potential new career opportunity at bay. Apparently, Paul noticed.

"What's with you?" he asked, sounding more annoyed than inquisitive.

"What?"

"It doesn't faze you in the least that we're about to be invaded by sixty boys?"

"Please. We already have four. What's fifty-six more?"

Paul stood and picked up his empty plate. Pointing to hers, he asked, "Finished?"

She shoved it toward him. "Thanks. That was good."

After rinsing them off and placing them in the dishwasher, he returned to his seat at the table with a stack of recently clipped coupons in one hand and a little collapsible coupon holder in the other.

 "Seriously, what's with you today?" he asked as he started categorizing the clipped coupons into neat little stacks on the table before him, squinting carefully at each one before placing it in the correct pile and tossing any that had expired.

Knowing full well she should tell him about her interview, she just wasn't sure how to do it without sacrificing her good mood in the process.

Stop stalling.

"Listen, I've got an interview first thing tomorrow morning. Shouldn't take long."

Her insides contracted, bracing for the argument she was sure would follow.

Paul's head shot up. "Oh? Where?"

"Downtown."

When she said nothing more, he asked, "Permanent or temporary?" 

Claire frowned. "I'm not sure."  

His narrowed eyes shot a question at her. "How can you not know?"

Then he ventured, "Is it a start-up?"

Biting her lower lip, she raised her eyebrows and answered brightly, "No, actually. It's a newspaper."

When Paul didn't respond right away, she could feel her happy mood dissipating faster than a one-pound box of Frango Mints at a Weight Watchers meeting.

"Doing what?" he finally asked.

"Something I think I'd really like," she replied, making quotation marks around the last two words.

"Yeah, but how much does it pay?" he asked flatly.

"Don't know. I'll find out more tomorrow."

Paul stood and went upstairs.

Here we go.

She followed him into the office and closed the door so the boys wouldn't overhear. Paul was sitting in the desk chair rifling through the top drawer of the file cabinet.

Leaning against the arm of the recliner, Claire asked, "What are you looking for?"

When he didn't respond, her already low reserve of patience abandoned her altogether. "Please be ok with this."

Nice.

In that one statement, she skipped reason and went directly to begging.

Head bent over his files, he responded, "With what?"

"With me doing the kind of writing I want to do."

He pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and handed it to her. It was a printout of a spreadsheet.

"And this is…?"

"Our monthly expenses."

As her eyes grazed the piece of paper, she recited the categories listed aloud, the irritation growing in her voice with each one. "Groceries, mortgage, clothing, school expense, electric, gas, cable, car repairs, and house expense."

She looked at him expectantly. "So you track every dime we spend. To the penny."

He reached over and pointed. "That total at the bottom? That's how much we spend each month. I don't know what reporters make, but I'm guessing it's not gonna cover that."

Claire stared at the figure, frustration welling up inside of her. Fighting the urge to wad up the piece of paper and pelt him with it, she shoved it back into the folder, not caring if she jammed, wrinkled, or tore it, and slammed the file drawer closed with a bang.

"Hey." Paul jerked his knee away just in time. He shot an angry glare in her direction.

Just wanted to level the playing field. 

"Well, if you hadn't—" she started.

"Hadn't what?" he prompted, his mouth in a tight line as if he already knew what she would say.

"Lost our nest egg."

There. She'd said it. Out loud.

Dredging up the unfortunate chain of events during which his stock portfolio evaporated before he could reinvest it was a cheap shot. He had always referred to it as their "nest egg." Before he knew it, they went from contemplating paying off their hefty mortgage to trying desperately to reclaim some of its lost value from federal regulators.

His expression was a mixture of shock and defeat. "Really. Wow."

She felt awful, as if she had just kicked a kitten.

"Please understand," she said about a thousand times softer as she laid her hand tentatively on his arm. "This might be my only chance to be a real writer." 

Her voice sounded as small as she felt.

Looking in the direction of the wall behind her, Paul replied, "I don't know what more to tell you."

With that, he got up and went back downstairs, leaving her in the fading light of the office-slash-man cave. Uncomfortable under the admonishing glares of Michael Jordan and Walter Payton, she headed to Jonah's room to help him pick out a bedtime book, grateful that she didn't have to recite any stupid fairy-tale lies.

 

*   *   *

 

The next morning, Paul had no sooner gotten back home after dropping everyone off at school than Luke called to tell him he needed a pair of running spikes for practice after school. That was the only reason he found himself kneeling in front of a small mountain of shoes piled high in the bedroom closet of his two youngest sons. Some had belonged to the older two boys, but one pair had belonged to him.

He started removing the shoes a pair at a time. With vigor.

By the time he had gotten back from his run that morning, Claire was already gone, presumably on her interview at the newspaper. He had no idea which one. While he knew there were about a dozen better ways he could have reacted to her news the night before, her asking where she could find their marriage license was, to say the least, a low blow. What she intended to do with it, besides riling him, he had no idea. 

He nearly fell over backward when he tugged out a beaten-up pair of black running spikes with a jerk. Holding the bottom of one up against a newer running shoe of Luke's to check the size, he was relieved to see that it was a perfect match.

Yes.

Paul set them to the side and started returning the other old shoes to the closet, weeding out any that were too small for Jonah or too beat up for anyone else to wear again. When he was finished, he gathered the discarded shoes and carried them out to the garage. After dumping them in the garbage can, he secured the lid and looked around.

"What else can I get rid of…?" he asked out loud as dust bunnies swirled in the stream of sunshine coming in through the opened door.

His eyes fell on a gray plastic storage bin sitting under the tool bench. Swatting at the cobwebs that clung to its plastic edges, he dragged it to an open space and snapped the lid off. A pair of black glass eyes sewn on a cloth face surrounded by red yarn stared up at him. He picked up the doll and examined it.

Everything in the bin seemed to belong to Claire. Under the doll was a collection of paperbacks. Pulling out a few, he read the titles as he stacked them nearby. "Harriet the Spy, Caddie Woodlawn, Witch of Blackberry Pond, The Great Gatsby, Mr. Blue, To Kill a Mockingbird."

Next came what appeared to be a photo album. When he opened it, two pictures slipped to the garage floor. Paul sat on the cool cement and examined each. In one, Claire must have been four or five, scowling as she stood next to Kate in front of a Christmas tree. They were in matching party dresses and both looked as if they had just been scolded to stand still. Paul recognized that look all too well from his many failed attempts to get a group shot of the boys for Christmas card photos.

The other picture was of Claire at her college graduation, wearing a cap and gown and an I-did-it grin plastered on her exultant face.

Holding it close so he could better examine it, Paul smiled back at the image and whispered, "There's my girl."

Peering into the box, he pulled out her yearbooks and rifled through some old letters and greeting cards before he pulled out what looked like a page from a magazine that had been folded down to a two-square-inch cube. He opened it carefully, not sure what he'd find.

Smoothing it out on the garage floor in front of him, he saw that it was a full-page ad for a jewelry store with a half dozen different engagement rings and wedding band sets circling around the words "Diamonds by Delbert."

One of the wedding band sets, he couldn't help but notice, had been circled several times with red ink. Little hand-drawn hearts drifted above it.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

A dark cloud settled over him as he recalled the disappointment in Claire's face when he'd explained that he thought they should stick with simple gold bands so they could pay off their debt that much quicker. It was the same reasoning he'd used to convince her that they could do without a honeymoon too.

No wonder she's miserable.

Folding it neatly back into its square shape, he was about to return it to the bin, when he noticed a beat-up red folder that was stuffed with loose-leaf paper covered in handwriting and computer paper covered in twelve-point Times New Roman, double-spaced. In the upper right corner of the folder were the words "Advanced Creative Writing."

Her favorite class.

Like a light bulb illuminating his dusty memory banks, the deal Claire had referred to during their most recent argument came to mind with stunning clarity. They had been in his Old Town apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the morning sun and the noise of the Brown Line train as it rattled by on its way to Lincoln Park and points north. The sheets were tangled all around them as they struggled to catch their breath, and he remembered feeling nothing short of charmed. He had just landed a plum position at Creiger Capital, and the girl of his dreams had just agreed to spend the rest of her life with him. He was walking on air. They had their whole lives in front of them and spent those lazy, post-passion minutes putting words to their deepest dreams and desires.

The memory of it choked him with a yearning he had tucked away in a failed effort to guard his heart against any further damage.

He took a deep breath and carefully opened the folder. In the left-hand pocket was a typed assignment sheet with a description:

"Write two obituaries. In the first, write one for the life you hope to lead. For the second, write one for a life you would dread. Determine which was easier to write, and be prepared to discuss why.—Professor Natasha Duncan, Central Illinois University."

Pulling out a sheet, from the right-hand folder pocket, that was filled with her large block-letter print handwriting, he saw one word at the top: "Obituaries." Two paragraphs followed.

Oblivious to the time or the noise from a neighbor's lawn mower, Paul read: "Claire Elizabeth Nelson—Best-selling author, world traveler, philanthropist, died of natural causes in her London penthouse, surrounded by friends and admirers. Born in Chicago, Illinois, to Burt and Louise Nelson, Ms. Nelson graduated from Central Illinois University and quickly became a literary sensation with her first effort, entitled, As Seen through Leaves, which was later turned into the classic film of the same name. Her twelfth novel, Lullabies and Lilies," earned her the Nobel Prize in literature. Never marrying, Ms. Nelson was romantically involved with a number of celebrities and dignitaries. She is survived by her sister, award-winning photographer, Kate (Gordon) Nelson-Sumner, four nephews, and several grandnieces and nephews. A private memorial is planned."

Next to this one, Claire had written the word "DREAM" in all caps.

Paul kept reading.

"Claire Elizabeth (Nelson) Schlepinski—Devoted wife and mother of twelve children, PTA and garden club member, and beloved sister of Kate (Gordon) Sumner, died of exhaustion and a broken spirit alone in aisle seven of the A&P while buying diapers for her youngest and a case of Schlitz for her husband of sixteen years, Ralph, manager of a Blitzies Burgers franchise. Funeral Mass will be held at St. Gertrude's, followed by a private burial at Old Souls Cemetery."

Next to this one, Claire had scrawled "DREAD" in all caps. And underlined it twice.

 

*   *   *

 

Dianne looked at her watch and shifted in her seat facing Lester Crenshaw's desk, behind which he was still not sitting. The publisher's habit of ordering people to his office while he himself was not there was wearing on Dianne's already short supply of patience.

"I've got a possible replacement for Mattie," he had announced. "Meet me in my office in ten minutes."

That was twenty minutes ago.

Since Mattie's very public outing a few months back, during which her readers learned that the beloved working parent advice columnist was actually single and childless, the pressure was on to line up a replacement. An authentically married-with-kids replacement who could sling snark with the best of them.

"Hey there, Di. Thanks for coming." Lester, a man in his mid-fifties, graying but fit, patted Dianne on the shoulder before settling into the leather chair behind his desk.

She managed a forced smile. "I've been sitting here for ten minutes. If you don't think I have anything better to do with my time, you are sadly mistaken."

"Listen," Lester started, completely ignoring what she had just said. "I want to throw something by you. Nothing's set in stone, but what would you say to reinstating Carlotta as the Plate Spinner?"

Dianne, still demonstrating impressive restraint, sat on the edge of her chair, folded her hands in her lap, and said, "Over my dead body. Besides, she's not even married." Remembering that she was addressing Carlotta's ex, she added, "Anymore, that is."

Lester put his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands together. "Listen. I'll be the first to admit that before Mattie took it over, the column had gotten a little, uh, stale, irrelevant. But I gotta tell ya, Carlotta's been breathing down my neck about coming back ever since she heard Mattie's looking to move on to something else after the marathon."

Di remained silent but leaned forward and continued to look him in the eye.

After a long pause, he relented. "All right, all right. I'll"—he pulled at the collar of his shirt and winced—"I'll tell her."

Pointing his finger at Dianne, he continued, "But you'd better make damn sure whoever you hire is every bit the writer that Mattie is." 

"Actually," Dianne started with a wry smile, "I've got a writer coming in this morning who I believe will be a great fit."

What she didn't say out loud was, "As long as she can cough up a marriage license and her kids' birth certificates."

Lester drew a deep breath in through his nostrils, pressed his lips together, and placed his hands palms down on his desk. "I sure as hell hope so."

Leaning forward, the savvy editor placed both of her hands palms down on his desk and said, "Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

She got up to leave. As she started for the door, she heard Les mumble, "She's gonna make my life a living hell." 

Assuming he was referring to his ex-wife, she let the words hang in the air behind her as she walked out of his office.

 

*   *   *

 

Claire arrived at the Gazette building's lobby fifteen minutes prior to her interview. Once there, she paced back and forth, blending in with the sightseers reading the famous quotes on free speech inscribed on the walls. She absorbed the inspiration like a camel does water. So much was riding on the next hour of her life that she could barely swallow. She couldn't even manage any breakfast that morning. Unlike other job interviews in which she would vie for a decent salary and benefits, this position held captive a shot at her dream.

Checking her watch, she drew a deep breath and exhaled. Five minutes later, she found herself standing across the desk from Dianne Devane, a stylishly dressed middle-aged woman who appeared to be in a tremendous hurry. On introducing herself, Claire watched as she stood, extended her hand, and said, "Call me Di. Everyone does."

Claire returned a somewhat awkward "Hi, Di" and sat in the chair facing her desk.

Di spoke as quickly in person as she had on the phone two days earlier.

"So, tell me a little about yourself. Mattie showed me your responses. You know this is a freelance job, right? I mean, it may turn into something permanent down the road, but time will tell. Did you bring a copy of your marriage license and your children's birth certificates?"

Claire leaned forward in her chair and handed Dianne a manila folder containing the requested documents. If Paul didn't embrace the idea of her going on this interview, that she asked where she could find their marriage license probably hadn't helped matters.

While the editor scanned each one, Claire asked, "With all due respect, can I ask why you wanted to see these? Granted, it's been a while since I've been on an interview, but I'm pretty sure I didn't have to provide proof of my marital status nor my children's legitimacy."

Dianne looked at her over the top of her reading glasses. "We just need to make sure the next Plate Spinner we hire is actually married and has kids, that's all. A formality, really."

For a moment, Claire held her breath, afraid the editor would add the caveat, "happily married."

Redirecting her gaze to the documents, Dianne exclaimed with a smile, "Four boys? Really?"

Whew.

 "No wonder you're looking for a job outside of the house."

Claire's relief was short lived. Arching an eyebrow, she announced, "Ms. Devane, I'll have you know I've spent the past sixteen years in the corporate sector. My husband is a"—she paused and took a deep breath as if she were about to reveal a drinking problem or gambling addiction—"well, he's the stay-at-home parent."

Dianne's face lit up as she exclaimed, "Even better. We're looking for an authentic Plate Spinner. Someone who's actually slaving away in the working parent trenches day in and day out."

Claire pictured herself in a WWI uniform, carrying a bayonet on one shoulder and her briefcase in her hand as she marched the length of a muddy trench while her boys sat in the foxhole playing video games and texting their friends.

Returning the documents to the manila folder, Dianne handed it back to Claire with a smile. "Think you could manage two columns a week? Five hundred to seven hundred and fifty words a piece. Flat rate for each submission?"

Feeling as if she had just been thrust into suspended animation, Claire forced herself to don a contemplative expression.

Think, think, think…

She wasn't ready. She hadn't thought this through.

"Uh, well, that depends," she started.

A crease appeared between Dianne's perfectly shaped eyebrows, and Claire asked, "What's the rate?"

"Two-fifty per submission, to start."

Claire narrowed her eyes.

Crap. Paul was right about the pay. And no benefits.

Not only was she clueless as to the going rate for freelance journalists, as much as she hated to admit it, she didn't have Paul's calculator-like brain. She suddenly wished he was there with her.

Let's see. My old salary divided by fifty-two, divided by forty…

A wave of guilt started to wash over her, but she pushed it back by blurting, "Make it three hundred per submission, and we have a deal."

Again, Dianne opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Claire added, "And I have one condition."

The editor raised both eyebrows so high they became invisible under her trendy, short-cropped bangs. "A condition?"

Claire nodded once. "My name can't be attached to it. At all."

"And why's that?"

Ready with an argument that readers would be drawn more to an anonymous figure than an actual person, she was taken aback when the editor asked with a wary expression, "Say, you're not a fugitive, are you?"

Letting out a hearty laugh, Claire leaned forward and started explaining. "No, but here's the thing…" 

When she had finished the story about Paul's resistance to her taking a freelance position coupled with her desire to build their nest egg back up again as a surprise for him, Dianne held her manicured hand to her chest.

"How romantic. No really. That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard. I mean, it's not diamonds and roses, but still."

She glanced at a text she had just received and then looked back at Claire.

"Ok. I'm in. I've got your back."

Relieved, Claire nodded. "Thanks."

"Think you can have your first piece to me by next Monday? I'd like to get the format back to what it had been before Mattie started training. Advice, anecdotes, recipes. In the meantime, she'll wrap up her marathon training assignment and can segue over to Metro."

A grateful smile cracked across Claire's face for the first time in a very long time. She tried not to gush but couldn't hold it back. "Really? Sure. I mean, yes, I can get my first column to you by next Monday. Absolutely."

Returning her smile, Dianne instructed, "Good. Now, in that first one, I'd like you to introduce yourself to your readers. You don't have to use your name. Just try to use the same voice I heard in the responses you sent to Mattie. Make sure you send it to me first so I can give it the go-ahead. After that, you're on your own, but you won't be wanting for topics. You'll get plenty of inspiration from your readers."

At this, Claire's eyes started to gloss over.

My readers.

Already, she was feeling so much better than she ever did at her former six-figure job.

Claire just had one more question.

"Shoot, sweetie."

Her eyes wide with excitement, she asked, "Is Mattie here? Could I meet her?"

"Of course. She should be in by now. Let me check." She picked up her cell phone and punched a text message. When it bleeped back a response, she looked at Claire and said, "She's on her way."

While they waited, Dianne explained that she'd have her administrative assistant email the contract and direct deposit form to Claire.

Before long, a young woman burst through the door wearing a pretty red floral-print dress. Her long curly hair was pulled back with a big plastic tortoise-shell clip.

"Hi." Out of breath, she dropped into the chair next to Claire. "I'm Mattie Ross. It's nice to meet you."

Then she looked at Dianne and asked, "So, are we good?"

Dianne smiled and with a confirming nod replied, "We're good."

Turning to Claire, Mattie pointed to her and asked, "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

Her appetite finally returning, Claire pointed back and said, "Only if I can get us some muffins to go with it."

Mattie faced Dianne, looking as if she had just taken a big bite of double-chocolate cheesecake, and exclaimed, "Yep, we're good. I'll be back in a few."

Laughing, Dianne replied, "Take your time."

Stepping into the warm September sun that was bathing Michigan Avenue in golden light as it gained on the downtown skyscrapers, Mattie led Claire a few doors down to a little storefront shop that had big block letters spelling out Chez Doug across its gleaming front window.

Mattie placed the order for their coffees while Claire bought the muffins and searched for a table. Finding an empty booth, they slid into their respective sides.

"So," Mattie started. "Tell me about yourself. I have to say, you're not at all what I pictured."

Claire smiled and said, "Right back at ya."

Grinning, Mattie replied, "Touché."

Breaking her jumbo bran muffin into edible chunks, she continued, "Seriously, you seem—I don't know—younger and happier than I expected."

"Really?"

"Yeah. After I read your letter, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry." Then Mattie leaned forward and said, "You seemed pretty desperate. If you don't mind me asking, has something changed?"

Claire finished chewing her muffin and washed it down with some hot coffee. Wincing, she replied, "Yeah, something changed. I got laid off."

Mattie cupped her hand over her mouth and mumbled, "I'm so sorry."

Reaching out to pat her arm, Claire reassured her. "Don't be. I'm not sorry to be out of that place. When I wasn't actually working, I was worrying about it. So, anxiety twenty-four hours, seven days a week." She shuddered and said, "I'm not ever doing that again."

She was surprised that she hadn't given the place she had spent nearly every day for the past sixteen years a second thought.

Good riddance.

Looking at her over the rim of her oversized coffee cup, Mattie ventured, "So, your husband. Is he going back to work?"

Claire pressed her lips together and shook her head, wondering why she suddenly felt ashamed. "If he started back to work now, there's no way he'd be able to make what I had been earning. Besides, he was in investment banking, so he'd have to get caught up on his licensing and the new regulations."

Good Lord. Where did that come from?

She turned her gaze to the interior of the coffee shop and changed the subject. "This is a cute place. Is it new?"

Mattie tilted her head and looked at her with a whimsical look on her freckled face. "No, but there's a great story behind it. See that guy over there?"

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?"