"Where words fail, music speaks." —Hans Christian Andersen
Smiling, Dianne took off her glasses and gently rubbed her eyes. She could see from Claire's email time stamp that she had sent her most recent column at 11:30 p.m. the night before.
In reply, she typed, "Thanks for this."
She was about to tap the Send button when she decided instead to call Claire's cell phone, knowing that she most likely turned it off after she went to bed.
She left the following message with her usual clip: "Claire? Di. Gotta talk. How 'bout coffee before heading to work tomorrow morning? That would be, uh, Tuesday. How about Chez Doug? He's open early. Say 6:30? Lemme know."
* * *
Several hours later, Claire's alarm buzzed to life, and like bread out of a toaster, she popped up. Dressed and in the kitchen for coffee in the space of twenty minutes, she unplugged her cell phone from the charger. Turning it on, she saw that she had a voice mail. She listened to Di's message and, pit forming in her stomach, called her back to say she was on her way.
The door to Chez Doug's was open just enough to entice passersby with the aroma of freshly baked pastries. Claire followed her nose and edged in, pulling her backpack behind her.
Spotting Dianne in a corner booth, she slid in on the opposite side.
"Good morning," she sang out.
"Well, hello, Claire." Di put her menu down and folded her hands on the table before her.
Claire waited expectantly. When her editor said nothing more, she asked, "Is everything all right?"
Di chuckled quietly and then leaned forward. "I wanted to tell you in person," she whispered. "You're a hit."
Claire felt as if a tiny bolt of lightning had just zapped her. "What?"
Dianne nodded her head in the direction of a nearby table at which two women sat elbow to elbow, reading the paper. Claire watched them for a moment then looked back at Di, whose gaze lingered on the women a bit longer.
While clicking her French-manicured nails on the tabletop, she said in a hushed tone, "They were reciting their favorite parts of your column right before you came in."
Oh my.
Looking directly at Claire, she continued at her usual businesslike pace.
"We're getting an unprecedented amount of emails. All saying how fresh, how fun, how relevant your column is. One reader even went so far as to say that she finally feels she can relate to our paper knowing, uh, let's see…" She pulled a folder out of her tote bag. "Oh, here we go. 'Knowing that you're targeting working mothers, giving them a much-needed laugh at the end of a long work week.'"
Claire didn't know what to say except, "Ah, well, that's nice, huh?"
A waitress stopped by their table, and Di ordered a French roast and a chocolate croissant with fresh strawberries.
Claire said, "Ditto."
Di continued. "Now listen. I told you you're on to something here, and I meant it. You're hitting an older but broader demographic than Mattie did. Les wants to expand your circulation to other affiliates. He wants to add a Sunday column too. Oh, and he's agreed to raising your rate. You know, it's too bad you don't want your own byline. You'd be a celebrity around these parts."
She held a white envelope out to Claire.
"What's this?"
Using a knife to slice open the envelope, Claire pulled out the contents that were printed on thick white stock paper.
"You are cordially invited to A Night to Remember Dinner Dance and Silent Auction on Friday, December 17th, at the Palmer House, to benefit the Infant Welfare Society of Cook and Surrounding Counties. Cocktails at 6 p.m. Dinner at 7:30 p.m. Music provided by Johnny Carbone and his Orchestra. Formal attire."
She looked expectantly at Dianne and repeated, "What's this?"
"Per Lester, that's mandatory, that's what that is."
Claire stuffed the invitation back into the envelope before slipping it into her laptop case. Before she could formulate an excuse for not going, Dianne started talking. Fast.
"Here's the thing. The paper is a major sponsor of this event. Les has been telling patrons that if they come, they can meet the Plate Spinner. The Plate Spinner! And that's you. So, I'm sorry. There's no getting out of it, kiddo. If it's any consolation, I'll be there too."
With a frown, Claire responded, "Uh, I don't know what to say. It sounds pretty exciting, but I'll be honest. I don't think I'm ready to be 'outed.' And I'm not ready to tell Paul. Not yet. Not like this. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to say no."
The waitress appeared bearing coffee, enormous chocolate croissants just out of the oven, and a bowl of strawberries the size of small apples. After an unnerving moment of silence, Di looked across the table to her and spoke slowly, much as one would to a small child who was poised to jab a fork into a plugged-in toaster.
"Ok, listen. I promised my year-end bonus that I wouldn't tell you this, but—"
Dianne paused.
Claire held her breath.
Giving her head a quick shake, Dianne said, "I can't. You're just going to have to trust me. You must go, and that's all there is to it."
"Oh, come on. Don't do this to me," Claire nearly shrieked, causing the proprietor to look up from his book.
Tearing her pastry in half, the managing editor relented. "That little favor you're doing for your husband? Building his account back up?"
Claire nodded.
"Well, let's just say, it won't take you as long to pay it back as you may have originally thought." With a shrug, she was done talking.
Until she added, "And make sure you look stunning, because Lester wants to introduce you around to some of our affiliates."
Claire's voice sounded small and far away, even to her own ears. "Affiliates?"
"Yes." Dianne chuckled as she stabbed a fork into a strawberry and started dissecting it with her knife. "That's the first step in the syndication process, sweetie."
Somebody pinch me.
Taking a deep breath, she looked out at the people walking by on Michigan Avenue for a moment before redirecting her gaze back to Dianne.
"Define 'stunning.'"
On her way to her contract job at John's company, she dialed her sister's number. Kate was panting when she picked up after several rings.
"Hey. What's up?"
Claire chuckled. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"
"No, I'm getting a deep-tissue massage. What's up?" she repeated.
"Kate. I've got big news. Big. News. What are you doing on December 17th?"
"Uh, why?"
"Because…I need a date," Claire cried into her phone. "And your purple dress."
* * *
On her lunch hour that day, John joined Claire in the break room. Sitting across from her, he started, "Tell me something—"
"Yes, I think Amanda is in serious need of a good—"
"Whoa!" John let out a loud, long laugh. It was something she hadn't seen him do since she'd started working there.
"What? I was just going to say 'haircut,'" Claire replied innocently.
"Yeah, right." Regaining his composure, he continued, "No, seriously." He leaned closer over the table. "I wanna ask you something."
Having just taken a large bite of her sandwich, she raised her eyebrows expectantly.
"What would you say if I told you I was leaving?" he whispered hoarsely.
Claire quickly swallowed her food and whispered, "What? You can't. Where are you going?"
"Oh, don't worry. Nowhere yet. But I've got some feelers out. I need something different." He took off his glasses and stared out the window at the high rise next door, not focusing on anything in particular.
John had hired Claire at her first job out of college and had been her mentor and friend ever since. Over the years, he and his wife frequently accompanied Claire and Paul to concerts and parties hosted by mutual friends. They knew each other's professional likes and dislikes (free coffee good, dress codes bad) and could practically recite each other's résumés blindfolded.
"Is it the politics?" Claire asked. She detected the empire-building mentality that the privately held company had embedded in its culture, and though she knew it was not unusual, she knew her friend had a low tolerance for it.
"Yeah, that, and…I don't know. I'm just burned out. I've been thinking about teaching." He smiled as if laughing over some old, private joke. Shrugging his shoulders, he gave her a quick smile, looked at his watch, and told her he'd be late for his meeting.
"Catch you later." He threw out his trash and rushed back to his office.
On her way home that night, Claire opened her laptop and began typing a column she had drafted during a software code review meeting to which she had been invited but had discerned within the first five minutes that she had little to gain by attending.
* * *
That evening, the gym at St. Matthias was already teeming with families by the time Paul slid into the concession stand kitchen across the hallway from the entrance. His stomach growled as he breathed in the enticing aroma of frozen pizzas warming in the oven.
He found Sherry Evans, his concession stand partner for the evening, dissecting a crate of chips with an open pair of scissors.
"Hey, Sherry. Sorry I'm late. Couldn't find a parking space." He slipped off his jacket, laid it on top of an unopened carton of plastic spoons, and started rolling up the cuffs of his flannel shirt.
"Hi, Paul." She pushed the bangs of her boxy haircut out of her eyes and remarked, "Yeah. We're expecting a big crowd tonight. I'm glad you could make it."
She hoisted the cash box at him. "We should have about two hundred in small bills and change in there. Can you check, please?"
"Yeah, sure." He unwrapped the wad of bills and popped open the rolls of coins, putting each designation into its proper slot.
"Ok. The pizza's a dollar a slice, but after halftime, we can reduce it, depending on how much we have left. Same thing with any baked goods." She waved her hand at nearby trays of brownies and cookies, adding, "And if anyone asks, those are nut-free. The chips, water, and granola bars are fifty cents each."
Paul nodded. "Got it."
As the parent of a player, he knew everyone had to take turns volunteering, but on that particular night, he'd rather be in the gym watching his son, Marc, in one of the last games of his elementary school career. Rumor had it the coach from Knollwood would be popping in to assess some of the players and, given that Paul's son had really stepped up his performance this season, Paul expected Marc to be one on the coach's radar.
That he had sprouted another three inches this year certainly didn't hurt. On track to meet or even exceed Paul's height, Marc already had a good couple of inches on Luke, although his older brother was not willing to admit it just yet.
The game had no sooner started than Sherry slipped out of PTA president mode and into that annoying, gossipy thing he noticed some of the other mothers indulge in. As soon as she started with, "So, did you hear," he wondered, again, why none of the dads volunteered.
"The Thompson's house sold the same day they put it on the market," she gasped.
Lifting his eyebrows in faux surprise, he replied, "No. I didn't even know the Thompsons were moving."
I'm not even sure I know the Thompsons, actually.
Sherry gave him an exaggerated nod. "Terry Spade told me. She's the Realtor. I grew up with her. In fact, her cousin Allie is my husband's college roommate's sister. Can you believe it?"
Paul lifted his eyebrows again, this time in faux amazement, which was duly noted by Sherry, who exclaimed, "I know, right?"
"Anyhoo," she continued, "Elise Thompson had done wonders updating the place before they listed it. I can understand why it sold so fast. I heard she even put a surround shower in the master bedroom bath. Genius. I wish I could get Charlie to do that, but you know with him it's all work, work, work."
She turned her back to Paul while breaking open a pack of napkins. Looking over her shoulder, she practically pouted, "I rarely even see him anymore."
Pressing his lips together, he forced them into a smile and checked his watch.
"Well, what am I telling you for?" Sherry asked as she leaned her hip against the counter next to him. A little too close to him.
Boundaries. This woman clearly didn't have any.
"Your wife works. It's Claire, right?"
Before he could respond, she pressed her fingers against his chest and announced quite matter-of-factly, "She writes for the Gazette. That column."
His mind flashed a replay of Claire slamming his file cabinet shut after he pointed out that she couldn't make enough working at a paper to support them.
Don't go there.
Not wanting to give Sherry any new material for her gossip mill, he kept his lips pressed into a thin line.
Where the hell are customers when you need 'em?
When he didn't indulge Sherry's overwhelming need to know everything about everybody, she pulled a face. "Why, there's nothing to be ashamed of. It's a delight. I love it."
She waved her hand at the open gym doors. "I know they all love it."
When she turned to tend to a young customer, Paul glanced at the crowd seated in the gym.
Love what?
When he had dropped the boys off that morning, he was catching up with Jacquie when he overheard Tomas bragging to his friends that his mom was the new Plate Spinner, whatever that meant.
He had planned on asking his son about it later but completely forgot when Luke begged for help with his algebra homework after school.
Not wanting to tip his hand to a complete stranger who somehow knew more about his wife's business than he did, he thought of the best way to respond to Sherry.
Waiting until the kid left with his pizza slice, Paul took a gamble and commented as casually as he could, "She didn't start that long ago. I'm surprised everybody already knows about it."
Sherry practically salivated over being granted a firsthand reaction.
Her eyes gleaming, she tilted her head and said through a teeth-baring smile, "My maiden name is Walters. My mom, Marie, is a receptionist at Griffin Media."
She raised an eyebrow and added, "I understand you two have already met."
Paul let out a quick cough to disguise the fact that inside he felt as if he had just been shoved backward down an empty elevator shaft with two hands. Not Sherry's. Claire's.
The first thing he did when he got home was go directly to the sanctity of his office to do two things: check for any deposits coming through that he may have missed from the Gazette and find out what the hell a Plate Spinner was. While he didn't see any deposits, he did find out what a Plate Spinner was—much to his surprise. And delight.
* * *
As Thanksgiving loomed, Claire, Kate, and their mother exchanged a flurry of emails on topics ranging from Burt and Louise's flight information to their Chicago-based itinerary to the Thanksgiving dinner menu. The plan was for Claire to host—a fair trade off, considering Kate had agreed to pick up their parents from the airport on the Monday before the holiday. Also, in a show of magnanimity, Kate was putting them up at her place until they embarked on a tour to visit their old friends who had remained behind in the Chicago area after they'd transferred to Phoenix.
Six days before the feast, Claire was up early, sitting at the kitchen table writing down what she still needed to buy and listing the chores that still needed to be done.
It had been two weeks since she'd banged her head and let Paul off the hook. It had also been two weeks since she'd felt in control of her life, albeit, her miserable, lonely life.
That weekend changed everything. While physically she and Paul had reconnected, many times over, everything else felt off, kind of as if that drug-induced fog hadn't entirely lifted. She was tired all the time (would help if she actually slept at night), stressed over the crossroads she saw looming before her, and had to fight back the urge, at least once a day, to suggest to Paul that he go back to work even though she foolishly told him he didn't have to.
She took a sip of her coffee and pulled her face into a grimace. Even the coffee tasted different. Paul, no doubt, had gotten a cheaper alternative the last time he went shopping. Claire added the name of her favorite blend to her grocery list and gazed out the kitchen window, replaying the moment when he told her he loved her. The memory caused her lips to curl into a smile, and a warm wave pulsed through her entire body.
So why hadn't she said it back yet?
Good question.
Since telling him, under the influence of a prescription painkiller mind you, that she was all right with him not working, he seemed…different. For starters, he was as affectionate as a newlywed. Making up for lost time, no doubt. At least, that's what Claire assumed.
And you know what happens when you assume.
But he still seemed so guarded. Could he, by any chance, realize that people were apt to say ridiculous things after banging their head against the wall of a train? Or was he simply afraid she'd take back what she said and level him with an ultimatum to go back to work, or else?
In Claire's darker moments, the ones that kept her tossing and turning at night, she worried that she had pushed him too far away over the years to ever truly get him back. But then again, was she really all right with him remaining unemployed?
She stared at the grocery store ads on the table before her, trying to match the items on her list with what was on sale.
I love him, right?
Before long, the pictures of frozen turkeys began to blur. Her eyes had started welling up again. Getting up with an aggravated huff, she yanked a paper towel from the dispenser dangling under one of the kitchen cabinets.
What's happening to me?
She made a note to remember to contact the doctor who had removed her stitches and ask about any residual concussion symptoms, like heightened emotions, nausea, and confusion.
Ready to chuck the whole grocery store thing and cater the entire Thanksgiving dinner, she was about to shove the stack of store ads into the recycling bin when Paul came into the kitchen looking worse for wear.
He hadn't shaved in days.
Which would explain the beard burn on my neck, thank you very much.
His hair was going every which way.
My bad.
And he looked about as tired as she felt.
Not entirely my fault.
"No run today?" she ventured after he bent down and kissed her good morning. She inhaled, picking up faint traces of aftershave on his warm skin. The scent lingered even after he stepped away to pull a mug down from the cabinet above the coffeemaker.
Sigh.
"Nah, we should probably get a jump on grocery shopping before the crowds get ugly. That'll be work out enough, considering I'm going on, what"—he glanced at the clock—"three hours of sleep."
Blushing like a teenager, Claire smiled and said, "You can thank me later."
The boys started coming down for breakfast just in time to see Claire and Paul head out the door. Paul addressed Marc, who led the drowsy procession.
"There's plenty for breakfast ready in the kitchen. Make sure your little brothers eat, lock both doors, and don't open them for anybody, got it?"
Marc nodded silently.
"Thanks, champ. We have our cell phones. Call us if you need us."
He heard Marc lock the deadbolt on the back door after he closed it behind him.
Given that it was the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving, they were surprised to see only a few cars in the grocery store parking lot when they arrived.
"They're open, aren't they?" Claire asked, peering into the store windows as they drove past.
"Yep, twenty-four seven."
Before heading in, they decided to divide and conquer, so they split their list. Paul, with his uncanny ability to pick perfect produce, worked the perimeter of the store, hunting and gathering while Claire dove into the aisles, filling the cart with nonperishable items.
As she stood alone in the canned goods section staring at the selection of gravy, she heard an old standard of Linda Ronstadt's come over the store's sound system and softly started singing along. Tossing a couple of cans of turkey gravy in the cart, she proceeded down the aisle, maneuvering around a crouched stock boy to get to the canned vegetables. As her never-dormant ire over Paul not stepping up in the provider department reared its nagging head again, she sang louder.
Reaching for a can of peas, she grabbed it off the shelf and belted out the last chorus as if she had the entire store to herself.
"You're no good, you're no good, you're no good, baby, you're no good."
Turning to drop it in her cart so she could indulge in a little air guitar to wrap up the piece, she was startled to see none other than Andrew Benet, the interim music director at St. Matthias, standing there amused, holding what Claire assumed to be a shopping list.
Awkward.
She froze for a moment before trying to push her cart in the opposite direction within the aisle's narrow confines.
She prayed he didn't recognize her.
The man, looking a few years younger than Claire, with bright-blue eyes and short black-as-ink hair, didn't budge. "You're Luke's mom, right? He's a very good lector. Excellent speaking voice."
Busted.
When she turned to face him, he said. "I'm Andrew Benet." He held out his hand.
Claire sheepishly replied, "Yes, of course. I know who you are." She shook hands with the man who had single-handedly transformed their church choir from a few struggling voices to an impressive musical presence within the few months he had filled in for the elusive Mr. Greeley, who, rumor had it, made off with one of the sopranos shortly after the last Mass of the Easter season.
"I, uh, couldn't help but hear you sing."
Feeling almost as if she were back in high school and had just been caught smoking with her feet up in the teachers' lounge, she responded quickly, "Yeah, sorry about that."
He smiled kindly at her. "Oh, no need to apologize. Have you ever considered being a cantor?"
Claire frowned, certain that she had mistaken what she had just heard. "Me? Sing solo in front of the entire congregation?" She let out a deep laugh coupled with her signature snort. "I don't think so."
But the younger man persisted. "How about joining the choir? We could always use another strong voice."
She thanked him and again refused.
"Well, if you change your mind, we meet on Tuesday nights at seven. Just stop by."
"Ok. I'll remember that. Thanks."
"Happy Thanksgiving."
"Same to you." She watched as he turned and headed toward the dairy section just as Paul approached from the other end of the aisle, carrying an enormous frozen turkey in his arms.
"Isn't he the music guy from church?" he asked as he dumped it in her nearly empty cart.
"Yeah. He asked if I wanted to be a cantor."
"I'm not surprised. I could hear you all the way over by the meat counter."
Claire glanced up at him. "Liar."
Paul smiled and rubbed his hand up and down on her back. "You should. You'd be great at it. Better than that guy he's got doing it now. Puts everybody to sleep."
Pushing her cart away, she announced, "I'm done with this conversation."
"Why?" he called after her. "You've got a great voice."
I'm a better writer.
"I hear you sing all the time," he said as he caught up to her. Tilting her chin toward him, he added, "Especially lately."
It was true. When she wasn't getting weepy over her conflicted feelings for him, her impending career choice, car commercials, or her rapidly deteriorating multitasking capabilities, she sang—in the car, in the shower, in aisle six of their local grocery store, in her cube when she thought no one else was around.
With each day that had passed since her concussion, she worried that it had caused more damage than a scar on her scalp.
Must call doctor.
When Claire reached the end of the aisle, she heard Paul ask the stock boy, "Did you hear her singing?"
"Stop," Claire admonished.
"She's pretty good, isn't she?"
She turned to see the gum-chewing sixteen-year-old look at Paul, pull his earplugs out by the cord, and ask, "Can I help you?"
* * *
On Monday morning, Di stopped to pick up a café au lait at Chez Doug's before heading into her office. The week's Lifestyle content had been planned out weeks before, but she still had to finalize her budget projections for the following year. Setting the coffee cup on her desk, she pried off its lid, releasing the aromatic steam. She took a sip and watched as her email inbox loaded its new messages.
"Huh, what's this?" she wondered when she spotted an unexpected message from Claire. She had already received enough columns from her to finish out the year and was surprised to see yet another arrive during what she knew was a busy week for her popular columnist. She opened the attachment and began reading.
Ten minutes later, she shouted out the door to the new intern sitting at a desk just beyond her door. "Scotty. Can you come in here please?"
The thin young man jumped at the sound of her voice and rushed into her office, notebook in hand.
"Yes, Ms. Devane?"
"Ok, get over to layout and tell them we're pulling this Friday's column and replacing it with the one I'm sending down right now. Spacing shouldn't be a problem. I just want them to be sure they insert the right file. Got it?"
"Uh, I think so."
Pulling a tissue out of a box on her desk, she muttered, "Damn, I haven't cried since Marshall Field's closed its doors."
She then looked up at Scotty, still standing in her doorway, and asked, "Well, what are you waiting for?"
As she watched him scurry down the aisle, she called after him, "I appreciate everything you do."
Dialing Claire's number, she left her briefest message yet. "Got your latest column. We'll run it on Thanksgiving."
* * *
Burt and Louise Nelson, both Chicago natives, agreed on one thing and one thing only. If the weather had always been as pleasant during the month of November as it was when they stepped out of Midway Airport that Monday before Thanksgiving, they would never have moved to the Southwest.
As Kate drove them to her luxurious, parent-ready brownstone, they filled her in on all of their current physical ailments, correcting each other as they went along. Each of Kate's attempts to divert the conversation down a less argumentative path went unheeded.
When she pulled into her garage and began hoisting their luggage out of her trunk, Louise asked for the fifth time, "Are you sure we're not putting you out? We don't want you going to any trouble."
"Mom. For the fifth time, I'm not going to any trouble. It's ok. Relax."
As if she didn't hear what her daughter had just told her, she continued, "Burt, help Kate with the bags, and I'll get dinner started."
Watching as her mother made her way to the kitchen, he retorted, "I didn't come on this trip to haul your junk around. Some feminist you are."
Kate realized she had a long couple of weeks ahead of her.
"Ok, listen up. I'm going to bring everything up to the guest room. You guys get yourselves comfortable, and then we'll head out to dinner."
When they began to protest about the expense, she silenced them with, "I made reservations at Stevens."
Stevens, one of the last remaining old-time supper clubs in the Chicago area, was their favorite steak place and located not far from their old neighborhood.
Knowing that she finally had their undivided attention, she continued.
"Tomorrow, Mom, you and I are going to Michigan Avenue to do some shopping, and Dad, Dave, and Tom will be getting here at about 11:30 to pick you up for lunch."
"Hey, that's great," he replied, clearly looking forward to catching up with two longtime buddies.
"Then on Wednesday, I'm going to have to make the pies, so we'll be stuck here for a while before going to Claire's on Thursday."
"Sounds great." Louise clapped her hands together, obviously not hearing much after the words "shopping" and "Michigan Avenue."
* * *
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Claire brought the twenty-two-pound turkey up from the refrigerator in the garage and dropped it in the empty kitchen sink, which she filled with cold water before heading out the door. She made a mental note to call Paul later to make sure the sink stayed filled with cold water.
She was not surprised to see that the train was practically empty. Certain that the last day of her contract position was rapidly approaching, she pulled out her notebook and made a quick list of all of the headhunters she knew she should contact and the companies to which she would apply after the holiday weekend. While John had remained elusive about her future there and had, so far, been able to find small assignments to retain her, experience told her that the end was near.
The heels of her shoes echoed loudly as she stomped off the train platform and into the station with a dozen or so other commuters arriving at the same time that she had. Going through the revolving doors, she breathed in the unseasonably warm air, wanting to store the memory of it away for future reference when the frigid onslaught of winter arrived.
Arriving at the nearly deserted office, she went into the kitchenette and started the coffee, a bit unnerved by the silence. By 9:30, only three other employees had arrived, and Claire was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on work-related tasks. Fifteen minutes later, John stopped by her cube, looking more relaxed and happy than he had the entire time she had worked there.
"Look at you," she couldn't help but say at the sight of him, wearing jeans and a sweater, looking as if he had enjoyed the first good night's sleep in a long while.
"I didn't expect to see you today," she continued when he didn't respond to her with anything but a smile. "What's going on? Win the lottery?"
"Better."
"Oh yeah? The lottery and a private concert with Eric Clapton?"
He laughed and then sat on the edge of her desk. Talking a deep breath, he said, "You're looking at Cavanaugh Community College's newest adjunct professor. I start right after the New Year."
Claire tilted her head as if she didn't hear him correctly. "Wow," she exclaimed, frowning. "I thought you were kidding."
"You know it's always been a dream of mine to teach. I've just had enough of—" At a loss for words, he held his hands in the air and finished with, "This."
She got up and threw her arms around his shoulders. "I'm so happy for you. This is great news."
Smiling again, he stood to hug her back. "That's my pal."
When she pulled away and sat back in her chair, he sat down again and said, "Now here's the best part. I've recommended you as my replacement. Management agrees. Based on your experience, you're the obvious choice."
"What?" she said again, shocked for the second time in just as many minutes. "You're full of surprises this morning, aren't you?"
"Yep. You interested?"
"Uh. Yeah, maybe." She raised both eyebrows in an attempt to look more enthusiastic than she felt.
Her friend shrugged. "Well, think it over. You've probably got a couple of weeks to decide. They'll have to post the opening, go through the motions of interviewing anybody who applies. You know the routine."
She nodded, grateful she didn't have to make a decision on the spot.
"Now listen, get outta here. Go enjoy your family. I'll see you Monday."
"Thanks. Hey, give Donna my best," she yelled after him.
"Will do," he called over his shoulder on his way to the elevator bank.
Claire hung back, mulling over what had just happened. After a few minutes, she got up and walked into his dark, unlocked office and closed the door behind her.
The furniture layout was similar to that of the office she had at her last job. She slowly walked behind his desk and stood there imagining Amanda sitting in one of the chairs facing her, asking why she was overlooked for the managerial spot. Claire sat in John's chair and put her hands on top of his desk. Her fingertips brushed an interoffice envelope that sat there unopened. Just like the one containing that anonymous message she received before she got laid off.
You are a miserable person.
She looked down at it, covered her face with her hands, and whispered, "Oh God, I don't mean to be ungrateful, but I could use a little help here."
As she sat there, the office walls slowly closing in on her, she took a deep breath and flipped a notebook on the desk to a blank page. On one side, she wrote, "Plate Spinner." On the other, she wrote, "Manager."
After listing out the pros and cons to each opportunity, she got up, returned to her cube, packed her things, and made her way to the train station, hoping to catch the express home.