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Brian's old mail Jeep was already parked in the driveway when Tiffany got home. She stuffed the speeding ticket in her purse and left her purchases in the trunk. As she hurried up the front walk she tried to come up with a reason she was late getting home so that she didn't have to use the S word. Brian still didn't need to know about the shopping, especially since she was going to have to take everything back so she could pay for that stupid ticket. Maybe not Brian's shirt. He had to look nice for work. But everything else.

She began to script her arrival.

BRIAN: What took you so long? I thought you were done at four today.

TIFFANY: Something came up.

BRIAN: Yeah? What?

TIFFANY:

Oh, boy. What could she say next? A client, of course—she'd say someone had come into Salon H with a nail emergency just as she was leaving. Brian would buy that. It happened.

She hated lying to him, though. She never lied to him, except about money. Somewhere along their happily-ever-after road, her spending habits had become top secret. Really, there were some things it was better for him not to know. He'd only worry.

Like she was doing right now. For a nanosecond she considered calling her father and asking him to give her the money to pay for her ticket. Her birthday was next month. They could call it an early birthday present. If she had the ticket covered she could tell Brian why she was late, and in the next breath say, “But don't worry. It's paid for.” Sadly, there was no point in calling Daddy. She still remembered his words to her after the great credit card bailout: “Baby girl, this is the last time I'm going to come to your rescue. You're a married woman now and you need to learn the value of a dollar.”

As if she didn't know the value of a dollar. She knew it wasn't worth squat!

She sighed as she slipped in the front door. No sense asking Mom for help, either. Mom never had any money.

Tiffany found Brian already on the back deck. He'd changed into his jeans and was firing up the barbecue to grill hamburgers, their standard fare on the nights he cooked dinner. “You beat me home,” she said, stating the obvious, and gave him a quick kiss. “I figured you would. You wouldn't believe the day I had.” So far, so good.

“Busy, huh? That's good.” Brian sounded more distracted than interested in how her day had gone.

That was normal lately; he had a lot on his mind. But it wasn't sex. The shoes really had been a waste. After two miscarriages, she supposed she couldn't blame him. What was the point?

Love was the point, of course, but sometimes, late at night, after Brian was dead to the world, she wrote a very dark script:

TIFFANY: Brian, do you still love me?

BRIAN: I don't know. You can't manage money and you can't stay pregnant. What good are you?

That was always where the script ended because she still hadn't come up with an answer that satisfied her.

“How was your day?” she asked now.

He shrugged.

He used to have plenty to say about work. There was always a contractor who was hounding him, a property owner trying to pass off plans for a garage as plans for a shed, someone unhappy over how long it was taking to get the permit for the addition on her house. But the local building slump was slowing things down at work and spreading insecurity through the office. Brian had mentioned it only once, when he was afraid she was starting to get carried away with her bargain hunting, but it seemed like for the last month, he'd been walking under a dark cloud. She'd ask what was new at the office and he'd say, “Nothing. What's for dinner?” Now he'd gone from “nothing” to a shrug.

“Is everything okay?” Tiffany asked, even though she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“I don't know,” he said, his voice heavy.

He went back inside the house. She followed him in and watched as he pulled hamburger out of the fridge and began pounding the meat into patties. Okay. So, they weren't talking about her day and they weren't talking about his. What were they going to do?

Make dinner. She washed her hands, then went to the fridge and pulled out onions, lettuce, and a tomato and set them on the counter.

“It's a good thing all the credit cards are paid off,” he said.

Meanwhile, back at the fridge, Tiffany almost dropped a jar of pickles.

You'd better tell him about the credit cards now. And the ticket.

Oh, no. This was so not the time to dump that kind of news on her husband, not with the mood he was in. “Is there something you're not telling me?”

“Things are really getting bad at work, Tiffy.” Brian gave a piece of meat an extra hard smack.

Getting? They'd already been bad.

“Two people got laid off today.”

“Laid off?” she squeaked. They were barely making it now. What would they do if Brian got laid off?

He put the meat patties on a plate. “That's why I'm glad we at least don't have a lot of credit card debt anymore.”

She nodded agreement. This was sooooo not the right time to give him any bad news. When would there be a right time? Probably never. What was she going to do?

Brian must have read the panic in her eyes, because he immediately looked regretful. “Hey.” He started to hug her, then looked at his meat-greased hands. He washed them, saying over his shoulder, “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“I'm not scared,” she lied. She could almost see those two credit cards in back of her, grown to monster-sized proportions and leaning over her with giant fangs. Brian dried his hands, then hugged her and she pressed in close.

“It's okay,” he said, and kissed her forehead. “We can make it through this. We just have to be careful. You understand?”

She felt her cheeks burning, but she managed to nod.

“You need to know what we're up against. It could get ugly.”

It could get ugly if he found out about those charge cards. “I thought you said you didn't want to scare me.”

“I don't. I just want you to understand that this is serious.”

“I do.” It was more serious than he knew.

Rachel Green left her principal's office minus her smile. This was a rotten way to end the school day, not to mention the year. She marched to her empty classroom, mentally chanting, “Why me?” with each step. The answer to that was simple: some gremlin had pasted a Kick Me sign on her backside.

First divorce, now no job—a kick for each cheek.

She'd known teaching fifth grade at Heart Lake Elementary wasn't a permanent position when she'd stepped in to take Ambika Sinj's class after Ambika had gone on maternity leave. But, deep down, Rachel had hoped that once Ambika had her baby she would opt for full-time motherhood. She hadn't.

This school was a great one with an excellent principal and good kids. Rachel didn't blame Ambika for wanting to come back to work, thus depriving her substitute of steady employment for the next year. She blamed the gremlin. Inside her classroom she shook a fist and growled, “You're messing with the wrong woman.”

“Steve Martin in drag. Now, that is scary,” said a voice from the classroom doorway. “Are you auditioning for a remake of Planes, Trains and Automobiles?”

Rachel turned to see Elsa Wilson, a wiry fifty-year-old who taught third grade, regarding her with eyebrows raised. She slumped on her desk. “Don't get too close to me. I'm a bad luck lightning rod.”

“Don't tell me, let me guess. Ambika's coming back and you're out of work?”

Rachel nodded. She wanted to cry. Instead, she turned and began erasing math problems off the whiteboard, ignoring the ache beginning at her temples. “Oh, well. I'll go back to subbing.”

Elsa joined her and picked up the other eraser. “Not a bad plan. Between us and the middle school, we'll keep you busy.”

But could they keep her busy enough? “I know. It's just …” She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. Elsa understood. It was so much easier to come into the same classroom every day and work with the same students, to have your own lesson plans to follow instead of someone else's. Most important, a permanent teaching position meant benefits and a guaranteed salary. Not necessarily a huge salary, but regular. Money was tight even when Rachel was working full time. Once she was reduced to substitute teaching she'd be vacuum-sealed in debt. Panic grabbed at her ankles. She attempted to kick free. “I'll be fine.” At least she'd still have free dental for the kids.

“Of course you will,” said Elsa. “You're a survivor.”

It was a far cry from being a princess, which was what her parents had raised her to be. When she met Aaron Green the dentist she thought she'd found her prince. First he told her she had a beautiful smile. Then he told her she had a beautiful body. Then, after two kids, two cars, a mortgage, and her fortieth birthday, he'd found another woman and told her good-bye. But not until he'd made sure that much of his money did a disappearing act, probably into some account of his mother's. Just one of the universe's little cosmic jokes. Ha, ha. Almost as funny as finding herself with no steady employment and a student loan to pay off. Now she had a master's degree in education and no job, rather like having a bridal gown and no husband. Oh, bad analogy.

Maybe someday her prince would come. Ha. If he did she'd slam the door in his face. She needed another prince like she needed a third boob. She already had her hands full with Aaron, who was as lousy an ex as he once was a husband—always late with his child support payments, but still managing to come up with money for presents for the kids and frequent trips to Pizza Heaven to ensure his status as the favorite parent. She'd been coping with all that, pretty much, but now she'd been set adrift in a leaky raft on a stormy financial sea. Was she a survivor?

“You bet I am,” she said as much to herself as to Elsa. She'd show Aaron, and his mother (who had never liked her). And she'd show the damned gremlin, too.

Elsa gave her an encouraging hug followed by an invitation to a Sensual Woman spa party. “Just come. You don't have to buy anything. It'll be good for you to get out and have some fun.”

“Thanks,” Rachel said, but she made no promises. The last thing she wanted to do was go to a home party and spend what little money she had these days on fancy lotions.

Elsa left, and Rachel finished up in the classroom. Then she went to pick up the kids from Aaron's office, where they were getting their semiannual checkups. The sun was shining and the lake was looking especially idyllic, ringed with evergreens and cozy houses. Colorful bundles of blooms erupted from the heart-shaped hanging flower baskets along downtown Lake Way. Late afternoon snackers gathered at tables outside the Sweet Somethings bakery. Funny. It didn't look like the end of the world.

She frowned, listening to the minivan's stumbling motor. It would have to go to the car doctor while she still had a hope of paying for repairs. Maybe she'd let the thing die. Heart Lake was a small town and the kids could bike everywhere. So could she, come to think of it. Great for the thighs, and think of the money she'd save on gas. Go green.

She stopped by the Safeway on her way to pick up a take-and-bake pizza for dinner. No pop, though. Aaron had always been adamant about banning soda pop from the house—bad for the teeth. Allowing Claire and David to drink it would be a small, inexpensive way to enjoy a bit of parental one-upsmanship, but Rachel wasn't about to play that game. Aaron was right about the pop, and when it came to the children, one of them had to be a team player.

Of course, she didn't get by with only purchasing what she'd come in for. By the time she was done, she knew her grocery bill had sneaked up an extra forty dollars. Oh well, she thought fatalistically, they had to eat.

Dan the checker had just finished ringing up her purchases when her friend and next door neighbor, Jessica Sharp, pulled her cart up behind Rachel. Jess was in her early forties. She had short, dark hair, which she kept cut in the latest style, the kind of face that turned heads, and a great, curvy body, which she tended to view as overweight. She drove a red Volkswagen convertible, bought fresh flowers every week, and got her hair and nails done regularly. She didn't work and she didn't worry about money.

At least she never used to. Rachel had sometimes envied her friend's easy life, but not so much now, not with the troubles at her husband's bank, which had gotten bought out by a bigger bank. Her husband's job was in jeopardy and Jess was about to join the end-of-the-world club. Today she was wearing a black, ribbed sleeveless tee, jeans, and red flipflops decorated with poufy red flowers. She also wore dark circles under her eyes.

“Any news on Micahel's job?” asked Rachel.

Jess shook her head. “I used to think no news was good news. Silly me. Waiting is killing us.”

“Waiting only starts the dying process,” Rachel said glumly. She pointed to the wine bottle in Jess's shopping cart. “If that's for craft night on Friday you'd better get more. After this week I'll probably inhale an entire bottle single-handed.”

“I hear you,” said Jess. “And don't worry. I've got something special in mind for Friday. I'll stock up on chocolate, too.”

It would take an entire vat of chocolate to raise her endorphin level, Rachel thought as she left the store. She turned onto Deerwood Avenue where Aaron had his dental office. Before he moved in with Misty the lingerie model he brought the kids home after their checkups, but that changed in a hurry. Misty didn't like Aaron coming by the house without her. Misty was smarter than she looked … or at least she had good instincts.

The children were already finished with their checkups and hanging out in the waiting room when Rachel arrived. As always, the place smelled faintly of chemicals. Lately, it seemed to Rachel that it smelled like money, too. This was probably simply her imagination getting fired up by the sight of the expensive new carpet and freshly painted walls. Light green. Between the walls and the turquoise glass window in the door, she always felt like she was under-water when she came in here.

“Hi, Mom,” ten-year-old David greeted her. He was a cute boy, with Rachel's long legs. Once he grew into his feet he'd probably tower over both her and Aaron. The basketball court was already second home to him and he could dart around anyone in his way like he had wings on his feet, but at home he tended to trip over everything. Right now he was smiling and clutching a new game for the Wii Aaron had recently given the kids. “Look what Dad gave me.” He rushed to show her, nearly stepping on the toes of a harried-looking businessman in a nearby chair. “Sorry,” David muttered as the man frowned and pulled his feet under his chair.

Rachel looked at the expensive prize and smiled around gritted teeth. “That was nice of him.” She supposed she should be grateful that at least this time Aaron hadn't given their son some gadget that would require the frequent purchase of batteries.

“Can I go over to his house and play it?”

Of course, Aaron had opted to keep the Wii console at his place even though David and Claire were only over there every other weekend.

“I'll bet you have homework,” Rachel said.

David's smile evaporated.

Thank you, Aaron, for making me the meanie. “I tell you what,” she said. “You get your homework done, then I'll run you over to Dad's. He can take you to school in the morning.”

Now David was beaming. He gave her a kiss and said, “Thanks, Mom. You're the best.”

Yes, she was. Aaron was the faux best.

Twelve-year-old Claire sat slumped in a chair and had yet to surface from behind a copy of People. She had the same dark coloring as Rachel and big, brown eyes, and she'd inherited Rachel's full lips. But, much to Claire's dismay, she had inherited her father's nose. It was a little long, but it wasn't a bad nose, really. Still, it wasn't a Miley Cyrus nose, which, for Claire, meant it was ugly. Rachel knew her daughter would grow up to be striking, and she assured Claire of that practically on a daily basis, but motherly assurance was a very small shield to carry against peer-driven standards of beauty.

“What did Daddy give you?” Rachel asked her. Why did she ask? Did she really want to know?

Her face still buried behind People, Claire produced a gift certificate to The Coffee Stop from her hoodie pocket and held it up.

Her daughter was barely communicating, and behind that magazine hid a scowly face. Something had put Claire in a funk and Rachel could already guess what it was. The threat of braces, which had been looming on the horizon, had finally materialized. “It looks like several vanilla chaismoothies for you,” she said, using her unfazed mother voice. She stepped up to the reception window where Aaron's young receptionist Liz sat, smiling politely. Polite was the best Liz could give Rachel since the divorce. This hardly came as a surprise. Aaron would, of course, have posed as a long-suffering husband whose wife didn't understand him.

She smiled back just as politely. “Hi, Liz. Can you tell Aaron I'm here?”

“He's finishing with a patient. I'll tell him.”

Rachel nodded and sat down in a chair next to her daughter. She gave Claire a playful shoulder nudge. “So, are you reading about me?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Lame, Mom.”

Ah, the love. If she hadn't been twelve, herself, once, she'd have been offended. “How did your checkup go?”

Claire shrugged. “It sucked.”

That said it all. “I'm sorry.”

“I don't want braces.” The words came out, powered by misery. A hand went to Claire's eyes to swipe at fast-forming tears.

“Oh, baby,” said Rachel, putting an arm around her. “I know you don't.”

“Tell Daddy I don't want them,” Claire begged. “My teeth aren't that bad.”

“I'll talk to him,” Rachel promised, more to make her daughter feel better than because she thought it would do any good. Braces were, after all, the American way.

Claire nodded and wiped away more tears.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel could see Aaron approaching. He was forty-four, tall and broad shouldered, with wavy dark hair salted with a hint of gray to make him look both distinguished and trustworthy. He was walking proof that looks were deceiving.

“How about you two go wait in the car?” she suggested to the children. “I'll be there in a minute.”

“Okay. Bye, Dad,” called David, bouncing out of the room, completely clueless to the unfolding family drama.

Claire stalked out after him without a word to her father.

“She's happy,” Rachel observed.

“We really need to get her into braces,” he said. “It's time. I can set up a consultation for you with Rencher for next week if you like.”

Rachel was aware of Liz, sitting a few feet away from them, pretending to work. “Let's talk.” She took Aaron's arm and pulled him out the door onto the second-floor landing. “This is not good timing for me.”

He frowned. “Rachel. This is our daughter.”

She felt a sudden need to kick him in the shin. “I'm glad you used the word our. Does that mean you're going to take care of this expense?”

His frown deepened. “Of course I'll pay my share.”

“Your share always seems to be smaller than mine.”

Now he stiffened and looked down his nose at her. “Is that so? Need I remind you who got the house?”

“And all the bills to go with it,” she retorted sweetly.

“Between what you make and the hefty amount I give you …” he began.

“Hefty?” she said with a snort. “Oh, please.”

“Rachel, can we stick to the subject?” he suggested in a pained voice.

“I am sticking to the subject. I can't afford braces. I'm not getting hired back next year.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

For a moment he almost had her convinced that he was sorry for her, but then she remembered whom she was dealing with. Aaron was only sorry because he suspected her problems meant he'd be asked to step up to the plate and help more. When it involved parting with large chunks of money for anything that wasn't his idea and that didn't directly benefit Aaron Green, his heart went into lockdown and his wallet slammed shut.

“We'll work something out,” he assured her. “I'll talk to Rencher about setting up a payment plan.”

“For who?”

Now he looked very disappointed in her. “That is unfair. I'm paying my part.”

“That is debatable.”

“Look, I've got to get back inside. My patient's probably numb by now.”

“Your patient's not the only one,” Rachel said as he started slipping away. She caught him by his sleeve. “One more thing. You saw how upset she is. What about clear braces? Can I at least promise her that?”

He shook his head sadly. “Don't get her hopes up on that. Those aren't as effective for children.” He gave her arm a pat before disengaging himself. “You'll handle it.”

Sure. No problem.

Back in the car, David was bouncing his basketball off the car ceiling and Claire was plugged in to her iPod and glowering. “Did you talk to Daddy?” she asked.

“Yes. I'm afraid braces have to happen.”

“It's not fair,” Claire stormed. Meanwhile, the ball kept hitting the ceiling.

“David, if you don't stop immediately I'm going to give that ball to the Goodwill,” Rachel said. It was an empty threat, and they both knew it.

“Sorry, Mom,” he said genially. He let the ball fall on the floor, where he began rolling it around with his foot.

That took care of her son. Her daughter was a bigger challenge. Always.

Claire had turned her face and was now pretending to stare out the window. A hand crept up to wipe the corner of her eyes with her sweatshirt.

“Braces aren't so bad anymore,” Rachel said gently. “You can get them in all kinds of cool colors.”

“I'll be a freak.” Claire turned a teary glare on Rachel as if it was her mother's fault that she had tooth issues.

Rachel wanted to say, “You got your messed-up teeth from your messed-up father,” but that would hardly be productive, so instead she said, “Sweetie, practically everybody wears braces.”

“No, they don't,” Claire growled. “I don't want braces. I'm already ugly.”

“You are not ugly,” Rachel said firmly.

“Aidan thinks you're cute,” David offered.

Learning she had the admiration of a ten-year-old's best friend in no way consoled Claire. “No one's talking to you,” she snapped.

David shrugged and fell silent.

“Aidan may be the wrong age, but he knows beauty when he sees it,” Rachel said.

Claire rolled her eyes and turned back to the window.

Rachel gave up. For the time being, anyway.

After dinner Rachel dropped David off, not bothering to go to the door, and pretended not to see when Misty waved to her from the doorway. After she returned home she went straight to the bonus room off the kitchen that doubled as her office and gathered the pages she'd printed from the Internet safari she'd taken when the children were doing their homework.

Claire had disappeared back into her room, so Rachel went upstairs and knocked on the door. No answer. She opened it a crack and peeked in. It already looked like a teenager room, with teen idol posters on pink walls and clothes scattered on the floor. A lamp shaped like a purse sat on Claire's nightstand and her bedspread, a new one Misty had helped her pick out, was a reversible pink with zebra stripes on the other side. She lay flopped on the bed, facedown, iPod plugged in.

“Knock, knock,” called Rachel.

“I don't want to talk.”

Actually, Rachel didn't either. She wanted to fill the tub with bubbles and stay there for a million years. But first, she was going to talk and hope her daughter listened. “Just for a minute, ’kay? I have something to show you.” Claire reluctantly rolled over onto her side and Rachel sat down next to her. “I know you don't want braces and I don't blame you, but it's better to get them done now. Then you won't have to wear them in high school.” At least she hoped not. Please, God, let that be true.

Claire's face crumpled and she began to cry. “I'm so ugly.”

Rachel took her daughter into her arms. “No, really, you're not. You are going to be so beautiful it's not even funny.”

“No, I'm not,” Claire sobbed.

“Yes, you are. And the really good news is, you're already beautiful on the inside, and that's the hardest kind of beauty to find.”

“You have to say that. You're my mom.”

“You think so? Look.” Rachel began to lay the pictures of supermodels she'd printed from the Internet out on the bed. There was Gisele Bündchen, Julia Polacsek, Lieke Smets, and Erin O'Connor, who looked like a grownup version of Claire. They all appeared glamorous, exotic, and unique. “Do you know who these women are?”

“No,” Claire said grumpily.

“They're international supermodels. Do you notice anything they have in common?”

Claire bit her lip, refusing to state the obvious.

“Here's one more. Recognize her?”

“That's the woman on What Not to Wear.” Claire's and Rachel's favorite Friday night show. On the weekends Claire was home they always watched it together, even when Claire's best friend, Bethany, was sleeping over.

“Yep. Stacy London.”

“But she's pretty,” Claire said in a small voice.

“They're all pretty. But they don't all look alike. It's okay to look different. Sometimes different is better.”

Claire rolled her eyes.

Rachel gathered the papers into a stack. “Just think about that,” she said, and leaned over and kissed her daughter's forehead.

Claire didn't say anything but she nodded.

“And next time we're watching What Not to Wear check out Stacy London's nose,” Rachel added as she slipped off the bed. She was to the door when her daughter said, “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

Claire managed a tiny smile. “Thanks.”

Rachel suddenly felt better than she had all day. She smiled back. “You're welcome,” she said, and shut the door feeling pretty pleased with herself.

Until she remembered that in the course of one afternoon she had lost a job and gained a new debt. And somewhere, a little gremlin was laughing.