• 6 •

Saturday night Rachel got comfy in her sweats and T-shirt. Then she dipped into her hidden stash of Hershey's kisses, and settled on the couch with her secret guilty pleasure: a romance novel.

She'd been a loyal reader since she'd picked up her first paper-back in college, but when things went south with Aaron she had taken all her romance novels to the Goodwill. Dumb. She'd had some first edition hardbacks in there that were probably worth something now. At the time, though, she hadn't cared. The last thing she'd wanted to read about was some pretend woman's happy ending with her perfect man. The perfect man didn't exist, except in fiction. And guess who made up those perfect men? Women, probably women who wished they could find such a thing as a perfect man.

But when she'd passed the romance paperbacks at the library she hadn't been able to stop herself from adding a couple to her pile of finance books. Maybe pretend wasn't so bad. Maybe reading about love and happy endings was good for the soul and gave a girl hope. With school (and her job) about to end, she could use a little hope.

She popped a chocolate in her mouth and opened the book.

Destiny Vane knew she had found her soul mate when she first saw Auguste Baiser. He was darkly handsome with sensual lips, a chiseled chin, and powerful arms, and he was helping an old woman across the dirty streets of Paris.

Rachel snuggled down deeper among the sofa pillows. Auguste Baiser, would, of course, turn out to have other body parts as powerful as his arms, and after many ups and downs (no pun intended), many tears and terrors, Destiny and Auguste would walk off into the French sunset hand in hand. In the book, this would take months. At the rate Rachel read, it would take until Sunday afternoon.

Which it did. She gobbled the story down like candy, even though this par ticu lar book was one big cliché after another. But so what? Her real life was a cliché.

She was done and ready to return to the real world by the time the children came through the door from spending the weekend with their father and Misty the lingerie model. Rachel was slipping peanut butter cookies onto a cooling rack when the door opened and the sound of voices and a bouncing basketball echoed through the house, announcing that her babies were back.

David bounded into the kitchen first. “Cookies!” His basket-ball landed on the floor and dribbled away and he scooped up two, juggling the hot goodies in his hand.

Rachel smiled. She couldn't run out and buy her son the latest Wii game, but cookies worked almost as well. “Did you have fun with your father?” she asked, keeping her voice conversational. Of course, he had fun. Fun was all the kids ever had with Aaron. No homework ever got done, no chores. Aaron's house was Fun Land. Sigh.

David had already stuffed half a cookie into his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, spitting crumbs.

Normally Rachel would correct him for talking with his mouth full. Not now, though, not when he'd just returned from being with the other woman.

“Except Misty can't cook.”

Her son, who was basically a support system for a stomach, always said this when he came home, and she always kept the same thought to herself: Aaron didn't marry Misty for her cooking skills.

Now Claire was in the kitchen, too. She was smiling, which meant Misty had done something cool with her, something where money was no object. It only took a second to guess what. Claire was wearing a new necklace and earrings.

“You look like you had fun. What did you do?” asked Rachel, working hard to sound like a good sport. Let me guess. Does it start with an S?

“We went to the mall,” said Claire.

Big surprise. Clothes were Misty's life. How nice to have the perfect body for clothes, and for attracting someone else's husband. How nice to have money to spend on clothes, not only for yourself but to use to buy the affections of someone else's daughter, as well. How nice. Where was the Kick Me sign for Misty's backside?

Okay, enough. Misty might have been able to steal Rachel's husband, but she'd never be able to steal her children. Kids couldn't be bought. They saw right through feeble attempts like trips to the mall, at least that was what Rachel's mother was always saying. She sure hoped her mother was right.

“Guess what,” said Claire, still smiling. “Misty had braces when she was my age.”

“And look how she turned out,” Rachel said, finishing her daughter's thought. She'd had braces, too, and had told Claire that. It hadn't done a thing to encourage her. But then Rachel wasn't a model.

“I still wish I didn't have to get them, but I guess it will be okay,” said Claire, helping herself to a cookie.

All right. She still hated Misty, but she could at least be glad that Claire had come home, not simply resigned to her fate, but feeling better about it. “It will be okay,” Rachel said, and gave Claire a one-armed hug. “It always is. Isn't it?” she added, rumpling David's hair.

“Yep,” he said, and took two more cookies.

“That is enough cookies for you,” she told him, deciding she needed to get back in mother mode. “You'll spoil your appetite for dinner.”

“I'm not hungry,” said Claire. “We went to Pizza Heaven.”

Oh, well, Rachel told herself. Misty couldn't bake. So there.

Still, the possession of baking skills didn't seem like much of an upper hand when compared to trips to the mall and Pizza Heaven and looking gorgeous enough to inspire a preteen to accept the necessity of getting braces. Children didn't care how long you were in labor with them or how much you sacrificed to keep them in the same house they'd always lived in. They didn't tell themselves that someday they'd thank you for making them eat their vegetables, do their homework, and practice good hygiene. Children, when faced with a choice between boring old Mom and the Pied Piper in drag, always chose the Pied Piper. Her mother was wrong. Children could be bought.

Where was she going with all this? How much negativity could a woman pack in one brain? No more already, she told herself, and tried hard for the rest of the evening to be upbeat and positive. And in the process of being upbeat and positive she consumed six peanut butter cookies. Maybe she really did need therapy. Or another romance novel. She decided on the romance novel.

The next morning Rachel woke up determined to be optimistic. She was tough and resilient. She would be fine. She'd gotten kicked, but she wasn't down. She and her children still had a roof over their heads and she had a steady paycheck for a little while longer. If she couldn't find a full-time teaching position for fall she'd sub. Or she'd clean houses. Or she'd sneak over to Aaron's, steal Misty's lingerie, and sell them on eBay. Snort.

“What are you laughing about?”

Rachel turned from where she stood toasting bagels to find her daughter looking at her like she was crazy.

“Nothing. I just thought of something funny, that's all.”

Claire shrugged. She helped herself to a bagel and started slathering jam on it. “Can I hang out downtown after school with Bethany?”

“I know that Coffee Stop gift card is burning a hole in your pocket,” Rachel teased. “I guess, for a couple of hours.”

“Ummm, can I have some money?”

“You spent all your allowance?”

“Pleeease?” Claire begged, dodging the question.

Rachel noticed her daughter was wearing the new necklace and earrings she'd gotten at the mall with Misty. The woman poured money on Claire like it was water and Rachel was bickering over a few dollars? “I have a ten in my wallet. You can have that.”

“Thank you, Mommy! You're the best mom in the world.” All smiles, Claire gave Rachel a kiss on the cheek and bounded out of the kitchen.

Ten dollars was a small price to pay for being the best mom in the world. Or was it? What was she teaching her daughter about money? Her head suddenly hurt.

Jess had called in to A-Plus Office Services first thing in the morning and learned that they had nothing for her. Michael was right; she had to cast her net further. So, back to the city she went and signed up with Solutions, Inc.

“You don't have a lot of experience,” said Ms. Solutions Inc., offering an empathetic expression to soften the harsh reality.

“You're right, I don't,” Jess agreed. But how hard could it be to sit at a desk and push those blinking lights on a telephone? And she knew the alphabet, for crying out loud. She could handle filing.

“We mostly get requests for data entry. It would help if you knew Excel. But we'll keep a watch and call you when something comes up that we think is a good fit for you.”

Jess nodded and left the office with a strong suspicion that she wouldn't be hearing from Solutions, Inc. You need a Plan B.

On her way home she passed Heart Lake High, and catching sight of the school tennis courts suddenly inspired her. Now there was something she could do: teach tennis. She played doubles every Friday, spring, summer, and fall. She knew her way around a racquet. It had only taken her twenty years of playing to reach an intermediate level of excellence, but nobody had to know she was nothing more than a jock wannabe. It was like dying your hair— don't ask, don't tell.

As soon as she got in the house she called her friend Mary Lou, the head of the Heart Lake Park and Recreation sports department and offered her services for the upcoming summer program.

“I wish you'd called about a week earlier,” said Mary Lou. “I hired my last instructor on Friday.”

It figured.

“But we just lost a kinder gym teacher. I could use some help there.”

“Kinder gym, like in gymnastics?” Tennis was one thing, this was quite another. “I don't think so. I can't even do a decent somer-sault,” Jess confessed.

“They call them forward rolls,” Mary Lou corrected. “You really don't need to know as much as you think you do.”

“I must have to be certified or something. Otherwise, what happens if some poor kid gets hurt on my watch?”

“Trust me. You don't have to be a gymnast to teach kinder gym,” Mary Lou assured her. “Anyway, you're not exactly teaching at a level that involves injuries.”

“But if someone did get hurt?” worried Jess.

“That's why we have insurance. Look, I'll train you myself. Okay? Come in and help me with my morning classes this week. That way you could start teaching when the new session begins.”

As in she'd be hired? Just like that? It paid to have connections.

“Okay,” Jess decided. It beat waiting by the phone, hoping to hear from temp agencies.

“Great! You'll love this,” Mary Lou enthused. “The kids are so cute. That's why I still teach a couple of classes. I love it.”

You can do this, Jess told herself as she hung up. How hard could it be to teach little kindergartners and preschoolers to hop around on a mat?

Not that hard, she decided the next day, watching Mary Lou in action at the old junior high gym where classes were held. All the kinder gym pupils were really young so it was mostly fun and games and an introduction to the basics of gymnastics with lots of stretching at the beginning. “Stand on your tippy-toes,” Mary Lou said, demonstrating. “Reach for the ceiling.”

All the little gymnasts (mostly girls in pink leotards) stood on tiptoe on cute, little baby fat legs. Jess fit right in with her hot pink tee. She stood, too, on legs that also had fat, the grown-up variety.

After stretching they worked on skill-building while parents sat in folding metal chairs on the far end of the gym and smiled at their future Olympians, oblivious to the smell of eau de sweat that perfumed the air. Mary Lou made it all look easy.

“See?” she said later as they waved good-bye to the last set of parents and children. “You can do this.”

“What if somebody asks me to demonstrate?” Jess worried.

“I'll work with you this week and teach you the basics, like how to do a forward roll and mount the beam …”

“Wait a minute,” Jess interrupted, “as in balance beam? They learn that in kinder gym?”

“Well, we have a grade school class we need you to help with, too. But don't worry. You'll only be an assistant. Gene the gymnastics coach will be the instructor.”

Still. Mounting a beam? What else was she going to have to help with? Someone was whimpering and Jess realized that someone was her.

“You'll be fine,” Mary Lou assured her.

“Are you sure you don't need another tennis instructor?” asked Jess.

“We might later this summer, but not now. What I really need is a kinder gym teacher.” Mary Lou cocked an eyebrow.

Jess thought of the office assignments she wasn't getting and could almost hear the old Beatle's song “Money” playing at the back of her brain like a soundtrack. “Okay. Teach me a forward roll.”

Mary Lou beamed. “All right. You do it exactly like we tell the kids: tuck and roll.” She turned herself into a tight ball and rolled across the mat, then bounced back up like a spring. “See? Nothing to it.”

Right. The last time Jess had been able to curl up that tightly was in the womb with her thumb in her mouth. She took a deep breath, then squatted on the mat and tried to turn herself into a ball. All the blood rushed to her head as she bent over and she suddenly felt sick. The thought of what she looked like from behind made her even sicker.

Mary Lou was next to her now, coaching her. “Tuck a little more.”

Easy for her to say. She didn't have to figure out where to tuck a couple of 38Ds. Jess made a superhuman effort, rallying every muscle in her body to help fold her into something that would roll. The sound of ripping fabric echoed through the gym.

“Please tell me that wasn't my pants,” Jess groaned and started to straighten up.

“Never mind. They're already split so you may as well keep going,” said Mary Lou, and proceeded to turn Jess into a pretzel.

Now Jess could barely breathe, but she managed to protest, “Hey, I'm not made of elastic.”

“Stretch more and you will be. Come on now, roll.”

Rolling was preferable to getting smothered by her own boobs. Jess let gravity take over and started forward. She was doing great until her nose made contact with something hard. Her knee, of course. She saw stars and rolled over onto her side, landing like a beached whale. “Oooh, my dose.” She reached a tentative hand to her nose and discovered it was bleeding. Great. Mary Lou could trot her out when she wanted to show the kids what not to do.

Her friend handed her a tissue. “Are you okay?”

In the space of ten seconds she'd managed to split her pants and give herself a nosebleed. Oh, yeah. She was great, a real natural. She flopped back on the mat, pinching her nose. “Fide.”

“Maybe you really aren't cut out for this,” mused Mary Lou.

Oh, no. She'd already washed out as a temp. She'd be darned if she'd flunk forward rolls. “I can do this,” she insisted. “Let's try it again.”

Half an hour later she limped to her car while all the muscles in her body cried, “Pain, pain, pain.”

“Oh, shut up,” she told them. “No pain, no gain.”

And she had gained something today. She was now a Park Department employee. She wasn't going to make a fortune at this, but at least she'd be making something. And, at this point, some-thing was better than nothing. She only hoped she didn't spend all her paycheck on aspirin and muscle cream.

Tiffany had driven straight home from work on Saturday. No bargain-hunting detours. (What was the point without a credit card?) She didn't even so much as stop at the grocery store. Not only had she spent no money, she'd acquired a free book on how to live great on next to nothing. She could already hear how the conversation with her husband would go.

BRIAN: You didn't so much as stop at the grocery store? That's amazing. And what's this, a book on saving money?

TIFFANY (looking modest): I didn't pay anything for it. I'm going to save us so much money from now on, you won't believe it.

BRIAN: I'm proud of you, Tiffy.

But the conversation did not go as planned.

“Diva on a Dime, huh?” he said, stopping work on the Jeep and wiping his hands on a rag. “You really think you can do that?”

“I'm going to try,” she said.

“The diva part won't be a problem,” he said, frowning at the book. “You already work that pretty good.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, we don't need half the stuff you bring home. This book looks like one more way to get you to spend money.” He took it and flipped through the pages, landing on the chapter that dealt with how to save on jewelry. He began reading, growing a frown in the process.

“Those are good tips,” Tiffany insisted. “Give it back. You're getting it all greasy.”

“Yeah, well, an even better tip is don't buy the stuff in the first place,” he said, handing over the book.

“I wasn't going to,” she said. “I'm trying, Brian. I'm really trying. Anyway, Jess and Rachel found me this book at the library, so it didn't cost us a thing.”

Of course, he hugged her and said he was sorry, but things were a little strained after that. Oh, they pretended everything was all right. They spent the evening with friends, playing Wii. Then they came home and went to bed and he kissed her good night.

And that was all. There it was, proof that everything wasn't all right (as if she'd needed any proof!). It hadn't been so long ago that on a Saturday night Brian would have been all over her. And she'd have been all over him, too, and not only on a Saturday. Friday and Sunday and Tuesday and Wednesday, and sometimes, even Thursday. After her second miscarriage, sex had dwindled down to the weekends. Now Brian was claiming he was stressed, but she knew, deep down, he was losing interest. How could he not be? She was a malfunctioning baby machine and he wanted kids. They both did. Or maybe he still hadn't really forgiven her for getting those credit cards and he was punishing her.

On Sunday, Brian watched a baseball game on TV and she read her book. It was all very cozy on the surface. The only thing missing was the cozy feeling. On Monday, life went back to the weekday routine with one exception: things were not right between them. She could feel it. Brian kissed her good-bye when he left for work and hello when he came home again, and he helped her with the dishes after dinner. But then he wandered outside and hung out across the street with their neighbor, who was restoring an old car.

Tiffany watched out the window. Hanging out under the neighbor's car hood was as close as Brian could get to his dream of having something old to play with, and it was her fault. Sigh.

Tuesday she got him to watch a chick flick on TV with her, but it didn't inspire him to do anything more than kiss her good night, and by Wednesday, the emptiness deep inside her that had opened up after her second miscarriage was back. She'd managed over the last few months to fill it with all her bargains, keeping herself happy with shots of shopping vaccine, but there was no vaccine now, and worse still her marriage needed a wonder drug.

On Wednesday she attempted to nurse it back to health by pulling out candles and her best Victoria's Secret bargain and making margaritas. She managed to lure Brian into a wild bout of sex on the living room couch, but it didn't lead to any real intimacy, no spooning, no whispering in her ear how much he loved her—not that he had to do that every time, but this time, after he'd been so mad the week before about her spending, it would have been reassuring.

Instead, he said, “Wow, babe, you did me in,” and wandered off for a shower.

Wow, babe, you did me in. Well, that was … not the same as I love you.

“I love you,” she called after him. All she heard in response was the water running. He probably hadn't heard her. She should go after him, tell him she loved him, pour out her fears, and promise that in exchange for his love, she would never again sabotage them with her reckless spending. Instead, she poured herself another margarita.

When he came out she asked, “Can we do something together tonight? It doesn't have to cost a lot of money.”

“Like what?” He dropped his towel and began pulling his clothes back on.

“I don't know.” She picked up the towel and hugged it to her. “Something romantic.”

He looked at her with a perplexed smile. “We just did.”

“Something more,” she said. “I know! Let's go to The Family Inn and see what we can get for five dollars.”

He frowned. “Five dollars, ten dollars, twenty dollars—Tiffy, it all adds up. We really need to get into the habit of cutting back. You know that.”

All week she'd been trying so hard. She'd just wanted to reward herself with a little treat—dessert someplace inexpensive, or sharing a cup of hot chocolate and holding hands with her husband across the table. Was that really going to break them?

He pulled her to him. Good, she thought as he kissed her. He got it. He ended the kiss and grinned down at her. “I've got a better idea.” He picked up the TV remote and handed it to her. “This doesn't cost a thing. I'm going to work on the Jeep, so the remote's all yours tonight. I bet one of your reality shows is on.” With that he gave her a peck on the forehead and then left her alone and unsatisfied.

She went through the next day at work with a smile pasted on her face, watching other women parade through the salon, flaunting their credit cards at the cash register. No one paid by check or with cash. The whole world ran on credit and she'd been knocked out of the race. It was like being the only woman at a dance with no date.

She thought back to Black Friday when she and Brian had their big fight. She'd told Jess and Rachel that Brian had taken her credit cards. It was true. No, he hadn't yanked them out of her hands or grabbed her wallet from her and removed them. Instead, he'd emotionally blackmailed her into giving them up, telling her she wasn't being a team player, that she hadn't been honest with him. He'd insisted they had to get rid of the credit cards. Those credit cards were going to ruin their marriage. Well, now she had no credit cards and she wasn't seeing much of an improvement in the marriage department. That showed where spending nothing got you.

By the time she left Salon H she had a good head of angry steam propelling her out the door, and the last thing she wanted to do was go home to Brian. She still had her tip money in her pocket. Suddenly she was possessed by a need to buy … something, anything. It took over, moving her hands on the steering wheel, guiding the car toward the mall. Then it drove her from the mall parking lot into the nearest department store where she found, miracle of miracles, the same shoes she'd gotten the week before and had to return, back on the rack and waiting for her, and still marked down. She had just enough money to buy them… .

If there was no sales tax. She frowned at the money on the counter.

“If you open up a credit card account you get ten percent off,” said the clerk.

“I have an account,” Tiffany muttered glumly. Much good it did her when her credit cards were cut in tiny pieces and buried in the garbage. “I don't have my card.”

“We can look up your card number,” the clerk said brightly.

Good idea. She'd only be spending a dollar more than what she already had sitting on the counter. What was one more little dollar on the account? “Okay,” said Tiffany.

On the way out of the store, she saw a clearance rack at the back corner of the Juniors department. She'd just take a minute and look. Oh, that top. It was only $8.99. She'd make that much in tips tomorrow. As she marched to the service counter a new script played out in her head, one that completely justified her behavior.

BRIAN: This is not the way to be a team player.

TIFFANY: Neither is refusing to go on a date with your wife when all she was asking to spend was five measly dollars.

BRIAN:

Ha! Nothing to say.

Still, when she got home she left her purchases in the trunk. Not that she had anything to hide, really. She'd only spent her own tip money. Well, today's and tomorrow's, but that was beside the point. The point was she was in control of her spending.

She went inside and found Brian in the kitchen, stuffing sand-wiches and wine coolers into a big grocery bag. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to take you out to dinner,” he said.

She looked inside the grocery bag. In addition to sandwiches he'd packed a couple of snack-sized packages of chips and two bottles of her favorite coffee drink. And what was this? She pulled up a Hershey's chocolate bar and looked questioningly at him.

“I had a dollar in my wallet,” he said with a smile. He took the candy bar from her and dropped it back in the bag. “You ready?”

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace romantic,” he assured her.

Someplace romantic. There was hope after all.

They climbed into the Jeep and he drove her to the public park on the lake. Taking his bag of goodies and a blanket, he led her down to the far edge of the lake and spread out the blanket on the grass. “I know it's not a restaurant,” he said, “but will it do?”

It would more than do. This was a perfect diva on a dime, romantic date. Why hadn't she thought of it? “Yes,” she said, and put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “This is even better than going out.”

“I'm sorry I'm being a hard-ass,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck. “I don't want you to be miserable, Tiffy. Sometimes I wish I was rich. Then you could buy all the bargains you want.”

Lack of riches hadn't exactly stopped her. She thought guiltily of the purchases hiding in her car trunk. Buying them had made her feel really good when she got them, but now she felt like a woman who had eaten too many cookies.

“I don't need to be rich,” she assured Brian and kissed him, vowing to cancel her credit cards the next day. All she needed was to keep the empty spot filled. Not an easy task, that, for the empty spot inside of her was like a hungry piggy bank, always crying for more. And what it wanted most she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to give it. “Brian, I'll do better, I promise,” she said, her voice quavering.

“Me, too,” he said, and they kissed again.

Then they enjoyed their meal while watching the evening sunlight dance on the water. People were at the park, throwing Fris-bees. They could hear the thwunk of a tennis ball as a couple played singles over on the tennis courts. The sound of laughter drifted in to them from somewhere out on the lake, mixing with their own happiness. Now, this was cozy.

Tiffany had just finished her half of the chocolate bar and sighed happily when Brian cleared his throat. “This probably isn't the best time to tell you this,” he said, “but you need to know. Starting next Monday I have to take two weeks off unpaid.”

“No pay?” she squeaked.

“I'm not the only one,” Brian said. “We're all taking turns, hoping nobody else will have to get laid off.”

Two weeks off with no pay. The shoes would have to go back. Again.

And she would have to do better. For real this time. She found herself wishing she had someone to help her, like an AA sponsor, or even a support group. Wait a minute. She had one in her own backyard.