Help Wanted (18 page)

"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."