Help Wanted (2 page)

Paul hadn't heard a word she said after "Claire."

He stared down at the plain gold wedding band on his hand as it rested on the fence post, his mind filled with the nightmarish image of her delivering that scathing performance review to him a few months back.

Without so much as a "Hi, honey" or "How was your day?" she'd stormed through the door after work that day, shoved an overflowing laundry basket out of her way, and sat him down at the kitchen table.

First, she pulled out a Stay-at Home Parent job description she had drafted for him on her company's letterhead and went through it point by point.

Beyond amused, Paul remembered waiting for the punch line.

But it never came.

Instead, using the exact same form she had used on her team at work earlier that day, she assessed his level of competency on each bulleted responsibility before leveling a "does not meet expectations" rating against him.

Falling down an elevator shaft. That's what it feels like when you realize your wife no longer loves you.

"Know what I mean?" Jacquie repeated.

Paul blinked and gave a quick nod. "Yeah, sure."

The school bell rang, and the kids scattered to line up outside of their respective classroom doors.

She started walking away and called "Catch ya later" over her shoulder.

Paul held up his hand in a wave.

Once home, he did a quick inventory of the pantry, fridge, and freezer to see what he needed to get from the store. Next, he trekked over to the bungalow in Norridge where he grew up to check on his dad, who had, so far, refused to opt for a condo somewhere far away from Chicago's harsh winters.

Stubborn as a mule.

With the precision of a perfectly synchronized watch, Paul left his father's in time to pick up Jonah from kindergarten just as he was released from class. After feeding him lunch, the pair tackled grocery shopping, unloaded everything, finished a few more items on the list, and returned to the school in time to walk home with Tomas and Marc after their cross-country practice.

Once the boys were settled, Paul made his way to the high school for Luke's cross-country parent meeting.

If his son's speculation was correct, and the team was getting its old coach back, he wondered if that meant Burt Stoltz. Paul had heard that his old high school cross-country coach retired, but how awesome would it be for his son to have the same coach? The man had made such a colossal impact on Paul's life that he found himself getting more excited at the prospect of a reunion the closer he got to the school.

Little did he know he was about to come face-to-face with the other person who had made a colossal impact on his life—but in the worst possible way. 

*   *   *

After Claire slipped away from the office to procure deodorant at a nearby drugstore on her lunch break, she noticed a little yellow sticky note on her computer monitor.

Stop by my office when you get back
, was all it said.

Oh goody.

She snatched the note and relocated it to the bottom of her screen so she wouldn't forget to pop in on her latest manager. Second one this year, and it was only the third quarter.

She made a beeline to the kitchenette to retrieve a salad she'd thrown together before flying out the door that morning. By distance, it was a short walk. Before the layoffs started, it would take her as long as twenty minutes while she stopped to chat with her direct reports along the way. As it was, the few who remained avoided making eye contact with her, fearful they'd earn a spot on the list.

The dreaded list. Everyone knew it existed. What they didn't know was that she had no control over whose name landed on it or where the name would be placed. Location was everything. If your name was on the first page, it meant you were as good as gone. If your name was on the second page, it meant you would be gone, just not for a couple of weeks. If your name was on the last page, it meant that you would be offered an early retirement package, like it or not. If your name wasn't on any of those pages, you had the dubious honor of being able to keep your job. For now.

The fear had been palpable for weeks. Members of her own team, many of whom she had known for years, avoided her like she was waving a blow torch in a fireworks factory.

Claire could hardly blame them. They knew the drill.

She would arrive unannounced in the cubicle of an unsuspecting employee—a person who trusted her, someone with a family and a future to worry about—and ask the person to join her. And the employee would follow, nervous and silent, into a small windowless conference room. Waiting for them both, a member of the Human Resources department would be sitting there, calmly thumbing through the stack of papers ostentatiously stamped with Employee Exit Packet in bold red ink.

She checked her calendar and was relieved to find that she'd only be letting one person go today. Then she saw the name. Lorraine Davis. Rumor had it, the administrative assistant was the last one to let go of her beloved Smith Corona. On seeing that she was two months shy of retirement eligibility, Claire hung her head.

Bastards.

She picked up the phone and called Kristy Watson in Human Resources. When it went directly to her voice mail, Claire headed down to the fifth floor. After all, this particular conversation deserved a face-to-face.

Kristy, a thirty-something woman whose sense of style aimed for successful businesswoman but landed closer to sorority pledge, was chatting with a middle-aged man who made no effort to direct his gaze at anything but his colleague's cleavage.

Claire approached, asking, "Kristy, do you have a second?"

Annoyed at the interruption, the woman glanced at Claire. "What's up?"

With a pointed look, she replied, "Not here."

Unfazed, Kristy asked, "Is this about Lorraine? Because if it is, there's nothing you can do. The decision's been made."

"Really. By whom? There's got to be something in the company she can do. You can't just rob her of her retirement."

"It's done. This is a privately held company, Claire. They don't have to play by the rules if they don't want to." She turned her attention back to the eye-contact challenged man.

Claire huffed out a sigh. "Isn't this the
Human
Resources department?"

Kristy dragged her attention back to Claire, pursed her lacquered lips together, and frowned.

With a roll of her eyes, Claire pressed her fingertips to her forehead. "Sorry. It's just that—all these layoffs. It's been rough."

Somewhere between a grimace and a smile, Kristy purred, "Oh, don't worry. You're done after today."

Claire brightened. "Oh, I hope so."

Tightening her smile, Kristy replied, "I know so."

*   *   *

"Dear Plate Spinner—I need your help."

After reading the plea out loud, Mattie Ross, the
Chicago Gazette
's reluctant advice columnist and marathon-runner-in-training, cringed.

Another letter from a frazzled working mother, seeking direction and hope—commodities she herself was in dire need of ever since her coach walked out on her, taking her heart with him.

Nick.

Her heart squeezed in her chest and she closed her eyes. After hiding behind the same
I'm married with kids
lie she perpetuated with her publisher and readers for the eight months he had spent training her, she could hardly blame him for being upset.

With a heavy sigh, she texted her editor, Dianne Devane.
Any openings in Metro yet?

Almost before she hit Send, she got her response.
Sit tight, sweetie. I'm working on it.

Emitting a quick growl, Mattie turned her attention back to her computer screen and skimmed the brief account of the weary woman's conundrum.

The salary of my demanding, soul-sucking job is holding me hostage. I haven't had a vacation in over five years (maternity leaves
do not
count). I see my kids so infrequently, that if I don't keep their pictures on my desk current, I tend not to recognize them in passing (their resemblance truly is jarring). Any friends I have left have given up hope of ever seeing me in person again, especially when I had to cancel my appearance at an intervention they were staging on my behalf, because I had to meet an absolutely critical deadline. As it is, I'm spread so thin, I make plastic wrap look opaque. My only hope is to convince my husband, a stay-at-home dad to our boys, to return to the corporate world. Chances of this happening, though, are slim to none—especially after he machine-washed yet another one of my dry-clean-only sweaters, and I leveled him with a 'does not meet expectations' on his most recent performance review (I mean, seriously—can you blame me?).

Needless to say, it did not go over well. He has since relocated to the man cave-slash-office down the hall and has barely spoken to me since.

So, tell me. Should I force his hand and quit my job, or file for divorce and offer him a job as a live-in nanny (because he looks a hell of a lot better in an apron than I do)?

It was signed "Burned Out Breadwinner."

You gave your husband a performance review?

Mattie didn't know whether to send the writer a list of local marriage counselors or encourage her to pursue a career as a stand-up comedian. Staring at the ceiling above her cubicle for a moment, the advice columnist tried to think of a fitting response.

The pressure…

She closed her eyes, scanning through her cerebral database of advice she'd doled out during the nearly three years she'd been on the job.

I got nothin'.

Still trying to salvage her once-promising investigative journalism career, and having just torpedoed her own relationship with the best man on the planet, she hardly felt qualified to offer any noteworthy pearls of wisdom.

She shot another text off to Dianne.
What's the hold up?

As soon as she hit Send, her editor appeared in her cube.

"How do you do that?" Mattie asked, astonished, watching as Dianne hoisted herself up onto her desk.

Ignoring her question, the stylish expat from Manhattan proceeded to announce,

"According to our esteemed publisher, Lester Crenshaw, if we move you to Metro, I lose a head count."

C-r-a-p.

A move to the Metro section would go a long way toward putting Mattie's sidelined career back on track.

Mattie's shoulders slumped. "So I'm trapped in this position forever?"

"For now, unless we can find another Plate Spinner who's willing to work freelance. At least until I can get another head count."

And with that, Dianne left her reluctant advice columnist alone with the Burned-Out Breadwinner.

Mattie's eyes drifted back to the words displayed on her computer screen.

One thing was certain, as burned out as she claimed to be, this breadwinner was a hoot.

I wonder…

As she continued to stare, wisps of an idea started to form into a semiviable plan. Like her last brilliant idea, forming Team Plate Spinner at the onset of her marathon training, she was certain this one had the power to change lives. Her own included.

*   *   *

Paul pulled into the parking lot at the back of the high school and saw the cross-country team emerge from the forest preserve just beyond the football field and outdoor track. He knew those trails well and still ran them nearly every single morning. He slid his car into an empty space and made his way over to the wide expanse of grass to the side of the end zone on which the boys had formed a loose circle. At least forty pairs of shoes were sticking up in the air as they began executing a series of crunches.

In the middle, a man stood with his back to Paul, but he recognized the stance. Cap on. Clipboard under the arm. Stopwatch in hand.

He felt a grin spreading across his face as memories of his own high school days started to float before him.

Good times.

He could see Luke there in the midst of the other guys, his red, sweaty face showing the strain of hard work. Paul chuckled, his own abs aching at the memory.

A combination of joy and pride nearly jettisoned him into the center of the circle, but he hung back. Chatting with some of the other parents who had gathered, he stopped midsentence when the man with the clipboard turned around.

His jaw dropped, and he was suddenly back in his old office, talking on the phone to Mike McClausen, his manager, mentor, and friend.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he had repeated while staring at his computer screen. "There's at least three million missing. No write-offs, no notes, no nothing. It's gone. I told you DeRosa was up to something. Numbers don't lie."

A low chuckle had come through the other end of the phone. "Ok, well I'm sure it's just a blip. Find a way to hide it, would ya? Charitable contributions maybe."

Hearing a knock on his door, Paul started. He hunched over his phone before responding, "You're kidding, right?"

"Hey listen, Paul. I've gotta run. We'll talk more about this later."

Ever since he was a kid helping his dad zero out the registers in his grocery store at the end of the day, Paul loved numbers. They were absolute, black and white, right or wrong, no in between. But at Creiger Financial, his first job out of college, he learned numbers weren't always so absolute and gray areas abounded.

The knock had sounded again. He had hung up the phone and turned to see Ed DeRosa standing in his doorway wearing the same smiling face Paul was looking at now. Feeling a vein throb in his temple, he looked around quickly at the other parents, incredulous that none seemed to be the least bit bothered that they were standing in the midst of a criminal. A criminal who would be coaching their sons, no less.

Dumbfounded, he stood listening as the man who destroyed his career introduced himself to the parents assembled around him as Nick DeRosa.