There, in a half-page full-color photo, was Luke crossing the finish line at the previous week's meet. The rest of the runners were close behind him, but the look on her son's face reminded Claire instantly of the pictures she had seen of Paul in his high school yearbook. She gasped.
"No, we hadn't seen it yet. How cool is that?" Claire's eyes started to brim with pride while she mustered a "wow."
Seeing her reaction, Jacquie chuckled. "Yeah, I've been trying to catch Paul all week to give this to him, but I never see him anymore. Go ahead and keep it. We've got another copy at home."
She left Claire standing there staring at the picture, her nose beginning to run.
"What do you mean you never see him anymore?" she asked, holding a tissue to her face, but Jacquie was already walking toward the parking lot in search of her husband.
Weird.
"Whatcha got there?" Paul asked, blowing air into his balled-up hands.
Holding the paper in front of her, she said, "See for yourself."
He took it from her and blurted, "How great is that? We should frame it."
Claire nodded. "Yep."
Paul handed it back to her and, looking over her shoulder, said, "Oh, hey. There's Nick. Come on. I'll introduce you."
Claire followed, crunching dead leaves as she went. She stopped in her tracks, though, when she saw Luke's coach.
Having followed Mattie's marathon training exploits religiously since she started way back in January, Claire was well aware that her coach was Nick DeRosa, a local hunk athlete who apparently had made a name for himself in the running world before the Gazette snagged him to be Mattie's coach.
When Paul had mentioned a couple of months back that Luke's new running coach was Ed DeRosa's twin, she hadn't put two and two together. Until now.
Not only had Mattie mentioned him frequently in her columns, the Gazette always ran pictures of the two of them before and after the shorter races she had run to date. And then there were those two videos Claire, and she could only imagine hundreds, if not thousands, of other female fans had bookmarked on their computers.
One was of a steamy cooking segment he and Mattie had hosted that was supposed to air on one of the Gazette's TV affiliates, and the other was recorded by a volunteer at the Firecracker Half Marathon in July. The video clip started as soon as he and Mattie crossed the finish line and captured Nick gallantly carrying her to the EMT tent after she collapsed from heat exhaustion.
So romantic.
That in itself was almost enough incentive for Claire to start a running regime, but the thought of Paul carrying her anywhere quickly quashed that idea.
"Hey, Nick," Paul started as they got closer.
"Claire, this is Coach DeRosa, well, Nick. Nick, this is my wife, Claire."
Her eyes met Paul's when he put the emphasis on "wife." What other word she expected him to use to introduce her, she didn't know. Still, when he didn't look away, she felt a warmth cover her cheeks.
"Nice to meet you, Claire." Nick smiled as he held out his hand.
Claire dragged her eyes away from Paul's, which had remained riveted on hers with a glint that, she hated to admit, did something to her insides.
"Hi, Nick. So nice to finally meet you."
She admired her restraint. The man was just as handsome in person as he was in print, if not more so.
Turning to Paul, Nick asked, "Hey, any chance I can get you to record times for me? Lester couldn't make it today, with the baby and all. Well, what am I telling you for?" He gave Paul a nudge with his elbow and winked.
Claire, concentrating on not gawking like a teenager in the presence of a pop icon, only heard bits and pieces of what Nick had just said. Something about times and babies.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Paul shoot her a look before leaning over to plant a quick kiss on her cheek.
"See you in a bit," he whispered.
Claire blinked. Feeling another warm tidal wave wash over her, she touched her fingers to the spot against which he had just pressed his lips.
Oh my.
Nodding to Nick to join him as he headed in the direction of the start line, Paul replied, "Sure, yeah, I can take times."
"Nice meeting you." Nick waved to Claire as he jogged away.
As she held her hand up in a stupefied wave, she could've sworn she overheard Nick ask Paul, "How's that new gig working out for you?"
Either that, or he said, "Now's at blue pig quirking pot for stew."
She was staring after them when she saw Paul steal a glance back at her, looking as if he had just gotten away with something. What, she wasn't sure. If Luke hadn't suddenly appeared in front of her, she might have figured it out. As it was, her son asked through a fifteen-year-old version of Paul's dimpled grin, "Mom, can you hang on to these, please?"
Taking his running shoes, she watched him sprint away with the rest of the varsity runners, wearing Paul's old spikes—and displaying his father's talent for charming his way out of trouble—with pride.
* * *
The following week, Claire was combing through the latest round of technical specifications the engineers at her contract job had given her while simultaneously trying to think of a fitting response to "Telecommuting Tanika," who was desperate for tips on staying productive while working from home with little ones about.
After a few minutes, she came to the conclusion that simply frowning at the technical specifications would not make them any easier to unravel.
When John entered her cube unannounced and leaned on the edge of her desk, she greeted him with a recommendation on how to better manage the software developers.
"With all due respect, you really need to draw the line in the sand with these guys. The way they blatantly ignore the original specifications for the product and add more features as they go along? It's a recipe for disaster."
Claire was a weary veteran of the engineering-marketing wars routinely waged at her former company.
"You're looking at this all wrong," John reasoned. "For you, scope creep equals job security."
Claire laughed. "That's one way to look at it. What's up?"
"You interested in flex hours?"
When Claire returned a quizzical look, he explained further. "You can work through lunch and leave an hour earlier. You could work eight to four or even seven to three. Or you could work four ten-hour days and take Friday off. Your choice."
"Even if I'm a contractor?"
John smiled. "You still work for me, don't ya?"
"That I do. Let me think about it, ok?"
"Sure thing. See ya later." And with that, he was off, leaving her to ponder whether changing her routine would be beneficial.
She had been thinking of asking Dianne to consider letting her work out of the Gazette offices on occasion just to make her presence known.
This could work.
She snuck into an empty conference room and called Dianne.
Sounding, as usual, as if Claire had just caught her in the middle of something extremely important, Dianne quipped, "Claire. Loved your advice on recycling Halloween costumes. And thanks for the pictures. Adorable. What's up?"
After relaying her idea, the managing editor's response came much quicker than Claire expected. "Sure. Great idea. Mattie's already cleared out her things and moved up to Metro. You can use her desk. Late afternoons would work best. That way you could sit in on my staff meetings. Meet the crew. Let's not start until next week though. I'll need to get you a pass. Just call me from the front desk when you get here. Oh, and before I forget, you still need to get me your direct deposit slip. Gotta run."
"Thanks," Claire replied to the buzz of the dial tone.
Happy nonetheless, she shot off her reply to John using the company's internal instant messaging system.
"I'll go with 7am to 3pm, thx."
She was about to redirect her attention to the new specs, when Amanda stood in the entrance of her cube, dressed in an unfortunate pairing of
lime-green velour and faded denim.
"Hey, Amanda. How's it going?"
The seasoned technical writer sat in the chair next to Claire's desk and whispered to her, "So, what do you think of John?"
Unsure of how much Amanda knew of her and John's friendship, she answered with a question of her own. "Why?"
Amanda proceeded to tell Claire how, from her perspective, everything was "fine" before John came along. "I don't know why they thought they needed a manager here anyway." She pulled herself up and put her hand to her shirt collar. "I have been here since the beginning. I know this product inside and out. I am self-managed…"
"Well," Claire proceeded carefully, "I'm not sure. Sometimes, managers are brought in to expand operations. You know better than anybody that the company's trying to go global. Maybe they needed somebody like John, who has experience with working in global environments and can handle things like translations and setting up offshore teams."
Amanda looked at her with disdain. "So it's true." She began anxiously twirling a long strand of her hair around her index finger.
"What?" Claire wasn't sure why, but she had clearly hit a nerve.
"They're moving my job to India. I knew it. Well, let them just try and get the quality they're getting now. I have a master's in English, for pity's sake." Her face grew red, and despite the magnification of her lenses, it looked as if tears were beginning to well up behind them.
Dredging up the same assuring tone she would use when one of her boys had a rough day, she put her hand on Amanda's arm. "Wait a minute. Nobody's said anything about outsourcing anybody's job. Please don't worry about that. Besides, if I were John, I'd be very appreciative of the fact that I have someone on my team as knowledgeable and dependable as you."
"Really?"
"Are you kidding me? Absolutely."
Amanda drew a deep breath and then smiled. "Thanks. Well, listen. I'll let you get back to work. See ya later."
"Anytime. Take it easy."
Having lost her drive to see how badly the new specs would affect her plan to complete her project on time, she put them aside and took out her notebook. When inspiration hit, she knew she had to write it down, or it would be lost forever. It was the same process that she used to compile her grocery list.
She quickly jotted down, "Possible column topic—how to survive in today's global job market." Looking at what she had just written, she thought a moment, scratched it out, and went to get another cup of coffee.
When she got back to her desk, she drafted a response to Telecommuting Tanika.
"Dear T.T., I feel your pain. For most bread-winning parents, the very word 'telecommuting' conjures up a vision of a perfectly balanced lifestyle, one in which work and home are seamlessly intertwined.
"While I agree that working from home definitely has its advantages, experience, on the other hand, has taught me that if kids are about, the line dividing work and home can quickly become blurred.
"To help redraw said line, my kids and I developed a list of mutually agreed upon rules to keep the two straight.
"No. 1—If my office door is closed, do not open it. Ever.
"Case in point. On a frantic morning not long ago, one of my sons alerted me to the fact that his supply of clean underwear had run dry. Throwing a quick load in the wash, I ascended to my office to prepare for a mandatory cannot-miss, must-participate-in meeting with members of my project team. Just as we were diving into the gritty details of said plan, my son burst in with, 'Hey, Mom, the underwear's done!'
"'Great…thanks, honey,' I replied after hitting the mute button on my phone with enough force to push my car down the driveway and onto the street.
"No. 2—No singing in the shower.
"Because my home office shares a wall with my sons' bathroom, and the members of my project team do not appreciate the aesthetics of the current top-forty list as much as my boys do, singing in the shower is banned when I am on the clock.
"No. 3—Dazzle me with your survival skills.
"Remember that despite being home, I really am working. The last thing I want to see when I punch out is a sink full of dirty dishes. Also, do not expect me to fetch things, make things, or clean things that you can fetch, make, or clean yourself.
"No. 4—No electronic devices at the kitchen table.
"Why? They're distracting, cause disputes over possession, usually emit whirring, beeping, or vroom-vroom noises, and divert one's attention from the meal.
"In short, playing with toys at the table is just plain rude.
"As soon as my husband reminded me of this, I closed my laptop and slipped it into my briefcase at my feet.
"No. 5—Keep work at work.
"Arriving late to a lovely sit-down dinner with my family, I took a head count and noted that all were in attendance. No one was at Scouts, track practice, or the library.
"We had a quorum.
"So while everyone was enjoying their food, discussing their day, and telling newly learned jokes, I pulled out my planner and, knee bouncing furiously under the table, started running through my agenda. Topics included family vacation ideas and a review of open action items ('Honey, where are we at with getting that check-engine light diagnosed?' and 'Didn't I ask someone to shovel today?').
"Something in their blank stares told me that I had crossed the line.
"Best of luck. If you come up with any additional rules, please share. We can all learn something new from each other."
Putting that work aside, Claire was determined to get her second round of review drafts ready and distributed before leaving later that afternoon.
* * *
After dropping the boys off at school that morning, Paul headed downtown for a meeting with Lester Crenshaw and his direct reports. As he approached Marie Walters, the receptionist for Griffin Media, he saw her lift a phone receiver to her ear and announce, "Paul's here."
"Hi, Marie. How ya doin' today?"
In between contractions in the labor and delivery suite of Chicago General, Nina had filled him on the fifty-eight-year old widow. He learned that Marie held the longest tenure at the paper and an uncanny ability to store information. As such, she remembered everything there was to know about everybody, including but not limited to, their contact information, schedules, birthdays, health ailments, kids' allergies, favorite vacation destinations, and salary negotiations.
If that wasn't bad enough, Nina warned, her desk was a magnet for chatter. Marie kept tabs on office gossip and was not above using it to her advantage. While outwardly, she kept the office humming along smoothly, inwardly, she held the power to make or break careers.
Figuring he was immune since he worked off-site and was temporary, he was amused by her not-so-subtle interrogation.
"Paul. How nice to see you again. Here for the meeting?"
"Yes."
"And how is your day going so far?"
"Oh, good, thanks. Busy."
Marie raised her drawn-on eyebrows and asked, "Kids at school?"
"Yep."
"How many?"
"Four."
"Four. Really?"
"All boys. Five to fifteen."
"No! God bless you."
Paul smiled politely and tried glancing at his watch without being impolite.
If Marie noticed, it didn't keep her from pushing the envelope. "Your wife must be exhausted."
"Ha, no, she's got it easy. She goes to work every day. I'm the one who stays home with them."
"Get outta here. What does she do?"
"Oh, she works downtown. She's a writer. Computer manuals. Stuff like that."
Marie appeared to be digesting this information, when her phone rang. Paul took the opportunity to give her a quick wave and bolt up through the doors that would take him to Lester's office.
* * *
After she redirected the call to the billing department, Marie hung up the phone and continued her online correspondence with Margaret Fuller, who had just celebrated
thirty-three years of working in the paper's advertising department.
Marie: "Paul Mendez, married, four boys. Nice bunz."
Margaret: "Four boys? Same as that new columnist. Small world."
Marie: "Said wife works downtown. Computer manuals…"
Margaret: "Interesting. U joining us for lunch today?"
Marie: "Wouldn't miss it!"
Margaret: "Good. Carlotta said she'd get us a table at Brewsters. Usual time."
Marie: "Great! TTYL!"
* * *
In the conference room adjacent to Lester's office, Dianne sat smugly in the chair she usually occupied during his weekly meetings. She preferred the one facing the windows affording her a view of the Chicago skyline and the southwest suburbs that stretched beyond. It also happened to be the chair closest to the door, affording her a quick exit once the meetings were adjourned.
As people slowly filtered in, Dianne put on her reading glasses and reviewed the report she had prepared. In previous meetings, her reports consistently demonstrated the increase in ad revenue for the Lifestyle section since Mattie had taken over the Plate Spinner column from Carlotta. Since the report she'd be presenting at this meeting would be the first to prove that Claire's Plate Spinner was capable of taking it up yet another notch, she enlisted the aid of a graphic designer to help accentuate her success.
"Hi ya, Di." Tom Newman, the Sports editor, sat down next to her. His breath was an unpleasant mixture of garlic and pipe smoke.
Acknowledging his greeting, she nodded and said, "Tom."
Blake Archer, editor of the Business section, sat across the table from her dressed impeccably in a navy blue Brooks Brothers suit. Relocating from New York a few months after she did, he was still smarting over having to include Midwest farm reports alongside news of corporate earnings and take-overs. She took in a deep breath of his expensive cologne and was idly stacking her papers in front of her when someone new walked in. A middle-aged man, tan, good looking, and too enthusiastic to be a regular employee. Dianne watched as he sat next to her.
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