Help Wanted

by Barbara Valentin

  After Father Steve read the Gospel, everyone settled in to hear his sermon. As he usually did, he walked down in front of the altar and stood right in the middle of the aisle before he began speaking. Claire watched as he looked out over the crowd, smiling.

  "Tonight, as you may have noticed from the readings, we are here to celebrate love, and not just any love. The love that is shared between a man and a woman in the union of marriage. Tonight, instead of a sermon, you are going to be witness to a renewal of vows between two very special people."

  Oh, well, that explains it then.

  Smiling broadly, the priest scanned the faces in the congregation before continuing. "Now, Claire Mendez, I can't see you, but would you please come up here?"

  Oh God. I completely forgot our anniversary.

  Claire sat frozen, certain that the name she had just heard was not hers. As people began looking around, some recognized her, and by the looks on their faces, Claire knew that he did indeed say her name.

  Cautiously, she stood up, took her coat off, and handed it blindly to the woman sitting next to her.

  "Ah. There you are." The priest motioned for her to join him.

  This could be a bubble burster.

  Wearing her faded jeans and a tailored, untucked white dress shirt, she slowly made her way up the aisle. The very long aisle.

  Everyone was looking at her and smiling as she passed by. Her heart started thumping wildly in her chest.

  As she approached the altar, she caught her breath when she saw Paul, wearing the same black tuxedo from the night before, stand up in the front pew to her right.

  He stood next to Father Steve, but he turned to face her, eyes bright and crinkling in the corners.

  She continued tentatively moving forward, watching as Paul drew a deep breath—as if he was about to jump off a high dive. Then he smiled the warmest of smiles at her, held out his hand, and leveled her with a devilish glint in his eye.

  "Let's do this."

  She closed the gap between them, letting him take her right hand in his and intertwine their fingers.

  Glancing back at the front row, she saw all four of their boys seated next to her parents, Kate and Jake, Paul's father, and Mattie and Nick. In the row behind them were all of Paul's cousins, their wives, and several other members of their extended family and wedding party. All were wearing party clothes and broad smiles.

  As a warm glow came over her, her eyes rested on her handsome husband. "Movies, huh?" she whispered.

  He grinned. "Shhh."

  On Father Steve's prompting, they faced each other and repeated their vows. When they were finished, he recited a blessing. "May the Lord in His goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with His blessings."

  He smiled and nodded at Paul who, on cue, removed Claire's plain gold wedding band and put it in his vest pocket. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out a small black velvet box.

  Close enough to the priest's microphone for everyone to hear, she drew a deep breath and exclaimed, "What did you do?"

  She looked over at her sister, who simply shrugged her shoulders and smiled. Opening the box, Claire saw a diamond wedding set very similar to the one she had hoped to get fifteen years ago. Paul took it out of the box and slid it onto her finger. Seeing that her hands were trembling, he held them both and smiled at her. She started to laugh as a tear ran down her cheek. When Paul wiped it away, the sound of people sniffling and blowing their noses throughout the church reminded them that they were sharing the intensely intimate moment with hundreds of other people.

  Father Steve then blessed their rings as symbols of not only deep faith and peace but also unconditional love and fidelity.

  As soon as he was able, Paul took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. "I love you, Plate Spinner."

  The letter.

  She pulled her face out of his grasp. Watching the smile leave his eyes, she tugged a snail mail envelope from the back pocket of her jeans.

  Claire gave it a good long look before locking her eyes onto his. "I just want to make one thing perfectly clear."

  Paul nodded.

  Lifting both eyebrows, she whispered, "You have nothing to be sorry about."

  He let out something between a gasp and a laugh as his eyes began to water.

  "Except for donating my old maternity clothes."

  What happened next, the look on his face, the tenderness of his lips pressing against hers, and the sensation from deep within that rocked her to the core, could all be described in a word, one perfect little word. Joy.

  * * *

  Dr. Natasha Duncan, chairperson of the English Department at Central Illinois University, opened her faculty mailbox and pulled out a postcard. Curious, she examined the picture of the Fontana di Trevi in Rome illuminated at dusk.

  Turning it over, she scanned the postmark and read what was written on it. When she finished, she pressed the card to her chest and, laughing, let out a whoop, startling the doctoral students meeting nearby.

  Pinning it to the bulletin board, she went into her office and closed the door. Curious, the students gathered around the postcard and read:

  "Claire (Nelson) Mendez, graduate of Central Illinois University, former technical writer and corporate indentured slave, relinquished her grip on her dead-end career after a long battle with obligation, responsibility, and guilt. Survivors include her successfully syndicated column, happily employed spouse, four (and a half) thriving children, devoted sister, Kate (Nelson) soon-to-be Garnet, parents Burt and Louise, and father-in-law Paul Senior. A private reception was held at the Drake Hotel in Chicago. Romance and frivolity prevailed.

  "PS—this one was the easiest to write!"

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Barbara is an award-winning novelist and second-generation journalist. After spending a decade in maternity clothes, she has five boys to show for it and much fodder for her column, The Plate Spinner Chronicles, a long-running feature in the Chicago Tribune. A member of RWA's Windy City chapter, she still dreams of the day when her to-do list includes "Send NY Times book critic thank you note" and "Accept Godiva's request to be a taste-tester."

  To learn more about Barbara Valentin, visit her online at: http://www.barbaravalentin.com

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY BARBARA VALENTIN

  Assignment: Romance novels

  False Start

  Help Wanted

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Assignment: Romance novel, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic read from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  MY EX-BOYFRIEND'S WEDDING

  by

  T. SUE VERSTEEG

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jemma Keith let the heavy box she'd lugged up the stairs slam to the floor with a loud thump. Flopping onto her couch, she nestled into the overstuffed cushions and took what comfort she could from her familiar surroundings. Dust clung to the things she'd left behind in the tiny apartment after being closed up for a few months.

  She made the mistake of closing her eyes in the hopes of escaping to her happy place. You know, sprawled on a beach chair, palm trees rustling in the soft breeze, gentle ocean waves sweeping the sand, scantily clad Johnny Depp manning the margarita blender, Tom Hiddleston and Bradley Cooper, one on each side, fighting over who gets to put on her sunscreen.

  Instead, she ended up replaying the morning's events just as clearly as when they'd happened. Curiosity had nagged her to follow her boyfriend, Dalton Blackwell, after he cancelled their lunch plans at the last minute, yet again. Common sense attempted to side with her stomach, pleading to drive through for a burger instead.

  Curiosity won.

  She kept her car at a safe dis
tance, following from his office along the familiar route to the home of his secretary, Stacy.

  Jemma parked a block away, feeling guilty as she walked toward the two-story Victorian she'd visited for many office parties. She brushed her finger along the silver striping of Dalton's car at the curb as she passed it. A beautiful afternoon, the late fall breeze briskly whipped the fallen leaves across the lawn as she walked up the front steps. The bright sun warmed the air of the Indian-Summer's day, making her tug at the collar of her heavy wool sweater.

  This is ridiculous; he's only visiting her since she called in sick, just as he said.

  But, curiosity prodded her across the porch to the front door. As she hovered a finger over the doorbell, fluttering curtains at an open window caught her attention. The garish, blood red fabric billowed inward, framing Stacy on her knees in the living room. Dalton stood in front of her, pants undone, his fingers tangled in her dirty blond hair, guiding her movement. Jemma sucked in a harsh gasp, fighting a myriad of emotions and one hell of a gag reflex.

  Curiosity: one. Common Sense: zero.

  "Jemma Rae Keith!" Her father's booming voice snapped her from her self-induced nightmare and back to the present task at hand.

  "Yes, Daddy?"

  "Am I to assume that you plan to lie there while I cart the rest of these boxes up three flights of stairs?"

  Jemma flashed her dad a lopsided, half-hearted smile, as he walked through the door and joined her on the couch. Her father was a large man, with salt and pepper hair, brown eyes, an infamous bad temper, and a rumored connection with the Mob. Anyone with any sense would move heaven and earth to stay on the man's good side.

  "Sorry, Daddy, I'm…" Jemma paused, tossed a frantic look around her box-infested apartment for any excuse, and flipped her hands in the air. "I've got nothing. I guess I just needed a break."

  "Don't give that asshole one more second of your time. I tried to tell you from the beginning he was a waste of pretty much everything, including air." Michael Keith crossed his arms over his massive chest.

  "That's probably part of the reason I convinced myself I loved him."

  Jemma and her father exchanged accusatory glares before he scooped her into his embrace, a snort of derision punctuating his hug.

  "There is undoubtedly more truth in that statement than I care to admit. However, I will take great pride in asking if you're glad I insisted on keeping your apartment after you moved in with the waste of skin," he said, his words a statement more than a question.

  "Ok, you win on that one." Jemma dropped her head back against the couch, breaking from his grasp in an overstated act of defeat. The tears had stopped after the shock, but the longer she sat still, the closer they bubbled to the surface. Bounding to her feet, she added, "I'll try to listen, if there's ever a next time."

  Her father broke out in a long belly laugh, drawing out until he gasped for breath. "I highly doubt it," he sputtered between gulps of air.

  Jemma walked to the door, muttering, "I didn't say it would happen. I just said I'd try."

  They spent the remainder of the afternoon carting boxes up to her apartment, ignoring the melody coming from Jemma's cell phone. Dalton had tried calling all afternoon, as he always did, evidently oblivious to what Jemma had witnessed. Getting her stuff out of his place was the only thing that'd kept her from interrupting them. Dalton never did fight fair, and this instance would, more than likely, be no different.

  Jemma made the final trip down for the last of her clothes.

  Her mother pulled up, hastily parking with two wheels on the curb.

  "Sweetheart," her mother bellowed as she sprang from her vehicle and dashed toward her. Though small in stature, she was strong, in both body and spirit. She had to be to keep up with Jemma's father. The silver streaks in her mother's fire red hair glistened in the sun as she closed the gap between them. "I came as soon as I got out of my meeting." Her mom wrapped her in a warm bear hug, and Jemma returned it twofold. She breathed in the familiar, comforting combination of her mom's perfume and hairspray.

  "I thought Dad told you we had it covered?" Jemma mumbled into her shoulder, not wanting to let go of her happy place.

  Pushing her back to arms length, her mother tucked her hair behind her ear, and Jemma leaned into her palm. "He did. But, when have I ever listened to your father?"

  "True." Jemma nodded. "I'm actually glad you're here. Dad's good for the manual labor. Arranging things? Not so much."

  Alexis Keith grabbed her daughter's hand and exchanged a knowing glance with her, expressing much the same sentiments her father had earlier, only without words. Kind of an 'I-told-you-so-but-I-knew-you-had-to-learn-for-yourself-before-you-would-listen-to-me,' complete with pursed lips, cocked head, and high, crinkled brow.

  Jemma rolled her eyes. "Thanks for not saying it, at least."

  "I'd never do that." Sarcasm dripped from each word. "That's why I keep your father around." The girls giggled as they walked arm in arm, sharing the load of clothes on the trip back up.

  "I was beginning to think you'd left me to do all the unpacking," her dad grumbled as he dumped a box of framed pictures haphazardly onto the rug.

  Jemma's stomach clenched at the sight of her precious cargo scattered on the floor. She lunged to the pile, arranging them into neat stacks, while checking for cracks in the glass.

  Her father walked over and greeted his wife with a kiss that would make even newlyweds blush. To the best of her recollection, her parents had always enjoyed a marriage made in heaven. Sure, they fought, and yes, there were hard times, but it was always obvious they loved one another. They'd set the relationship bar so high, Jemma sometimes wondered if she'd ever even come close to pole vaulting high enough to clear it.

  Her parents' miniature love fest ended, and her mother walked over to her. She smoothed Jemma's bangs from her face. "You realize your brother is going to bust something when he finds out what happened. We can only pray the something he busts isn't attached to a person."

  "Unless it's attached to Dalton," her father seethed.

  The man was doomed if those two showed up on his doorstep, not that part of her wasn't on board with it. She grabbed her father's hand. "Please, let me handle this. I'm not a little girl anymore. You and Mikey don't need to fight my battles."

  He scowled, a huge vein popping at his temple. "I'm your father. That's what I do."

  "Daddy, we weren't married, there aren't any kids involved, he didn't beat me, and I'm leaving with everything I went in with." She paused, looking down, pretending to admire the old, wooden trim before turning her big doe eyes back toward him and continuing, "Minus my pride, of course."

  Her mother rubbed her dad's shoulders. "She's right, Michael. Let her at least try to handle it herself."

  Jemma rode the self-confidence roller-coaster up with her mother's first words, the last half flinging her back down. Flashing an evil eye at her mom, a wide-eyed stare of innocence was promptly returned.

  Focusing on the more pressing matter, she returned her attention to her father's pending meltdown. "If you want to go to Duke's Club at the corner, I'll call you if I have any problems. You'll be less than a block away. Deal?"

  Her father's jaw set, his face flushing red, deep in thought. Softening into a teddy bear demeanor, he said, "Anything for my little girl."

  Jemma raised a skeptical brow. "Promise?"

  Releasing a deep sigh, he conceded, "Promise."

  Mikey shoved the apartment door open. The door handle slammed into the wall, the resounding whomp echoing off her high ceilings. "What's the Jemma emergency?"

  Her mom quickly reached Jemma's side, grabbing her arm before she could protest or strangle someone. "I'd already called him, honey. I didn't tell him all the details on the phone, though. He has the same temper as your father, and I knew he would be dangerous without someone talking sense into him first."

  Jemma bobbed her head in agreement then switched to fervently shaking it. Mikey and sen
se weren't a likely combination no matter how much you talked to him.

  Collapsing onto the couch again, her apartment walls seemed to close in on her. Though, she could be standing in the Grand Canyon at that particular moment and still feel confined. Her family meant well, but they were making the whole situation worse. She wanted to fast forward through time, through the mess, to regain some semblance of a normal life. Starting over alone would be a challenge, but it was one she could handle. Her heart may have been broken, but seeing Dalton and Stacy firsthand had helped, leaving no room in her mind for lies or excuses. And then there was the intense anger, which always did assist the healing process.

  "That bastard! I'll kill him with my bare hands." Mikey's thunderous voice rattled her from her thoughts.

  Jemma turned to her parents. "I take it you told him the whole story, then?" Sighing in frustrated resignation, she slouched farther down within the cushions of her couch. "Did you also tell him what you promised me, Dad?"

  "Yes, dear, we're heading to Duke's now. I've called Guido, Freddy, and Axel, too. They're meeting us there."

  She groaned aloud, unafraid to share her increasing discontent with the growing situation.

  Leaning down, her dad kissed her forehead. "I promised to play nice." He paused, his gaze narrowing. "As long as Dumb Ass Dalton plays nice, too."

  Jemma rolled her eyes again, this time at the old nickname he'd given Dalton when they'd first started dating. "Thank you, Daddy."

  The soft tinkling of Dalton's assigned ringtone shot panic through her, culminating in her gut. She swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.

  Her mom plucked the phone from the coffee table and handed it to her. "It's time to face him, honey." She placed a gentle kiss on Jemma's forehead, followed the guys out of the door, and quietly closed it behind them.