Small Change Read online

  “Between what you make and the hefty amount I give you …” he began.

  “Hefty?” she said with a snort. “Oh, please.”

  “Rachel, can we stick to the subject?” he suggested in a pained voice.

  “I am sticking to the subject. I can't afford braces. I'm not getting hired back next year.”

  “Oh. I'm sorry.”

  For a moment he almost had her convinced that he was sorry for her, but then she remembered whom she was dealing with. Aaron was only sorry because he suspected her problems meant he'd be asked to step up to the plate and help more. When it involved parting with large chunks of money for anything that wasn't his idea and that didn't directly benefit Aaron Green, his heart went into lockdown and his wallet slammed shut.

  “We'll work something out,” he assured her. “I'll talk to Rencher about setting up a payment plan.”

  “For who?”

  Now he looked very disappointed in her. “That is unfair. I'm paying my part.”

  “That is debatable.”

  “Look, I've got to get back inside. My patient's probably numb by now.”

  “Your patient's not the only one,” Rachel said as he started slipping away. She caught him by his sleeve. “One more thing. You saw how upset she is. What about clear braces? Can I at least promise her that?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Don't get her hopes up on that. Those aren't as effective for children.” He gave her arm a pat before disengaging himself. “You'll handle it.”

  Sure. No problem.

  Back in the car, David was bouncing his basketball off the car ceiling and Claire was plugged in to her iPod and glowering. “Did you talk to Daddy?” she asked.

  “Yes. I'm afraid braces have to happen.”

  “It's not fair,” Claire stormed. Meanwhile, the ball kept hitting the ceiling.

  “David, if you don't stop immediately I'm going to give that ball to the Goodwill,” Rachel said. It was an empty threat, and they both knew it.

  “Sorry, Mom,” he said genially. He let the ball fall on the floor, where he began rolling it around with his foot.

  That took care of her son. Her daughter was a bigger challenge. Always.

  Claire had turned her face and was now pretending to stare out the window. A hand crept up to wipe the corner of her eyes with her sweatshirt.

  “Braces aren't so bad anymore,” Rachel said gently. “You can get them in all kinds of cool colors.”

  “I'll be a freak.” Claire turned a teary glare on Rachel as if it was her mother's fault that she had tooth issues.

  Rachel wanted to say, “You got your messed-up teeth from your messed-up father,” but that would hardly be productive, so instead she said, “Sweetie, practically everybody wears braces.”

  “No, they don't,” Claire growled. “I don't want braces. I'm already ugly.”

  “You are not ugly,” Rachel said firmly.

  “Aidan thinks you're cute,” David offered.

  Learning she had the admiration of a ten-year-old's best friend in no way consoled Claire. “No one's talking to you,” she snapped.

  David shrugged and fell silent.

  “Aidan may be the wrong age, but he knows beauty when he sees it,” Rachel said.

  Claire rolled her eyes and turned back to the window.

  Rachel gave up. For the time being, anyway.

  After dinner Rachel dropped David off, not bothering to go to the door, and pretended not to see when Misty waved to her from the doorway. After she returned home she went straight to the bonus room off the kitchen that doubled as her office and gathered the pages she'd printed from the Internet safari she'd taken when the children were doing their homework.

  Claire had disappeared back into her room, so Rachel went upstairs and knocked on the door. No answer. She opened it a crack and peeked in. It already looked like a teenager room, with teen idol posters on pink walls and clothes scattered on the floor. A lamp shaped like a purse sat on Claire's nightstand and her bedspread, a new one Misty had helped her pick out, was a reversible pink with zebra stripes on the other side. She lay flopped on the bed, facedown, iPod plugged in.

  “Knock, knock,” called Rachel.

  “I don't want to talk.”

  Actually, Rachel didn't either. She wanted to fill the tub with bubbles and stay there for a million years. But first, she was going to talk and hope her daughter listened. “Just for a minute, ’kay? I have something to show you.” Claire reluctantly rolled over onto her side and Rachel sat down next to her. “I know you don't want braces and I don't blame you, but it's better to get them done now. Then you won't have to wear them in high school.” At least she hoped not. Please, God, let that be true.

  Claire's face crumpled and she began to cry. “I'm so ugly.”

  Rachel took her daughter into her arms. “No, really, you're not. You are going to be so beautiful it's not even funny.”

  “No, I'm not,” Claire sobbed.

  “Yes, you are. And the really good news is, you're already beautiful on the inside, and that's the hardest kind of beauty to find.”

  “You have to say that. You're my mom.”

  “You think so? Look.” Rachel began to lay the pictures of supermodels she'd printed from the Internet out on the bed. There was Gisele Bündchen, Julia Polacsek, Lieke Smets, and Erin O'Connor, who looked like a grownup version of Claire. They all appeared glamorous, exotic, and unique. “Do you know who these women are?”

  “No,” Claire said grumpily.

  “They're international supermodels. Do you notice anything they have in common?”

  Claire bit her lip, refusing to state the obvious.

  “Here's one more. Recognize her?”

  “That's the woman on What Not to Wear.” Claire's and Rachel's favorite Friday night show. On the weekends Claire was home they always watched it together, even when Claire's best friend, Bethany, was sleeping over.

  “Yep. Stacy London.”

  “But she's pretty,” Claire said in a small voice.

  “They're all pretty. But they don't all look alike. It's okay to look different. Sometimes different is better.”

  Claire rolled her eyes.

  Rachel gathered the papers into a stack. “Just think about that,” she said, and leaned over and kissed her daughter's forehead.

  Claire didn't say anything but she nodded.

  “And next time we're watching What Not to Wear check out Stacy London's nose,” Rachel added as she slipped off the bed. She was to the door when her daughter said, “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  Claire managed a tiny smile. “Thanks.”

  Rachel suddenly felt better than she had all day. She smiled back. “You're welcome,” she said, and shut the door feeling pretty pleased with herself.

  Until she remembered that in the course of one afternoon she had lost a job and gained a new debt. And somewhere, a little gremlin was laughing.

  • 3 •

  In her forty-four years on the planet, Jessica Sharp had learned several important truths: chocolate is good medicine, housework is highly overrated, girlfriends make the best shrinks, and—her latest lesson—job security is an oxymoron, especially if you happened to work for a bank, which her husband did.

  “I still have a job,” Michael informed her when he came home from work.

  Jess was in the kitchen, dumping the chicken salad she'd picked up at Safeway into a bowl. She'd had a bottle of wine standing ready in case they needed to console themselves. Now they'd use it to celebrate. “Thank God,” she said with a sigh of relief. They could take their wine out on the deck and enjoy the early June evening and congratulate themselves on how they'd dodged the bullet.

  Or not. Michael was not looking thankful.

  “There's one small catch,” he said. “It's in Ohio.”

  “O-what?”

  “That's where the corporate offices are.”

  Jess felt suddenly sick. “Open that wine quick.” She plopped down
on a stool at the kitchen island. “Damn that Washington Federal Loan anyway,” she growled as he uncorked the bottle. “As if they haven't screwed us enough already. They turned our stock to junk and our retirement to peanuts. Do they have to shuttle us across the country, too?” Away from family and friends.

  “At my level, they do. That's the trade-off.” Michael poured a glass of wine and handed it to her.

  It was all she could do not to bang her head on the granite countertop, which she'd put in only last year. She took a sip of wine but it tasted bitter. She set down her glass with a sigh.

  Michael wasn't drinking either. “I'm sorry, Jess.”

  She rubbed his arm. “It's not your fault you work for Monsters, Inc. I just hate to move.”

  She hated the idea of her husband being unemployed even more. She got a sudden image of herself as a bag lady, pushing a shopping cart full of dirty clothes down Lake Way.

  That was enough to make her pick up her wineglass again. She had a new thought. “What about Mikey?” Their son had left the nest, but after losing his first job the baby bird had returned, and once more they had another mouth to feed. And that par ticu lar mouth gobbled up a lot of food. Jess's grocery bill had doubled since Mikey moved back home.

  “He can probably move in with Erica.”

  “Somehow I can't picture him wanting to live with his older sister.” Their daughter had gotten married in February (an event that had cost an arm and two legs) and now lived north of them in a farming community that was turning into a suburb. It didn't offer much for a young, single guy.

  “I sure don't see her husband being real excited to have a third wheel,” Michael added, obviously remembering his and Jess's own first year of marriage.

  They'd shed their clothes at the drop of a smile and made love in every imaginable location in their little apartment, including on top of the washing machine in the building's communal laundry room. She still remembered diving under a sheet when poor old Mrs. Newcombe came down to check on her clothes.

  “He can come with us if he wants,” Michael said.

  Jess suspected their son would be about as thrilled with moving as she was. “Oh, boy,” she muttered.

  “There is one other possibility.”

  Hope blossomed in Jess's heart. “Oh?” Any possibility was better than moving.

  “I dropped by Puget Sound National and they might be interested in hiring me.”

  He'd still be commuting to Seattle to work. Nothing would change. Perfect! “Well, then, call ’em.” Now she could enjoy that wine. She grabbed her glass and saluted Michael with it.

  “There's one drawback. The position I'm looking at would be less money.”

  Jess's glass went back on the counter. “How much less?” They had just finished paying off the baby bird's college loans. Another couple of months and the wedding bell blues would be over, too. She'd seen the light at the end of the tunnel. Surely it couldn't be that proverbial train barreling toward her.

  “We'd be looking at about a twenty percent pay cut.”

  “Twenty?” Jess stammered. She took another drink of wine. Suddenly Ohio didn't look quite so bad.

  “We could do it,” Michael said. “We'd have to tighten our belts.”

  “Those belts are already on their last notch.”

  He shrugged. “Or else find a way to bring in more income.”

  As in her? What marketable skills did she have?

  None. Jess had majored in music in college (with a strong minor in boys and Frisbee), and after three years she'd met Michael and bagged the BA, going instead for a Mrs. degree. Other than singing in a band on weekends—when she was young and hot and still looked like Pat Benatar—and selling craft creations at holiday bazaars, she'd never worked outside the home. She'd never needed to, not when she had Michael, her own personal patron of the arts. But now she needed to. There had to be something she could do to make up that twenty percent. Nothing came to mind, except panic.

  Michael looked at her in concern. “Jess? Are you okay?”

  “I could get a job,” she blurted. Doing what? What are you thinking?

  Relief flitted across her husband's face, but he valiantly said, “You don't have to. We can make it on less. And, no matter what position I take, my salary will go up eventually.”

  They'd be dead before eventually. She didn't want to move, but if she wanted to stay she'd have to pay. “I'm sure I can get something,” she said. “If you want to stay here. You do want to stay here, don't you?”

  “Of course I do,” he said. “Heart Lake is our home.”

  “Well, then, we'll make it work. See if you can snag that position at Puget Sound National. And I'll …” Oh, boy.

  “Find something,” he supplied. “It doesn't have to be full time. We can save a lot of money just by not going out to eat so much.”

  She nodded and downed the rest of her wine. She had a feeling that, at the rate they were going, what she saved on eating out she'd be spending on booze.

  “Don't worry,” Michael said, and gave her a kiss. “We'll be fine.” The captain of the Titanic had probably said those very same words.

  The next morning, Jess decided to make a list of possible jobs. She poured herself a cup of coffee, then grabbed a piece of scratch paper from the kitchen junk drawer and a pen and leaned over the counter, ready to write furiously. The blank page stared at her.

  She frowned back at it. “There has to be something you can do,” she told herself.

  Maybe she should start by writing down her strengths. What was she good at? She still played a mean keyboard.

  Like that did any good. Even if she lost twenty pounds in two weeks and got Botox, where would she find a band that would have her? As a band chick she was over the hill and out of the loop. The band thing was hardly steady work anyway.

  What else? Crafts. She had a closet full of things she could sell. Except she'd missed Slugfest and there would be no more craft bazaar opportunities until the Fourth of July. Selling crafts was too iffy, anyway—great for making some fun money, but by the time you factored in the cost of the material and renting a booth, hardly profitable enough to earn that necessary extra twenty percent every month.

  So, what did that leave? Personality. She was friendly, fun, approachable. Maybe she could get a job as a salesclerk or a receptionist. She remembered the Help Wanted sign she'd seen hanging in the window of Emma's Quilt Corner, the little shop that Heart Lake residents had saved from extinction the previous Christmas. Jess hadn't gotten around to trying quilting yet, but she could learn. She certainly knew how to cut fabric, and it couldn't be that hard to ring up sales. From what she heard, everyone loved Emma, which meant she'd be great to work for. It could be the perfect part-time job.

  Jess checked the clock. Ten a.m. Emma would be open for business. She called the shop and was greeted by a cheery voice on the other end of the line. “Hi,” Jess said, making her own voice equally cheery. “I'm calling about the Help Wanted sign in your window.”

  “I'm sorry,” said the voice, changing from cheery to sympathetic. “I just filled that position yesterday.”

  “Oh.” A good job was like a good man, hard to find. But she'd found Michael. She'd find a job. “Well, thanks anyway.” Jess hung up with a sigh and returned to the piece of paper on the kitchen counter. What else could she do?

  A temp agency, she decided. That would be perfect. She could earn income but she wouldn't be locked into anything full time. She got on the computer and looked up temp agencies in Seattle. She could handle part-time office work, and if she worked in the city, she and Michael could commute together.

  The first company she found was A-Plus Office Services. That's me, A-Plus, she thought, reaching for the phone.

  As it turned out, Ms. A-Plus could fit her in for an interview at one. Could she come in?

  Why not? Jess wasn't exactly excited as she hurried to her closet, but she was determined, which was nearly as good. Velvet Revolver's versio
n of the song “Money” began to play in her head. She was going to come through for Michael, even if it meant chaining herself to a desk somewhere in the city. She could do it. Millions of women did it every day. Maybe she'd even get a job assignment for the next week. You never knew. It would be good news to share when Rachel and Tiffany came over for their monthly craft night.

  She encountered a challenge in her closet. Denim jackets, hot pink tops, and various articles of clothing dotted with sequins greeted her. When was the last time she'd worn a dress? There had to be something here. She flipped hangers along the rack. No, no, no. Noooo. Hmm. Here was a black knit dress, not too low-cut. How about that and her red denim jacket? Red denim was not very dress for success. And black wasn't exactly summery. That decided it. She'd leave for the city right now and detour by Nordstrom's before going on her interview.

  At Nordstrom's she managed to find a cream-colored linen suit jacket and pants that fit well but bored her to tears. The price made her want to cry, too. She couldn't believe how much she was paying for boring. She dressed it up with a sleeveless top sporting a great pattern in black and Amalfiblue, perfect colors for a winter. (Jess had had her colors done back in college. With her dark hair—still completely dark, thank you, Wella Color Charm—she was a winter.) The top was no bargain either, but it was worth every penny. This she would wear till it turned to rags.

  Small consolation. She had just spent a fortune to audition for a job as a temp. Well, you had to spend money to make money. Unbidden, the lyrics to ABBA's “Money, Money, Money” came to mind.

  A-Plus Office Services was in one of the many tall Seattle buildings that looked down on the city's waterfront and its more humble architectural beginnings like the Smith Tower.

  Jess had grown up in this city. She'd attended the University of Washington, and met Michael at the Blue Moon Tavern. He'd looked like Andy Gibb and, although he couldn't sing a note, he danced like John Travolta. Within a year, they'd managed to fall in love, elope, get pregnant, and celebrate Michael's graduation. Michael had gone on to become a lawyer and she'd worked on turning herself into Mother of the Year—a far more noble occupation than band chick.