Small Change Read online

  “I hope so,” said Tiffany. She was practically salivating.

  The same older woman whom Tiffany had beaten out of the clock earlier was climbing out of her car when they pulled up. At the sight of Tiffany, she began to speed-walk down the driveway.

  “Oh, no you don't,” growled Tiffany, leaping out of the minivan before it had even stopped.

  “What are you doing?” Rachel protested. But it was too late. Tiff was already gone with the wind. Rachel sighed and parked. This could get ugly.

  Sure enough, Tiffany and her older competitor were now actually racing … until Tiff slipped and went down. “Oooh!”

  Every head turned. Actually, every female head turned. The few men present had already noticed her.

  “What did you step on?” Rachel asked, coming alongside her.

  Tiffany inspected the bottom of her flip-flop and scrunched her face like she'd just seen something truly grisly. “Dog poop,” she squealed, completely unaware that her competitor was now strolling triumphantly into the garage.

  The owner of the house hurried up to her. “Are you okay?”

  “It's on my foot. Eeeew!” Now Tiffany was shaking her hands like they'd been contaminated, too. She kicked her foot in an attempt to fling off the offending mess.

  “Oh,” the woman groaned. “Our neighbors have a dog. I'm so sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” Tiffany said, her face screwed up in disgust.

  “Here,” offered the woman. “We can hose it off. Follow me.”

  Tiffany limped after her, “eeewing” all the way.

  She was still shuddering and “eewing” when she and Rachel got back in the minivan. “I am never doing that again,” she announced.

  Rachel was surprised to see Tiff throw in the towel so quickly. She'd had great success herself, finding a name-brand top she knew Claire would love and several romance novels. This kind of shopping wouldn't break the budget. “That was a short-lived business.”

  Tiffany looked at her like she had said something crazy. “I'm not bagging garage sales.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  Tiffany lifted her foot. “I'm never wearing these. You've got to dress for the job.” They were about to drive off when she caught sight of the older woman leaving with a Tex-Mex–style pitcher. She gasped and pointed. “Crate and Barrel.”

  The woman smirked as she walked past.

  “From now on I'm wearing running shoes,” Tiffany muttered. “And I'm staying off the grass.”

  • 10 •

  After stowing away her garage sale finds, Rachel started on some much needed house cleaning. She was washing windows when she heard a lawn mower fire up next door. It was a sound no one had heard over there for a long time, and she peered out the family room window for a closer view. Sure enough, someone was mowing the lawn. Whoa. That was some someone.

  She squirted more glass cleaner and quickly rubbed the window for a clearer view.

  Holy Danielle Steel, but he was gorgeous. She took in the slim hips encased in Levis, the T-shirt stretched across broad pecs, and the arm muscles rippling under caramel colored skin and swallowed hard. This man could be a cover model. Why was he wasting time mowing lawns? Was there room in the budget for her to hire him to come mow hers?

  Of course not. Darn.

  The sun was out and the weather was balmy, making it a perfect day for weeding flower beds. Maybe she would just go out and pull a few weeds. Except she didn't have a thing to wear.

  The man next door was now doing the side yard, giving her a clear view of raven black hair and straight black eyebrows, gorgeous brown eyes. And that strong, square jaw that practically screamed, “Touch me.” Would he like a drink of water? Was he hungry? Was he married? She craned her neck, trying to zoom in on his ring finger.

  “Mom, what are you doing?”

  Rachel gave a start and the bottle of window cleaner dropped from her weak hand. “Claire.” She picked up the bottle.

  Her daughter looked at her like she had slipped a cog. Maybe she had. Ever since her library visit her brain had been operating under the influence of romance novels. From now on she was sticking to her finance books. “Did you need something?” she asked. She needed something, and she wasn't going to find it in any finance tome.

  “Can you take Bethany and me to a movie?”

  Rachel turned her back on the view out the window. “Is your room clean?”

  Claire nodded emphatically. “Yes.”

  “And you have money left from your allowance?”

  Emphatic turned into hopeful. “Could I have five dollars?”

  “Sweetie, I can't keep bailing you out every time you blow through your allowance. That's why it's called an allowance. You know, so much allowed for spending every week?”

  Claire frowned. “You don't give me enough.”

  Her daughter could find Rachel's guilt button blindfolded. She gave up. “All right.” Still, nickled and dimed and dollared to death— this was no way to save money. “I tell you what,” Rachel added. “I'll give you five dollars today, but that's the end of the line for the gravy train. Starting next week, we'll sit down together and work out a budget for your allowance. And when the fun money is gone, it's gone. No more bailouts. I am not the government. Got it?”

  Claire nodded. “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  Of course, she probably didn't get it at all, Rachel thought as they walked to the car. How could she? She was only twelve. And at twelve why should she have to face the stark realities of life? Those came along soon enough.

  Out of the corner of her eye Rachel was aware of Señor Gorgeous mowing the lawn. He was probably married. Or gay. Because that was one of those stark realities of life every woman over twenty-five had to face. Good men didn't grow on trees. And they sure didn't show up next door, mowing the lawn.

  Still, that didn't mean she couldn't be neighborly. When she got home she'd offer him a glass of water. She surreptitiously checked out his truck, looking for the name of the lawn guy. The truck was an older model, white and beat up. She didn't see a lot of equipment or yard refuse in the truck bed, but maybe this was his first job of the day.

  Picking up Bethany took some time since her mom wanted to chitchat. And then there were the usual arrangements to be made regarding the rest of the girls’ day. “I can pick them up, and Claire's more than welcome to stay for dinner,” Bethany's mother offered.

  David was already off at a friend's house and wouldn't be back until after dinner. Rachel would have the whole day to … weed. She should have had the whole weekend, but Aaron had canceled his time with the children, claiming something had come up. Translation: Misty had gotten new lingerie. Something had come up all right.

  “Mom?”

  Rachel pulled herself back into the moment. “What?”

  “Can I?” Claire asked eagerly.

  Rachel pretended to consider. “I think we can make that. Thanks, Alice. Well, we'd better hurry,” she added, moving the girls up the front walk. “We don't want you to miss the movie.”

  Halfway to the theater Claire said nervously, “Uh, Mom, you're going kind of fast.”

  Rachel looked down at the speedometer and was surprised to see she was ten miles over the limit. She took her foot off the gas pedal. “Good catch. Thanks.” Speeding. She never sped.

  She dropped the girls at the theater with all the usual admonitions. “Wait right in front of the theater for Bethany's mom, and don't talk to strangers.”

  “We know, Mom,” said Claire in long-suffering tones, and shut the minivan door. “Don't speed.”

  “Of course not,” Rachel said, highly incensed, and then sped off.

  But by the time she got home the white truck was gone and so was Señor Gorgeous.

  Fine. She didn't want to weed anyway.

  With the temptation removed from her field of vision, her common sense returned. What were you thinking? she scolded herself. You need a man like a diabet
ic needs a Twinkie.

  She sighed as the realization hit her. Just because a woman developed a problem with sugar, it didn't mean she lost her taste for sweet things. It sure looked like Rachel hadn't.

  You are pathetic, she told herself. Maybe she needed a little aversion therapy. She took a moment to revisit the pain Aaron had inflicted on her in the past year and a half.

  What gardener?

  • 11 •

  Jess came home from her afternoon nail appointment— which was probably another spending leak, but Tiff needed the business—to the sound of voices, loud, angry male voices. Oh, no. She followed the noise to the kitchen, where Michael and their son stood nose to nose, faces red, neck muscles bulging. In spite of the age difference, they looked so much alike it was scary. Same hunky profiles, same lanky build, same stubborn set to the jaw.

  “Hey, if you don't want me here I'm gone,” Mikey yelled.

  “Fine. If you want to be a bum, go live like a bum,” Michael yelled back.

  The anger in the room came at her heart like a knife. Michael and Mikey had had their father-son clashes, but never like this. They were a family; they worked through things. This was wrong and out of control, and she wanted to cry as much as they obviously wanted to fight.

  Mikey marched toward the kitchen door but Jess blocked it. “What are you two doing?”

  “I'm out of here,” Mikey announced, and pushed past her. Behind his angry bravado, she could see her son was close to tears.

  She shot a punitive glare at her husband, and then chased after Mikey. He was already in the living room when she caught him by the arm. “Mikey, honey, this is no way to settle things.”

  “I'm done, Mom. I've been trying, but he doesn't believe me.”

  She wasn't sure she did either, which made her feel ashamed of herself. What kind of mother didn't believe her son? “He's just concerned.”

  Mikey's eyes flashed. “Yeah, I can see that. So what if I haven't had any interviews? I've been on the Net looking every day.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “I don't see him going on any interviews.”

  Now Michael was in the living room, too. Mikey stiffened at the sight of him, and Jess worried he would bolt. He and Michael hadn't fought like this since Mikey sneaked out with the car when he was fifteen. Even that war had ended quickly. Their son had always been a good kid. Okay, more interested in playing computer games than doing homework. Even in college he'd skated by the first couple of years. But he'd buckled down and finished and gotten a job, and everything had been going so well. Until he lost the job. And now he was poised to storm off in a rage and go live … good God, where would he live, in his car?

  Michael came up to their son and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Son, I'm sorry I lost my temper with you.”

  Mikey's jaw was tight and his lips clamped together. He managed a nod.

  “I just need to know you're trying, that's all.”

  “I am, Dad,” Mikey insisted, and his voice broke. “You can't blame me that there's nothing out there.”

  Michael opened his mouth to speak. Many years of marriage had turned Jess psychic, and she knew whatever came out of that mouth would be a fresh salvo for a new battle. “You'll find some-thing,” she assured her son.

  He frowned and nodded. “I gotta go.” He bent over and gave Jess a kiss on the cheek and then slipped out the front door.

  Jess staggered over to the couch and fell on it. “Good God.” She frowned at Michael, who had taken the chair opposite her. “What did you say to him, anyway?”

  Michael looked at her as if she'd accused him some unspeakable crime. “What did I say? How about asking what he did to make me mad?”

  “All right. What did he do?”

  “Well, he finally got up at eleven. Do you know what time he came in last night?”

  “Do I need to know what time he came in last night? He's over eighteen, Michael.”

  “He came in at two a.m., the same time he came in Wednesday and Thursday night.”

  “How would you know that? We were asleep.”

  “Well, I wasn't,” Michael said grumpily.

  “What were you doing awake?”

  Now Michael turned wary. “I couldn't sleep.”

  Of course. “You were up worrying.” She frowned at him. “You keep saying not to worry and then you stay up all night and do just that. Then you explode at our son.”

  “Our son is a man now,” Michael said, frowning right back. “He can't dodge the fact that he's unemployed anymore than I can. He needs to be really working at looking for a job. Now, how hard do you think he's working if he's out screwing around with his buddies all night and sleeping the day away?”

  Michael's voice was going up in volume. “Why are you yelling at me?” Jess protested.

  He fell back against the chair cushions and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Sorry. I don't mean to yell. I don't want to yell at anybody, but Mike has got to get serious. We can't all be unemployed.”

  “Hey, I'm not unemployed,” Jess protested. It wasn't much, but she was trying.

  “You know what I mean, Jess. All I want is for him to try a little harder,” Michael continued. “Why does he have to take that so personally?”

  Jess shrugged. “Because he's a man?” She came over and squeezed into the chair with Michael.

  “That's exactly why I want him to set some goals,” Michael said sternly. “He needs to log in as much time looking for a job as he would working a job. Now, are you going to tell him that or am I?”

  She could already envision another shouting match. “I'll take care of it,” she promised. Though how she had no idea. Hopefully, something would come to her. “But give me a little time.”

  “Define a little time.”

  “Longer than you want?” She slid a hand up his cheek and gave him a kiss.

  He closed his eyes with a sigh.

  “It'll work out,” she murmured. One way or another, she was going to make sure of it.

  It took a couple of days of mulling for her to realize that her baby bird needed motivation. Michael was right. Mikey was having a hard time mastering the art of job hunting. Maybe that was because he'd gotten his first job so easily. Michael had had a friend in HR who'd pulled a couple of strings on Mikey's behalf. His job had practically fallen in his lap. Now he was sitting under the employment tree, wondering why he couldn't reach any plum position. Someone was going to have to teach him the importance of finding a ladder and climbing up to get what he wanted. Jess knew this called for something more important than firsthand experience and wisdom. It called for sneakiness and manipulation.

  On Monday she came home from hopping around the mats in the overheated, smelly gym, to find her son raiding the fridge. “I could use a sandwich,” she said, dumping her purse on the kitchen counter.

  He nodded, and went to work building her a super turkey sandwich with everything from green peppers to avocado.

  “You put together a mean sandwich,” she said with a smile as he set the creation in front of her. “Maybe you're wasted in the corporate world. Maybe you should become a chef.”

  He shook his head. “I think you have to go to school for that.”

  “Maybe.” She took a bite. “Good stuff,” she managed around a mouthful of sandwich. She swallowed. “You know, I've been thinking.”

  Mikey looked at her suspiciously.

  He had the prettiest eyes. The boy could be a model; there was an idea. Except that kind of work was about as steady as being a musician. “I think right now you are having a crisis.”

  “Well, duh, Mom.” He frowned and poured himself a glass of milk.

  “I'll take one, too,” said Jess, and he took another glass from the cupboard. “But, lucky for you, I have a solution to your crisis.”

  “You found me a job?” He pushed the glass her direction.

  “Don't be sarcastic. And yes, I've found you an interim job.” She grabbed a piece of paper from her little pile of scratch pape
r and started making a list.

  “No shit? Where?”

  “Here,” she said brightly.

  “Here?” He looked at her like she'd suffered a brain mal-function.

  “It's the pits having nothing to do,” Jess continued, unfazed. “You feel like you have no purpose. So, until you find something, you'll be working for me, Mommy Dearest.”

  He didn't look at all thrilled with his new boss. “Doing what?”

  She shoved the paper at him. “All kinds of things. Most people like a job with variety, so I'm going to make sure we vary your job description from week to week.

  He picked up the paper and looked at it. “Clean garage.”

  “Dad really doesn't have time. It's a mess.”

  “Weed flower beds?” He looked slightly sick.

  “I'm working. I don't have the time.”

  “Paint house?” Now he was staring at her in shock.

  “Well, you know we didn't get it done last year and paint doesn't last forever.”

  “Mom, you expect me to do all this in one week?”

  She took the list from his suddenly limp hand and examined it. “Okay, you can do the garage next week. That will work better anyway. After you clean the garage you can do a dump run. Oh, and I'll need you to take some things to the Goodwill for me.”

  “How much am I getting paid for all this?”

  “Paid?” She looked at him as if he had just spoken to her in a foreign language.

  His eyebrows shot up clear to his hairline. “I'm not getting paid?”

  “Of course you are.”

  He looked relieved.

  “You're getting free rent and all the food you can eat.”

  He frowned. “Funny, Mom.”

  “Mikey, I'm not being funny,” she said, letting her smile slip away. “I'm being serious. I understand that you're looking for a job, but until you find one this will be a good way for you to feel good about yourself and help us out, too. We could have some tough times ahead of us. It's important that we pull together as a family. Since you're not working for someone else, you may as well work for me.”