The Single Life. Liz Wood
who would want to hire me? Unless you know someone who wants his family history written. Or maybe some love letters,” she added, thinking of one of Chrissie’s favorite films. “No. Forget that. I’m no Cyrano de Bergerac.”
Chrissie laughed. “Not love letters, Mom, but online dating profiles. Now that’s an idea. In fact—”
“A bad idea,” Lauren intervened before her daughter could go any further. “I don’t even know what they are. Seriously, Chrissie—”
“Seriously, Mom. Maybe you’re no Cyrano, but people do hire writers. Businesses need writers. So do nonprofit organizations. We just hired someone to write a ten-page brochure for us. That’s what made me think of you. It’s the sort of thing you could do easily. You did it for Dad for years without getting paid. In fact, come to think of it, after you put together a writing portfolio, you might contact some of his colleagues and see if they’re interested.”
“What a good idea, Chrissie!” Lauren said, pressing hard on her lips so she wouldn’t yell with exasperation.
Because, of course, it was a terrible idea. Perhaps Charles’s colleagues would send some work her way, but it would be as a favor to her ex-husband, the kind of favor she could do without. She wouldn’t put what little dignity she had up for sale.
But, she realized after she and Chrissie had said their goodbyes, she wasn’t ready to give up her house, either. She might not want to contact Charles’s friends, but Chrissie did have a point: there must be someone out there who could use her gift with words. Just because she couldn’t land a teaching job didn’t mean she couldn’t write. Just because she was having problems with her book didn’t mean she couldn’t work on someone else’s.
She was having a run of bad luck, but she could turn things around. Hadn’t she restored the house on her own while taking care of two toddlers? Hadn’t she written a prize-winning book while raising rebellious teenagers? She’d managed fine without Charles then. She could do it again. She would find a way to meet her payments. There must be a writing job out there for her. All she had to do was spread her net a bit wider.
Clare made her way down the sidewalk and cursed the infamous Chicago wind. In her light jacket and thin silk stockings, she wasn’t prepared for the sudden chill of the early spring night. Luckily, the restaurant was only several steps away. She hurried through the swinging doors and crossed the room slowly, examining the crowd carefully.
No sign of Harry. His description didn’t fit any of the men leaning against the bar. Nor was he waiting at any of the booths.
She wasn’t surprised. She was late.
She had been running all day. First to a meeting that she had almost missed because the “boys” had conveniently forgotten to mention it to her. No surprise there, either. Even after all these years, they still didn’t accept her as one of their own. As long as she didn’t golf with them, laugh at their sexist jokes, or share the same illustrious pedigree, they never would.
Fortunately, Bailey Junior, hardly the biggest brain around, had let something slip. Just as well, because if Clare hadn’t been there, the “boys” would have assigned the Van Belden account to one of the incompetent young associates who smooched up to them on the golf course. She had offered to do some of the screening. More work for her, for sure, but how else was she going to get the firm to look at the women candidates?
After the meeting, she’d had to race across town for her weekly session with the law students she mentored. She couldn’t let those women down, not knowing firsthand how high the cards were stacked against them. Which was also why Clare had stayed longer than she should have.
Then, it was back to the office again to file a custody petition. It had to be in as soon as possible. It wasn’t about advancing her career and billing more hours. It was about children, getting them out of a bad situation and sparing them as much grief as possible. Anyone would understand why she had to stay after hours.
But apparently Harry hadn’t. She was twenty minutes late, and it looked like he was long gone. That would teach her to put obligations before pleasure. That would teach her to put her clients first and men after. She should have learned that lesson a long time ago.
Still, nothing was stopping her from having a little pleasure on her own. She would have a drink before she headed home, two if she was up for it. Which was not likely, nor advisable. She had known how unadvisable before most kids could read.
Still, nothing wrong with one drink. Just one drink and then she’d head home. Alone. Again.
Clare found an empty seat at the bar and ordered a martini. While she waited, she checked her cell phone. Harry had called to tell her he wasn’t waiting. Too bad for him. She didn’t care. She certainly didn’t need him. There were others like him out there, and even if there weren’t, it didn’t matter.
She liked being single, most of the time anyway. She could call the shots. Eat in or eat out—as she wanted. Decide where to vacation and what car to buy. She had no regrets and no heartbreaks. Not recently anyway and certainly nothing like Lauren.
Poor woman! She was going to have to rebuild her whole life at an age when most women just wanted to lie back and enjoy. No wonder Lauren was feeling so down lately. A new job could only help, if not for her house, then at least for herself.
Clare snapped her phone shut and slipped it back into her purse. She toyed with her martini as she slowly eyed the men around the bar. She could give them more attention now that she knew she was on her own.
After a day like today, she didn’t have the energy to pick up anyone, but there was nothing wrong with looking. Everything was so much easier when only window-shopping was involved. She didn’t have to worry about sagging breasts, cellulite dimples and wrinkled skin. And there would be no chance of being stood up if she put her work first.
So, let’s see. Who’s going to be the lucky guy tonight? Not the boy with wind-swept blond hair. She didn’t want to be accused of cradle-robbing. Not Mr. Marlboro in the corner there, either. He would spend too much time admiring himself in the mirror. Which maybe wasn’t such a bad idea because he wouldn’t have any time to notice her bulges. Then again, if she was going to do this, she wanted to feel good about herself. So forget Mr. Marlboro.
Clare sipped her martini and continued to scan the candidates. Not Mr. Junior Exec. She’d had enough of his type in the courtroom today. Mr. Sensitive with Glasses and Long Hair wouldn’t do, either. He probably wouldn’t approve of her constant wrangling over financial settlements. Of course, she wouldn’t want to spend too much time discussing them with him. She had other plans in mind. Plans for his long hair and his nice-looking mouth. Too bad he was a sensitive type.
Clare sighed and sipped again. There was no pleasing her tonight. Maybe she should look at the booths. Maybe she—
“Clare?”
She turned in the direction of the familiar voice.
“Oh, hello, Anton.”
Like her, he hadn’t changed out of his business suit. But he had taken off his blazer and was carrying it, hooked on a finger, over his shoulder in a careless manner she found sexy. He had removed his tie, and had loosened the top buttons of his shirt, revealing dark chest hairs. She swallowed—discretely she hoped—and forced her eyes up toward his sea-blue eyes and slightly weathered face.
With his good-guy looks and well-toned body, Anton was a far better proposition than anything else she had seen so far. She was hard-pressed to find anything wrong with him.
Oh, yes. There was something, something very wrong. He was a lawyer and he worked for her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“That was going to be my line.” He smiled at her, and she wished more than ever that she didn’t have a rule about relationships with colleagues. “I thought you were working late tonight. Your door was shut when I left, or I would have asked if you wanted to join me.”
“I