Dating The Mrs. Smiths. Tanya Michaels

her first three years, doing things like Mommy and Me activity groups, trips to the zoo and playdates at the park. Somewhere along the line, getting outside the neighborhood had become a must. I don’t remember the median age in our subdivision being sixty-seven when Tom and I had bought the house, but more and more I was feeling like the only one at the monthly potluck who still had all her own teeth.

      “Hey.” Dianne met us as we rounded the corner from the living room into the kitchen. I wore a skirt, blouse and pumps, yet my statuesque friend looked far more glamorous in her faded jeans and yellow Life’s a Beach T-shirt. For all our superficial difference, she “gets” me and we share the same loyal streak.

      She jerked her thumb toward the ivy-print kettle steaming on the stove. “I was just brewing some tea. How was your day?”

      So many possible answers, so few of them appropriate in front of children.

      I hadn’t called Dianne because I’d worried that if I tried to talk about today’s news before fully absorbing it, lurking despair might snatch me into its jaws. But I was home now and armed with my secret weapon against despair—kiddo-hugs and a mouse-shaped cookie jar stuffed to the rim with reduced-fat Oreos. I predicted significant cookie depletion by morning.

      Dianne raised one red eyebrow when I didn’t answer. She’s boasted more than once that among the redheads in her act, she’s the only natural one. “That bad, huh? Want me to stay and help with dinner?”

      I glanced at the jar pushed back on the mauve counter-top, theoretically out of Sara’s reach. Which was silly, since my daughter was plenty enterprising enough to drag one of the table chairs toward her goal. At least the scraping of wood on linoleum gave me an opportunity to foil her plans. “I was kind of thinking six-course Oreos.”

      “Oh. So really that bad.”

      “Or maybe I should come up with something more representative of the four food groups?” I averted my gaze guiltily, remembering the gourmet meals made from scratch I’d proudly had on the table when Tom got home after a hard day’s work. The carefully prepared casseroles I’d frozen toward the end of my pregnancy with Ben, so that nutritious dinners could be tossed in the oven with no thought or trouble once the baby came.

      “P-i-z-z-a offers bread, dairy, meats and veggies,” Dianne suggested with a wink at my daughter, knowing perfectly well that Sara could spell pizza and enough other words to make her one of the best readers in her first-grade class.

      Sara began jumping up and down. “Pizza! Can we have pizza, Mommy? Please!”

      Caught up in her exuberance, Ben began waving his sippy cup of apple juice, ostensibly in demand of a ham-and-pineapple deep dish.

      “Okay.” I reached for the kitchen drawer where I kept coupons for the local delivery place. “Pizza sounds like decent comfort food.”

      “You want to talk about why you need comforting?” Dianne asked.

      “Maybe this isn’t the best time.” I jerked my head toward the kids, who were bouncing around the kitchen in time to Sara’s whoops of excitement. Ben wouldn’t understand the technicalities of Kazka’s downsizing, but even he could pick up on that Bad News vibe children are sensitive to, no matter how casual adults try to keep conversation. And Sara was bound to take the threat of more change badly.

      “After they go to bed, then,” Dianne said.

      “You sure you want to stick around that late?” I floundered between wanting to talk to another grown-up and not wanting to take advantage of my friend’s constant kindness. It was Wednesday, which meant she worked tomorrow night on top of watching my kids during the day.

      “I can make us rumrunners,” she cajoled. Dianne mixed better drinks than Tom Cruise’s character in that old 1980s bartending movie.

      Which is why several hours later, I hovered between a pleasant buzz and that weepy feeling alcohol can induce when you’re blue. Feet tucked under me, I sat at one end of the couch, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt of Tom’s—I’d donated most of his clothes to charity, but had been unable to part with all of them. From the other end of the sofa, Dianne was regarding me with unconcealed worry.

      “I’m just a little down now because the news is still fresh. I’ll be fine once I have a few days to take it in,” I insisted. Wanting to reassure us both, I managed a smile and conjured one of those clichés I knew by heart. “You know, that which doesn’t kill us—”

      “Sucks swamp water, nonetheless?” Dianne supplied, her eyes twinkling.

      “Exactly.”

      Perhaps saying I would be “fine” in a few days had been unrealistic. After all, it had been a long time since I’d truly felt fine. But I was coping. The weekend rolled around, and I eyed the classifieds in Friday’s paper as I browned hamburger meat for dinner.

      As the person who coordinated all of Kazka’s sales appointments for the Southeast, I had contacts within the pharmaceutical distribution and medical equipment industry. Several people had agreed to look at my updated résumé. I suspected, though, that most of these offers stemmed more from professional courtesy than an overwhelming need to fill openings, which didn’t bode well for me.

      I knew I could find a job, but one that would allow me to support the family? Not for the first time, I regretted that I’d never gone back to college to complete my bachelor’s degree. My college career had been cut short by Dad’s unexpected death and my marrying young, but I’d finished enough credits to earn my associate’s. The degree didn’t carry as much weight in the current job market, though, and it wasn’t my only handicap. I’d quickly proven myself at Kazka before leaving to have my second baby and had been told a full-time position was mine if I ever wanted it. But as far as impressing prospective new employers went, the stay-at-home-mommy years I’d missed in the workforce could put me behind the competition.

      I stirred the beef around, making a mental note to get chicken or fish sticks into the kids tomorrow since we’d had cheeseburger kids’ meals last night. Once I’d set down the plastic spatula, I reached for the newspaper, which crinkled as I folded it back. Pickings were slim, unless I wanted an exciting job in the field of selling condo time-shares to tourists. Would applying for the transfer to Boston really be such a bad choice?

      For the last few days, my knee-jerk reaction had been that I didn’t want to uproot the kids. This was home, the place Tom and I had made our life together, a place full of memories.

      He and I had met while attending the University of Florida, where he’d been offered a football scholarship. I’d been a freshman away from my Georgia home for the first time, enchanted with the good-looking Gator receiver. We were both only children, both raised by single parents. And now I was the single parent.

      If the kids were going to be stuck with just me, maybe I should move somewhere where they had more family. They loved Dianne, but she dreamed of one day moving to Las Vegas or New York to perform. In Boston, Sara and Ben would be closer to their adoring grandmother. Unfortunately, so would I.

      It wasn’t that I didn’t like my mother-in-law. We got along, particularly when we were in different states. But Rose had been raised in a patriarchal family where the men were revered and waited on—when she’d lost her husband, she’d transferred her devotion to her teenage son. Her pride and joy. The focus of her entire being. The first time he’d brought me home, during a semester break in college, I’d had the distinct impression that she’d wanted better for him. Maybe it wasn’t personal; maybe no mere mortal woman could have lived up to what Rose envisioned for him.

      But that point was moot now. And the kids deserved people in their lives besides me.

      Speaking of the children… I glanced around the corner into the too-quiet living room. Although it might seem counterintuitive to worry that silence signifies chaos, it was amazing what my cherubs could do covertly. They were like a little sneaky special-forces team, usually on search-and-destroy missions. For the time being, though, Sara was lying on her stomach on the floor, tugging