Dating The Mrs. Smiths. Tanya Michaels

and whether or not she’d like the sandwich in her sack lunch, she’d already been through so much in the last two years. After four years of being home with an attentive mommy all day, Sara had started pre-K, followed by kindergarten—the year Sara had learned she would no longer be an only child. At first we’d thought her frequent but vague complaints about not feeling well were cries for attention, but she had indeed been experiencing periodic viral throat infections throughout my pregnancy. Then, less than eight weeks after the baby and I had been discharged from the hospital, Tom had checked in. Sara and Ben’s father, my late husband, had been scheduled for a “routine” and “low-risk” surgery.

      Doctors had assured us that serious complications from angioplasty were quite rare. If we were going to experience a freak overturn of the odds, why couldn’t it have been winning the Florida Lotto?

      Sara was finally coping with her dad’s death, and a month into the new school year, she’d yet to be out sick—her life was improving. What would a child psychologist say about my now removing her from a class she enjoyed and taking her away from the only state she’d ever lived in, destroying her barely recovered sense of stability? I had a quick, flash-forward image of my daughter as a black-clad, green-haired teenager with her pierced lip curled back in a sneer as she explained to a sympathetic talk-show host, “I never had a chance. My mother completely screwed me up when I was young.”

      Oh dear.

      “I saved the good news for last,” Martin said coaxingly.

      I glanced up from the hands I’d been unconsciously wringing in the lap of my outdated broomstick skirt. “There’s good news?”

      “You haven’t asked where we would transfer you.” He beamed at me as if the relocation, hardly a done deal even if I wanted it, would take me to paradise on earth.

      Hershey, Pennsylvania? I hear the streets there are paved with chocolate. Or at least named for it.

      “Chicago is the first option,” he said. “But the more likely location for someone with your sales and marketing experience is…Boston.”

      “The one in Massachusetts?” No, genius, the one in Nevada. My question was really just a rhetorical reflex—I’d forgotten we even had a location there. In my defense, I’d had a few other things on my mind.

      Martin was nodding. “Home of the Red Sox, famous clam chowder and, if I’m not mistaken, some family members of yours?”

      “My mother-in-law.” Rose Fiorello Smith.

      Technically several of Tom’s relatives lived around Boston, but it was Rose who loomed large in my mind. Her visits to Florida had been rare during our marriage, but as last fall became winter, she’d made an unprecedented three trips here: to meet Ben, to bury her son, and to “celebrate” Christmas with us, that awful first holiday season without Tom. A closer mother- and daughter-in-law duo probably would have been a comfort to each other. But love for Tom was one of the few things Rose and I had in common; with him gone, the awkward strain between us was more pronounced.

      “Rose is the children’s only living grandparent,” I told Martin, reminding myself of why it was important to try to make more time to call or visit her. Even if it was a subconscious relief to let months go by without talking.

      “And she’s in the Boston area? Wonderful!” Martin’s shoulders sagged in visible relief. Obviously the possibility of my being near family made him feel less guilty about this afternoon’s bad news. “You see? Where one door closes…”

      Thank goodness he trailed off. If he’d added “another opens,” or some quaint remark about windows, I probably would have stapled his tie to his desk blotter.

      It wasn’t that I necessarily disagreed with the unspoken sentiment, but I’d heard my share of well-meaning platitudes since Tom’s surgery had gone wrong, leaving me a widow with two young children. People desperately wanted to say something to make the situation more bearable. Time heals all wounds; everything happens for a reason; loved ones live on in our hearts. You’re not alone had been the worst. I knew intentions were good, but when I woke up at four in the morning, reaching for a man who’d shared my bed for twenty years and was now in the ground, it sure as hell felt like I was alone.

      Inhaling deeply, I forced myself back to the present. “Do I have to give you an answer today?” I hoped not. My thoughts were too jumbled to form a rational decision, and I was suddenly so tired that just asking the question took effort. Truthfully, I was a little alarmed by the oppressive, fog-like fatigue rolling in—a disturbingly familiar sensation.

      Last year, the combined lack of sleep, postpartum mood swings and overwhelming grief had banished me to a hazy depression I hadn’t fully escaped until spring. I thanked the Lord every day for my friend Dianne Linney. Sara adored “Aunt Di,” and Dianne, a single young woman with no children of her own, had helped with my daughter during those long, bleak months I’d felt trapped in a dark hole. Dianne had also fielded more than a couple pediatrician’s visits on days when I absolutely couldn’t miss work.

      “I wouldn’t dream of pushing you for a decision,” Martin said. “I’ll break the news to the salespeople tomorrow, when I have them all in the office for our meeting—I’d appreciate your discretion in the meantime—and the official company-wide memo won’t go out until next Monday. So take a few days to give the matter some thought, no reason to rush.”

      No reason except the office being closed in a matter of weeks and my inordinate fondness for being able to buy groceries. But sarcasm was never the answer. If it were, I could make a killing on Jeopardy.

      I stood, smiling to show there were no hard feelings, and returned to the office that had been mine since my return and advancement to full-time status. Inside the building, we could only pick up one radio station with consistent clarity, so I listened to a lot of Spanish rock music at my desk. Its sassy beat sounded muffled now, distorted, and the rest of my day passed like a recording playing at the wrong speed.

      By the time I pulled into the driveway of my one-story stucco house that evening, I had managed to shrug off the tentacles of encroaching depression—mostly by making internal, inappropriate jokes. But I still hadn’t adjusted to the fact that my current job situation, our financial lifeline, was disappearing.

      I exited the car, trying to ignore the warm humidity that plastered my clothes to my skin, and waved to our retired neighbor, Mrs. Winslow, who was out mulching her flower beds. Mrs. Winslow watched the kids for me on Fridays, but one day a week with young children was enough for her. I was fortunate that Dianne, aforementioned gift from heaven, could stay with Ben and pick up Sara from school on Monday through Thursdays, allowing them to play with their own toys and be in the security of a familiar environment. There were several good day cares in the area, but God knows how I would have afforded one of them.

      And Tom, who had been raised by a doting and devoted mother, had always maintained that day cares were too impersonal for his children. If I was no longer the stay-at-home mom we’d planned for me to be, at least the children were with someone who loved them unconditionally. I insisted on paying Dianne a nominal fee, which she added to what she made as a performer in a ritzy Vegas-style Miami hotel on the weekends, but we both knew she was saving me a bundle. Sometimes it seemed comical that my best friend was a gorgeous twenty-four-year-old who shook her booty for a living, when I myself was a newly widowed almost-forty-year-old from the burbs, but I’d hit it off instantly with the younger woman when a co-worker of Tom’s had brought her to the company picnic. She’d become the sister I’d never had.

      If not for Dianne’s generosity and the last few dollars of the life insurance settlement, I might have had to sell my body on street corners to make ends meet—not that I expected a high profit margin on the bod of a woman who’s nursed two babies. Unless there was a trendy stretch-mark fetish I didn’t know about.

      The wind chimes hanging in the alcove at my front door greeted me with tinkling metallic cheer. Even nicer were the voices I heard as I turned the knob.

      “Mommy’s home!” A pink-socked Sara barreled in from the carpeted