Chapter 5 - Lily
Friday was Jake's asthma checkup. I took him to the pediatrician at nine, then picked Lily up early from school — she'd had a stomachache, and the nurse called. By noon, both kids were home, Jake fine, Lily curled up on the couch with a fever.
I worked from the couch that day, laptop on my knees, Lily's head on my shoulder. I answered emails while she slept. I refilled her water glass. I measured out her fever medicine. At three, Jake woke up from his nap and wanted mac and cheese. I made it, cut the hot dogs into stars — his favorite — and sat with him while he ate.
At four, Lily woke up and looked at me with those big, too-smart eyes.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, bug."
"Was that man at the party right? About you not having a real job?"
I closed my laptop. I set it on the coffee table. I turned to face her.
"No," I said. "He wasn't right."
"Then why didn't you say anything? Mommy looked sad."
I took a breath. How do you explain this to an eight-year-old? "Sometimes, when people are scared or angry, they say mean things. And sometimes, the best thing to do is not yell back. Your mom works with that man. If I'd yelled at him, it would have made her job harder. So I chose to be quiet. That doesn't mean he was right."
Lily thought about this. "Mommy works really hard."
"She does."
"But you work hard too. You make my lunch. You take Jake to the doctor. You help me with math. You fix the sink. That's work, right?"
I felt something tighten in my chest. "That's work, bug. That's the most important work there is."
She nodded, satisfied, and laid her head back down. A minute later, she was asleep.
I sat there for a long time, my arm around her, thinking about what Richard had said. About what Lily had said. About the fact that I had spent three years hiding — not just from Richard, but from everyone. I told myself it was for the family. And it was. But it was also easier. Easier to let people think I was the stay-at-home guy than to explain that I ran a company and chose to be home. Easier to avoid the questions, the assumptions, the "so what do you do?"
Claire came home at six. She took one look at Lily's feverish face and went into mom mode — thermometer, cool cloth, pediatrician on speed dial. By seven, Lily's fever was down. By eight, both kids were in bed.
We sat at the kitchen table, eating leftover pizza.
"Dan," Claire said, "I need to tell you something. And I need you to not get mad."
I put my slice down. "OK."
"Richard called me today. He wants to meet for coffee this weekend. He says he has an opportunity — a big one — and he wants me to be part of it. He said it's 'life-changing.' Dan, I think he's interviewing somewhere, and he wants me to come with him. I told him I'd meet him. Just to hear him out. I didn't want to burn the bridge."
I stared at her. Richard was meeting Claire this weekend. And on Monday, he was walking into my office.
"Claire," I said, carefully, "what if I told you I know where Richard is interviewing?"
She blinked. "What? How?"
"Because he's interviewing at my company. He applied last week. Marcus and I interviewed him on Thursday. He doesn't know who I am."
The pizza stopped halfway to her mouth. She set it down. "You — what? Dan, you own Cole & Associates. You're the CEO. He — he applied there? And you interviewed him? And you didn't tell me?"
Her voice was rising. I could see the anger building.
"I was going to tell you —"
"When? After you hired him? After you fired him? Dan, do you have any idea what this could do to me? If he finds out you're my husband — if he finds out you've been playing games with him — he could ruin me in this town. He's got connections everywhere. You don't just — you don't just do this without telling me!"
She stood up. Her chair scraped the floor.
"Claire —"
"No. Don't. I need — I need to think." She grabbed her keys. "I'm going for a drive."
The door closed behind her. I sat at the table alone, the pizza getting cold, and I thought about what Marcus had said. You're playing with fire.
Claire was right. I'd made a mistake. Not in interviewing Richard — but in not telling her. I'd treated her like a variable in my plan, not my partner. And now she was driving around Charlotte at nine o'clock at night, angry and scared, because I'd wanted to be clever.
I picked up my phone and texted her: I'm sorry. You're right. Call me when you're ready. Whatever you want to do, I'll do it.
She didn't text back.
At eleven, I heard the garage door. I was on the couch, still awake. She came in, her eyes red, and sat down beside me.
"I met him," she said. "Richard. I called him. I told him I'd meet him tomorrow. Dan — I'm going to hear him out. And then I'm going to tell him no. But I need you to promise me something."
"Anything."
"Promise me you won't hire him. Not as a game. Not as revenge. If you're going to hire him, hire him because he's the best person for the job. And if you're not, reject him. But don't use him to make a point. Not with my career in the balance."
I looked at her. I thought about the interview. About Richard taking credit for her work. About the man on my deck.
"I promise," I said. "No games. Monday, I'm going to tell him exactly who I am. And then we'll decide — together — what to do."
She leaned her head on my shoulder. "OK," she said. "Together."
We sat there in the dark, and for the first time in a week, I felt like we were on the same side again.
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