Help Wanted Read Free Page A

her, she could hardly blame him for being upset.
    With a heavy sigh, she texted her editor, Dianne Devane. Any openings in Metro yet?
    Almost before she hit Send, she got her response. Sit tight, sweetie. I'm working on it.
    Emitting a quick growl, Mattie turned her attention back to her computer screen and skimmed the brief account of the weary woman's conundrum.
    The salary of my demanding, soul-sucking job is holding me hostage. I haven't had a vacation in over five years (maternity leaves do not count). I see my kids so infrequently, that if I don't keep their pictures on my desk current, I tend not to recognize them in passing (their resemblance truly is jarring). Any friends I have left have given up hope of ever seeing me in person again, especially when I had to cancel my appearance at an intervention they were staging on my behalf, because I had to meet an absolutely critical deadline. As it is, I'm spread so thin, I make plastic wrap look opaque. My only hope is to convince my husband, a stay-at-home dad to our boys, to return to the corporate world. Chances of this happening, though, are slim to none—especially after he machine-washed yet another one of my dry-clean-only sweaters, and I leveled him with a 'does not meet expectations' on his most recent performance review (I mean, seriously—can you blame me?).
    Needless to say, it did not go over well. He has since relocated to the man cave-slash-office down the hall and has barely spoken to me since.
    So, tell me. Should I force his hand and quit my job, or file for divorce and offer him a job as a live-in nanny (because he looks a hell of a lot better in an apron than I do)?
    It was signed "Burned Out Breadwinner."
    You gave your husband a performance review?
    Mattie didn't know whether to send the writer a list of local marriage counselors or encourage her to pursue a career as a stand-up comedian. Staring at the ceiling above her cubicle for a moment, the advice columnist tried to think of a fitting response.
    The pressure…
    She closed her eyes, scanning through her cerebral database of advice she'd doled out during the nearly three years she'd been on the job.
    I got nothin'.
    Still trying to salvage her once-promising investigative journalism career, and having just torpedoed her own relationship with the best man on the planet, she hardly felt qualified to offer any noteworthy pearls of wisdom.
    She shot another text off to Dianne. What's the hold up?
    As soon as she hit Send, her editor appeared in her cube.
    "How do you do that?" Mattie asked, astonished, watching as Dianne hoisted herself up onto her desk.
    Ignoring her question, the stylish expat from Manhattan proceeded to announce,
    "According to our esteemed publisher, Lester Crenshaw, if we move you to Metro, I lose a head count."
    C-r-a-p.
    A move to the Metro section would go a long way toward putting Mattie's sidelined career back on track.
    Mattie's shoulders slumped. "So I'm trapped in this position forever?"
    "For now, unless we can find another Plate Spinner who's willing to work freelance. At least until I can get another head count."
    And with that, Dianne left her reluctant advice columnist alone with the Burned-Out Breadwinner.
    Mattie's eyes drifted back to the words displayed on her computer screen.
    One thing was certain, as burned out as she claimed to be, this breadwinner was a hoot.
    I wonder…
    As she continued to stare, wisps of an idea started to form into a semiviable plan. Like her last brilliant idea, forming Team Plate Spinner at the onset of her marathon training, she was certain this one had the power to change lives. Her own included.
     
    *   *   *
     
    Paul pulled into the parking lot at the back of the high school and saw the cross-country team emerge from the forest preserve just beyond the football field and outdoor track. He knew those trails well and still ran them nearly every single morning. He slid his car into an empty space and made his way over to the