Dating The Mrs. Smiths. Tanya Michaels

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      I swallowed back a lump of emotion and jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “I’d, um, better check on the girls. All I need for them is to get lipstick all over the carpet before we put the house on the market.”

      Ben grinned up at me, cherubically unalarmed by the words house and market. As Martin had cheerfully pointed out today, I had a ton to do, and finding a real-estate agent was at the top of the list. I would also need to tell Rose about the move and probably beg her to help us find a place in Boston. Assuming anyone wanted to buy this place and that I could get us all packed in less than a month.

      I’d barely finalized the decision to transfer and was already wondering how to accomplish it all, how to find a good school for Sara, wondering if I’d given up the job search here too early. It was funny—in that decidedly un-humorous way—how I’d been the one to make the bulk of day-to-day parenting decisions when Tom had been alive, but now that he wasn’t here I keenly felt the burden of responsibility. What if Sara never got better at math? Who was going to teach Ben to pee standing up? If either of them grew up to be a serial killer, guess whose fault it would be?

      I supposed I could look into some sort of single-mother support group for my occasionally neurotic thoughts, but how was I going to find the time and energy to commiserate with other moms about my lack of time and energy?

      With a mental shake, I poked my head into Sara’s room. She and her friend Callie both wore the traditional cardboard cone party hats, held in place with elastic chin straps. Sara had also placed one on Ellie, her beloved pink stuffed elephant.

      “Hi, Mommy.” My daughter beamed up at me, pink lipstick smeared around her mouth and green shadow circling her eyes. “Callie doesn’t hafta go home yet, does she?”

      “No, I was just checking to see if you were still playing beauty parlor.”

      Sara shook her head. “Nope. We got pretty for a princess ball, and we’re going to that now.”

      I grinned, glad Callie’s mom wouldn’t mind the “princess makeup” when I took her daughter home. “You guys have fun. I’m going to go say goodbye to Dianne.”

      My friend had to work tonight, but it had been sweet of her to stay to have an early dinner and cake with me and the kids. I found her on the back patio, pushing Ben in his outdoor toddler swing. Even though we’d reached the end of September, it was still warm outside. Yesterday, the air-conditioning window unit in my office had crapped out and I’d felt as if I’d been trying to finish filing in a sauna.

      “You know,” I said slowly, “it might be nice to live somewhere where they have actual seasons.”

      Dianne sent me a comically blank look. “What are those?”

      We definitely didn’t get a lot of white Christmases in these parts, and while I had nothing against palm trees, they don’t provide spectacular autumn foliage.

      I snapped my fingers, remembering Rose’s birthday gift last year. “And sweater weather!” Just not army-green ones, no offense to those who were being all they could be.

      Unflattering colors aside, I’d much rather be seen in a soft knit turtleneck than a bathing suit. Sure, some women looked good in swimsuits even after multiple pregnancies, but clearly they’d struck some sort of Faustian bargain.

      Switching places with Dianne, I took over swinging my laughing son. “Boston won’t be so bad. Rose will lavish affection on the kids. And I’ll be fine, learning the ropes in the new office.”

      “Who’s worried about you?” She sniffed. “I’m thinking of myself. When I come back, you won’t even be here!”

      “Yes, but you’ll be rich and famous by then and can afford to visit me. Besides, you’re never gonna meet hot young guys if you spend all your time around a widowed suburbanite.”

      Her lips curled in an appreciative grin. “Ah, hot young guys. Now there’s a topic that perks me up. Maybe you should give guys some thought, too.”

      “What?” My head snapped in her direction, and I was so startled I let my hands drop to my sides. When I didn’t catch Ben’s swing on the rebound, it hit me in the midsection. “Oof.”

      Dianne glanced down, and I didn’t know if it was because she was trying not to laugh or because she was hesitant about broaching the subject. “I know you’ve been through…more than I can imagine. But moving to a new city is like a fresh start in a lot of ways. Full of new opportunities.”

      “You sound like Martin.”

      “He tells you to think about dating, too?”

      “No.”

      Dating? An interesting idea, but interesting in the same way as me being an astronaut—unlikely and surreal. I’d been with Tom for half my life, almost all of my adult life. Would I even know how to date?

      “I know I’m butting in,” Dianne said unrepentantly, “but that’s what best friends do. You’ll be meeting people, and Rose might be available for some weekend babysitting. You call yourself a widowed suburbanite—”

      “Which part of that statement is inaccurate?”

      “I’m just saying there’s more to you than that. A lot more.”

      I didn’t know what to say, so I merely nodded. Theoretically, I wasn’t opposed to dating someday, but it was at the bottom of my very long list of concerns right now. Still, I was touched that my younger friend with the comparatively exciting life saw more to me than I suspected my sympathetic neighbors and co-workers often did. There was a brief silence as we recognized that we’d gone from playground chat to one of those girlie bonding moments often portrayed in commercials for yogurt and International coffees.

      She gave a sideways little grin. “All I’m saying is that you should consider dating, and if you should meet any good-looking younger guys, feel free to tell them about me.”

      “Who said I don’t want a younger guy?” I was kidding, of course, but one of the things I adored about Dianne was how I never had to explain that.

      “You might need one to keep up with you. I’ve heard women really hit their stride at forty, get empowered and stuff. These will probably be your bad-ass years.”

      Charlie Smith, bad-ass at large. I laughed, despite knowing in that moment how keenly I would miss her.

      Encouraged, she continued. “I hope when I’m forty, I’ve still ‘got it’ enough that strange men risk sexual harassment suits just to hit on me.” Her joking helped take the edge off the awful interview I’d had early in the week.

      “You’re deranged,” I said affectionately.

      “Yeah, and I can’t bake a cake to save my life. When you start making new friends in Boston, try to trade up, would you?”

      “Not possible.”

      Her expression sobered. “Are you going to tell them tonight? I could stay if you want.”

      “Your boss refused to give you the night off,” I reminded her. “You should probably be leaving now.”

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