The Ugly Wife

By Robynne Rand

The promotion Brendan Cleeg has been dreaming of is finally within his grasp. The only thing standing in his way is his wife, Claire. She doesn’t want to go to Germany, doesn’t want to uproot their sons, or sell the house. Her obstinacy is driving him crazy, as this job would bring them to the pinnacle of success.

Claire Cleeg has always been ugly. A cranial deformity at birth took away any chance for happiness—but then she met Brendan. And when he married her, she vowed she would give him everything he ever wanted—until now. His promotion to partner is something she wants for him, but not at the expense of everything she holds dear. However, if she doesn’t go, she might lose Brendan forever.

Once Claire agrees to move to Germany, Brendan’s boss is now reticent about sending him. The job is his, but only if he leaves Claire behind. His boss feels she’s not attractive enough to meet new clients. Unfortunately, Brendan must choose between his wife and his job.

This is a short story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robynne Rand
• Release date: Feb 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463092606

Robynne Rand

Robynne Rand grew up on the shores of Rhode Island. Now living in the Foothills of the Piedmont in North Carolina with her daughter, two dogs, and a cat named Henry David Thoreau, she writes about home and the people she misses.Rand also writes Regency romance under the pen name Anne Gallagher.

Book preview

The Luckiest of Men

Brendan Cleeg woke up with a smile on his face every day with the full knowledge and complete understanding that he was the luckiest man on the planet. He had a fantastic wife and perfect sons, both houses were paid for, college tuition in reserve, and the big, fat promotion he had been working toward for the last five years was about to come to fruition.

Saturday morning, Brendan was up early for a round of golf with the partners to discuss the move to Germany, who would set up the new oversees division, and ultimately land the posting. Brendan wanted the job—the pinnacle of career moves, which would put him in a serious tax bracket, but his wife Claire did not want him to take it. She didn’t want to move, uproot the boys. Ben, the eldest, was in his senior year.

However, Daniel McNulty, head of the firm, wanted someone like Brendan—young, talented, impressive—to represent McNulty, McCallan & Leibowicz. Claire worried they might fire him if he refused the position. Don’t be silly, Brendan had said, full of bravado. Why would they fire their best junior partner?

But now, here in the kitchen, drinking his coffee, Brendan wondered what they, specifically Daniel, would say if they asked him to go and he turned them down.

The familiar tread of his youngest son’s footsteps echoed from the hallway. Brendan turned as his half-asleep fourteen-year-old son, Will, in rumpled sweatpants and Brendan’s old Grateful Dead t-shirt stepped into the kitchen.

Hey, Champ, Brendan said. He held out his arms.

Will shuffled over and hugged his father.

Brendan kissed the top of Will’s head. Brendan knew most fathers didn’t kiss their sons, but he would cherish as much of Will’s childhood as Will would allow. Ben, now seventeen, rebuffed any show of affection from Brendan, yet, still allowed Claire the occasional motherly kiss good-bye. It irked Brendan, but there was nothing he could do about it.

What time is practice? Brendan asked. He took his final sip of cold coffee and poured the rest into the sink.

Will wandered to the refrigerator and opened the door, stared into it, and then closed it again. He turned to his father. Where’s Mom?

I think she’s in the shower, Brendan said. He walked to the wall that separated the kitchen from the hall and listened. Yeah, water’s running. Why?

I’m hungry, Will said, and plopped into a chair at the large marble island in the center of the room. Practice starts at eight. He stretched his arms onto the length of counter and then laid his head down on his left elbow.

Brendan walked to the fridge, took out the eggs, margarine, and grape jelly, and placed them on the counter.

Will looked up. What are you doing?

Making you breakfast, Brendan said. He took the bread from the cupboard and set everything near the stove. Now, do you want French toast, scrambled eggs and toast, or over-easy eggs and toast? Brendan rummaged in the drawer for the good spatula. Next, he opened the oven and pulled out his favorite non-stick pan.

Since when do you cook? Will asked, astonished. He sat up in the chair and watched his father.

I’ve always cooked, Brendan said. Only you never bothered to notice.

I knew you could do stuff on the grill, Will said. "But I didn’t know you knew how to make real food."

Brendan smiled at his son. Who do you think made the Thanksgiving turkey last year when Mommy was sick?

Will’s mouth formed a small O. Seriously?

As a heart attack. Brendan turned his attention to the pan. He turned the gas on and dropped a small forkful of margarine into it. Now, what do you want to eat?

Can you really make French toast? Will asked.

Brendan opened the cabinet, reached in, and took out a small bowl. Yup, I can. Now, go get yourself a glass of orange juice and take out the syrup while you’re in there. Brendan, intent on fixing his son’s breakfast, didn’t see Claire walk into the room. She startled him when her arms encircled his waist. A little thing about Claire that irked him, she tended to sneak up on him, but such an infinitesimal thing could be overlooked. Especially as she was so perfect in every other way.

Hey, babe, Brendan said. You want some French toast?

Claire walked to the far side of the open-concept room, found the television remote on the coffee table, and clicked it on. She fiddled with the channels until she found the one she wanted and then sat on the edge of the settee, staring intently at the screen.

What’s going on? Brendan asked.

Will wandered over to his mother. What’s the matter, Mom?

Someone shot the President, Claire said.

Brendan turned the two slices of bread so the egg-y side could cook, turned off the flame, and walked over to where Claire sat.

The national news anchor they both liked stared at the camera, a composed expression on his face, his monotone repeating the same headline every few minutes. The President has been shot. Interspersed were forty-five second sound bites from news reporters out in the field. The screen would then return to the anchor for another swell of new information.

Claire turned to him. What’s going to happen now?

Brendan rubbed his wife’s back. Nothing. It’ll be fine. They haven’t said he died only that he was shot.

I meant with the partners? Do you think they’ll still want you to go?

If Brendan got the job,