Wanted: Wife

by Jones, Gwen

  “Damn, look at that,” Denny said. “There must be a hundred women in line.”

  I leaned into the windshield, squinting. “And the door’s not even open yet.”

  He parked the van on the opposite side of the street. “Hurry,” he said, grabbing his equipment. I grabbed mine and scrambled after him.

  We passed women of all shapes, sizes and ages, all glammed to the hilt, some with one or two kids. Seeing Denny with his camera and me with my mic, they tossed us a few scowls, knowing their secret would now get out. When we finally reached the head of the line, we met a fireman in full uniform.

  “Hi, Channel 8 News,” I said. “We’d like to chat with Mr. Devine before you open the door.”

  He eyed me skeptically before his mouth widened in a grin. “Hey . . . You’re Julie Knott! I love your stories. You know, if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t—Oh, go on in.”

  I gifted him with a smile, on autopilot now. “Many thanks.”

  As we entered Denny already had the minicam hoisted atop his shoulder, but I kept my mic holstered for the moment. If this Devine was as loony as I figured him to be, I thought it best to ask his permission first. My childhood had been peppered with tales about Pineys, crazy backwoods Jethros who shotgunned first and asked questions later. Through the window I could see the back of a man standing behind a table, and all at once resentment boiled inside me. I took a deep breath, my shirt sticking to me in the un-air-conditioned hall. I opened the door.

  “Hello? Mr. Devine? I’m Julie Knott from Channel 8 News. Might I have a quick word with you?”

  When he turned, my heart leaped right out my throat.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  The Flipside of Serious

  “HOLY MOTHER OF—God . . .” Denny said.

  My sentiments exactly. Andy Devine had to be the most stunning man I’d ever laid eyes on.

  He was tall, six foot two at least, his black hair swept back to just nick his collar, his skin tanned, his cheekbones high, his shoulders as wide as his waist was lean. He wore dark trousers, a white shirt, a tie, and a vest, but I could tell immediately he was used to more freedom. His body looked sculpted by hard and frequent use, his biceps nearly bursting from their cotton casing, and even in that un-air-conditioned room, he looked as cool and collected as if encased in ice. Putting it all together, he was quite the package, but that wasn’t what took my breath away. As I came toward the table, as he moved around it to meet me, it was his eyes that nearly nailed me to the floor: two sharp, liquid arrows so regally blue they looked cut from some empirical standard, and infused with an intelligence so far above any preconceived notions, I genuinely felt embarrassed.

  To put it simply: he was not what I expected.

  “What can I do for you?” he said, the overhead fans ruffling his thick hair.

  Not that I would allow him to ruffle me. “As I said, I’m Julie Knott from Channel 8 News, and this is my cameraman, Denny O’Brien.

  Denny cleared his throat—loudly—lowering the camera to his side. “Pleased to meet you,” he said with surprising steadiness, in spite of his blanch a minute before.

  Andy Devine nodded, but didn’t reach for either of our hands, which we were too off-kilter to offer anyway. Instead he eyed us with a curiosity I’d last seen at the zoo.

  Inwardly, I was a little miffed that any human—insanely gorgeous or otherwise—could invoke such ridiculous reactions, doubly so as I groped for the right thing to say. My God! When’s the last time that happened? Still, years of experience let me slip into my screen-perfected smile and simpatico interviewer’s mode, my voice precisely modulated as I leaned in and said conspiratorially, “Maybe you’ve heard of me? I do segments on Channel 8 called ‘Julie Knott’s Random Access.’”

  “Can’t say I watch much TV,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed. “Random, as in meaning . . .?”

  “You know, out of the ordinary, off the beaten track. Unusual.”

  “Ah.” He considered that for a moment. “You think I’m unusual?”

  Only the fact that you’re actually saying that with a straight face. “Well, your interview process certainly is. We’d love to do a story on it.”

  He looked honestly perplexed. “Why?”

  I almost laughed. Either this man was yanking my chain, or there were still people out there who could surprise me. “You don’t think advertising on a utility pole for a wife is a bit out of the ordinary?”

  He leaned back against the table, folding his arms across his massive chest. “No more than when a woman tricks herself out and goes into a bar, advertising herself as available. I’m just giving her a more respectable venue.”

  His voice was deep and melodious, yet he had the oddest accent, as unmistakably American as it was faintly exotic. The sound of it sent a distinct wave of heat through me. Good God. I scrubbed my hand across the back of my neck; I refused to let him throw me. “So, you don’t see having them parade before you like horses at an auction as a tad different?”

  That seemed to amuse him. “Miss Knott, it’s me who’s really for sale, and don’t think for a moment each one of those women out there isn’t aware of it.”

  I had an image of Mr. Gorgeous being yanked from one frantic female to the other, One Day Sale! signs hung around his neck. “That would be true if they were doing the choosing.”

  “Even the woman I pick still has to agree to it. I’ll be making all the promises.”

  “As in a contract.”

  “Actually, it’s very simple. I’m offering a three-month trial marriage, in which I’ll promise to house, feed and provide my wife with anything she needs. All I’m asking of her is to be healthy, work hard and try for a baby. If for any reason she’s not completely satisfied—and pregnant within three months—she’ll walk away with a generous compensation. So obviously, the risk is more at my end. Their risk is relatively effortless.”

  “Effortless!” The ways in which this preposterous proposition so did not resemble effortless nearly made me laugh out loud. “Mr. Devine, I’d hardly call bearing your issue effortless!”

  He bristled. “I’m not saying it would be. I only thought of children as a logical progression.”

  Amazing, truly. He wasn’t medieval; he was positively Neanderthal. “A logical progression of what?”

  “Why, marriage, of course.”

  “So couples that don’t have children . . .” I flung my hands in a futile gesture. “Who don’t want or can’t have them—their marriages are a sham?”

  “No . . .” he said, a bit condescendingly. “That would be the logic of their own particular marriages. But in ours, the terms will already have been spelled out. I have a farm. She’ll help me run it. And if it’s run well, we’ll share equally in the benefits and rewards. You couldn’t get a better deal than that.”

  “You talk as if this marriage’ll be nothing more than a business relationship.”

  He looked incredulous. “Isn’t that what all marriages really are?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “What a crazy idea.”

  “Well, if they aren’t, they should be. Because that’s what it comes down to at the divorce settlement anyway. A dissolution of a partnership, a consolidation of debts, a distribution of the assets. Are you married, Ms. Knott?”

  I caught his glance to my left hand. I shoved my bare fingers into my pocket. “No. Presently unattached.” Denny cleared his throat. I tossed him a filthy glare. And when Andy Devine lifted a brow, I knew I’d better offer a quick clarification before my cameraman spilled it. “I just broke it off with my fiancé this morning.”

  “Does this upset you?” he said.

  I could feel the blood rising to my face. “What do you think? We were to be married in two weeks. The man practically left me at the altar.”

  “Did you love him?”

  He was beyond belief. “Of course I did! Why else would I have married him?”

  “Probably not for any of my reasons. Becau
se from what I can assume . . .”—he assessed me quickly—“you’re probably a good risk. Which just proves how ancillary love actually is.”

  If the morning hadn’t already unhinged me, this Andy Devine threw the door right off the hinges. “You’re wrong,” I said, my hands clenching so tightly I nearly crushed the mic. “Even after what my fiancé did to me, I still believe the only logical progression is people meet, fall in love, get married. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Because without love, Mr. Devine, your marriage will never be a real one.”

  He sprung from the table toward me. “Oh believe me, Ms. Knott, with or without love, this marriage will be a real one. In every sense of the word.”

  It wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t, that this strange man got to set parameters for what he believed a marriage should be, and then have a hundred women lining up ready to agree with him. And then there was me, who always played by the rules, who couldn’t even manage to keep one man happy.

  Suddenly everything descended on me: the impatience of the crowd outside, the hot room, and then there was the scent of him, a rustic mix of pine and cedar, all wrapped up in a package so enthusiastically male I went a little weak in the joints. I took a step back, teetering against a chair.

  Andy Devine’s hand shot out. “Steady,” he said, ready to assist me.

  I straightened instantly. “I’m fine. It’s just these chairs, I didn’t see—”

  “You’re a woman of strong passions, Ms. Knott, and I upset you.” His gaze skimmed over me. “Truly, I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me.”

  “You didn’t upset me. You just kind of threw . . .” The words stuck in my throat because really, talking to him was starting to prove pointless. I wanted to shove him, curse him out for being so presumptuous, but there was something so damn chivalrous about him. My God, I thought, how the hell did his eyes get so blue? Their swirly, little vortexes made my head go a little . . . I backed away, clearing my throat.

  “You’re a most unusual man, Mr. Devine,” I finally said.

  When he smiled, his whole face seemed to glow. “I’ll take that on authority, Ms. Knott. You get paid to know.”

  Devastatingly handsome wasn’t enough. He had to go ahead and be witty. “So you do see my point then?”

  He shrugged. “Let’s just say I see it and leave it at that.”

  It would be easy to spend the afternoon sparring with this disconcerting man. Why? The outward reasons were fairly obvious. As for the inner, my battered ego relished the attention, as much as I did the idea of digging further into his archaic ambitions. But Denny was making impatient little noises, hardly audible above the restlessness rising from the line outside. But I never did get an answer, did I?

  “So what about the story, Mr. Devine? I promise I’ll be tasteful.”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Why not. What do I have to do?”

  I explained we’d like to ask him a few questions about himself before he started, then we’d record him as he did the interviews. Each woman would have to sign a release so we could use the resulting footage and their names. We would then ask him a few more questions afterwards, and that would be it.

  “Sounds simple enough.” he said, turning to sit behind the table. “And as far as whatever else you need to know about me . . .” He slid over a photocopied set of papers. “This should answer your questions.”

  As he readied himself for the interviews, I perused Mr. Devine’s so-called Fact Sheet. He was forty years old, in perfect health (a copy of the results of his recent physical was conveniently attached), no social diseases (bonus), six foot two, two hundred twenty pounds (yikes!), black hair, blue (definitive) eyes, left-handed (?). He was a college graduate (though he didn’t say where), had traveled extensively, and was a native of Iron Bog, though he hadn’t lived there in “quite some time.” He was the outright owner (no pesky mortgages or liens) of a large tract of land in a wooded area outside of town, which included two acres of highbush blueberries, peach and apple trees, mushrooms, a kitchen garden, holly bushes, chickens, and a few “various items of special cultivation,” whatever that meant. He also added he was “financially secure,” details of which would be further disclosed during “final negotiations.” He also had a house on that large tract of land which, he conceded, “needed some work.”

  Needed some work. Right. A falling down house out in the woods with chickens. I looked to The Catch in question as he straightened his vest. Six-pack abs or not, I had the feeling his dazzley-eyed wife-to-be was going to be in for one big eye-opener.

  “All set?” I asked Denny.

  He hoisted the camera to his shoulder. “Open the floodgates.”

  I looked to Andy Devine. “Ready if you are.”

  He smiled. “I always am.” He nodded to the firefighter at the door. The man opened the door, letting in the first batch of prospective brides.

  I must admit the variety of the applicants who came through the door over the next three hours surprised me. Granted, there was a liberal sprinkling of gold diggers, but there were also quite a few professional women: two accountants, a national sales rep for a Fortune 500 company, a bank executive, a nurse practitioner, a freelance journalist and even a veterinarian.

  “Oh, mushrooms!” the vet said as she read the fact sheet. She was blonde and petite with a curvy figure. “That must be where the chickens come in.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked her.

  She looked at me as if obvious. “Everyone knows you need them to cultivate mushrooms.”

  “Chickens cultivate mushrooms?”

  “No,” she said dryly, “but their manure does. Industrious little things, aren’t they?” She poofed her hair, straightening her pencil skirt. “Just like me.”

  “So you wouldn’t give up your practice, then,” I asked, noting it was about twenty miles away in tony Moorestown.

  She looked at me as if I were daft. “In a snap, sweetie. I’ve had it with birthing overbred puppies.” She tossed Andy Devine a lascivious glance. “From now on I’ll be squeezing out my own. Ta!”

  I quickly learned I’d better get used to my jaw dropping. Because it was more of the same with each woman I spoke.

  From one of the accountants, a slim, designer-suited Latina: “From my calculations, we should be able to subdivide some of the land and sell it as farmettes. Plus blueberry demand is way up, and with last year’s disappointing yield in Maine and Wisconsin, the Jersey crop is worth a record amount. So after we invest in some more acreage, we can take . . .”

  It seemed as if she and Mr. Devine shared the same pragmatic bent. “Sounds like you want to expand the business, make it more profitable.”

  “The only thing I really want to expand is this,” she said, pointing to her flat belly. “But if talking profit-and-loss gets that big hunk of machismo off?” She leaned in, “Chica, I have nothing against spreading myself like Excel.”

  From the bank executive, dark-skinned and drop-dead gorgeous: “Says here his house needs some work. Well, I’m not afraid to invest in capital improvements. And as far as him being financially secure?” She winked at me, sliding her hand down the trim hip of her tailored pantsuit. “So am I, and I’d love to merge our assets.”

  Then there was the Fortune 500 executive, a willowy brunette teetering atop Louboutins and jittering from too many sips of her venti Starbucks coffee. “This farm he’s talking about,” she said, her eyes darting from side-to-side, “It’s out in the boondocks, right? I mean I gotta know this.”

  “So he’s saying,” I said. “Is it important?”

  She pointed a Frenched fingertip at my heart, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t quote me on this, and you’re a dead woman if you do, but if you hear about someone from some company getting arrested for misplacing ten million, give-or-take a mil, you didn’t hear it from—shh!” She whirled around. “What was that!”

  I scanned the busy room. “I don’t know. What do you mean?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh
, don’t play dumb with me.” She bolted out the door.

  Denny just looked at me and shrugged.

  And then there was the nurse practitioner, full-figured, with piercing, blue eyes and an easy smile: “I’m nearly as good as a doctor, so think of the medical expenses we’ll save. Plus I was raised on a farm, so I’m no stranger to hard work. In fact, after being cooped up in a hospital all these years”—she tossed her auburn hair—“I think I’d love working out in the fresh air. I also know a bit of carpentry, having renovated my own Victorian, so I could help with the house. And I already have a large nest egg, so he really wouldn’t have to worry about supporting me. Plus I love children. I can’t wait to start a big family.”

  She sounded perfect. A distinct air of reason surrounded her, off-setting the room’s palpable vibe of lust. So I had to ask: “You seem quite accomplished in your own right. So, what’s your reason for coming here?”

  At once, she turned somber. “Above all, I’m a practical person. All I have to offer is how wonderful I look on paper. Because when you meet me . . .” She thumbed the waistband of her plus-sized skirt. “This is the only thing they see.” Then she brightened. “Which is why I like that he’s calling it a partnership, rather than a marriage. Tells me he’s willing to look below the surface.”

  She was perfect, but I couldn’t get beyond how short she was selling herself. “Listen, he’d be lucky to have you.”

  “Thanks.” She stood for her turn. “Let’s hope so.” And she left to sit before Andy Devine. Not a minute later, he was smiling wide.

  A hidden jewel, I thought. I just hoped he was smart enough to delve deeper. And then the next candidate, the freelance photojournalist, blew that hope all to hell.

  I had never seen a more beautiful woman, and that’s the truth. She was olive-skinned and brilliantly green-eyed, her hair long and wavy and flowing in lush waves around her shoulders, definitively voluptuous in a simple tank top and khakis. Her gaze was sharp and intelligent, and when she told me about herself, her voice as clear as it was smokily seductive, her reason for being there was as logical as any I’d heard so far.