Stephanie Bond - 50 Days to Choose Your Husband

by 50 Days to Choose Your Husband (lit)

  Stephanie Bond

  50 Days to Choose Your Husband

  Chapter One

  I'm Jane Browning — welcome to my life. Until a few days ago, it was rather ordinary being me. I'm a 27-year-old underappreciated assistant to the most infuriating, nit-picking interior designer in all of Atlanta, Georgia. Like most gratefully employed single women with outstanding school loans, I live in a substandard apartment with bad water pressure and a roommate. I have no social life because my evenings are typically spent sewing pillow covers on the portable Singer sewing machine my parents bought me when I graduated high school — at five bucks a pop, I figure I'll be debt-free in just over 17 years.

  Oh, sure, I'm hoping one day to find a terrific guy to spend the rest of my life with, but so far, they've only been so-so. Well-meaning friends, relatives, and clients of Mrs. Thornberry (the tyrant I work for), are constantly threatening to set me up with Mr. Wonderful, but I have a feeling that when they say, "Hey, Mr. Wonderful, there's an average-looking, poor, workaholic shop-girl named Jane that I'd like to introduce you to," Mr. Wonderful respectfully declines.

  But doesn't fate have the most delicious sense of timing? Last week I was sitting in the stockroom surveying an hour's worth of sewing that Mrs. Thornberry had destroyed in a one-minute rage because I'd used the two-and-a-half-inch gold fringe instead of the two-and-a-quarter-inch gold fringe, and I was seriously reviewing my employment options. Up to that point, I'd hung in there because I'd always thought that by the time Mrs. Thornberry keeled over from an aneurysm, I might be in a position to take over her client list and parlay my creative talents into an above-poverty-level existence.

  But I digress. Like I said, I was sitting there trying on the phrase, "You want fries with that?" when I received a telephone call. Mrs. Thornberry was not happy about me taking a personal call at the shop, but made an exception, probably because of the Valium she'd just downed.

  The caller was a Mr. James Van Meter, attorney-at-law for one of the most esteemed firms in Atlanta (his words, not mine). Mr. Van Meter wanted to inform me that Miss Millie, the old lady in my building for whom I ran errands and baked the occasional loaf of banana nut bread, was in reality Millicent Maxwell, reclusive millionaire and, luckily for me, an incurable romantic.

  You see, Miss Millie passed away two weeks ago. I found her, poor soul, when I dropped by before leaving for work to see if she or her cat needed food or medicine. She was sitting up in bed, white hair flowing around her shoulders, looking mighty pleased with herself for dying in such a pretty pose.

  Since Miss Millie didn't have family or friends that I was aware of, I suspected I might inherit her cat, Boswell, a cranky gray male with a broken tail, by sheer default. And I was right. But I didn't suspect the other male-related gift that Miss Millie would bestow on me.

  "You're kidding me," my roommate Linda said when I told her.

  Except she didn't say "kidding." I met Linda Bledsoe at the Laundromat when we were both posting a notice for a roommate. Linda is a short flashy hairdresser with a penchant for tube tops and reality television shows, but she pays rent on time and doesn't complain when fabric samples overflow into our kitchen, the biggest room in the apartment, and where I broke the news.

  "That old bat left you a million bucks?"

  "With one condition," I said, still a little stunned myself — both over the attorney's revelation and the fact that Mrs. Thornberry, upon hearing the news, had let me off work early.

  "What condition?"

  "That I get married within 50 business days."

  Linda frowned. "What? Why?"

  "Mr. Van Meter said that Miss Millie fell in love with a young man her family didn't approve of. So she didn't marry him, but she always regretted it."

  "And what does that have to do with you?"

  I shrugged. "She was always asking me why I didn't have a boyfriend. She said I worked too much."

  "You do."

  "Well, anyway, I guess this inheritance scheme is her way of forcing the issue for me."

  Linda grabbed me by the shoulders and jumped up and down. "You're a millionaire! You're a millionaire!"

  I laughed. "Not unless I'm engaged and I don't know about it."

  Linda pshawed and waved her hand. "A mere formality — guys will be lining up to marry you now."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. This is your chance to really put yourself out there."

  "Linda, Miss Millie was obviously senile. I can't just marry some guy that I meet in the next few days."

  "Why not? Get married, get rich, then get divorced — simple!"

  "The will has stipulations — consummation, married for at least a year, and we have to live together."

  Linda was unfazed. "So?"

  "So? Linda, I'm not going to sell myself into marriage, not even for a million dollars."

  "Wait — wouldn't the groom be the one selling himself?"

  I sighed, exasperated. "It's the same thing!"

  "Don't tell me you're considering not doing this?"

  "Are you deaf? I don't even have a boyfriend. Besides, I want to be in love with the man I marry."

  Linda tapped her foot. "Lots of cultures have flourished for generations with arranged marriages."

  "This is insane."

  She leaned in, eyeball to eyeball. "Think about it. You have 50 business days — that's 10 entire weeks to find the right man. That's roughly a year collapsed into serious full-time man-hunting!"

  "Did you hit your head on the bookshelf again?"

  "Don't change the subject. Does your mother know about this?"

  "Not yet."

  "Good." Linda rummaged in our junk drawer and withdrew a pad of paper and a stubby pencil. "Let me handle everything."

  "I'm afraid to ask, but what are you going to do?"

  "Mobilize my contacts and yours to come up with a list of potential candidates."

  "Candidates?"

  "Marriage candidates."

  "Linda —"

  "Jane, this is the chance of a lifetime! What's the worst that could happen? You meet and date guys for 10 weeks, possibly find the love of your life, and become a millionaire! Hello?"

  "But what if I don't meet the love of my life?"

  She put her hands on her hips. "And you would be worse off how?"

  I opened my mouth to say that I didn't want to face that much rejection, but then I realized that I'd never before had the dazzle of a million bucks to offset my lack of sex appeal.

  Linda took my silence as acquiescence, and ran to the phone. "This is going to be so much fun!"

  Needless to say, I had my doubts.

  Chapter Two

  I stared at the page of the Atlanta-based tabloid, bug-eyed in disbelief that a story about me, Jane Browning, was printed alongside "German Shepherd Flies South with Geese." My life was over, and my obituary would list my cause of death as APH (abjectus publis humiliationitis).

  "This nutty reporter actually went through my trash after I refused to talk to her!" I tossed the paper on the kitchen table, where my roommate, Linda, and I were having our Sunday morning cinnamon-sugar oatmeal. "Ooooooh! I just wish I knew how she found out about Miss Millie's will in the first place."

  Linda seemed preoccupied with scraping the sides of her bowl.

  I squinted. "Omigod, you're the anonymous source!"

  She finally looked up, then blasted me with a smile. "Come on, Jane — it's great publicity."

  I stood. "You can't be serious." I flailed my arms, pajama sleeves flapping. "These guys are going to get up thi
s morning, open the paper, and discover that those innocent phone calls you and my mother made drafted them into a warped version of The Dating Game!" I continued to flail and flap.

  "If any of the guys read this rag, they're off the list."

  "We read this rag."

  "That's different — women require information."

  I leaned forward. "And what's in this for you?"

  She shrugged. "A teensy finder's fee?"

  I narrowed my eyes. "How teensy?"

  "Ten percent —"

  "Ten?"

  "Two. Two percent to start my own hair salon. And I'll only collect if I'm successful in helping you choose a husband in 50 days." She grinned. "Just like those lawyers who advertise on television."

  "I can't believe I'm having this discussion." I pivoted and headed toward the doorway. "I'm going back to bed. Wake me up next year."

  Linda snagged my arm. "Jane, don't tell me you haven't thought about how a million dollars and a hunky husband could change your life forever."

  Okay, I had. All night long, in fact, which probably explained why I was so cranky. My mind had bounced back and forth between the ridiculousness of the situation, and fantasizing about alighting from a coach dressed in a filmy white gown, accepting the hand of my Prince Charming. Except he had dollar signs in his eyes. Still, a prince was a prince. And I couldn't help but think that this reporter chick had ruined any chance I'd had at a happy ending.

  I gestured to the page of men's profiles in the paper. "I can't face these guys, not after this…exposure."

  "I was afraid you'd say that." Linda pointed her spoon. "That's why I arranged for them to contact you first through email."

  I shot a suspicious glance toward her computer in the den. "I don't have an email account." Who had the time when there were pillow covers to sew?

  "You have an email account now, and all the guys agreed to send you a message today by noon. If you don't like what they say, you don't have to go out with them."

  I glanced at the clock — it was already 10:30. I instantly broke into an unbecoming sweat.

  "Chances are," Linda said, "the guys will already have heard about the, um, coverage, so if they want to, they can bow out with no awkward face-to-face stuff."

  Maybe Linda had slipped something in my orange juice, but when she put it like that, the process didn't sound so daunting.

  She made a shooing motion. "Go take a nap. Take a bath. Take a chill pill. When you're ready, we'll get this show on the road."

  I took her advice on the bath thing, which was a luxurious ordeal in our building. The hot water always ran out before reaching halfway in the ancient tub, so the trick was to stack bricks inside the tub to raise the water level. After a little hard labor, I hunched in fragrant bubbles around me, surveying the stained ceiling of our bathroom and realized that with a million dollars, I could have a swimming pool of hot bubbles whenever I wanted it.

  I could start my own design company without working my way up from glorified gofer for Mrs. Thornberry.

  I could attract an attractable, attractive guy for a year's worth of playing house.

  I bit into my lip when I thought of Linda's finder's fee — two percent. And then 33 percent to the IRS. Of course I'd offer up a portion of my windfall to the potential groom — make that another 10 percent. It would be, after all, a business arrangement. The best I could realistically hope for would be to find someone whose company I wouldn't despise within the year.

  The faces of the men from the pictures in the paper flipped in my mind over and over like a deck of cards. Would they all send a message? Would they still want to meet me? The thought that one of them could be my husband before the end of the year sent a chill through my unmarried body…then I realized the bubbles had dissolved and the water had cooled to room temperature.

  I dried and dressed and dragged myself out to the den by a few minutes after noon. Linda was waiting, wound as tight as a permanent wave curler.

  "Hurry! All t10 of them sent you an email!" Here's the paper so you can compare the photos when you read the messages. Oh, this is so exciting!"

  "I don't know how to do this," I said, staring at the screen.

  "Here — move the mouse around and click twice with your index finger to open the messages one at a time."

  The movement wasn't natural, but I could thread a needle in two seconds flat, so I caught on.

  The first note was from Dean Everman, a sales rep, and the son of one of my mother's friends.

  Hey, Jane — My mother has been saying for months that you and I should get together. I would've called, but until recently, I was involved with someone. That's over now, so your mother's call came at a good time. I didn't expect to be competing for a chance to go out with you, but after the initial shock of seeing my picture in the paper, I think it could be fun. Dean

  I looked at Linda. "What do you think?"

  "Well, if he was in a relationship, we know he can commit. What do you know about his family?"

  "Normal."

  "Normal is good. But he could be into drugs."

  "Huh?"

  "He's a pharmaceutical sales rep, so he could probably get whatever he wants."

  "That's absurd."

  "Still — something to think about."

  I clicked on the next note, which was from Billy Renaldi, a fireman who knew Miss Millie — he'd once gotten her cat, Boswell, out of a tree. I'd met him at the memorial service, but only in passing.

  HEY, JANE — I'M NOT MUCH ON EMAIL, BUT HERE GOES. I'M ON THE COMPUTER AT THE STATION, AND THE GUYS ARE GIVING ME HELL. I'M NOT AFTER A RICH WIFE, BUT I'D LIKE TO HAVE DINNER WITH THE GIRL WHO WAS NICE TO MISS MILLIE. BILLY

  "Well, he doesn't know much about email etiquette," Linda huffed. "All those caps — he's yelling."

  "But being a firefighter is such a noble profession," I said.

  "It's not very noble to write to you while his buds are standing around."

  "I think it's cute."

  "Let's keep going."

  The next note was from Paul Messer, a math professor at the college where my mom had taken photography classes for the past two years.

  Jane — Your mother explained your situation, and I just want you to know that I'd be glad to get to know you better, no strings attached. I'm a quiet guy, who likes to read and travel. I think we would enjoy each other's company. Paul

  "Seems nice," I said.

  "And smart."

  "And upstanding."

  "I'll bet he's a sleeper."

  "Come again?"

  "A sleeper — one of those quiet guys who turn into an animal in bed." Linda nodded knowingly.

  "Ah." Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, I clicked on the next candidate.

  The next note was from Eliot Black, architect, and older brother of Linda's former boyfriend.

  Hi, Jane. Linda told me over and over that I should meet you, but I've been working overtime on a new project. Glad she gave me the nudge this week. I'm working downtown on a new office building, so I can meet you for lunch sometime. I like your name. Eliot

  "Flattering," I said.

  "And hot. But really shy. And he's a workaholic."

  "So he wouldn't be around all the time…afterward."

  "Which could be a good thing."

  I was starting to feel a little light-headed, but I clicked on the next note, which was from Jake River, pediatrician. Mrs. Thornberry had tossed his name in the hat because she had decorated his new offices.

  Hello, Jane. My receptionist showed me the morning paper, and I find I'm unexpectedly in some kind of a pageant. But it appears that you, too, are in an awkward position. I don't know about marriage, but we can throw a couple of steaks on the grill sometime if you'd like to. Dr. Jake

  "Well," I said, "he seems to have a good sense of humor."

  "And he must love kids if he's a pediatrician."

  I frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

  She ignored me. "And he do
esn't need your money."

  "He could be in debt."

  Linda sighed and nodded. "Keep going."

  The next note was from Kris Callihan, a computer programmer for the government who had been a U.S. Marine with my older brother Tim.

  Hi, Janie-girl! Tim said you were in a fix, and maybe I could help. Would love to see you again, regardless. Call me — we'll take the boat out on the lake for some serious fun. Kris

  "Sounds like fun," Linda said.

  "He and I never really saw eye to eye."

  "Good chemistry."

  "He calls me Janie-girl."

  "You just don't want to put on a bathing suit."

  I frowned. Kris hadn't appealed to me before — was I considering him because of the million dollars? Then again, maybe he'd changed. "Next."

  The subsequent note was from Wally Benson, a widower and carpenter — Linda cut his hair and the hair of his six-year-old son.

  Hi, Jane. Linda said this would be a good time for us to meet. How do you feel about baseball? And tables for three? Wally B.

  "I'm way too young to be a mother."

  "He's way too young to be a widower."

  "I hate to get a kid involved in this mess."

  "These two guys could be the best thing that ever happened to you."

  I moved on. The next message was from Pablo Ricci — another one of Mrs. Thornberry's customers. He was from London, but had happily settled into the Atlanta investment community.

  Dearest Jane — I'm amused by your current situation and think we could help each other, and have a brilliantly good time to boot. Call me. Yours, Pablo

  "Vavoom," Linda said.

  I sighed. "He is delicious."

  "He doesn't need your money, but I wonder what he means by 'helping each other.'"

  "I can't imagine."

  "I can." Linda wagged her eyebrows.

  I scoffed. "Who's next?" I clicked on the next line and smiled. "Ian Saunders."

  "Who's he?"

  "An old family friend."

  Hi, Jane — long time, no see. Your mother tells me you're setting the decorating world on fire. If you'd like to take a break, come up to the farm and we'll go for a ride. Flax and Raze miss you…and I wouldn't mind seeing you again, either. Ian

  "You've been holding out on me," Linda accused.