Stephanie Bond - 50 Days to Choose Your Husband

by 50 Days to Choose Your Husband (lit)

  "No, I haven't. Ian used to work for my folks — landscaping, household repairs, that kind of thing. He has a horse farm north of the city."

  "Sounds earthy. And sexy."

  I laughed. "He's almost like a brother to me."

  "Don't feed me that line — you're blushing."

  "Next," I said. The last note was from Tommy Andersen, another customer of Linda's who tended bar while pursuing a master's degree in literature from Georgia State.

  Jane — I've been waiting all my life to meet an authentically interesting lady. Let's get together sometime over coffee. T.

  "He's a writer," Linda said. "Has two finished novels under his bed."

  I raised my eyebrows.

  "Not that I've ever seen his bedroom," she said hastily, then sighed. "Not that I haven't tried — the guy is so romantic, it makes me hurt."

  A writer — hmm.

  I sat back in the chair and exhaled. Ten eligible guys, and they all wanted to meet me. Wow. This was going to be harder than I thought.

  Chapter Three

  "Jane, relax," Linda said. "This won't hurt a bit."

  I frowned at my roommate-turned-militant-matchmaker as I sat at a card table and awaited my very first experience with speed dating. "You'd make a great gynecologist."

  She pshawed. "This speed dating is all the rage, and perfect for the next step." She held up a pink stopwatch. "Each of the eight men will come in one at a time and sit at the table with you. Then you have six minutes to get to know each other. At the end of six minutes, I'll ring this bell."

  She tapped the little chrome dinger she'd swiped from the hair salon where she worked, and I winced.

  "And that's their cue to leave," she finished cheerfully. "See? Painless. And you'll be back to work in an hour, so Mrs. Thornberry can't complain."

  "Right," I murmured, although I was certain my employer, Mrs. Thornberry, would find something to complain about.

  I was grateful that at least the field had been narrowed a bit before Linda contacted the men about participating in this human gauntlet. Kris Callihan, one of my brother's friends from the U.S. Marine Corps, had sent me a telegram to say that he'd been called up as a reservist, and so was effectively unavailable, at least for the purposes of my timeline.

  And Dean Everman, the pharmaceutical sales rep son of one of my mother's friends, well…what can I say? Linda was right about him — oh, not the part about him being into drugs, but the part about him being able to commit since he'd just gotten out of a relationship. How did we know he was commitment material? Our first hint was when we opened the newspaper two days later and discovered that he and his old girlfriend had eloped.

  Man Chooses Love Over Money. Dean Everman decided to forego his place among the candidates in the running for the hand of Jane Browning, an Atlanta shop-girl who recently was bequeathed $1 million under the condition that she marry within 50 days. Everman eloped last night with his longtime girlfriend, who said that when she saw his picture in the paper linked to Browning, she realized how much she loved him.

  So, I had managed to secure a marriage, just not my own.

  "Ready?" Linda asked.

  "I don't know what to say to these guys."

  "They're vying for your hand, remember?" She leaned down. "Let me check your lipstick — yes, you look fine. Good, even."

  I tried to smile.

  "Okay, here we go. Mr. Billy Renaldi."

  The door opened and Billy emerged. I was surprised to see him dressed in fireman regalia, but reasoned that he was probably on call.

  "Oh, I forgot," Linda whispered. "I told them all to dress the part. It makes for better photos."

  Oh, no — that meant she was still feeding info to that nosy tabloid reporter.

  Linda lifted the stopwatch. "And…go."

  Billy smiled at her. "Hi, Jane."

  "Hi, Billy."

  "Am I on camera?"

  "Um, no."

  "Good. How's Boswell?"

  Boswell was the cranky gray cat with the crooked tail that I'd inherited from Miss Millie. "He misses Miss Millie, I think, but he's adjusting, and so am I. I'm not used to having a male around." I was rambling, and had gone too far. "I mean — well, I've had men…around…before."

  He looked a little lost.

  "Won't you sit down?" I squeaked, indicating the folding metal chair across from me that pretty much summed up the bleakness of the entire situation.

  He laughed and my heart shivered a little at his gorgeousness. "I'm wearing so much gear, I'd better not, or I won't be able to get back up."

  "Okay, so I'll stand up." I did, and instantly felt like an idiot.

  "Nice dress," he said, nodding.

  "Thanks. I made it."

  "Oh?"

  The bell rang, startling both of us. Linda waved from where she'd stepped back a few feet — although not back far enough that she couldn't eavesdrop. "Time's up."

  Billy and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do or say next.

  "Don't forget to change the batteries in your fire alarm."

  "Okay. Bye."

  "Bye."

  He left, and I turned to Linda. "Well, that was excruciating. He's probably out there right now wounding himself with that hatchet on his belt so he won't have to see me again."

  "I thought he was charming," Linda said, then made a shooing motion. "Sit. Here's bachelor number two, Paul Messer."

  I had never met Professor Messer — hey, that rhymes — but my mother thought that he was a catch. He walked through the door, visibly shaking, and promptly fell. Not a little stumble and sway — the man fell flat on his face, didn't even have time to put out his arms to break the fall.

  I jumped up and ran over to help him, and was relieved to find him laughing. You got to love a man who can laugh at himself. I laughed too and helped him hobble to the card table.

  "Don't sue me," I begged. "I don't have any money yet."

  He laughed again, and I decided that he had a marvelous smile. "Sorry about that — new shoes."

  I looked down and he was indeed wearing shiny new penny loafers. Except he was sporting dimes instead of pennies. I always wondered where that penny loafer thing had gotten started, and why.

  "New dress," I said to make him feel at ease.

  "Nice color," he said. "I like red."

  I looked down at my orange dress, then gave him a big smile. "Thanks." I remembered that this was the guy Linda had tagged as a "sleeper" — the quiet type that turned into an animal in bed. I wondered what kind of underwear he had on.

  The bell clanged, and Linda waved.

  "Can't seem to get away from bells," Paul said with a laugh, and I joined in. "It was nice to meet you, Jane." He extended his hand.

  I shook it. He had nice hands. "Bye."

  I prayed he didn't fall on the way out, and he didn't, although he walked very carefully.

  When the door closed, I looked at Linda. "I want to go home now."

  "No way. Cross your legs."

  "Why?"

  "It'll make you look…aloof."

  I crossed my legs.

  Linda nodded her approval. "Introducing Eliot Black."

  Eliot was, Linda had told me, a workaholic architect. He was also the older brother of Linda's former boyfriend, Chaz. Eliot walked in holding, I kid you not, a rolled up sheath of papers, just the kind of thing you'd expect an architect to carry around. It was probably only a prop, but something about that thick roll of papers revved up the Mike Brady fantasies I'd harbored as a teenager.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Hi."

  "I kind of like this speed-dating thing," he said. "It's a good alternative for busy singles."

  I nodded enthusiastically. I was looking for an ambitious man, and that was Eliot. Energy rolled off him in waves — no doubt I could benefit from his proximity.

  "Can I see?" I asked, pointing to his papers.

  "Sure, I'm meeting with the developer right after this." He spread the bl
ueprints on the table and started spouting engineering terms. All I saw was a really pretty house, and it occurred to me that there were worse matches to be made than an architect and an interior designer.

  The bell rang, and we had to say goodbye.

  Linda watched his butt as he left. "I dated the wrong brother," she said mournfully, then snapped her fingers at me. "Quick, here's the next one. Dr. Jake River."

  My heart was pounding so hard when he walked in that I hoped this pediatrician remembered his cardiology rotation in the event that I went into arrest. Jake was a drop-dead gorgeous man of Sioux heritage. Mrs. Thornberry had decorated his new offices.

  Well, in truth, I had decorated his offices, and she had taken the credit.

  "Jane," he said with a smile. "Good to see you."

  I nodded because my tongue was glued to my mouth. He was wearing a white lab coat and a stethoscope. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

  "Nice dress," he said. "I'm used to seeing you in…work clothes."

  True, and the fact that he had seen me in paint-spattered overalls and had come today anyway spoke volumes about his generosity. And nerve.

  "Thanks," I managed, and he sat.

  "What a morning," he said, puffing out his cheeks. "I think I saw one case of every infectious disease in the medical books."

  I was glad we hadn't shook hands. "Really?"

  "Yeah — kids are like little petri dishes."

  "Ah."

  "You don't have any kids, do you, Jane?"

  "Um, no."

  "They're so resilient — their little bodies can bounce back from almost anything. They're great."

  They didn't sound great, they sounded iffy; but granted, he was coming from a different perspective. We chatted about how he liked the décor in his offices, and were in the middle of discussing wall murals when the bell rang.

  "I'll talk to you soon," he said, then flashed a dazzling smile.

  "Can give me a physical anytime," Linda said after he left.

  "He's a children's doctor."

  "I have a pair of ruffled panties."

  I rolled my eyes.

  "And speaking of children, Wally Benson is next."

  Wally was a master carpenter, and a widower with a six-year-old son. Father and son were customers of Linda's. He was a great-looking guy with a wide, appealing smile. Younger than I'd imagined, with a little sadness around his eyes — for his lost wife, I presumed. My heart went out to him immediately.

  "Hi," he said.

  "Hi." He wore clean work clothes, and a tool belt, which he seemed to be self-conscious of. I gave him an apologetic smile as I shook his work-roughened hand. Something about this one felt different — almost dangerous, like I could lose myself.

  "So, I hear you have a son."

  "Yeah, Ty is six, a real firecracker. Light of my life."

  I imagined them eating frozen dinners on the couch watching TV, and I steamed up a little. He had that whole Tom Hanks thing going in Sleepless in Seattle, you know what I mean?

  "So you're a carpenter," I said.

  "Yeah. And you're a lady."

  I squinted.

  He laughed. "You know that song."

  Surely he wasn't going to sing.

  "If I were a carpenter…"

  He was singing, and badly.

  "And you were a lady…"

  The bell rang, so I don't know if he knew the rest of the lyrics. But I had a feeling that goofy song would stay in my head for the rest of the day.

  When the door closed, Linda grinned. "This is going great! Next is Pablo Ricci."

  "Ah, Jane, my dear," he said in that lovely British accent.

  "Pablo," I said, and let him kiss my hand. A British accent, Italian suit, French food connoisseur — Pablo was like Triple-A, all rolled into a tall, creamy drink.

  "You are beautiful," he said, and my toes curled inside my shoes.

  "In your email message, you said something about helping each other," I said. "What did you mean?"

  "I want you to have my baby," he said, and Linda erupted into a fit of coughing.

  Me, I couldn't speak, so I hummed. "Hmm."

  "It makes perfect sense, Jane. I need an heir, and you need a husband. I don't need your money, so you can keep it all. But give me a child, and we'll have a lovely life together. What do you say?"

  Well, he didn't beat around the bush, but then again, the man had only six minutes.

  The bell clanged twice, and I shot Linda a suspicious look — I think she shorted Pablo.

  "Think about it, dearest Jane," he said, and left.

  "A little fast on the ringer, weren't you?" I asked Linda.

  She shook her finger. "Only because he made you a very viable offer, and I didn't want you to turn it down without having time to mull it over. Come on, we're almost finished. Next is Ian Saunders."

  I relaxed — Ian was an old family friend who used to do odd jobs for my folks. He owned a horse farm north of the city.

  "Hiya, Jane," he said, rolling his cowboy hat in his hands.

  I blinked — when had Ian gotten so…cute? "Hiya, Ian." Was it possible that he'd always been that cute, and I just hadn't noticed?

  He laughed and gestured to the table. "This is kind of silly, don't you think?"

  His smile put an odd kink in my chest. "Yeah. For us anyway."

  "How are your folks?"

  "Fine. How are Flax and Raze?"

  "Fine. They have lots of company in the stable now." Ian always seemed more comfortable around animals than people.

  "Do you want to sit down?"

  He took the seat, crossed one foot over his knee, and placed his hat on his thigh. He had nice thighs. Way nicer than mine, in fact.

  Talking with Ian was all ease and comfort, like putting on an old sweater. After a couple of minutes, he looked me over. "Nice dress."

  Except he was looking at my legs. I felt like a filly, but I was suddenly seeing Ian in a whole new light.

  The bell rang, and he slowly got to his feet. "Real nice seeing you again, Jane. Stay in touch."

  I had to take my pulse after that one. And where was a drink of water when a girl needed one?

  "And last but not least," Linda said. "Tommy Andersen."

  Tommy was another customer of Linda's. He was tending bar while pursuing a master's degree in literature. He was a writer.

  He walked in and dispelled all of my preconceived notions about writers. Wow.

  Linda hit the stopwatch, then proceeded to chat with him for the first two out of my six minutes. She had a wild crush on him, although I could tell from his body language that she put him off. He kept backing up. I liked him immediately.

  "Hi," he said to me after he'd escaped. He oozed a bohemian lifestyle, and seemed comfortable in his own skin.

  "Hi. I understand you're a writer."

  "Yeah. Well, not a paid writer yet, but someday. What do you do?"

  "I'm an interior designer."

  He smiled. "Then we're both in the arts."

  I wasn't used to men respecting my career choice, so I was pleased.

  "Do you like to read?" he asked.

  I told him I did, and we spent the next few minutes talking about books we'd enjoyed and some we hadn't. I was caught up in his enthusiasm for experiencing life and culture, and knew that a year with Tommy would be an unforgettable experience.

  Linda rang the bell triumphantly, and we said our goodbyes.

  I sat at the table, limp and a little shell-shocked by the whole speed-dating thing, a concept dreamt up, no doubt, by some mother desperate for grandchildren.

  When the door closed, Linda rushed over. "Well, what do you think?"

  Chapter Four

  "Jane, I realize you're running a husband-hunting contest," Mrs. Thornberry said primly as she inspected the pillow covers I'd sewn the previous night — eight in all, embellished with enough fringe to make a flapper swoon. "But I still expect you to abide by the one-hour-lunch rule."

  Now I've never
taken a full hour for lunch in all the years I've worked for this woman's interior design firm, but I wasn't about to point that out on Monday morning of my official Week of Lunch Dates. I couldn't afford for her to foil my plans to get to know each of the six guys who were left in the pool.

  At the end of another five weeks or so, I was supposed to pick among the eminently marriageable men that my roommate, Linda, had scrounged together by comparing notes with my mother, friends, and even Mrs. Thornberry. But halfway through my 50-day cutoff point to find a husband and inherit one million dollars, compliments of a reclusive millionaire in my apartment building, I was beginning to think the spoils would go to the man who simply managed to outlast the others.

  This week, I'd learned of two more casualties. Eliot Black, an ambitious architect who had fostered my fantasies of living in an award-winning home that I could decorate, had been offered the deal of a lifetime — to study architecture for two years in Paris under his mentor. Sigh — I could just imagine the French countryside, the cafés, the chocolates — all the things that workaholic Eliot would miss out on while he was there.

  And Wally Benson, charming single father of a six-year-old son, had decided to relocate to the Pacific Northwest so his son could be near his grandparents. Since I'd grown up a stone's throw from my own dear grandparents, I saluted his decision and stuck the postcard he'd sent me on the refrigerator. Which was darling, really, except my eyes are brown.

  I tried not to take the moves personally, tried not to think about the fact that both men seemed to have made a rather hasty exit, not to mention moving about as far away from Atlanta as possible. It was simply bad timing, I told myself, and reflective of the dynamic group of guys who had agreed to consider marrying me so I could receive the inheritance of Miss Millicent Maxwell, a slightly senile incurable romantic.

  "This one has a crooked seam," Mrs. Thornberry declared, holding up a pillow cover. "I'll only pay half." Half of five lousy dollars.

  Which made me all the more anxious to have those lunches. After all, the money Miss Millie was offering me was equivalent to sewing 200,000 perfect pillow covers.

  Linda had insisted that I meet all the guys at the same restaurant to keep the playing field as even as possible.