by Carolyn Zane
“Come on in.” She motioned, pushing her glasses up on her nose so that she could better sniff the air. “Good heavens,” she said, wrinkling her nose in disdain. “You smell like the toilet-water counter at the five-and-dime.”
Travis dimpled as he caught his son midair and swung the noisy child up onto his back. “Yeah, BambiAnn gave it her best shot tonight, but I told her I had to get home to you.” He winked devilishly.
“Oh, please, spare me the details.” Turning, Wendy led them to the living room where she began gathering up Dustin’s belongings and stuffing them into his knapsack.
“Dad! Dad!” Dusty shouted, interrupting joyfully. “We built a tent in the living room and I had chocolate milk for dinner.”
Travis lifted his cowboy hat off his son’s head and slid it easily onto his own thick brown hair. “No kidding? Sounds like you had a good time. Did you tell Wendy thank you?”
“‘Course.” Dusty rolled his eyes. “‘Bout a million times.”
Travis looked at Wendy, who nodded in verification. If there was one thing she admired about her wild-man, womanizing, devil-may-care neighbor, it was the way he was raising his son. It was evident that he loved the boy to distraction. It seemed to be the only thing, as far as she could tell, that he actually cared about.
“Good.” Travis nodded and set Dusty on his feet. “Give Wendy a hand straightening up, will you? It looks like a bomb went off in here.” Scratching his head, Travis stared in wonder at the living room, and then at Wendy. He grinned easily. “Hey, I’m really sorry about doing this to you so often over the past few weeks. I’m working on getting a new, permanent sitter for Dusty, but these things take time.”
“I don’t mind, really,” Wendy said, shrugging lightly. “I love the company.” Sinking down onto the couch, she began stuffing napkins and cookie wrappers into the brown bag that had held their peanut butter and jelly rations.
Travis stretched tiredly, then joined her on the couch. With a little prodding, he finally had his son folding the tent blankets and dragging the dining room chairs back to the table.
“Man, am I tired, or—” Travis stared intently at the coffee table in front of him “—what?” he asked distractedly.
Wendy felt her stomach sink. The books. Damn. She should have known better than to leave them out for all the world to see. Before she knew it, the entire population of New Hope, Texas, would know that she was on a quest. A quest to become engaged before she turned thirty. It was humiliating. Travis would undoubtedly tell someone and the word would spread like wildfire. They had a lot of the same friends. People would find out. She sighed.
On the other hand, what difference did it make? It was no secret that she was pretty much of a flop in the ingenue department. She didn’t exactly have dates knocking down her door the way Travis did. On a good day, his driveway did more business than a convenience store. She ought to know. Sometimes the overflow blocked her driveway.
Lifting his eyes, he arched a skeptical brow and smirked. “How To Hook a Husband?” He chuckled and reached for the stack of books and magazines. “What the hell is this? You’re. hunting for a husband?” Hooting at the ceiling, he pushed his hat back and let the laughter flow.
Reaching over, Wendy snatched her precious books from his arms and stuffed them under the pillows that supported her elbow.
“It’s not funny, you big Neanderthal,” she huffed defensively. Smacking the pillows, she glowered at him through narrowed eyes. “This happens to be research.” Wendy had always loved research. Approaching this husband hunt in a scholarly fashion was the only thing that had made it bearable. How dare this…this…playboy—without a single physical flaw—make fun of her? He had no idea what she was going through. It made her blood boil. “Serious research,” she reiterated, elbowing him grumpily on the arm. She fought the urge to smack his gorgeous, perfect face. “So, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop laughing.”
“Why?”
She waited for Dusty to drag another chair toward the dining room before she continued. “Why what?” she snapped.
He snorted. “Why all the advice on how to land a man?”
“Because,” she cried, “I’m going to be thirty!” She stared plaintively at him, as though this fact explained everything.
“So?” Travis shrugged, puzzled.
“So.” Wendy sighed, exasperated at the obtuse male mind. “The article says that once a woman is past thirty, her chances of finding a mate are slim to none.”
“What article?”
“The one I found in a magazine in the recycling bin down at the post office. It said that once you reach the critical age of thirty, there is a shortage of men. If you haven’t…uh…”
“Bagged one?” Travis supplied helpfully.
“Yes,” she said snippily. “Bagged one by then, chances are you’ll go to your grave an old spinster.”
Travis looked at her as though she’d lost her marbles. “So you’re going to be thirty. Big deal. I turned thirty over three years ago and it hasn’t affected my love life.” He grinned rakishly, deep dimples cutting crescents in his cheeks, and adjusted his cowboy hat on his head.
Darting a disgusted glance at the overhead light fixture, Wendy pointed at him. “Yeah, well, I’m not the alley cat you are. I haven’t made a career out of dating people I barely know.”
It was true. Wendy had overlooked her social life in favor of making a career out of the postal service. Growing up, she’d always known that she was a plain Jane. That was the way her parents had liked it. They’d encouraged her studious life-style. It was a wonder she’d had the courage to move out from under their overly protective, domineering wings back home in Louisiana, and take the postmistress job in New Hope.
“She’s our little bookworm,” her father would boast. “Spelling champion five years in a row.”
“She’s my good girl,” her mother would sniff. “More important things on her mind than running around with a bunch of boys.”
“She’s a bore,” her younger sister, Wild Wanda—the family black sheep—would taunt. “She’ll never get a date.”
They were all right, Wendy decided, letting her head loll miserably back against the floral pattern of the couch’s upholstery. When had she allowed life’s normal milestones to pass her by unnoticed? She’d missed out on everything from the prom to dating to marriage to kids, while Wanda had enthusiastically dated every member of the football team, including the second string. When had it become her duty to make up for her parents’ disappointment in her freespirited sister? And, worst of all, how had she let the years slip away, without realizing that once she made it over the hill, there were no men waiting on the other side?
She’d blown it. Being pigeonholed at an early age by her family and being afraid to rock the boat, she had just found it easier to go with the flow. The maddening thing was, it was as much her fault as anyone’s.
Well, by golly, not anymore. No more Miss Nice Guy. Things were going to be different from now on. Wouldn’t her prim and proper folks be surprised at Thanksgiving when she showed up with a new attitude and a new fiancé? A sense of purpose surged through Wendy, and she tensed like an animal poised for a fight to the death. She would give sister Wanda a run for her money in the shocking department. Yes. She knew she’d have to hustle, with a singlemindedness that she hadn’t utilized since dead week before college finals.
Setting her jaw with determination, she glared at Travis. “I’m going to be engaged by my thirtieth birthday,” she announced grimly. “Or know the reason why.”
His brows rose curiously. “When is your thirtieth birthday?”
“December first.”
Travis frowned as he did some quick calculating. “That’s only about a month away.”
“Yep. The Tuesday after the Russo wedding. With any luck, I’ll attend the wedding on my intended’s arm.” She stole a glance up at him. “That’s my goal, at any rate.”
The young, happily betrothed were f
riends of Travis and Wendy. Back in February, they’d both attended an engagement party thrown by their mutual friend, Faith Harper, for Michael Russo and Michelle Parker. Travis had attended with the giggling and jiggling BambiAnn Howe. Wendy had gone stag. She’d never forget the feeling of melancholy that had stayed with her for days after that party. Everyone, it seemed, had at least some experience at love. Everyone, except of course, for her.
No more. She was through with the wallflower act. Time to burst out of the cocoon and spread her wings.
“Do you have anyone in mind?” Travis asked, doubt oozing from every syllable.
Again she waited for Dusty to disappear into her dining room with another chair. “I’m going to make a list,” she said defensively. Leaning forward, she grew thoughtful. “Hey, you work with a lot of men, maybe you could help.”
“Maybe,” he said distractedly, staring at the nymphet who pouted prettily at him from the cover of the Metropolitan magazine.
Wendy followed his gaze. So. Men went for that type, huh? Well, it was clear she’d have to save up her money and buy herself a bustline if she was ever going to compete with that. No time, she decided, watching Travis in fascination as he went into a hormonally induced trance over the bikini-clad model.
She would just have to make the best of the assets she had. Besides, a little tissue here and there and she’d sport a perky little shelf of cleavage that would have Travis looking twice. She shook her head. Who cared what Travis thought? She had to zero in on an available man and figure out what turned him on, then set out to achieve that look. Yep, she thought triumphantly, this couldn’t be any harder than the calculus classes she’d taken in college. Heck, if dough-forbrains BambiAnn could figure it out, she could.
Finally, Travis tore his eyes away from the cover girl and read the caption out loud. Angling his head toward her, he asked sardonically, “Do you have what it takes to snare a man?”
“Maybe not now, but I can get it.”
Travis cast a doubtful glance down at her work shoes, and his expression grew more dubious as his eyes traveled north. “Okay…” The word came out with a slow hiss of air.
Unable to stand it anymore, Wendy hauled off and punched him in the shoulder. Ow. What was he wearing under that ratty work shirt? Armor? She shook her hand to lessen the pain. “Okay, so I may not be a blond sexpot like BimboAnn…”
“BambiAnn,” Travis corrected, grinning good-naturedly.
“BambiAnn,” she stressed. “But with some research, I can learn. How hard can it be? If BambiAnn can get it together to snare a man, surely I can.”
He shook his head slowly, and it was obvious that he thought she was a lost cause. This only served to fuel Wendy’s righteous indignation and sense of purpose.
“Hey,” she cried as a light bulb flared to life above her head. “You date a lot of sexpots. Maybe you could give me some pointers.” Twisting eagerly on the couch next to him, she leaned forward and tapped him with excitement on the knee. “How about if I make a deal with you. I’ll baby-sit Dusty evenings and weekends while you alley cat around, in exchange for lessons on how to be sexier.” She beamed at him, inordinately pleased with herself.
Travis blinked, his jaw dropping. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
Prickly heat stole into her cheeks. Good heavens. He didn’t have to be quite so frank with her. “Well, I don’t know, exactly. I’ve never done anything like this before.” Truth be told, she’d only had a handful of very painful and embarrassing dates in her entire life. Of course, this would only confirm his premise that she was a lost cause. “I suppose we could start by you teaching me to make small talk and, uh, dance and, well…pretty much everything. My, uh, experience, when it comes to dating is very limited. I’ve only been out a few times.” The twin spots of heat on the crests of her cheeks grew impossibly hotter.
As Travis sat, watching Wendy squirm, his heart went out to her. Geez. Why was she going to put herself through all this emotional turmoil, only to end up empty-handed? It was a mugs game. But, hey, he thought—listening to Dusty scrape chairs into place at the dining room table and clump around the floor folding blankets—he could sure as heck use the baby-sitter. Maybe he should take her up on the harebrained scheme. It appeared that it would benefit them both. Although, he had to admit, he was getting the better end of the bargain. Lost cause or no, it was at least worth a try. There had to be some poor guy out there who wouldn’t mind having a guy like Wendy as a wife. Ugly shoes and all.
He shrugged. “Sure. It’s a deal.” Smiling what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he asked, “When do you want to get started?”
Wendy rubbed her heart-shaped chin thoughtfully. “I don’t have much time, really. It’s only five weeks till the Russo wedding.” Five more weeks till she crested the infamous hill and began her descent on the other side. The side that was quite literally a no-man’s-land. “And, I’ll be thirty, three days after that…so, how about if we get started on my lessons on Monday? After work?”
That should give her some time to do a little prep work. Read her books, take the quizzes in the magazines, try some makeover tips. In general, prepare as though she were getting ready for an exam.
Travis thoughtfully chewed his lower lip. “Monday?”
“Or Tuesday,” she hedged, embarrassed that she’d taken for granted that he’d be free. Knowing him, he had a date. Several dates. “Whatever you want,” she said, waving her hands nonchalantly in the air.
“Monday’s fine,” Travis agreed, removing his hat and punching what he called a Texas bull-riding-curve into the brim, before popping it back on his head. “Dusty,” he called, disentangling his lanky frame from behind her coffee table and standing. He stamped his feet to get the blood running. “You about done in there?”
“Yeah,” came the muffled cry. “I’m folding the big blanket.”
“Well, get a move on. I want to hit the hay before the sun comes up.” Travis arched back, stretching and yawning.
“Okay.” Dusty giggled as he stumbled over his feet.
Travis regarded Wendy through the hoods of his sleepy eyes. “Thanks again for looking after the squirt for me. I don’t know what I’d have done without you this month.”
“No problem,” Wendy reassured him, and moved with him to the center of the room, where they gathered Dusty’s supplies. “My pleasure. He’s such a good kid.”
Travis smiled indulgently. “He is, isn’t he?”
“The best.”
They stood for a moment, smiling at each other, two friends, easy with each other’s company after three years of being good neighbors. Travis took Dusty’s knapsack from Wendy’s arms and led the way to her front hallway.
“Hey, I almost forgot. I got the bid on the post office remodel. I’m squeezing it in before a couple of big jobs I have lined up, so I’m going to be starting on Monday. Hope that’s okay.”
Wendy fairly beamed at him. “Oh, hallelujah!” She clapped her hands in delight, bringing the dimples out again in his cheeks.
He turned to face her, his hand resting on the front doorknob. With a twist, he pulled it open and the crickets’ song filtered in from the shadows beyond.
“There will probably be quite a bit of dust and racket for a while.” He lifted and dropped his shoulders. “Can’t be helped.”
“Oh, I don’t care. Make all the noise you want. I’ve been looking forward to this for ages.”
“I know.” Boy, oh, boy, he knew. “We could probably carpool on Monday. That is, if you want. No sense in driving two vehicles all that way, when we just live a stone’s throw from each other.”
“Okay. Shall you drive, or shall I?”
“Me. I’ve got all my tools and stuff in the box on my truck.”
“Sure. Okay. Great. Golly. More square footage. I can hardly wait. That dinky back room has been driving me crazy for three years. This town is too big for such a small post office.”
Travis nodded in agreement. “Dus
ty,” he called again, exasperated. “Step on it.” He rolled his eyes at Wendy. “He’s a dawdler.”
“Unless chocolate milk is involved.” She smiled fondly in the direction of her dining room.
“I guess we could get started on your lessons after work, if you want. Any ideas where we should meet?”
“I don’t care. We could meet here.”
Travis frowned. “Nah, why don’t you come over to my place instead. That way Dusty can play in his room and stay out from under our feet. I can put him to bed at a decent hour for once.” He sent her a sheepish look. “Speaking of going to bed, I’d better go find out what’s keeping him.”
Together, Wendy and Travis made their way to her dining room, only to find young Dustin Donovan fast asleep in the middle of the blanket he’d been folding. His father’s cowboy boots were barely on his feet, askew at crazy right angles, and his face, cherubic in repose, was nearly divine in its perfection. They stood, the two adults, sharing the sweet moment and smiling at each other in easy camaraderie.
For if there was one thing they had in common, it was their love for Dusty.
2
After an invigorating shower the next morning, Wendy stood at the entrance to her walk-in closet and stared morosely at her limited clothing options. On the left side of the closet, hanging in a row, were her neatly pressed postal uniforms. Beneath them—freshly polished and shined—lay two pairs of regulation black postal shoes. The heavy-duty type.
The back of the closet was completely empty, except for her black wool winter coat, which came out very infrequently as snowstorms in Texas were rare. On the right side of the closet hung her Sunday dresses. Four dowdy, drably colored dresses, one for each Sunday of the month. One pair of open-toed shoes with low, wide and very sensible heels sat on the floor, waiting for Sunday to arrive. Next to the dresses were two polyester pantsuits, white for summer and postal blue for winter. These she wore on her time off.