How To Hook A Husband (And A Baby)

by Carolyn Zane

  “Doesn’t hurt that he’s loaded, too,” Travis muttered, glancing over his shoulder as he exited the freeway.

  “What are you trying to say?” Wendy demanded, narrowing her twin aquamarine color spots at him.

  “Nothing.” Travis donned a mask of innocence.

  “Good. Because I resent the insinuation that I’m some kind of fortune-hunting gold digger.” She waggled a disgruntled finger at him. “Rich people need love, too. Besides, I don’t care if he’s poor as a church mouse, if he’ll make a decent husband someday. If you’re so smart, Mr. Donovan, why don’t you make a suggestion?”

  Travis grinned at her snippy attitude. She was kind of cute when she was all fired up. “I’ll give it some thought, and get back to you with my ideas.”

  “Fine.” Wendy huffed and, taking a deep breath, tried to quell the stage fright that suddenly roared through her gut when she thought about facing the general public with her new look. In a way, she was glad Travis would be there with her. She could use the moral support.

  Travis laid down his tape measure and stood listening to the commotion through the wall where the post office boxes were located. The great Elvis-fat-or-skinny-commemorativestamp debate died abruptly as Agnes, Minny and Ethel caught a glimpse of their postmistress as she stepped behind the counter. The three elderly ladies were members of the New Hope Senior Citizen Stamp Collecting Club and, in general, the town busybodies.

  “Good Lord,” Agnes gasped, clutching her bosom in horror. “Who is that tramp?”

  Her throbbing sotto voce comment reached Travis from behind a pearl-buttoned gloved hand. He was reasonably sure that Wendy had caught the remark, as well. Agnes was the president of the N.H.S.C.S.C.C., and led the daily gossip fest at the post office. Travis ought to know. He’d been the subject of many of their scathing discussions. For his part, he didn’t give a rat’s hind end what Agnes and the gals had to say about him, but it rankled that they could tear down the precious self-esteem that Wendy was working so hard to build.

  “I don’t know,” Minny said, fanning herself with her mail. “If I didn’t know better I’d think it was our darling little Wendy.”

  “Oh, my wordy,” Agnes moaned. “First our darling little Faith gets herself in a family way outside the marriage bed, and now our darling little Wendy is rushing—hot on her heels—down the path of destruction.”

  “What is the world coming to?” Ethel wondered. Extracting a small flask from her brassiere, she took a quick swig. “Thank heavens I made another soothing batch of the curative.” No one in New Hope was exactly sure what went into the curative, but its healing results were immediate if Ethel’s flushed cheeks and slightly slurred speech were any indication.

  Travis had to restrain himself from bounding out to the front and giving the snooty old birds the bum’s rush. How dare they stand there and judge Wendy? Okay, so maybe she’d laid the Mabel Lee makeup samples on a little thick. That wasn’t her fault. She was learning, for crying out loud. Give her some time. She’d get the hang of it.

  He hated the idea that anyone might take the wind out of her sails. On Dusty’s behalf, he felt somewhat protective of the woman that had come to mean so much to his son. And, if he were honest with himself, she’d been a pretty good pal to him, too. He genuinely liked her. It was rare for Travis to actually like a woman. Feel that he could talk to her. Trust her. Ever since the number that Elly Mae had done on him and his son, he’d treated women like playthings. That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it? Most of the women he knew, that is, except for Wendy. Wendy was different. He would hate like hell to see anything hurt her.

  Eventually the three horror-struck stamp collectors were on their way and—as the morning wore on—Travis immersed himself in his work, tearing out walls and clearing debris until the brouhaha out front once again caught his attention.

  What the hell? he wondered as he poked his head out of the back room to where Wendy stood behind the front desk. The lobby was literally jammed with men, all ages, shapes and sizes, smiling and leering and drooling at the new and improved version of their postmistress. Obviously Agnes, the town crier, had been hard at work.

  Ralph Emmett, eighty years old if he was a day, was sprawled over the countertop, smiling a dopey smile up at Wendy. “Give me a one-cent stamp, will ya, sweetheart?”

  Wendy, apparently having gotten the hang of her new shoes, carefully worked her way over to the drawer where she kept the one-centers. Bending low, she tore off one stamp and slowly made her way back to Ralph.

  “Thanks, honey,” he said, scratching his pendulous earlobes thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I’m gonna need another one.”

  The “male” room collectively leaned forward as Wendy made her way back to the drawer and bent low to retrieve another one cent-stamp for Ralph.

  Travis was annoyed. Didn’t she realize that she was making a fool of herself? Not that he cared, mind you. Wendy was a big girl. She could handle herself. He hoped. If the wolfish expressions on half the town’s male population were anything to judge by, he’d have to dig out his nail gun and start kickin’ some stamp collecting butt.

  “I sure like your new uniform,” Ralph praised, figuring his two cents entitled him to share his opinion. “Especially them patches on the front. Them eagles make me proud to be an American.” Doffing his hat, he shuffled off to the side to make way for Harold McCoy.

  “Oh, you.” Wendy flushed and ducked her head shyly. “How you do go on.” Batting the crow’s wings that clung to her bright blue eyelids, Travis couldn’t be sure if she had something in her eye again or if she were awkwardly attempting to flirt with the curmudgeonly Ralph.

  “You’re looking mighty fine, Wendy,” Harold assured her, and a murmur of elderly male voices echoed his sentiment. Leaning forward, he motioned for her to lend him her ear. “Is it true what they say?” he wanted to know in a stage whisper.

  Her tentative frown was puzzled. “What do they say?”

  Don’t hurt her, Travis thought menacingly, and balled his fists at his sides.

  “That blondes have more fun?”

  Wendy glanced bashfully around the room, obviously taken aback by the uncommon and rather ardent siege of male attention. She lifted her shoulders lightly. “I don’t know.”

  Shaking his head, Travis shuffled back to his work space and began setting up his table saw. He was going to have a hell of a time keeping a naive babe in the woods like her out of trouble.

  Limping into the back room, Wendy headed toward the mini refrigerator that held her lunch. After she retrieved her brown bag and soda, she joined Travis at a table he’d fashioned from sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. The lobby crowd had finally abated and one of her part-time employees was manning the window. She groaned, a high-pitched gurgle in her throat, as she eased her aching body into a metal folding chair. Never before could she remember such a rush on one-cent stamps. It was amazing.

  Longing for her practical, black, regulation postal shoes, she kicked off her high heels and rubbed her throbbing feet. She suddenly had a new and profound respect for BambiAnn. Walking in those meat-grinders day after day took a great deal of talent and mental fortitude.

  Travis lifted his eyes from his copy of Sports Illustrated long enough to remove his thermos from his lunch pail. Then, seeming vaguely miffed about something, went back to his reading.

  She wondered for a moment what his problem was, and if there was anything she could do to help. But, she decided, glancing around at the mess that littered her floor, she knew nothing about remodeling. Whatever was irritating him was out of her field of expertise. Deciding that maybe she could draw him out of his funk and into a conversation, she made up her mind to ask him a question that had puzzled her for three years now.

  “Travis?” she asked, pulling her tuna fish on wheat bread out of her bag and opening the waxed paper that surrounded it.

  “Hmm?”

  Never one to mince words with her neighbor, she plunged in with b
oth aching feet. “What ever happened to Dustin’s mom?”

  Travis groaned and dropped his arms over the top of his magazine. She could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t enjoy talking about Elly Mae.

  “I mean, I remember when she left and everything, but I never knew exactly why.” Actually, Agnes, Minny and Ethel had loudly speculated on a number of theories, but none that Wendy had wanted to believe. “I’ve been curious about that lately.”

  “Why?” he grunted, and made himself busy by pouring a cup of coffee from his thermos.

  “I just wondered what kind of woman you married. I’m kind of taking a survey, really. Trying to figure out what makes a man take the plunge.” Looking hopefully up at him, she picked up her sandwich and held her breath.

  “Aw, sheez.” Travis shook his head and brought his coffee cup to his lips.

  “Also,” she pressed, playing her trump card, “I thought it could help me understand Dusty a little better.”

  Leaning on his elbows, Travis held his coffee cup between his two hands and eyed her over the rim. “Well,” he began, and slowly lowered his cup to the table, “where do you want me to begin?”

  “At the beginning.”

  He snorted. “We’ll be here all night.”

  “I’ve got time,” she encouraged quietly.

  As Travis’s eyes defocused and he proceeded to drift back in time, Wendy could hear Ralph Emmett back in the lobby, wondering when she’d be returning from her lunch break. Men were such funny creatures, she thought absently. Too bad old Ralph wasn’t fifty years younger. He seemed downright captivated by her new look. However, urgent as things were, she wasn’t that hard up. Cradling her face in her hand, she smiled softly and looked at her handsome neighbor. Too bad Dusty’s dad wasn’t more her type.

  Running a finger along his lower lip, he exhaled mightily and sagged somewhat in his chair. “Elly Mae and I were high school sweethearts. Elly Mae Barston. Prettiest girl in New Hope.”

  Wendy nodded. She’d seen Dusty’s beautiful mother.

  Travis smiled in remembrance. “She was the homecoming queen and head pom-pom girl. I’m pretty sure Elly Mae was voted best-looking, most popular, most likely to succeed and, if I’m not mistaken,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “the cutest couple.”

  Wendy rolled her eyes.

  “But then, you know I’ve always had a penchant for, uh, full-figured gals.”

  His eyes strayed to the peek a boo gap. Wendy felt her cheeks spontaneously combust and bit into her sandwich to hide her discomfiture.

  “Anyway, we were quite the pair. Me in my New Hope High Jackrabbit football uniform—”

  “Jackrabbit?” Wendy interrupted, choking on her tuna and whole wheat. “The high school football team is the Jackrabbits? I never knew that.” Leaning back in her chair, she lifted her aching feet up onto the makeshift table and laughed until her eyeliner began to run. “Oh,” she gasped, carefully dabbing at the blackish tears with her napkin. “I can see why Elly Mae couldn’t resist you in a Jackrabbit outfit.”

  Giving her brightly painted toes a playful shake, he narrowed his eyes in mock outrage. “Hey, we were fast.”

  “I’ll bet.” Wendy giggled. “Among other things.”

  Travis’s eyes traveled from her toes to her nicely turned ankles, then slowly skimmed her shapely calves, knees and thighs. “And,” he said, his voice low with innuendo, “here I thought you were such an innocent.”

  Squinting, Wendy wadded her waxed paper and lobbed it at his head. “Get back to the story,” she ordered, reaching into her bag for a carrot stick.

  He dragged his eyes away from her legs and did her bidding. “Okay, let’s see…After high school, Elly Mae had a hard time keeping a job. I think I’ve finally figured out that she was one of those people where high school is the highlight of their life. In real life, she couldn’t skate along on her looks, and nobody wanted to pay her to be homecoming queen or head pom-pom girl. So she stayed home and started watching soap operas. I think she found an escape there, because she became addicted to them. Began to pattern her life after them. I didn’t know it, of course, because I was busy learning the building construction trade and taking college business courses at night.”

  Wendy stretched and nodded thoughtfully.

  Reaching over, Travis snitched a carrot stick from her bag and thoughtfully crunched it for a moment. “Anyway,” he continued. “Her favorite soap was Restless Hospital. And her favorite character was Daisy Knights. I think Elly Mae longed for the exciting and glamorous life that Daisy led. Kind of like the life Elly Mae led in high school.”

  “Makes sense,” Wendy murmured, amazed at Travis’s ability to speak so objectively when it came to his ex-wife. She admired the way he’d analyzed and then accepted Elly Mae’s needs.

  “So, Elly Mae began to pattern her life after Daisy Knights. When Daisy got married, Elly Mae got married. When Daisy had a baby, Elly Mae had a baby. And when Daisy had a nervous breakdown, changed her name to Day, and decided to chuck it all and run off with another man…” Travis’s light gray eyes flitted to hers, then back down to his hands. “Well, you get the idea.”

  Wendy nodded empathetically. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. And she was. Sorry for him. Sorry for the woman who would miss out on the pleasure of growing old with the rascal who sat across from her. But, most of all, sorry for the little boy, still soft with baby fat, who longed for a mother’s love.

  “Don’t be,” Travis mumbled around a mouthful of her potato chips. “I’m over it.” His grin was resigned. “Elly Mae changed her name to Elle, and moved with her new rich husband to upstate New York. Thankfully, she left me with full custody of Dustin. Said mothering wasn’t her thing.”

  This time Wendy dabbed at her eyes, but it wasn’t out of laughter. Sometimes life could be so cruel. Travis’s story had given her a whole new understanding of him and the way he was now with women. She understood his comment about the men on her list being wealthy. She could see that he’d been hurt. Badly hurt. And he was retaliating, the only way he knew how. For some reason she felt much closer to Dustin Donovan’s dad. Perhaps, she mused, it was because of the intimate nature of their conversation. Or perhaps it was the way he kept raking his eyes across her legs. In any event, she could feel an almost palpable kinship with him. He was hiding behind the persona he’d invented to protect himself from getting hurt, much the way she had. Deep down, they weren’t so different, really.

  Outside, the community church chimed the hour. Wendy knew that she’d better get back out front to Ralph Emmett and the other townspeople who’d be looking for their stamps and checking to see if Agnes had been telling the truth.

  With a heartfelt groan, Wendy lifted her feet off the table where they’d been recuperating, and stuffed them, blisters and all, into her new four-inch-high platforms. It was going to be a long damn day.

  4

  After work that evening Wendy burst through the front door of her house and made her way back to her bedroom, shedding her torturous man-catcher getup as she went. Good golly Almighty, why did women have to put themselves through all this rigmarole just to catch a man? It was all so silly, she thought, kicking her shoes off as she unbuttoned her postal halter top. Oh, she couldn’t wait to get this horrible underwire push-up bra off. The stupid thing had more metal than a bird cage.

  Wendy didn’t think Travis would ever consider putting himself through this much pain just to impress BambiAnn. Yet, she knew that poor girl regularly squeezed herself into unnaturally tight outfits that would surely do terrible damage to her major internal organs one day.

  It was scary, Wendy thought as she twisted and turned, struggling with her newfangled bra. She was really beginning to sympathize with little ol’ BambiAnn. She had to give the woman credit. This catching-a-man business was hell.

  Moving over to the mirror, Wendy held her breath and winced in pain as she stripped off her false eyelashes. Next, off came the dangling earrings, h
air barrettes and bows, and other costume jewelry from around her neck and wrists. After smearing a layer of Phase I facial cleanser onto her face, she turned on the shower and once the temperature was right, stepped into the hot, steamy spray, and relaxed.

  Oh, heavens to mergatroid, she’d never enjoyed a shower this much before in her life. She shampooed her hair with Sue Ellen’s special split-end-healing concoction, then conditioned it with the honey-lemon-avocado-mayonnaise mess that Sue Ellen had assured her would leave her hair soft and manageable. Wendy didn’t know about that, but if it didn’t work on her hair, it would probably taste pretty good on a salad.

  Steam filled the bathroom as she stepped out of the shower and made her way back to the foggy mirror. Toweling off a spot, she looked at her face, squeaky-clean now, and began to realize just how childlike she looked without all the Mabel Lee makeup. She glanced at the clock.

  There was no time for the full regalia if she was going to make it over to Travis’s house by seven for the first dating lesson. Deciding to skip the false eyelashes and heavy blue eye shadow, Wendy quickly applied a sheer layer of base, some powder for her nose and cheeks, a little mascara-which was trickier stuff than she’d ever imagined—and some pale lipstick. There, she thought with a tiny frown. It wasn’t the full-blown man-catching beauty regime, but then again, the only men she would be seeing tonight were Dusty and Travis and they didn’t really count.

  Dragging a comb through her permanent wave, she decided against the mousse and styling gel, as well, and after a quick blow-dry, caught her hair at the back of head in a loose ponytail of honey-streaked, sun-blond-goddess waves. Then to her closet. There, the only halfway decent clothes she could find to learn to dance in were a pair of jeans, so tight she had to lie on her back to zip them up, and an oversize short sweatshirt with a ripped-off collar and threequarter sleeves.

  Once she’d struggled her way into her designer jeans, she held the sweatshirt up and marveled at how she’d been talked into spending sixty dollars on it. What on earth had she been thinking? she wondered, stretching it on over her head. Especially since the stupid thing kept slipping off her shoulder that way. It was darn lucky she’d stayed as fit as possible. As it was, she was practically bursting out of these silly jeans. Oh, well. Beth had assured her that this was what she’d need to snare a man. All the guys just loved this look, the young girl had promised.