Hook, Line and Single

by Marcia King-Gamble

  “SNI is providing two services for the price of one?” I repeat, despite my dry mouth and the whirring in my ear. These people are looking to put me under.

  “Yes, that’s what they say in their radio ads. I called, but no dice. I have to tell you I was not impressed with the way I was handled.”

  Radio ads? Jeeze, that’s expensive. Where are these two women getting that kind of money? I need to do something or I’ll be put out of business.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll take care of Eve, the mail, the newspapers and plants,” I say, my skin crawling and my stomach rumbling big-time.

  “Oh, good. Eve’s a real sweetheart. Comes from the gentile story, Adam and Eve and that snake in the garden. How much will you charge?”

  I do some quick calculations, knowing she is in a bind and knowing that I might have to pay someone extra to entice them to feed Eve her rodents. After a while I name a figure.

  There is a bloodcurdling shriek on the other end. “That’s insane! That’s highway robbery.”

  “The going price for tending a dog is thirty dollars a day,” I say firmly. “I’m quoting you fifty. We’re talking snake feeding here, watering plants, picking up papers and mail collection. It could be less if you purchase Eve’s food in advance.”

  “How much less?”

  I name a figure, shuddering all the while, picturing little white mice on their wheel in a cage. Imagine being raised exclusively for Eve’s pleasure?

  “I could arrange it if it would keep my cost down,” Rona counters.

  I am not sure I trust her. She sounds harried and high strung to me. Those mice could easily be running all over her home and my employee would be expected to capture them.

  “The only thing you’ll save is the cost of the food on your bill,” I come back with.

  She snorts, quibbles some more, and I give in some but not a lot. This is a two-week job. Why then do I feel I’ve been gotten over on?

  I check the jobs on the schedule. They are pitifully few. Time to start drafting an idea for a New Year’s promotion. Wife for Hire is known for prompt, personalized service. That is what we do best, and on that I will focus.

  As I am jotting down thoughts, an idea comes to me. It is not exactly original, but if it works for the airlines, it can work for me.

  I’ll develop different price structures. I can offer discounts to those using the Web to order my services. I don’t think that’s going to be good enough, not if what Rona says is true, and SNI is offering a two-for-the-price-of-one promotion. I need something really big. I can offer an introductory price to sample Wife for Hire. I can create payment plans for those customers who can’t pay the full amount up-front. No, that is much too risky and I have no desire to float anyone or become a credit collector. I already have a few deadbeat customers.

  Maybe a well-placed ad in Sunday’s Newsday could help. I took out a loan and might as well use it. I need something bigger and better. Something to shake up the competitor. I need a big splash to make people open their wallets. Maybe I need to confer with a marketing consultant and see what they think.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures. I need an innovative idea to pull my business out of this slump.

  A shower will get my creative juices flowing, I decide. And in two hours I have a date with Delicious whose real name is Reed. He did call like he promised, and we are to meet at a nearby Starbucks. His efforts to come out to Long Island have gained him several points.

  I spend a good twenty minutes under a hot shower and emerge with a clearer head. I am thinking that maybe the way to beef up business is to expand my services. I’ve already made a list of things most people hate to do. No one likes to clean toilets or organize closets. Filing paperwork is something we all dread. Most of us hate to stand in line, any line. But so far I’ve haven’t come up with anything innovative. What I really need to do is hire that marketing guru.

  I glance at the clock on my nightstand and realize the time has gotten away from me. I still don’t know what I’m wearing. Choosing an outfit for a first date is always difficult, especially when you don’t know the person’s likes and dislikes. I decide to wear what I like. Take me or leave me.

  I climb into black slacks which can be slimming, and slip a cream camisole over my head. I add a short tweed jacket to pull the whole thing together. Going for a youthful look, I sweep my hair with its burgundy highlights off my face and into a pretzel. I pluck at a few wisps around my hairline and I am almost ready. Silver hoop earrings, a hint of makeup and, presto, I am done.

  I am jittery with anticipation. I’ve done this first meeting dozens of times, but this one feels different. Reed is different. There’s been no cheesy lines or sexual come-ons. Reed hasn’t asked prying questions nor has he gone the route of the Internet lingo. He’s been a real gentleman and because of that he stands out.

  A half hour later, I park the Land Rover in the Starbucks lot and quickly glance in the rearview mirror. I make sure there isn’t a hint of this morning’s breakfast stuck in my teeth nor is my lipstick bleeding. Reassured I am okay, I heave myself from the front seat.

  What if there’s no chemistry?

  It is brutally cold, and steam curls from my open mouth and flaring nostrils. I wrap my scarf around my neck and hunker down into my coat’s hood.

  Better get this over with. I am hoping against all odds that Delicious is the one.

  I enter the coffee shop and look around.

  Is Delicious the man in the cabdriver cap, hunkered over a newspaper? Is he the guy in line who looks a little uncertain? Or is he the dude in the corner with an earpiece conducting an animated conversation with someone.

  None of these men look even remotely like Reed’s picture. But I am experienced enough to know that men in cyberland are caught up in the fantasy that they’re younger than they look. The photos posted might even have come from a magazine.

  I get online and order a latte but I am still looking around. I take the cup with me and sidle by a group of chatting people. I sidestep students with eyes glued to their laptops and find a table with a clear view of the entrance. I’m not concerned that it hasn’t been bussed yet. At least I’ve found a place where we can sit.

  I sweep a bunch of empty paper cups and lids into a nearby trashcan and grab a couple of napkins. I swipe at the table’s surface before sitting down. Then, so as not to look anxious, I stick my nose into a newspaper that’s left behind and pretend to be interested in an article.

  The story ironically is about single women’s choices in today’s dating world. The paper lists the options, meaning: matchmaking, speed dating, singles parties and Internet dating. I am intrigued. There are many others like me out there hoping to make a connection.

  Someone clears his throat behind me. I look over my shoulder. My heart jumps. Oh, boy, I like what I see.

  “Roxi?” the man asks, carefully looking me over.

  “Who’s asking,” I lob back. Reed is the spitting image of his picture.

  He is hot and a lot taller than I expected. He has one of those lean, hard bodies that I like. His skin is weathered enough to indicate he has some life experience, and his hazel eyes are a nice contrast against his dark skin.

  “Reed Samuels,” he says, pulling out the chair across from me.

  “Reed, at last,” I manage.

  He reaches over and takes my hand—the one not holding the latte and squeezes it gently.

  A shiver skitters up my spine and down again. I feel like a teenager. Reed’s complexion is the color of toasted almonds. His skin is tightly drawn across high cheekbones, and his light eyes hold me captive. He reminds me of the star athlete you meet years later at a class reunion who with age gets better. My insides are Jell-O.

  “Roxi,” Reed says, still holding on to my hand. “Interesting article?” He points to the newspaper.

  “Actually, yes.” I decide not to tell him that I am reading about people like us, reduced to meeting strangers via the Internet.
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  I fold up the paper and give him my full attention.

  “How’s your coffee holding up?” Reed asks.

  “It’s latte.”

  He stands. “I’ll get you a refill and I’ll get myself hot water.” He reaches into the pocket of the ski jacket he’s hung over the back of a chair and removes a packet holding a teabag. He sets it on the table.

  Reed carries his own teabags. Hmm.

  Boyfriend is definitely different. But there is a quiet elegance to him that I find most appealing and I can tell he is a man’s man. I have come to the conclusion in a matter of these few minutes that I might easily fall in love with this man.

  Reed’s walk is loose-hipped and loose-jointed. He is completely unaffected by his looks. I think about Carlo briefly and then decide since I’m here with Reed Samuels who’s looking for what I’m looking for—a long-term relationship—it’s best to focus on him.

  Reed returns to our table balancing two cups. He sets mine down in front of me, sits and plops a teabag into hot water.

  “You’re much cuter in person,” he says, giving me a crooked smile that makes my heart jump.

  “Thanks.” He sounds sincere and not as if he’s feeding me a line.

  I still want to know why a man who looks like this one, with manners like this one, has resorted to posting an ad on the Internet. I want to know if he’s wondering the same about me, and trying to figure out whether I have webbed feet or something. I take a big gulp and ask him.

  “I posted an ad out of curiosity more than anything else,” he says. “I wanted to see what would happen.”

  “And what has happened?”

  “I met you.” His voice is low and those hazel eyes are an alluring shade of steel.

  I use my tongue to moisten my lips. I am flattered, but it is much too soon to be this serious. I am also wondering if this is a line he feeds everyone he meets. I’m not into games and I sure hope that a man in his forties is over that.

  We talk about what we enjoy doing when we aren’t working. I am surprised at how similar our tastes are. I wonder if he’s giving me the answers he thinks I want to hear. We are clicking away on every possible level. We both like good wine but don’t want to pay a fortune for it. We enjoy hole-in-the–wall restaurants and ethnic foods. We drool over jazz from another era. And we share a fondness for old architecture.

  I like cosmopolitans. He likes his martinis dry and with gin.

  Reed laces his fingers through mine. He holds them in front of him, measuring the size of our hands.

  “Have dinner with me,” he says.

  “When?”

  I want to savor our meeting and think about him.

  “This weekend.”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve,” I remind him.

  “Exactly. And I want to spend it with you.”

  Reed has just made a huge admission to me. He is free on the most important evening of the year; either that or some poor innocent woman is about to get dumped.

  I don’t want to think about being the cause of another woman’s pain. But I like him and I don’t have a thing planned. And it is New Year’s Eve.

  I can’t be too eager. “Can I get back to you?” I ask. “I need to look at my calendar and move a few things around.”

  “Of course.” He is still holding on to my hand. “Its gotten too crowded in here,” he says. “Let’s take a walk?”

  I agree because for some inexplicable reason I am comfortable with him. I feel as if we have known each other forever.

  He stands. I stand. We link hands and I walk out the door with him. Reed Samuels is what I have been looking for my entire life.

  They say when you meet the right one you know.

  Trust me, I know.

  CHAPTER 14

  I float home on a cloud and am still floating. My business worries are temporarily placed on the back burner. I have managed to get a date with a man I am attracted to and on New Year’s Eve at that.

  The red light on the answering machine is blinking when I enter my house. I am guessing it must be Margot. She’ll want to know how my date with Reed went. We haven’t had time to catch up. And I am afraid to call her in the event things did not go well with Earl.

  When I depress the button, the male voice on the other end stops me in my tracks. “Happy holidays, Roxi. Hopefully its been a good one so far.” My ex-husband, Kane. What does he want? It’s been a while since I heard from him.

  I take in a mouthful of air and compose myself. We’ve been divorced three years, but hearing his voice can still be an emotion-filled experience. We’d shared so much together.

  “I’m trying to reach Lindsay,” Kane says. “She’s not answering her cell.”

  I know Lindsay told him she was moving to Paris. I’m wondering what this really is about. Kane had to know Lindsay’s phone is disconnected. She’d seen him before she left and he’d given her money. I save the message to replay later and think about. I will call Kane back when I get around to it.

  The next voice is Margot’s. She’s in one of her down moods, which means things did not go well. Earl has not been in touch with her since he came over Christmas evening. Now, that’s a big surprise. But she is my friend, and despite her shortcomings she is usually there for me. I pick up the phone and hit speed dial.

  “Where have you been?” Margot wails. “I really needed someone to talk to.”

  “I’ve been busy. Why are you so upset with Earl? You should be used to his disappearing acts.”

  “I thought it might be different this time.”

  She tells me how she and Earl ended up in bed together. That’s another huge surprise.

  I say. “Umm,” and “Hmm,” a lot.

  “And now he’s not returning my calls,” she wails.

  I make sympathetic noises. Now is definitely not the time to tell her how things went with Reed. I invite Margot for dinner and hang up. Next I pick up the phone and call a marketing company. The person I want to speak with is on vacation. An assistant tells me someone will get back to me after the holidays, which means after the first of the year.

  I am curious if the competition is also experiencing a dip in business, but I am too chicken to use my cell phone to call. I find an old calling card and make sure my number is blocked. The phone gets picked up on the second ring.

  “Service Not Incidental.”

  The voice is young and chirpy. It doesn’t sound like Karen Miller’s or Tamara Fisher’s but it’s been a while since I spoke to either of them. Just in case, I disguise my voice.

  “I’m wondering if someone’s available on New Year’s Eve to take care of my dog, Muffy?” I ask.

  “Hmm. That might be tough. Let’s see how we are doing on appointments for New Year’s Eve? Can you hold?”

  While I am holding I am also holding my breath. What if she comes back and says she’s full and unable to accommodate me?

  I’m left on pins and needles for a full two minutes. I know, because I keep glancing at my watch.

  “Where do you live?” she returns to ask.

  Now I have to think quickly,

  “The five-towns area. You must be busy, but I’d really appreciate it if you could fit me in.”

  “We are busy.” I hear paper rustling and my anxiety goes up a notch. “Let me see where we can fit Muffy in.”

  Shit! If ten customers call with jobs on New Year’s Eve I’d be kissing the ground not acting as if it’s an imposition to accommodate them. Could they really be this busy? Based on their phone manners alone, their service is incidental.

  “What about your two-for-the-price-of-one offer?” I ask. “I get another job free, right?”

  “What about our two-for-one offer?” she counters.

  “I need someone to take my car to the garage for an oil change.”

  Dead silence. In the background I hear muffled conversation.

  “How far away is your mechanic?” she comes back on to ask.

  I name a town not eve
n five miles away.

  “Sorry. Our two-for-the-price-of-one offer covers a one-mile radius.” So that is the catch. “If you want us to feed your cat that’s free, or do your grocery shopping, anything within one mile of the first job.”

  “What if you took my car to the local Jiffy whatcha-macallit?” I ask.

  “Hold for a sec.”

  Dead air again. Not, “Please hold for a moment,” or “Would you mind holding for a moment?” Just a phone placed on hold, no music or anything.

  After at least three minutes she comes back on the phone. “That’s not possible. We can’t risk the liability of driving your car.”

  Interesting. I pick up cars from train stations and airports all the time. I drive them from point A to B and I run them through car washes. So much for Service Not Incidental’s two-for-one offer. Seems like a bit of a scam to me.

  I tell the person I’ll call back and I hang up. I begin preparing dinner. I put a bottle of pinot grigio into the refrigerator to chill. I will keep dinner simple. I’ll make a chef salad and put tuna on the grill. I’m flipping the tuna when my phone rings, and I’m thinking of Reed. I reach for the landline without checking caller ID first.

  Margot’s voice comes at me. “I have to cancel,” she says abruptly.

  “Why, missie? I’m already cooking.”

  “Something’s come up.”

  What’s come up is probably Earl and his healthy libido.

  “You were supposed to be here in an hour,” I remind her.

  “Yes, I know. Sorry, Roxi. I’ll make it up to you another time.”

  I slam the phone down before I can say something truly horrible. I can refrigerate the tuna but this is an awful lot of salad for one person to eat. Maybe I can give my dinner to Jessica, the neighborhood terror’s family. I find a Tupperware bowl and scoop most of the chef salad into it. I finish the tuna and wrap it in foil. Then I let myself out of the house, cross the street and ring the Applebaums’ doorbell.

  Jessica’s mother opens the door. She is tall, elegant and fills out her jeans and a black turtleneck nicely. From her shocked expression, I can tell I am the last person she expects on her front step. So far we’ve had a nodding acquaintance. If Mr. Applebaum exists I’ve never seen him.