by Wendy Wax
“Okay, that’s better. Let’s start with caller number one. Rita M., you’re on the line.”
Rita sounded nervous and very Southern. “I’d really feel a lot more comfortable talking to Dr. Moore about this.”
“Well, you can call back tonight between ten and two, or you can go ahead and give me a shot. How bad can it be?”
“Okay.” There was a brief pause and then, “I went out with someone for the first time last week. And it was great and all. He made me feel really special.”
“And the problem?”
“Well . . . he said he’d call, but he hasn’t.”
It didn’t sound all that pressing to Matt, but it was, as they said, her dime. “All right, let’s take a look at this. How many days has it been since your date?”
“Five. It’s been five days, but I’m thinking maybe my answering machine is on the blink.”
“Nope. Sorry, but if he were planning to call you, he would have done it by now.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m a guy. And because there’s a sort of unwritten time limit in the guy handbook. If a male over the age of fifteen hasn’t called within two or three days after a first date, he isn’t going to.”
“But he said he was going to call.”
Matt shrugged. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, Rita, but ‘I’ll call you’ is kind of like ‘Have a nice day.’ Nobody really cares whether you have a nice day or not. It’s just an expression.”
“But is there a chance he’ll call?”
“After five days?” Matt shook his head. “No way in hell.”
Matt moved on to the next call. “Okay, who’s up next?” He cracked his knuckles and settled back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “This is Ransom. You’re on the air, Marty.”
“Hi, Matt.” The caller responded with the upbeat cadence of a former cheerleader. “How are you this morning?”
“Just fine, darlin’. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, it’s my boyfriend’s friends.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. They keep dragging him to bars and strip joints.”
“And he’s complaining about this?”
“Well, not exactly.” Some of the perkiness went out of her voice.
“And he’d rather be . . . where? The symphony?”
“Well . . .”
“The opening of a new gallery?”
“Well, I don’t—”
“Dinner at your parents’?”
There was a protracted silence.
“Marty, sweetheart, wake up and smell the coffee. Unless your boyfriend has been bound and gagged, chances are he’s a willing participant.”
“But—”
“Men like strip clubs. That’s why they exist. You know, naked women shaking their ta-ta’s in your face? Guys love that stuff.”
“But they go every week. He stuffs money in their . . . well, I hope he’s only putting it in their garters.”
“Marty, it’s relaxation, an innocent taste of the unknown, a chance to unwind. A guy always appreciates a woman who understands that.”
“When will Dr. O be back?”
“Tonight, sweetheart. But believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Dr. O may not recognize the value of strip clubs in male bonding, but I do. Give the guy a break.”
Pleased, Matt waited out another batch of commercials—confirmation of Liv Live’s popularity—and walked over to the kitchenette to pour himself a cup of coffee.
He couldn’t detect sound or movement from Olivia’s room, which meant she must still be asleep. He had no doubt she’d have been out of bed and dressed in a heartbeat if she could hear him doing her show. Truth was, he was starting to enjoy himself. Hell, you didn’t even have to stop and think about this stuff, you just told everybody the way things were and moved on to the next caller. He was practically performing a public service.
Matt took his coffee back to the control panel and sat down to wait out the end of the last commercial.
As woman after woman called to complain about the behavior of husband, boyfriend, or lover, he began to wonder how men and women ever managed to connect at all. Women obviously didn’t see things the way men did, and in his humble opinion, women wasted an inordinate amount of time worrying about how their relationships were going.
Other than trying to let women down easy, he’d never really stopped to think about what they might be feeling. And he’d certainly never fallen for any of their protestations of love for him. All he’d ever wanted was to have a good time.
His next caller was JoBeth, Dawg’s girlfriend, and he could tell from her tight little hello that she was not a happy camper. “I just want you to know that I don’t appreciate any of the advice you’ve given Dawg.”
“Me? Up until today I’ve been very careful not to give advice. I just told him to stop sniveling and get on with his life.”
“You made him feel like there was no reason to make a commitment.”
“Hey, I just call ’em like I see ’em. It was not my intention to get in the middle of your life.”
“Well, you’re there. Smack dab in the center of it.”
Matt ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. He wouldn’t have minded Olivia poking her head out about now.
“You told him to be a man and hang tough, Matt, whatever that means. Dawg Rollins loves me and I love him. And now we don’t live in the same house, and in an hour I’m going to be eating barbecue with an old boyfriend.” JoBeth’s voice broke.
“Jeez, JoBeth. Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying. I hate crying.” She blew her nose. “It’s just that everything’s such a mess.”
Her misery traveled through the phone line and all but smacked him in the face. Had he ever really thought about what his comments to Dawg might mean to this woman? No, of course not. He’d been flip, half-assed, and unwilling to be bothered with their personal problems. Now, dangling on the hook as he was, he forced himself to think about his response.
“Look, you just have to make the best of this situation. Dawg doesn’t want to get married and you do. It’s right to go out and try to get what you want.”
“But, but, that’s what Dr. O said.”
“Well then, as strange as it feels to say so, Dr. O must be right.”
There was a long pause.
“You okay, JoBeth?”
“Yeah.” She gave a small sniff and an embarrassed little laugh. “Sorry to get so heavy on you. I just . . . I guess it’s time to go get ready for my date.”
Matt sank down in his chair and eyed the computer screen warily. Diane, he typed as calmly as he could, I need another caller. Just make sure she isn’t going to cry.
21
Kevin Middleton was considerably shorter than JoBeth remembered. When he rose from his side of the picnic-style table in the back room of the Smokehouse Barbecue, she couldn’t help noticing that he barely topped her five foot four inches. The hand he extended in greeting was also small, and JoBeth had the disturbing thought that she could probably outwrestle him if she had a mind to. She covered the thought with a quick smile.
“Hi, Kevin. It’s good to see you.”
“Same here, JoBeth. You sure are looking fine.”
“Thanks.” JoBeth slid onto the bench across from him and opened the menu the waitress handed her. She scanned the items briefly and then looked over the top of her menu at the man her parents had chosen for a son-in-law.
“I was sure sorry to hear about your folks. I always meant to get by and see them, but it just didn’t seem . . .” His voice trailed off and JoBeth knew then that he hadn’t forgotten the awkward end of their relationship, the long, dragged-out months during which Kevin and her parents lobbied for marriage while she stalled without understanding why.
Would she sit across a table from Dawg someday while he tried to recall what he’d seen in her? She pushed the thought firmly from her min
d.
“They talked about you up until the very end,” she said. Now there was your classic understatement. Through three years with Dawg they had never missed an opportunity to chastise her for what she’d thrown away. “They always thought you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Shows how purely intelligent they were.”
She looked up quickly in surprise and was relieved to see a smile on his face.
“They were fine people.” Kevin lifted the glass of sweet tea he’d ordered and held it out toward her like a salute. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, taking each other’s measure. JoBeth saw a medium-sized man of medium coloring with unremarkable brown eyes. There was nothing flashy about him, but she noticed he’d put himself together with care. The manicured fingernails and carefully pressed oxford shirt proclaimed him a man aware of the picture he presented, as did the freshly barbered hair, each strand perfectly in place.
Watching him converse with the waitress, JoBeth gave him points for the way he handled himself. He was friendly without passing over the line into flirtation, just as Dawg had always been. And when he placed his order, it was clear he knew his mind.
Kevin took a sip of his sweetened tea and then turned his attention back to her. He seemed less tentative than he’d been when she’d first joined him, and JoBeth reminded herself that this lunch had to be awkward for him, too.
“I haven’t been to the Smokehouse in ages. Do Hank and SandySue still own it?” she asked.
“They do. And I still handle all their accounting. They opened a second location in Snellville, and there’s talk about franchising.”
“You said this business would take off, and I guess you were right.” She was starting to remember a lot more than that. There’d been lots of Thursday night dinners at the Smokehouse as guests of Kevin’s grateful client. Sunday afternoons after church had been spent at her parents’. “I’m thinking about going back to school to finish my business degree.”
“Why, that’s great, JoBeth. You always did have a good head on your shoulders.” He smiled and his features sharpened. “Except, of course, when you dumped me.”
JoBeth could feel the blush spread across her cheeks. Both he and her parents had expected her to become Mrs. Kevin Middleton; even she had assumed it would happen one day.
“I never dumped you. I just wasn’t ready to get married back then.” Lord, she sounded like Dawg. “I don’t think I understood how much that probably hurt you at the time, and I’m sorry for that.”
When their combo plates arrived, they ate quietly for a while. In his own precise way, Kevin managed to put away almost as much as Dawg, though he didn’t seem to expect to finish what she left on her plate, like Dawg did.
They made small talk as they ate, and while she didn’t feel any major fireworks in Kevin’s company, she reminded herself that she’d had plenty of that with Dawg, and it had gotten her exactly nowhere.
Studying Kevin over what remained of her chopped pork, JoBeth thought about how funny life could be. The man across from her didn’t make her heart race or her palms sweat, but she could tell by the way he was checking her out when he thought she wasn’t looking, that he was still interested. And not just in her mind, either.
An hour into their “date” they split a slice of mud pie and nursed cups of coffee. She still wasn’t dazzled, but had to admit that Kevin Middleton was a nice, solid man who would make someone a nice, solid husband. As it turned out, their minds appeared to be running along similar lines.
“You know, I wasn’t sure what to think when you called me. I’ve been busy, I’ve been dating. Life’s been pretty good,” Kevin said.
JoBeth took the last bite of mud pie, chewing it carefully, taking her time with it while she tried to figure out where the conversation was headed.
She’d just put her hand over her coffee cup to discourage the last round of refills, when Kevin finally got to the point.
“But I’ve never found anyone I could imagine settling down with like I could imagine it with you.”
JoBeth’s gaze flew to his face.
“I’m thinking this whole thing could be fate’s way of giving us another shot at a life together.”
JoBeth tried to open her mouth to say something. She knew she should protest, speak up, do something. But Kevin Middleton had already taken the snap, and while she sat there openmouthed, he took the conversational ball and drop-kicked it right through her goalposts.
“We don’t need to call the caterers right now or anything, JoBeth. But I think we should spend some time getting to know each other again.”
He beamed at her, delighted, the dapper young accountant pinning down a workable plan for the future. “Why don’t we spend tomorrow up at my lake house? I could invite a few neighbors over for supper.”
His voice became an intimate whisper that did not make her heart go pitter-patter. “Or we can be completely antisocial and spend the day alone.”
Charles Crankower sat in the WTLK control room watching Matt Ransom construct a turkey sandwich.
On Saturdays, WTLK, like most radio stations, ran at considerably less than its usual warp speed. Sales and administrative staffs were off, and other than promotional appearances and special events, only those responsible for putting programming on the air reported to work.
Here in the main control room, a lone engineer monitored the syndicated program that currently played on the air, but Charles’s attention remained riveted to the Webcam’s view of Matt and Olivia’s current quarters.
Idly, he zoomed the camera in to the kitchen, giving up a big chunk of the living room in order to study Matt’s movements more clearly.
He watched Ransom spread designer mustard on the insides of two slices of bread, then add a dash of mayonnaise, which turned the condiment into a muted shade of gold. He piled several deli slices of turkey on one piece of bread, added two slices of what looked like Swiss cheese, and topped it all with a whopping slice of tomato and a large leaf of lettuce.
After adding chips to the plate, Matt positioned a pickle spear on the other side, then opened a beer. Without bothering to put the ingredients away, he slid the plate and bottle across the counter and walked around to sit on a barstool.
Charles studied his subject through the camera lens and grinned to himself. Matt Ransom sported a look and posture any male over the age of twelve would recognize. In stark contrast to the tension that had practically ricocheted off him before last night, his movements now were loose and comfortable, and he had a loopy smile on his face.
Matt had definitely gotten laid, and based on the way he appeared to be humming under his breath, it had probably happened more than once.
Charles thought about that one for a minute, allowing himself to imagine Matt Ransom and the straitlaced Dr. O going at it. He felt almost giddy. The promotional opportunity of a lifetime was knocking on his door, and all he had to do was invite it in.
Exposing a sexual relationship between Matt and Olivia would be bad news for the doctor’s reputation and career, but the amount of attention it would generate for the station was unlimited.
At first, people would tune in for the lurid excitement of it all. Then they’d be tuning in to find out why a respected therapist with a decidedly feminist attitude would put out for Atlanta’s Bachelor of the Year. The fact that they’d known each other before and kept that information secret just made the whole thing juicier.
Charles watched Matt turn his back on the camera as he took his seat at the counter. He looked like he was settling in for a while, so Charles used the remote to zoom and pan the camera, changing the angle and scope at random, curious to discover what else the camera might reveal.
Interestingly enough, it was possible to make a sideways move to the right, tilt the lens down, and pick up a new sliver of room close to the French doors. Charles had assumed that area was out of range because the lens had to point the other w
ay to pick up the largest slice of the room. He suspected the occupants of the cage no doubt thought of this as a safe spot, but the camera had an eyeball lens and could theoretically do a 360 if necessary.
Charles filed the information away for future use and zoomed back in to see if he could get close enough to identify the magazine Matt was reading.
Ransom’s producer entered the control room just as Charles gave up on the tight shot. They eyed each other with suspicion.
“I hear you’re going to be running the show for Dr. Moore tonight.”
“Yep,” Ben replied.
“Were you surprised when Matt did Dr. O’s show?”
“Well, sort of.” Ben looked like he might say something else, but apparently thought better of it.
“Any idea what she’s going to do?” Charles asked.
“No. Matt says she’s still a little under the weather. I think she’s just going to field calls like he did.”
“Come on, Ben. You and I both know the only weather that woman’s been under is Hurricane Matt.”
He heard the producer’s reluctant bark of laughter. But then the kid bit his lip and looked away.
“The only thing I don’t understand is why your boss is protecting her. He could have left that Webcam on and walked away with the whole enchilada.”
“Maybe he’s just got a little more class than you give him credit for.”
“Oh, what? Matt Ransom doesn’t kiss and tell? Puhlease! We’re talking career here and beaucoup bucks. Matt is one of the most ambitious, competitive on-air talents I know. None of this makes any sense.”
“Maybe he figures he can beat her fair and square. I’ve got the tally here, and after Matt’s show last night and his guest stint this morning, the doctor’s lead is down to almost nothing. She’d have to stand on her head naked tonight to pull ahead again.”
Charles zoomed in on the doctor’s closed bedroom door, trying to picture Dr. O resorting to such a thing. “Well, who knows. If she slept with Matt, standing on her head might not be such a stretch after all. Of course, the website votes don’t mean squat compared to the consultant’s report.”