by Wendy Wax
Turning, Olivia strode up Fifth with Karen, the Syntex limo trailing behind them. She was trying very hard not to think about what she had just turned down. But she wasn’t having much success.
Her feet pounded on the pavement as Olivia stared unseeing into the shop windows they passed. She had just turned down the biggest offer of her career, said no to the thing she wanted most. No to becoming a household name, no to reaching the pinnacle of syndication. No to more money than she’d thought to see in a lifetime.
And she’d done it because . . . ?
Olivia stopped in front of a display of Coach handbags as she examined the question more closely. She’d said no because she couldn’t keep sacrificing her emotions in order to advance her career; because the quality of her life was more important than what she achieved professionally. Tired and out of time, she slid into the back of the limo beside Karen for the ride to JFK.
If she forced herself to work with Matt, given everything that was unresolved between them, what did that say about her? That she had learned nothing; that she would always subjugate and deny her feelings in order to succeed.
Life was too short to torture herself that way. And much too short to be manipulated. Taking her seat in the first-class cabin for the flight to Atlanta, Olivia realized how “off” the whole thing felt. If Matt Ransom was such an important part of the Syntex equation, where was he?
She sipped from the glass of wine the flight attendant pressed on her and thought about that for a while.
If the Bachelor of the Year wanted to do a show with her, he was going to have to tell her so himself. And he was going to have to tell her why.
Friday morning’s Liv Live was chock-full of women dealing with unpleasant surprises, something Olivia could relate to after her own in the Syntex boardroom. For most of the morning she worked at ironing out the creases that wrinkled her callers’ lives.
Sometimes those creases came in unexpected forms, like Melissa’s husband, who had evidently been faking an interest in power tools.
“I just don’t get it, Dr. O,” a throaty-voiced Melissa said. “Every year since we got married, I’ve given my husband a power tool for his birthday.”
“And?” Olivia asked.
“And the other day, while we were cleaning out the garage, he told me he’d rather have lingerie.” Melissa’s voice warbled. “From Victoria’s Secret.”
“And how do you feel about that?” Olivia asked.
“How would you feel? He used to rip my panties off at every opportunity. I didn’t realize he was checking for a style number.”
Olivia bit back a smile. She could hear the shock and confusion in Melissa’s voice, but she detected no revulsion, which meant Melissa might be able to come to terms with her husband’s predilection.
“Cross-dressers are almost always heterosexual,” Olivia said. “If you love him, and you can live with the lingerie, it doesn’t have to be a problem.”
“But he’s six feet two. His friends call him Bubba,” Melissa pointed out. “And I already bought the table saw.”
Olivia was well into the third hour of Liv Live when JoBeth called in, her voice vibrating with excitement. She too had experienced a life-altering surprise, but hers hadn’t been at all unpleasant.
“You won’t believe it, Dr. O. I’m getting married.”
The rush of envy was completely personal and totally unprofessional. Olivia quashed it immediately. “Congratulations,” she said. “That’s fabulous.”
“Thanks. I still can’t believe it. Two men proposed to me in one night. It was the most incredible thing.”
“Wow. Two proposals,” Olivia marveled, unable to ignore the irony. The person she’d advised had received two marriage proposals, while the man she loved had put a monkey wrench in her career plans and was too busy dating to admit to any feelings at all.
“Was one of them Dawg?”
“Yes,” JoBeth gushed. “It was so romantic. He came right into the ladies’ room of La Parisienne to ask me. We’re going to get married in the fall.”
Dawg Rollins had stormed a ladies’ room to propose. Okay, so it wasn’t a scenario Olivia envied greatly. Still, he’d proposed; Matt Ransom had a recurring role on The Dating Game.
“Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. If it weren’t for you and Matt, this never would have happened.”
Olivia couldn’t bring herself to ask whether it was because of them or in spite of them. “Congratulations, JoBeth. Really. It’s great that things worked out.”
She was just trying to imagine Matt Ransom on his knees anywhere, let alone in a ladies’ lounge, when she heard a strange noise in the control room. Olivia squinted up through the glass, but Diane had turned her back. There was some sort of altercation going on, but when no security guard appeared, Olivia shifted her attention back to her caller.
“Is Matt going to be back soon?” JoBeth asked. “Dawg’s on a run out of state today, but he asked me to be sure to thank him, too.”
Olivia heard raised voices on the other side of the plate glass. Craning her neck, she tried to see around Diane, but equipment blocked her view. “You know, I’m not really sure when he’ll be back. In fact . . .”
Her producer turned around, and a moment later, Matt Ransom’s head poked up above Diane’s. While Olivia watched, he put his hands on Diane’s shoulders and moved her firmly out of the way. The next voice she heard in her headphones was Matt’s.
“Actually, JoBeth,” he said, as if he hadn’t just arm-wrestled Diane for his spot in front of the control-room microphone, “I am back, and I’m glad to hear things worked out so well for you and Dawg.”
Diane popped her head out from behind Matt’s shoulder and mouthed a silent apology, but Olivia was still trying to grasp what was going on.
“Oh, and JoBeth?” he said.
“Umm-hmm?”
“You were right to be pissed off at me the last time we spoke. I had no business giving Dawg advice when I was screwing up my own life so badly.”
There was a stunned silence as Olivia, JoBeth, and, Olivia was certain, every one of her listeners, shook their heads trying to unclog their ears.
“Gee, Matt,” JoBeth observed. “You sure don’t sound like your usual self.”
“No, I don’t, do I?” Matt replied. “I think we know who we can blame for that.” He looked directly at Olivia, but it was impossible to read his thoughts through the glass.
Olivia imagined the whole station straining toward the nearest set of speakers. Somewhere in the bowels of the building Charles Crankower was undoubtedly jumping for joy. She didn’t know why she was so surprised that Matt had shown up unannounced. Matt Ransom had always conducted his life by the seat of his pants. Too bad he filled them out so nicely.
“So, what brings you back to Atlanta?” She kept both her expression and her voice neutral, while she combated the glimmer of hope that stirred with a mental listing of Matt’s many transgressions, including, but not limited to, compelling her to turn down her shot at national syndication.
“Well, I considered pretending I just happened to be passing by, but I came directly from Chicago, so that’s a bit of a stretch.”
Silent, she waited.
“And then I considered pretending I was a volunteer member of the relaxation police sent to evaluate your progress,” he said.
Olivia braced for the expected punch line, but he surprised her. “But I’m getting real tired of pretending.”
He sounded so unhappy about his admission that Olivia decided to test him with one of her own.
“I made the mistake of falling in love with you twice, Matt,” she said. “And then I felt the need to admit it to the world.” She paused. “Only you didn’t want to hear it.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “I’ve been trying real hard not to listen to a lot of things.”
Once again, Matt sounded less than happy about the revelation, but nonetheless, he’d made it. Three weeks ago this conversation would
have sent him running for the emotional hills.
Olivia peered through the glass trying to see through it and inside of him. Please, God, she thought. Please don’t let him wimp out now.
Matt stepped away from the plate glass. Olivia and her audience waited, collective breath held, while he left the control room and let himself into the studio. There he pushed her microphone up on its boom arm and leaned against the table where she sat, facing her.
Olivia looked up into Matt’s eyes. There was something in them that hadn’t been there before—a squeaky new grown-up thing that looked like it felt about as comfortable as a brand-new pair of high heels. But there was humor in them, too, and a willingness, she thought, to see this through. Her hope grew and began to multiply.
“Look, there’s no way I’m getting down on one knee or anything, but I do have feelings for you. Real . . . feelings. With . . . depth behind them.”
“Gee, Dr. O,” chirped JoBeth. “He’s starting to sound like a real live grown-up. Are you sure that’s Matt Ransom in there?”
“It’s not Memorex,” growled Matt as he leaned over and dumped the call.
Olivia just nodded her head and reminded herself to breathe.
Matt cleared his throat. “I’ve been running from my emotions since my brother died, Olivia. I didn’t want to feel that deeply about anyone again. But I feel that way about you.”
The words were simply put, and they pierced her to the core. She thought about what it had taken for Matt to mention his brother so publicly and realized just how great a hurdle he’d just jumped.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “That means a lot to me. But I’m not sure where that leaves us.”
“You’re the mental health professional. Isn’t there a handbook you can look this stuff up in?”
Olivia smiled. “Well, some sort of demonstration of your feelings would be helpful.”
Matt looked nonplussed for a moment. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a little black book, presumably the one he’d threatened her with and put to such constant use in Chicago.
Barely flinching, he opened it and started ripping out the gilt-edged pages. He ripped them out two and then three at a time, littering the floor around them until all that was left was the leather binding, which he dropped in a nearby trash can.
“How’s that?”
“That’s . . . good.” Olivia found herself nodding her head, unsure how to continue, confounded by the utter Matt-ness of the demonstration.
Then he smiled, a sudden brightening that sent that damned dimple slicing through his cheek, and she couldn’t help smiling back.
“It’s the least I could do,” he said. “I mean, now that your reputation is completely blown, I may as well let go of mine.”
He bent down then and kissed her, lightly. “I don’t have a lot of experience with real relationships, Livvy. But if you’re willing to walk me through it, I’m willing to give it a try.”
As declarations of love went, it was somewhat lacking in hearts and flowers, but Olivia knew a breakthrough when she heard one. Happiness, love, and, okay, it was definitely relief, flooded through her.
Reaching up, she pulled Matt’s mouth down to cover hers again. This time the kiss was deeper and definitely more thrilling and confirmed what Olivia had hoped: Matt Ransom might have left Never Land, but he still knew how to fly.
The sound of throat-clearing came from the control room and was followed by a tapping on the glass. Registering the silence in her headphones for the first time, Olivia opened one eye to peek over Matt’s shoulder.
Diane stood in front of the audio board with a finger poised above it. While Olivia watched, her producer leaned forward and pushed a button on the console.
Smooching sound effects of the overdone cartoon variety went on the air and filled Olivia’s headphones.
Before Olivia could blink, Diane leaned over the board again. A heartbeat later, the opening strains of the “Hallelujah Chorus” drowned out the cartoon kisses.
Still liplocked, but with both eyes wide open now, Olivia watched Diane adjust audio levels. Several long seconds of cartoon kisses and fervent hallelujahs followed.
Afraid that if she didn’t do something, her show was going to end with Porky Pig’s rendition of “That’s all, folks,” Olivia unlocked her lips from Matt’s and signaled Diane that she was ready to wrap things up. Leaning in to her microphone, she said with relish, “This is Dr. Olivia Moore, reminding you to get out there and live your life . . . live.” After a last thumbs-up to Diane, she concluded, “Which is exactly what I intend to do.”
When she was certain her microphone was off, Olivia removed her headphones and turned her full attention to Matt, who was still lounging casually against the table. Raising an expectant eyebrow, she waited for him to speak.
“So, are you ready to talk about moving to New York and arguing with each other for a living?” he asked.
“I still can’t believe they want to pay me that much money just to disagree with you.”
Matt smiled; they both seemed to be doing a ridiculous amount of that at the moment. “I knew that would be a major selling point,” he said.
She cocked her head to one side and studied the face of the man beside her. “Yeah, but there’s just one thing. What if we go ahead with this and one day we wake up and we’re in such accord we can’t think of anything to argue about?”
They looked into each other’s eyes, looked away, and looked back again, their faces tight with barely suppressed laughter.
“You know,” he said as he slung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “I think we can start worrying about that right about the time world peace is declared.” He brought his lips down to brush against hers.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Or when they go ahead and hold those Winter Olympics in hell.”
Can’t wait to join
Wendy Wax
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Available summer 2004
Miranda Smith was looking for a stamp when she discovered just how good her husband looked in ladies’ lingerie.
It was six-thirty P.M. on the coldest January 8th on record, and the Truro post office was already closed. But for Miranda—who was now conducting a room-by-room search—the stamp was no longer just postage but a symbol of every New Year’s resolution she’d ever made. And failed to keep.
One week into the new year she’d already given up on becoming a better daughter and reading her way through the classics. She wasn’t going to wimp out on the only resolution she still had a chance of keeping.
Somewhere in this five-bedroom, four-bath, six-thousand-square-foot home—which she’d just tossed like a petty thief looking for loot—there had to be enough postage to get her credit card payment in on time.
Miranda stood in the foyer outside Tom’s study debating her next move.
With less than twenty minutes to get ready for Friday night dinner at her parents’, she should be heading upstairs to shower and change, not preparing to strip-search another room.
It was just a stamp, she told herself as she turned toward the stairs, not the Holy Grail. Paying an occasional late fee was not cause for shame.
Placing a hand on the banister, she took the first step and consoled herself with the fact that Tom’s study had exceedingly low stamp potential, since she paid the household bills and he conducted all of his correspondence from the office.
On the next step, she decided that next year’s resolutions would include buying stamps regularly, which would definitely enhance her chances of eliminating late fees in the future.
As if she’d be making any resolutions next year, when she’d folded so easily this year.
The thought stopped her in midstep, turned her around, and propelled her back down the stairs determined to find a stamp or die trying.
Miranda marched t
hrough the foyer and into the study, where she snapped on the overhead light and crossed to Tom’s desk. Finding the desk drawer slightly ajar, she pulled on the knob, gritting her teeth in frustration when the drawer didn’t budge.
Beyond impatience, Miranda wrapped both hands around the knob and yanked with all her might. The drawer sprang free and sent a packet of photos, which must have been holding up the works, spilling across the floor.
Still in single-minded pursuit of a stamp, Miranda crouched down to gather them up. She duckwalked across the floor, cramming the photos back into their envelope, muttering to herself and trying to figure out where else she could possibly find postage in the next thirty seconds.
Until she actually looked at the photo in her hand, the one of her husband, the former linebacker, in a red satin bustier and matching bikini panties.
Miranda’s brain froze. Then it raced, sputtered, and ceased functioning altogether. Unable to think or move, she crouched on the study floor, staring at the picture clutched in her hand.
Her first clear thought was that there had to be some mistake. As president of Ballantyne Bras, her family’s bra and lingerie business, her husband was expected to supervise the design and production of a comprehensive line of women’s undergarments.
He was not supposed to wear them.
And yet here he was in a black lace teddy. And a fuchsia merry widow—with some woman’s hand on his rear end.
Miranda squinted at the hand, hoping to recognize it, but except for its French manicure and obvious familiarity with her husband’s derriere, it could have belonged to anyone.
The next photo revealed Tom in a cream-colored thong that looked as if it had been custom-made for him. Her head began to pound as she realized that it probably had.
Unable to tear her gaze from the sight of Tom’s rugged torso sheathed in such feminine trappings, Miranda gathered up the rest of the photos and pulled herself up into the chair.
She thought of all the times she’d seen her husband smile and wink and say “Hi, I’m Tom Smith, and I’m in ladies’ underwear,” and never imagined he was telling the truth.