by Ann Evans
“How do you know?”
“Remember what Grampa said about the baby needing a father? Well, one of these guys has to be someone Mom would like. We just have to let them know she’s not married.”
J.D. swung his head back and forth, looking over the photographs that Pete had spread out in two neat rows. “What if they don’t like her?”
That question made Pete scowl. “Why wouldn’t they? She’s pretty, and she’s a good cook, and she smells nice. We don’t have to tell any of them she gets mad if you don’t pick up your stuff.”
“We shouldn’t tell them she doesn’t like wrestling.”
Pete nodded quickly. “So which one do we call?”
J.D. finally pointed to the one Pete had known would be his little brother’s choice. A blond guy with a space rocket behind him on a launchpad. Probably an astronaut. “Him,” he said. “He has good teeth. Mom likes that.”
Pete slid the picture away, pointing, instead, to a smiling man in a cowboy hat. Next to Spiderman, Pete liked cowboys best. “What about this one?” he asked, trying not to sound like it mattered that much. “He’s probably a rancher. We could ride horses and have campfires.”
J.D. looked at his brother suspiciously. “I thought we were trying to find a husband for Mom. She doesn’t care about horses. You do.”
“That’s true, but doesn’t she always say that if we’re happy, she’s happy? And think about it, J.D. A space guy is gonna be on a rocket most of the time. Not with Mom and the baby. So how does that help?”
“I guess it doesn’t,” J.D. agreed with a sigh. “All right. Call him.”
Hiding his excitement, Pete snatched up the bedroom phone and the cowboy’s picture. He wasn’t bad with telephone numbers. His mom had made both him and J.D. practice phone calls in case they ever got lost. He dialed the number on the back of the cowboy’s photograph and sounded out his name. It wasn’t too hard. John Simm-ons. John Simmons.
The phone rang a couple of times. Then it was answered by a woman who sounded a lot like the lady who answered Mom’s telephone at work. Pete was disappointed. He wanted it to be a ranch, maybe with horses neighing in the distance. Not what sounded like a plain old, boring office.
“May I speak to John Simmons, please?” he asked in his most grown-up voice.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Simmons is not available.”
Pete had listened to adult conversations a lot. He knew what came next. “Do you know when he comes back?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Simmons won’t be back in the office for several weeks. He’s on a business trip to Australia. If this is an emergency…”
“Yes. I mean…no!”
Pete punched the off button.
The phone call had not been what he’d hoped. J.D. was waiting for an explanation, and when Pete gave it to him, his brother lifted the pictures, pulling out the astronaut again.
“Now try him,” J.D. said.
Pete wasn’t willing to give up on the rancher so quickly. “Why can’t we just wait a few weeks? We can call him again when he comes home.”
“I thought we were trying to fix it for Mom now. We can’t wait. Call him.”
“Oh, all right,” Pete said. An astronaut wasn’t horrible. And J.D. was right. He had good teeth.
Terry Boyd.
He called the number, and again a woman answered. This time, at least, it didn’t sound like he had called an office. In fact, he could hear music playing loud in the background and lots of laughing and splashing, like a pool party was going on.
“I’d like to speak to Terry Boyd, please.”
“Who’s calling?” the woman asked.
“Peter Rawlins.”
The woman must’ve placed a hand over the receiver because the background sounds Pete heard were muffled.
“What’s this call in reference to?” she asked eventually.
“Are you his mother?”
The woman laughed. “God, no! Are you kidding?”
“No, ma’am,” Pete said respectfully. The last thing he wanted to do was make anyone mad. “I’m sorry. Are you his daughter?”
“No, although some people think he’s robbing the cradle.” The woman laughed, then stopped and lowered her voice. “Listen, kid—I can tell you’re a kid—is there something specific you want? Because Terry isn’t getting his butt out of the hot tub just to play games with you. Not when he’s playing games with me, if you know what I mean.”
Pete didn’t know what she meant, but it didn’t seem important. “I was calling to ask him about my mother.”
“What about your mother?” she said in a suddenly sharper tone.
“I wanted to know if he would like to marry her.”
The phone line went dead in his hand.
Stunned, Pete stood and stared at the telephone for several long seconds. Then he explained to J.D. what had happened, although he wasn’t quite sure he understood what had made the lady mad enough to hang up. It wasn’t like he’d been rude.
“You did it all wrong,” J.D. complained, using the tip of his space cannon to scratch the side of his head. “Call him back and say you’re sorry.”
Pete was annoyed. “I’m not calling him back. He’s got a girlfriend.”
“So?”
“So he can’t have a girlfriend and be married to Mom, too.”
“Mrs. Weatherby’s husband had a girlfriend.”
“Which is why Mr. Weatherby doesn’t live at home anymore, stupid. You can’t have both.” A little upset because his plan to help his mom didn’t seem to be going very well, Pete shuffled through the remaining photographs. Eight left. “Let’s pick someone else.”
They settled on a dark-haired man surrounded by boats in the water. He had a really good suntan. Going to the beach all the time would be fun, they decided.
His name was harder. Pete had to sound it out several times before he could say it without stumbling.
Rick-y Cas-ten-ello. Ricky Castenello.
As he punched in the man’s telephone number, J.D. tugged on his sleeve. “Don’t tell him right away that Mom needs a husband. Say something cool. So he’ll like us.”
This time the phone was picked up quickly, barely before it had rung once.
“Yeah?” a man said impatiently.
Pete squirmed a little, not expecting the man to sound so…so gruff. “Is this Ricky Cast—”
“Yeah,” the man said again. “Who’s asking?”
Pete searched for something clever to say and came up empty. His hand was sweating, making the receiver slippery in his grasp. He spied the headline he’d asked his mother about this morning. Desperate now, he stuttered, “Are y-you one of the South’s m-most ill…el… Are you one of the South’s most ill-egal bachelors?”
“Who the hell is this?” the man snapped. “I told you people, I’m not talking to the press. You want to talk about fraudulent claims, you talk to my attorneys. Got it?”
The phone slammed down in Pete’s ear.
“What did he say?” J.D. asked when Pete just looked at him.
Bewildered, Pete shrugged. “I don’t know. He yelled. Something about a frog he lent someone. I don’t think he’d make a very good husband for Mom.”
“Now what?” J.D. asked.
Pete wasn’t sure. This wasn’t going the way he’d thought. They should have had it settled by now. But none of the really cool-looking guys were doing what they were supposed to. J.D. had on his I-told-you-this-wouldn’t-work face. To keep from looking stupid, Pete acted like it was no big deal and lifted the closest picture.
It was a dark-haired guy in a suit with nothing around him that looked even close to cool. Pete flipped the photograph over. After the last family vacation, J.D. had hung a poster in their room that showed Space Mountain at Disney World, and Pete had looked at it every day for almost a year. On the back of the file picture he recognized a familiar name from the poster. Orlando. The man lived in Orlando, Florida.
“Let’s try him,” he suggest
ed.
J.D. made a face. “Why? He looks too serious.”
“He lives in Orlando, J.D. Do you know how many times we could go to the theme parks and ride the rides?”
That settled it for J.D. With a short nod, he said, “Call him.”
Mark Bi-shop. Mark Bishop.
Pete pressed in the number. He hoped Mark Bishop would be the one. He was getting nervous and a little scared. If this guy wasn’t any good, Pete didn’t know what they’d do.
PROFESSIONALLY SPEAKING, it had been one of Mark’s more productive days.
After frustrating weeks of stalled negotiations, the Castleman Press acquisition was finally moving forward. The Boston office had settled its thorny personnel issues with the home-delivery drivers. The drumbeating auditors in the accounting department, claiming that the books in the Atlanta office weren’t jibing, had settled down at last after two grueling weeks of reviewing every file and statement.
Even Deb was looking happier these days.
Mark had strong-armed her husband into a man-to-man talk that had revealed Alan Goodson was not having an affair. He had lost his job and simply been too ashamed to tell his wife. Mark had been so relieved it wasn’t an extramarital fling that he’d hadn’t even minded when a grateful Deb threw herself into his arms and bawled for ten minutes straight. Now Alan was making the rounds, looking for employment—hardly an ideal situation, but at least Deb was fully involved, right by his side. At least Mark had his assistant back.
He poured himself a glass of Scotch from the mini-bar in his office. It was hundred-year-old stuff, smooth as silk, and he saved it for days like this. Darkness had started its slow crawl up the sides of the office buildings. In a little while there’d be the usual stampede for the time clock.
Hands laced behind his head, he leaned back in his chair, thinking he would call Deb in to share a glass. Through the open office door, he could tell she was still fielding calls on the phone, sounding like the old Deb with a voice that managed to be warm and crisply professional at the same time.
He heard the sounds of the staff closing up shop—drawers closing, the rattle of car keys, workers bidding one another goodbye. In another five minutes there was only silence.
He realized he ought to go home, but he wasn’t tired. He felt almost energized. Maybe it was the potency of the Scotch.
“Deb!” he called through the open door. “You heading home?”
She came into his office, stuffing paperwork into her briefcase. “In a few minutes.”
“Want a drink before you go?”
She shook her head. “Alan and I are taking the kids to dinner and a movie. We’re splurging on a night out for the first time in weeks.”
“How’s the job hunt going?”
“You know how it is,” she said with a shrug. “At Alan’s level, jobs aren’t that plentiful, and the interviewing process takes forever. But he has some good prospects lined up for next week. I’m revising his résumé.” She gave him a smile that was all cheerful determination. “I guess we’ll just continue to work through it together.”
He didn’t doubt her for a moment. Deb was a nurturer. If there was anything she could do to help Alan get through this with his ego intact, she’d find a way to accomplish it. For just the tiniest moment Mark speculated on what it must be like to have that kind of helpmate. He couldn’t imagine it. His own parents had never been supportive of each other. If anything, they’d enjoyed tearing each other apart.
“How about you?” she asked. “Do you have plans for tonight?”
He took a sip from his glass. “Actually, Shel’s in town. I might see if she wants to have dinner.”
“Shelby Elaine?”
“Yep. Didn’t I tell you? We patched things up a couple of weeks ago.”
Deb looked stunned. “You’re back together?”
He chuckled, knowing he’d shocked her. “No. She wouldn’t take me back if I were the last marriageable man on earth. But at least she doesn’t think I’m the devil incarnate anymore.” From the corner of his desk, he lifted the pocket folder labeled “Shelby” and waved it toward Deb. “Besides, we still have joint ventures that have to be dissolved.”
“I suppose it would be difficult to remain business partners.”
“Probably not a good idea.”
“She is a little volatile,” Deb concurred. “Slapping you silly. Calling you—”
“Don’t remind me,” he said with a sour look. “I’m trying to forget that day.”
That wasn’t the only thing he wanted to forget about those few days in New York. Over the weeks he’d told himself that he could hardly remember what Jenna Rawlins looked like. They’d shared a few hours of great sex wrapped around interesting conversation, but nothing more. And certainly, for now, work kept him busy and satisfied.
But sometimes there were moments when he seemed to have no command of his thoughts. He would find himself back at the penthouse, watching the way the moonlight seemed to turn Jenna’s flesh to satin, enjoying the sight of that achingly sweet mouth as it quirked in a dozen different ways, all of them tantalizing. And the sex—God, he remembered every second of that. Hearing her breathing change when he touched her, feeling her tremble. Those were the kind of memories that got harder and harder to push away.
He glanced down at his calendar and realized that it had been six weeks. Maybe in another six he’d have put it all behind him. He hoped so.
“You’re incredible,” Deb said, drawing him out of the past. “Women will forgive you anything.”
He grimaced and swallowed more of the Scotch. It burned a path down to his stomach. “Not all of them,” he replied.
The telephone rang, and Deb returned to the outer office. Absently Mark rubbed the edge of his glass against his bottom lip while she picked up the call. After a few moments Deb put the caller on hold and stretched to catch his glance.
“It’s someone named Peter asking for you,” she told him. “Sounds like a kid.”
Mark frowned. “I don’t know any kids.”
“Shall I take a message?”
“No. I’ll take it.” He punched the blinking light on his phone. “This is Mark Bishop.”
“Hello, Mr. Bishop,” came a young boy’s voice. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
Sometimes kids showed up at his door selling products to get more school computers or send students on a trip with their school band. But surely the schools hadn’t been forced to resort to phone solicitation, had they? “What about?” he asked tentatively.
“Well, first…do you…I mean, are you still one of the South’s most legible bachelors?”
The question made him smile. “I guess you could say that.”
“You were in a magazine story.”
“Yes. Quite a while back.”
“But you’re still not married?”
“No.”
“Or got a girlfriend?”
“Not right now.”
There was another voice in the background suddenly. Muffled, but insistent. Mark had to admit he was intrigued. What was this about?
“You’re not in trouble with the police?” the boy asked at last.
What the hell? As a kid, Mark had made his share of crank calls. But suddenly this didn’t sound like one. “Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Well…my brother and me, his name’s J.D., we were thinking that our mom might like to meet you. And maybe you’d like to be…not legible anymore. You know, like married?”
Debra Lee had come back to the doorway. He waved her away, silently mouthing to her that she should go home. On the other end of the telephone, he could hear the sound of breathing, as if the boy knew the magnitude of that proposal and wanted to give Mark a chance to absorb it.
“Let me get this straight,” Mark said finally, still feeling amused indulgence. “Are you asking me to marry your mother?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why wou
ld I want to do that?”
“Umm…she’s very pretty. And she takes baths every day.”
“That’s a plus.”
“She’s a good cook. We eat everything she makes. Well, not asparagus. Nobody likes that very much, no matter how hard she tries to cover it up with something else.”
Mark almost laughed aloud at that, but the boy’s attitude was so earnest he didn’t dare. “I’m with you there. I hate asparagus.”
“She likes animals, too. Except snakes. So you could have a pet if you wanted.”
Mark cleared his throat and adopted a more serious tone. “What about your father? Where is he?”
“Mom got a divorce. Grampa says Mom needs Dad like Custer needed more Indians. I don’t know who Custer is, but I think that means he’s not ever coming back to live with us.”
That information was delivered in a very matter-of-fact way, but something in the kid’s voice tugged at Mark’s heartstrings. He didn’t know what had made this boy and his brother suddenly decide to take matters into their own hands, but they were obviously very determined to resolve their mom’s marital woes.
“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s tough not to have a dad around the house,” Mark said, and meant it. He knew all about trying to get by in a home where all-out war had been declared and the dad had made himself scarce.
Again there was muffled conversation between the two boys. Mark waited, swirling the last of the Scotch in his glass. Eventually Peter said, “My brother wants to know if you live near Disney World.”
“Yep. Is that why you called me? Because of where I live?”
“Sort of,” the kid admitted. “First we called a bunch of others who have really cool stuff, but none of them would talk to me. So we picked you.”
“Gee, thanks,” Mark couldn’t resist saying. He wondered just how far down the “legible” list he’d been, then decided he didn’t really want to know. Before he could say anything more, the kid went back on the offensive.
“We wouldn’t want to go to the parks all the time,” Peter said quickly. “We’re not much trouble. Honest. And we wouldn’t mind having a new daddy.”