by Ginny Aiken
Yeah, the thought of all that while working with abandoned babies and digging for sapphires is more than my stomach can take—especially now that I’ve eaten enough for a family of nine.
I push back my chair. “Excuse me!”
I pray every step of the way to the nearest john. What a time for my stomach issues to reappear.
When I walk out of the bathroom stall, I find Aunt Weeby sitting in an elegant cobalt silk-covered chair in the ladies’ room, praying under her breath. Her relief tells me what a scare I’ve given her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Of course you didn’t, sugarplum.” She pats the arm of the matching chair at her side.
I sit.
She goes on. “You just urped. I came to pray for you in here on account of I couldn’t shut off all that jibber-jabber going on out there.” She weaves her fingers through mine. “Are you going to be okay? Let’s see how you feel after I give you a good ol’ dose of Great-Grandma Willetta’s cod liver oil—you know how good that stuff is—”
“No!” Horrors.
She goes on. “How ’bout we go back home? To a good American doctor?”
“Of course we can’t go back home—at least, not yet. I’ll be fine.”
“But you got sick—”
“Sure, I did. I ate too much and too fast. I know better than that. Don’t worry. I won’t do it again.”
Aunt Weeby looks puzzled. “Did you like the meal that much?”
I shrug. “It was yum-oh, to quote Rachael Ray, but that’s not why I ate like that. I just hated the whole ‘Andi-ana Jones’ deal, and it was easier to chow down than to deal with those people. My bad—and I still had to deal with them.”
“Pshaw!” She stands. “Sugarplum, you just have to learn to . . . what does that there Dr. Phil guy say? That’s it! Embrace your fame. It plumb won’t do to run away from it. Or to eat yourself into a fat-fest frenzy, either.”
“Now there’s an image for ya.”
“So’s you running from . . .” She gives me what I call her evil eye, since it sees too much. “Well, y’aren’t just running from the fame thing, you know. It’s that dear boy Max what’s really got you pigging out. Isn’t it?”
I roll my eyes. “He drives me nuts, all right. It’s no classified secret.”
Her smile turns indulgent, and I realize the weapon I’ve given her. “You got it all wrong,” I wail. “He’s a pain in the butt—”
“They’re the best kind, those pain-in-the-butt boys. Your uncle Harris was one of ’em. I like to have pulled my hair plumb out when we first met. I thought him the most mule-ornery male Creation’d ever seen. But he stuck to me like chewing gum to a summer sandal, and then . . . why, I loved him with all my heart.”
Talk of love and ornery males makes my teeth itch. I don’t want to go there, not about Max.
Not yet.
“Nope, Aunt Weeby. Please don’t do this to me.” I shake my head to where I hear a rushing sound in my ears. “That’s not the kind of crazy he makes me. He makes me the kind of crazy that says he’s going to sink our show if we don’t watch out. I think Miss Mona really needs to find him a different catalog to sell our viewers.”
She arches a brow. “And here I thought he was studying rocks with you. What? You reckon Danni’s panties would be a better fit?”
Not even with the proverbial ten-foot pole.
I blush, rise, and slap open the swinging bathroom door. “I know I suggested it once before, but you know that’s goofy. Maybe Miss Mona can start some kind of . . . ah . . . well, how about a motorcycle stuff program? He can sell that—gloves, sunglasses, helmets. You know.”
As I stalk to the table, I notice how close Max and the gloriously gorgeous Glory have their heads. For some irrational reason, this irritates me.
“No!” I tell my aunt. “I have it. He should sell ladders and hoses and dead-bug-on-your-windshield cleaning goop—nice and studly stuff.”
“Dead bugs?” Glory asks when I plop into my seat. “Did you find dead bugs in the bathroom?”
Figures she’d be the one who’d ask, right? It tweaks my irritation up a notch. “Yeah, bugs. But not in the ladies’ room. Aunt Weeby and I were just trying to come up with a new program to feature Max. Like those women suggested.”
“You want me to sell dead bugs?” Mr. Magnificent asks, disbelief all over his handsome mug.
Miss Mona looks thoughtful. “Well . . . it is odd, I’ll grant you that, but you know? There are . . .” She waves in that vague way of hers. “Oh, whatever you call them. People who collect beetles and butterflies—dead bugs!”
The angry horror on Max’s face makes me smile—and squirm, but I choose to ignore the squirm. For the moment. I’ll pray about it tomorrow . . . later.
I dredge up a smile from . . . oh, somewhere deep and forgotten. “Who’d a thunk l’il ol’ me would come up with the solution to Max’s less-than-masterful gemological expertise?”
His eyes burn fiery blue. “You can’t be serious.”
I cross my arms. “Well, I’m not the boss.”
He turns to Miss Mona. “I’m sure she was only joking. I know even less about entomology than I do gems. How many of your viewers are going to be interested in bugs? They like Danni’s panties—er . . . lingerie, Wendy’s girdles, Tanya’s sports memorabilia—that I could go for, you know— Marcie’s kitchen gadgets, and the gems and jewelry. I don’t see where bugs fit in.”
Before I can stop myself, I say, “How ’bout men’s underwear with bug pictures? I’m sure you’d sell a ton—to the guys’ wives, that is, and if you make the boxers cute.”
Another of his glares comes my way. “Fine, Andie. If we’re going to talk bugs, then let’s talk about the one that seems to have flown up your nose. What’s the deal? I haven’t done anything to set you off this time. I thought we’d gotten beyond the snits.”
Ouch! He’s right.
My snit crash-lands, and I feel crummy.
I’ve let my insecurities get the best of me again. First, Delia and her mother’s gushing about him hit me in the pride. Then his sudden arrival threw me for a loop. And finally his cozy little chat with Glory when I walked out of the ladies’ room jabbed my old green-eyed monster up from its nap. What does it all say about me?
Ugly, ugly, ugly.
No way, no how am I going to examine my feelings right now.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Really, I am. Please forgive me. I was nasty for no reason, and I have to get a grip. Ah . . . umm . . . let’s blame it on my rotten stomach.”
It’s Max’s turn to cross his arms. “Rotten stomach? Is that a onetime deal? ‘Cause if it is, I have plenty of Imodium— mi casa es su casa in the over-the-counter-meds world, that is—and I’d be happy to share. Or did you suddenly develop a new chronic condition?”
His sarcasm makes me wince, but I know I deserve whatever he sends my way. I did act like a snotty two-year-old. Not so hot, you know? “It’s not sudden—”
“Now, Max, dear,” Aunt Weeby says as she takes her seat. “Didn’t Andie tell you all about her time in that Big Apple a’ hers?”
When my cohost shakes his head—and I cringe—she continues. “Well, let me tell you all about it. She was so busy wheeling and dealing that she got holes in her belly, and her cat up and died. So, see? It’s not new or nothing. She just has herself a corroded gut. Oh! She’s pooped too. Uh-huh. She told me so herself. And bummed. She’s pooped, bummed, and corroded on account of that nasty ol’ Apple.”
If that’s not the loveliest description of my life in New York, then I don’t know what is.
Yeah, right! Well, it’s the main reason I came back home to Louisville, but little did I know I’d be facing wild escapades thanks to the Duo, and worse yet, their hyped-up forays into the world of matchmaking.
“Come on, Aunt Weeby. Let’s not go there. That’s not the best way to put it, and you know it.” I turn to my nemesis. “I developed three u
lcers during the years I spent in New York. My stomach still gets twitchy at times”—why tell him it’s behaved ever since I left the city?—“and I suppose eating a lot of foreign foods too fast may have set it off.”
I know, I know. Über-lame. What’s worse, Max’s skepticism tells me he knows it too. But what’s a girl to do? Especially when the gorgeous brunette next to the guy in question leans closer and places her slender hand on his arm.
“You would be awesome in your own show,” Glory says, her brown eyes glowing up at Max. “You are so photogenic. The camera loves you.”
Not just the camera. The thought zips through my mind, but I have the sense to bite down on my tongue before the words pop out.
Max smiles at Glory. “Thanks.” He turns to Miss Mona. “I wouldn’t mind a sports show of some kind. Maybe something that features football memorabilia. I can do a good job when it comes to college teams. I could host players, coaches, even pros. I think interviews would work well to sell our products.”
Even though this is what I’ve wanted since his first day, suddenly I don’t want Miss Mona to agree. Especially since he and Glory would get a lot of together time. She usually works the kitchen and sports segments. Hannah, my regular camerawoman, is maid of honor at her younger sister’s wedding this coming weekend. Therefore, Glory in Kashmir.
Oh, yuck! Yuck, yuck, yuck! I don’t like how I’m feeling right now. I don’t want to be jealous. Not over Max. Lord? Help me, please.
Miss Mona purses her lips and narrows her eyes. “Hmm . . . I don’t know, Max. I’d hate to bust up a good thing. And you do know we have a very good thing going with the gem and jewelry shows.”
I breathe a little easier. And realize I need my crazy head fixed—help, please!
He tightens his lips into a thin line, then nods. “We can’t argue against success. We rarely have any stock left at the end of our shows.”
“I’ve kept track of every one of those lovely, fast-emptying shelves in the vault.” Miss Mona’s businesswoman’s eyes sparkle. “But you can’t deny something special happens when you and Andie take your seats and the cameras start to roll.”
Special? Cat-and-dog snarls? Do people really want to watch us spat?
Okay. There’s a lot to be said for the excitement in winning one of our verbal jousts. But would I like it better if he sold . . . thingamabobs with Tanya, Marcie, or all on his own?
A lot of zip would go out of the fun of doing my show.
Aaaargh! How can I be so mixed up? On the one hand, I can’t stand that he doesn’t know much about gems. On the other hand, I can’t stand to think he’ll go off into the shopping-channel sunset with Glory glommed onto his arm.
Am I bonkers or what?
Or what.
I exaggerate my yawn. “You know? I think we’ve overstayed our welcome. It’d be a good idea to head back to the hotel. We’re going to need our sleep for tomorrow. I hope no one’s forgotten we’re meeting the Musgroves at eight o’clock.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Miss Mona says. “I want to dig in and get something done for those poor children who’ve lost so much.”
“Amen to that!” Aunt Weeby says. “I want to see for myself why no one else gets around to helping them any. Don’t y’all think it’s crazylike that we’re the ones what have to come all the way from Kentucky to do it all here? Something’s plumb wrongheaded with that picture. Where’s everybody else what can help?”
Allison wraps an arm around my aunt as they head for the restaurant’s door. “I’m sure that’s not what’s really happening,” she says. “I’m sure lots of help has been sent and many others have tried to work with the Kashmiri. But I’ll bet there’s a whole lot of political roadblocking going on.”
Miss Mona quietly pays for the meal, and our group heads out. I hang back, hoping to avoid Mr. Magnificent.
Mr. Magnificent, however, has my number. He hangs back too.
“Can we call a truce?” he asks.
“Oh, Max, it never broke,” I answer. “Not really. I just . . . I don’t know . . . but I do know I’m sorry for my snitty remarks. Just chalk it up to my not being in my right mind for a moment or two.”
“Oh, so you have a right mind and a wrong one.” He winks. “I wish you’d told me that the first day. It could’ve saved us both some grief.”
“Don’t get me started!” I ground the incoming smile. “What do you plan to do tomorrow while we work with the Musgroves?”
“I meant it when I said I wanted to pitch in.”
Hmm . . . “It won’t be a cakewalk—or in your case, a day on the green.”
He holds the door open for me. “Do you think you could give me the benefit of the doubt? Just once?”
My hackles bounce right up to attention. “What do you mean? The benefit of what doubt—”
“I’ve spent a couple of summers on short-term mission projects abroad,” he says.
“Missions . . . you?”
His expression turns indignant. “Yeah, me. I worked on a water project in Tanzania the summer after I graduated college, and three summers ago I went to Honduras for six weeks. We built three churches in that time.”
Ouch! My pride poops out—as it should. How mean-spirited can a woman get?
I know better.
I do. Really, I do.
Max has said he’s gone to church all his life. And I just assumed—yeah, don’t tell me how dumb that is, okay?—he’s gone as a what-you-do-on-a-Sunday-morning deal.
How many other ways have I underestimated him? All because of my pride . . . and my fear of relationships. Especially with a guy like him.
Worse yet: how would I feel if he’d done the same to me? “I’m sorry, Max. I have no excuse. Beats me why I thought you’d resent working with the Musgroves. I deserve the crummy way I feel right now.” I tuck a loose lock behind my ear. “I need to work a whole lot on . . . oh, let’s just say my pride’s first in line. I owe the Lord a bunch of knee time.
It’s going to be a long night for me.”
To my shock, he drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Look, Andie. Everyone does and says stupid things.” He gives me a mischievous wink. “Some of us just clock in more than others.”
When I go to object, he holds up his hand. “Just listen to me, okay? I don’t know why we got so far off on the wrong foot in the first place, but I do see where you felt I would ruin your show. Anyway, you can give your ruffled feathers a break now, since the show’s a hit. And you can also rest easy: I forgive you. I’m not so frail and flimsy that a couple of zingers are going to do me much harm.”
“But—”
“Shh!” He puts a finger on my lips, and my knees take a dive. I catch myself before I hit the pavement.
Uh-oh! He’s at it again, doing that good-looking, nice-guy thing he does every once in a while. Of course I can’t work out a word, the way he’s turned me to mush.
He goes on. “I don’t get why you’re so hard on yourself— and everyone else. One good thing. You don’t discriminate.”
I chuckle—no humor there. “One redeeming quality, then.”
He puts his other hand on my free shoulder and makes me face him. “Oh, I’ve found a couple more here and there. But you are the tightest wound person I’ve ever met. How about you do us both a favor and let the spring go sprung?”
Before he really gets me under his spell, which is what scares me most about him, I ease away. “How about I hit the sack and get some z’s? Jet lag’s not helping my niceness quotient any.”
He looks about to object—to what, I don’t know. Does he want to keep on holding me? Or is he about to call me on blaming my sniping on jet lag?
Then he shrugs. “If you say so. Let’s go. Everyone’s waiting for us.”
With every step I take, I cry out to the Lord. I can’t stand the emotional seesaw I’ve been on since the day I first met Max. I need help to get my feet back on level ground.
But when I’m almost at the van, I look up
and groan. We’re the center of everyone’s attention. Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby look as though it’s their birthday and Valentine’s Day all in one.
I wince. “Sorry about that—them—too.”
He looks embarrassed. “They would have been a hit in small-town America about 110 years or so ago.”
“What makes you think they don’t get away with matchmaking these days?”
Alarm widens his baby blues. “You’re not their only victim? I thought it was because they love you so much.”
I laugh. “Not hardly. And because they know me so well, they really should know better, but I guess they don’t. Let me tell you. There’s a scary number of families they take credit for, and they take their inspiration from their record of success. They see themselves as wise Cupids. I thought they’d drop that side job with the channel’s success, but only God can move mountains.”
He winks. “Then maybe our on-screen routine will help off-screen. To keep them off our backs.”
Huh? “You think? It hasn’t done a thing so far.”
“Hey, you know them better than I do. Would it disappoint them enough to go on to more likely victims, or would it make them twice as determined?”
I look at the Daunting Duo, both members of which are now busy whispering to each other, smirks on their lips. Double trouble, for sure. “Beats me, but it’s worth a try. Put it this way. It’s better than having them buy china patterns and toaster ovens because we ended the war.”
He gives a dramatic shudder. Then, with another wink, adds, “Since you have such a smart mouth to begin with—”
I plunk my fists on my hips. “And here I thought the truce was on!”
He tips his head Daunting Duo–ward. “Not as far as they’re concerned.”
I slant them a glance, catch their expectant stares, and come to the only possible decision. “You have a point.”
“So you’re ready to beard the wild matchmaking beasts again?”
“As ready as you are.”