“What about the conversation topics?”
“We’ve been doing them,” Tina said. “And what we realized is that we’re bored. That’s why we’ve been drifting apart. There’s only so much you can say about Wheel of Fortune. Hearing Tom go on about it just made me want to slit my wrists.”
“And hearing Tina talk about her love of gerbera daisies made me want to slip a noose around my neck and put myself out of my misery,” Tom laughed.
“We needed to stop all the yapping and start having orgasms again,” Tom continued.
“Lots of orgasms,” Tina added.
What was it with all the orgasms lately?
“There’s more to a relationship than just having a climax,” Charlene told them. “It’s about a meeting of the minds, as well as the bodies. It’s about truly connecting. The fact that you two want to have more sex is good, but it’s no reason to give up on the discovery therapy. Without effective communication, the sex is just gratuitous.”
“Gratuitous sex is fine with me,” Tom said.
“Me, too,” Tina added.
“That’s why we came by today, Doc.” Tom glanced at his wife. “We wanted to tell you that we’re going to take a break from therapy and go it on our own for a while.”
“We’re going to use the money for a new wardrobe,” Tina added, her gaze hooked on her husband’s. A smile touched her lips, as if they shared some great secret that Charlene wasn’t privy to. “Tom really likes me in bustiers and fishnet stockings, and that stuff can be real expensive.” She shifted her attention to Charlene. “You understand, don’t you?”
“Um.” Charlene licked her lips. “Of course,” she managed to respond.
Not.
“Thanks, Doc,” Tom said.
“That’s right,” Tina added. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”
“But you said the therapy didn’t work.”
“It didn’t, but if I hadn’t seen you at the lodge yesterday while I was across the street getting my hair done, I never would have stopped in for that luncheon. That hand-out about appealing to your partner’s senses was a real eye-opener.”
Not bunk. Or nonsense. Or propaganda.
“You saved our marriage,” Tina declared as she got to her feet.
“You saved your own marriage.” Charlene stood on trembling knees. “I’m just here to guide you through the process.”
A process that now included high heels and bustiers, mouth-watering desserts and mindless, gratuitous sex. She tamped down on her rising nausea and tried for a smile.
“Take care and the best of luck to the both of you,” she told the Patricks.
And then she did what any woman would do when her entire belief system had just been up-ended—she gathered her courage and faked it through the rest of the day’s appointments.
On the way home, she stopped off at the nearest convenience store for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia with a side of Chunky Monkey.
And then she sat in the parking lot with the engine of her Lexus running and ate her way to the bottom of both.
4
CHARLENE GATHERED up the empty ice cream containers and her briefcase, and climbed from her car. She tried to ignore the guilt that churned away inside her as she made her way up the front walk of the large two-story colonial that had once belonged to her parents.
Impossible.She could practically feel the zits popping out all over her face. And all because of the Patricks and their announcement that her services—her basic values and beliefs—were no longer needed.
Okay, so it wasn’t entirely their fault. They’d been the icing on the proverbial cake. It had all started with Holly Farraday and her aphrodisiac desserts.
Before Holly had come to town, Charlene had never considered physical attraction and sex as key components of a relationship. She’d just dismissed Stewart’s failure to recognize her soul-mate potential with various excuses. He was too busy. He was too shy. He was too socially inept.
But with everyone jumping onto the orgasm bandwagon, she’d started to think that maybe, just maybe, he’d failed to take their relationship beyond friendship because he just didn’t find her lustworthy.
It wasn’t as if she had a hot body or a great face. She was average. But then, so was Stewart. That was part of the reason they were so perfect for each other.
His statement at lunch about wanting to talk, had given her hope that maybe she wasn’t totally clueless. But then the Patricks had deflated that hope like a sharp knife to a balloon, and she was back to wondering if she wasn’t the one full of bunk.
Figure in a rather embarrassing conversation with Mason McGraw, not to mention her awkward reaction to him—she’d rambled on about her underwear for heaven’s sake—and she was definitely on a downward spiral.
Even more, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. Fantasizing.
Not such a big deal, considering the fact that she’d been doing that for most of her life. But since she’d seen him up close and personal, her fantasies had taken on new dimensions. She knew what he smelled like. She knew how warm he felt and how rough his fingertips were when they brushed hers.
Ugh.
The only bright spot in her entire day was seeing the package sitting on her doorstep when she reached the front porch.
She unlocked the front door and turned the door-knob. Inside, she flicked on the light, set her briefcase on the floor, hung her purse on the coat rack that sat next to the door and retrieved the package.
After tossing the ice cream containers into the kitchen trash, she made her way back to the living room and settled on the sofa. She smiled as she unwrapped the books she’d ordered on-line last week. How to Make the Perfect Quiche and Building Your Own Barbecue Pit. While she didn’t actually have the time to do either activity—she spent her days preparing for her classes in the fall and working with her patients—she liked knowing that she was armed and ready should any free time present itself. She knew that one day her practice would slow and her lecture would lose its popularity. Then she would finally have the opportunity to try some of the interesting projects that filled the how-to books lining her bookshelf.
In the meantime, she could at least read about them.
Charlene took her new books and headed upstairs. She’d been the proud owner of the large house for over six years now, but thanks to her busy schedule, the place still looked the way it had when she’d been growing up. The only exception was the sizeable bookcase she’d bought for the living room to house her collection of how-to books. Otherwise, it was as if time had stood still.
Family portraits lined the winding staircase leading up to the second level. Her mother’s prized chandelier—which she’d gotten at an estate sale for a steal—hung in its usual spot in the foyer. It was the only indulgent looking item in the otherwise low-key house.
The interior had been decorated years ago in neutral tones, the furniture a decent quality but simple. Functional. Her mother hadn’t been concerned with impressing her father’s bank colleagues or making a good showing down at the ladies’ auxiliary so much as she’d been focused on holding tight to the family’s money. She’d been obsessed with saving for the proverbial rainy day since she’d grown up in a steady downpour as the daughter of a poor farmer. While she’d married into a stable and comfortable life as the wife of a bank president, she’d never forgotten her roots.
She’d never stopped worrying, and so by the time Charlene’s father had left, they’d accumulated a sizeable chunk of money that had been split right down the middle. Her father had taken his share and moved to Pennsylvania where his family had originally hailed from, and he now worked with a distant cousin as a financial consultant.
Her mother would still be eating bologna sandwiches for lunch every day and counting her pennies if not for a mild heart attack seven years ago. All the stress of scrimping and saving and raising a child on her own finally caught up with her. She’d realized then, after a triple bypass, t
hat she couldn’t use her nest egg if she was six feet under. She’d stopped hoarding and started living then. She’d signed over the house—which she’d been awarded in the divorce settlement—to Charlene and used her savings to purchase a top-of-the-line recreational vehicle. She and her widowed sister were now cruising through the South, namely Florida, and enjoying life.
At least, her mother said she was enjoying life. But in all the years since the divorce, Charlene had yet to see her really smile.
Likewise, she hadn’t seen her father smile much either when she’d gone up to Pennsylvania or he’d come south for the occasional visit.
If she hadn’t known better, she might have suspected that they actually missed each other. But she knew better. Her parents couldn’t stand each other. They’d been in the same room only once since the divorce, at Charlene’s high school graduation, and they’d made it a point to sit on opposite sides of the auditorium. They wouldn’t even talk about each other.
While Charlene wasn’t totally convinced that her mother enjoyed the whole RV thing, she kept her doubts to herself and wished her mother well. Personally, Charlene could never just up and leave everything, heart attack or not.
She liked waking up every morning in the same bed, in the same house, in the same town. She liked going to her office. She liked the drive to College Station three times a week for her lecture during the semester. She liked seeing the same faces day in and day out. Sure, she was a little tired of coming home to an empty house, but that problem would be resolved just as soon as Stewart came to his senses.
If he came to his senses.
The thought lingered in Charlene’s mind as she set the books on her nightstand and peeled off her clothes. A few minutes later, she headed into the bathroom for her nightly facial scrub.
Leaning over the sink, she studied her reflection in the mirror.
No zits.
Yet.
But her fall from grace had only happened an hour ago. She had no doubt she would wake up with a face full. And so she not only scrubbed her face extra hard for the next five minutes, but she slathered on a heavy-duty zinc ointment afterward. It wasn’t the most attractive way to sleep, but then she didn’t actually have anyone to impress.
Not that she would have avoided the ointment just to impress her significant other. Stewart liked her for her, not what she looked like. Only a man like Mason McGraw would be turned off by a face covered with zinc. The superficial jerk.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror as she climbed into bed. Okay, so maybe she wouldn’t blame him. She was a far cry from the daring divas he’d dated during high school. No wonder he’d never bothered to notice her. Yikes, from the look of her, she was surprised he hadn’t run the other way.
Stewart, on the other hand, was just the opposite. He wasn’t the least bit swayed by a woman’s beauty or lack thereof. In fact, he hated women who primped and prettied just to catch a man’s attention. He also hated the flirting and the flaunting. Bottom line, he hated the daring diva and everything she stood for.
He preferred a woman with inner beauty.
A woman with brains.
A woman who could appreciate a book entitled How to Can Your Own Vegetables.
“How To Ride ’Em Like a Rodeo Queen. Now there’s a thoughtful gift.”
Marge’s words echoed in Charlene’s head and she couldn’t help herself. She headed downstairs to the small study where she kept her computer. A few minutes later, she clicked on her Internet Explorer and went to her favorite online bookstore. She typed in the outrageous title and hit Search, and nearly fell off her chair when the site found a match.
Marge had been right. There really was such a book. Before she could stop herself, she hit the Add To Cart button and went to Check-out. Not that she was interested in riding anyone like a rodeo queen. She just wanted to see the outrageous book for herself.
Now if there’d been a text on how to turn herself into a bonafide daring diva, or at least a convincing one, she would not only have purchased it, but had it shipped overnight.
If she could turn herself into the exact type of woman Stewart detested—on the outside—then maybe, just maybe, she could prove her theory.
Regardless of the way she looked, she would still be the same person inside. If he was still attracted to her, it would be because he saw beneath the surface to the real woman beneath. The personality.
If?
There was no if about it. It was all a matter of when and she could prove it.
Forget a how-to book. Charlene had been writing course synopses for her college students for years. With the right resources, she could formulate her own step-by-step plan to turn herself into a daring diva.
When Stewart returned from his conference and witnessed the new Charlene, he would still want her and, thereby, reaffirm her belief that it was a meeting of the minds that forged a solid, lasting relationship between two people.
She toyed with the idea as she shut off the lights and crawled into bed. She could make a convincing transformation on the outside if she put her mind to it. She could flaunt and flirt and wear her skirts up to there and her blouses down to here. She could.
But it wasn’t the good doctor she flaunted and flirted with when she closed her eyes.
It was Mason McGraw.
And like he always did in her fantasies, he flirted back with her.
And told her how beautiful she was.
And how smart.
And how irresistible.
Fat chance as far as reality was concerned, but this was her fantasy where anything was possible.
Where even a hottie diva magnet like Mason could fall for a Plain Jane groupie like Charlene.
“HERE’S YOUR COFFEE.” Marge met Charlene at the door early the next morning. But instead of handing her the mail, she tucked a strand of Charlene’s hair behind her ear and swatted at some invisible fuzz on Charlene’s pink blazer.
“What are you doing?”“Making sure you’re ready. Hurry up and drink.” She motioned to the coffee cup. “You need all the pep you can get.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a surprise waiting for you in your office.” Marge smiled. “Think fantasy. Your hottest, wildest fantasy.”
“The Patricks changed their mind?”
“Girl, you need to re-evaluate your priorities. I’m talking about a man.” When Charlene started to open her mouth, Marge shook her head. “Stewart doesn’t qualify. I’m still not convinced he’s one hundred percent heterosexual.”
“How about Walter Cronkite?”
Marge shook her head. “You’re hopeless. Not a sexy bone in your body.”
“I don’t know about that.” The deep, husky voice slid into Charlene’s ears and she turned to see Mason standing in the doorway to her office.
“I… How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know that you like Walter Cronkite and Stanley isn’t exactly in the running for any machismo contests.”
“His name is Stewart.”
“Ha! The only contest he might win would be for giving the most boring Christmas gifts,” Marge added, joining in. “He bought her a book. A boring, non-sexual book.” Mason grinned and Charlene frowned.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Charlene told Marge as she gripped her coffee mug and walked toward Mason. He stepped aside while she preceded him into the office.
Once she’d settled behind her desk, with several feet of wood and space between them, she drew a deep breath. “What brings you here?”
“I need some therapy.” At her raised eyebrow, he added, “I, personally, don’t need the therapy. It’s my great-aunt and -uncle. They argue constantly and it’s driving me crazy.”
“Where are they?”
“I dropped them at the diner for breakfast. I wanted a few minutes to talk to you before I brought them over.”
“I see. So they don’t realize there’s even a problem.”
“Oh, they know there’s a problem, all right. I told them so this morning, right before I informed them that we were coming to talk to you. But they’re each blaming the other.”
“Blame aversion. That’s normal. Neither wants to own up to the responsibility that they’re harming their marriage.” Charlene jotted down a few notes, eager to do something other than stare at Mason and think about how good he looked in his jeans and blue T-shirt, his dark hair still damp from a shower.
“So can you help?”
“Will they agree to cooperate with me?”
“Once I tell them that they cooperate or I’m sending them to live with their oldest daughter, Connie. She’s been itching to check them into a retirement center for years.”
“That sounds really manipulative.”
“It’s effective.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t really do it, though. They were there for my grandfather when he needed them and I owe them for that. But they don’t know that.”
“I’m sorry about your grandfather.”
He lowered his gaze. “He was in a lot of pain. He’s at peace now.”
“I’m sorry about your parents, too.”
He glanced up. “That was a long time ago.”
“I know. I just never had the chance to tell you back when we were kids.”
He stared at her as if trying to figure her out. “Thanks,” he finally said. “So can you help my aunt and uncle?” he asked again.
She nodded. “If they both agree to go along with the recommended therapy.”
“How long do you think it will take?” Mason raked a hand through his hair. “I’m not getting any sleep.”
“It depends. First I’ll have to administer personality tests to determine if they’re even compatible.”
“They’re obviously compatible. They’ve been married over sixty years.”
“I realize that, but some people spend their entire lives with the wrong person. Despite the length of their marriage, they might not fit together.”
He eyed her, a knowing glint in his gaze. “Sugar, they’ve got eight kids. I’d say they fit.”
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