Hers By Request

by Karen Ann Dell

  Zoe opened a new string of lights and grabbed a couple of needlepoint ivy garlands from the pile at her feet. She deftly began to embed the lights in the ivy. “I’m sure Mr. MacMurphy isn’t going to hold it against you.”

  “He should, though. It was stupid to keep pushing when he obviously didn’t want to talk about his alma mater. I have to get used to the idea that he’s one of our wounded warriors. I think because I spoke with him on the phone a few times and he seemed so nice, and friendly and, and . . . well, normal, I don’t picture him as injured. He wears a long-sleeved shirt and usually keeps his left hand in his pocket, so I don’t really notice it. The rest of him is too distracting anyway,” she murmured.

  Zoe looked up sharply. “What do you mean by ‘distracting’?”

  Amanda felt her cheeks heat and she ducked her head to concentrate on twining the artificial ivy around the strings of tiny white lights. Her fingertips were red and swollen from tying them together with green floral wire. “How much more of this do we still have to make?”

  “About five more miles,” Zoe responded, “and don’t try to change the subject. Tell me about the distracting part.”

  “Oh, well, he’s quite tall and very nicely put together.” As in great ass. “And he has dark green eyes that are real show-stoppers, although they seem sad a lot of the time. He’s got this clean, piney, sort of manly scent about him. It’s very, um . . .”

  “Sexy?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say sexy, exactly. It’s more, ah, kind of . . .” She finally gave up and finished, “Yeah, it’s sexy. Must be one of those pheromone things. Makes me just want to rub up against him, and—” lick him all over. Amanda snapped her mouth shut, horrified at the direction her thoughts had taken.

  “I need to meet this guy. Like, tomorrow,” Zoe said with a huge smile. “Invite him over for dinner. I’ll cook.”

  “You’ll cook. You’ll cook? Zoe, you don’t cook. Ever. You and Jeff live on take-out and microwave dinners.”

  “Okay, then, you cook. Jeff will come too. That way— What’s his name, again?”

  “Dev.”

  “Right. That way Dev won’t feel outnumbered by two women.”

  “No, no. Zo, hold on here a minute. I have no reason to invite him for dinner. Your curiosity doesn’t count. After the way I embarrassed him today, I doubt if he would come anyway.”

  “Of course you have a reason to invite him, silly girl,” Zoe prattled on. “We have to find out what facilities he’ll need for his equipment.” She stopped twining ivy and seemed very pleased with herself. “As a matter of fact, I think he should come with us over to Mrs. W’s when we take our final measurements, so he can see the layout and make sure we have things set up right. We wouldn’t want him to show up on party night and not have something essential.”

  “I suppose so. Ouch!” Amanda sucked her index finger where the floral wire had poked yet another hole. “Darn this wire. My fingers are so sore I can barely type as it is.” She looped the finished length of garland over the makeshift rod they were using to keep it from tangling. “I need to get some alcohol.”

  “It’s on the bottom shelf in the fridge,” Zoe said.

  “For my finger, Zo. Alcohol for my finger,” Amanda chided, holding up the injured digit.

  “Stick your finger in the glass after you pour the wine,” Zoe retorted. “And I’ll have a glass too, thank you very much.”

  “Why not?” Amanda chuckled, eyes heavenward. She took out the bottle of Pinot Grigio and poured two glasses, set one on the table next to Zoe and dropped back into her chair. “Okay, I’ll ask Dev to come along to Mrs. Wyndham’s—when he should be sleeping.” She hiked her eyebrows up for emphasis. “So I doubt if he’ll want to come for dinner or he’ll have no time at all to sleep before he has to go on the air again.”

  “I think it’s sweet the way you worry about him getting his rest.” Zoe smirked.

  “I’m not worried about him getting his rest.” Amanda gave Zoe a narrow stare. “Don’t start getting any ideas, Zo. Just because I can appreciate the hunky body and the gorgeous eyes and the subtle scent of spicy male, doesn’t mean I have any interest in Mr. MacMurphy other than a purely business one.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Zoe agreed. “It just means you’re still a living, breathing, fully functional female.”

  Amanda wasn’t going to follow Zoe down that particular path so she circled back to the meal she had to decide on for the dinner. Sure that there would only be the three of them, she figured a casserole would be the best bet in case she had to stretch it to four. She had a nice chicken, broccoli, and cheddar recipe that would work, along with a salad and some crusty baguettes.

  She leaned over and picked up another ivy garland. “It’s a good thing you’ve got a nice big back room here at the gallery. Once we start stockpiling things that aren’t rentals, we’re going to need a fair amount of space for storage.”

  “Until Russell Manheim’s pieces arrive, we’ll have no problem with storage space.” Zoe sighed.

  She lived in the space above the gallery that Jeff had helped convert into a studio apartment. The skylights gave her plenty of natural light for her painting, and a back-to-back kitchen and bath acted as the divider between public and private areas. Now that Jeff had moved in semi-permanently the space was a bit more crowded, but he still kept his studio/apartment at the motel where he worked as de facto superintendent and handyman. It was good to keep their work spaces separated.

  Zoe ordered Chinese from the Lotus Garden a few blocks over and they continued to work through dinner to finish up the ivy garlands. By nine-thirty, Amanda’s fingers were begging for relief. She hung the last string of ivy and rubbed her sore hands.

  “I’m heading home, Zo. Our meeting with Mrs. Wyndham is at two o’clock Friday afternoon, so I’ll be by to pick you up around one-forty-five, okay? Dress down this time. I’m sure we’ll be slogging around alongside the decks and walkways. We have to decide where to put the temporary parking area, too.

  “Yeah.” Zoe yawned. “Jeans, boots, sweatshirt, jacket. Got it.” She walked Amanda through the darkened gallery to the front door. “Drive safe, Mandy. See you tomorrow,” she said and gave her a quick hug. She waited to hear Amanda’s little Civic sputter to life and drive away, then closed and locked the door.

  Considering all the things Amanda carefully didn’t say about her radio deejay, Zoe couldn’t wait to meet Dev and find out what, if anything, was going on between them.

  Blue Point Cove was a ghost town at ten o’clock at night in the off season. Amanda drove slowly once she was out of the center of town. Her car was the only vehicle on the sleepy streets. The winding road followed the ins and outs of the shoreline and there were no streetlights or sidewalks to mark the edges. She was glad she knew every little twist and turn by heart. Her headlights occasionally illuminated a pair of eyes from some nocturnal creature as she rounded a curve. Possums, raccoons, whatever, she’d be a basket case if she ever hit any animal, so she took her time. The friendly yellow glow from the porch light welcomed her home and she hurried inside, deciding a cup of chamomile tea would be just the ticket before bed.

  While she heated the water, she turned on the radio and changed into flannel PJs. In the summer she usually wore a tank top and boxers to bed, but until she got the little cottage winterized she needed the extra warmth. She took her tea into the spare bedroom and checked her laptop for new email. Nothing but spam. She didn’t have many friends and her mom generally emailed her only once or twice a week. She shut the laptop down, too tired to bother updating spreadsheets, and went into her bedroom.

  Tomorrow she was due at the radio station at nine. So far Dev had been there each morning. She wondered if that was his normal schedule, then chided herself. Of course it was. He wasn’t going to rearrange his life just to be there wh
en she was. Now that they had sorted through all the invoices, he didn’t need to stay while she worked on his tax returns and set up this year’s books, but she found herself hoping he’d be there anyway.

  She glanced over at the picture of Danny sitting on her dresser. He was wearing fatigues, standing in the shade of a solitary tree somewhere in Iraq, surrounded by flat ground—no grass, just dirt and rocks. He was smiling that wonderful smile of his, his blue eyes full of humor. He told her his buddy, Mac, had taken the picture, making him laugh over some faintly pornographic joke. She wished she could have seen Mac, too, because Danny had mentioned him often in his letters. He always seemed to be the one taking the pictures instead of being in them. Mac had been Danny’s best friend. He hadn’t been at the funeral, because he was still at Walter Reed recovering from the injuries he’d received in the same bombing that had killed Danny.

  She kept that photograph on her dresser and studied it every morning and every night, because even after only eight months—was it nine, now?—she was starting to lose the sharp image she carried in her head. She wanted to remember every detail, every freckle, every hair, every laugh line around Danny’s eyes, because that was all she’d ever have.

  First her dad, then Danny. She would not love another man. Love was too risky. For any man who loved her, she was the kiss of death. And she couldn’t bear another parting.

  She would date, yes. She might even have an affair. She did still have a woman’s needs and missed that sweet heat two bodies could make when they came together in passion. But love? No way. Not again.

  A familiar voice pulled her away from the picture. She glanced at her bedside clock and a tiny smile curved her lips. Dev’s Dream Machine was ready to take her wherever she wanted to go. She finished her tea and climbed under the covers, bringing the telephone close, content to listen for a while and hear what others requested. She let his voice flow over her like sun-warmed honey, thick and sweet, while she thought of what song she’d request tonight.

  “Here’s a request from a listener who’d rather not give a name. It’s called ‘Dream’. Remember, our call lines are open and I’m waiting to answer, so dial 888-555-WMES and tell me what you’d like to hear.”

  She couldn’t resist his invitation and, triggered by the lyrics of the first song, she decided to request “Serenade in Blue”. I ought to put this number on speed dial she thought as she tapped the buttons. Then the smooth, friendly voice was in her ear, lifting her spirits in spite of her melancholy mood.

  “Hi, Dev, it’s Amanda. Would you play ‘Serenade in Blue’, please?”

  “Hello, Amanda. Nice to hear from you tonight. Good choice. I’ll cue your request up next. Are you dedicating tonight?”

  “No, not tonight. This one’s for me.”

  “Okay, Honey, you’ve got it. And you can always call again, you know. I’ll be here for a while.”

  “Maybe, Dev. But if I don’t see you in the morning, I wanted to ask if you might be willing to come with Zoe and me to Mrs. Wyndham’s house next week. Zoe thought it would be a good idea for you to see the area where we’re thinking of setting you up to make sure it’ll work for you.”

  “Sure. That’s a good idea. But I’ll be seeing you in the morning, anyway. Gotta run, Hon. Other calls are lighting up my board.”

  “Good night, Dev. See you in the morning.” She hung up with the familiar warmth in her belly that his voice always caused. Much better than chamomile tea, actually. She listened to her request and the next selection was “Dream a Little Dream of Me”. She didn’t know if that was a request from someone else or Dev’s choice, but once again she wondered at the sequencing of the songs he played. She could almost think he was selecting them especially for her. But that was ridiculous. He’d hardly tailor his show for her enjoyment. She was foolish to even entertain that idea.

  True to March’s reputation, a brisk wind was blowing the last of winter’s leaves from their hiding places under low-hanging evergreen branches and whirling them in mini-cyclones around the open field behind the radio station. The tree line across the back of the field had taken on a hazy outline as spring coaxed new growth from the maples and sycamores.

  Dev pushed back a thick lock of brown hair, which the persistent wind immediately flipped back across his forehead. His unbuttoned olive-green coat flapped open as a strong gust plastered the chambray shirt across the broad expanse of his chest. As usual, his left hand stayed tucked in his pocket as he listened to whatever Mike Kovak was saying.

  Amanda watched out the window in the break room as the pair conferred at the base of the antenna tower. She sighed.

  With two weeks of almost daily appearances at the radio station, her set-up work was nearly done. After Friday there would be no more hours spent at the conference table where she could glance surreptitiously over at Dev working at his desk, watching that same impudent lock of brown hair curl softly over his forehead. No more companionable lunches in the break room with Dev or Rosemary. No more friendly banter with Mike Kovak or Neal Taylor while they made coffee or grabbed a donut. Funny how quickly she’d begun to feel a member of this unique family.

  She couldn’t hear their conversation but Mike’s gestures upward toward the antenna array, followed by pointing to the papers in his hand, left no doubt he was trying to explain a technical problem to Dev.

  She had to smile at the intent expression on Dev’s face. He tried to appear as though he understood Mike while he patiently waited for him to finish. But she knew he hadn’t a clue what his chief engineer was talking about. Technical details were not Dev’s forte. When he finished, Dev would nod and agree to whatever Mike said he needed to keep the station on the air and in the good graces of the FCC. Then he would come inside and ask her if there was any way they could afford whatever it was Mike had asked for. And she would do her damnedest to find a way to squeeze the money out of his overstretched budget.

  She took a sip from her bottled water and turned to go back to the office. She jumped and let out an involuntary squeak of surprise at the sight of a man in a military uniform standing just inside the doorway.

  “Sorry, Ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized with a smile. “I’m Chris Majewski.”

  He offered his hand and Amanda hastily switched her water bottle so she could shake it. “Hello, Captain Majewski. My name is Amanda Adams. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Adams.” His smile widened and his blue eyes sharpened with interest. “I was just going to get a cup of coffee while I waited for Dev,” he explained as he went to the coffee pot and got a mug from the shelf above it. “Rosemary said he was out in the back forty going over some technical problem with Mike.” He added two packets of sugar and stirred his coffee as he gave Amanda a brief once-over.

  From the comfortable way he moved around the room, Amanda could tell he was no stranger to the premises. “Are you a friend of Dev’s from the Army, Captain Majewski?” The gold bars on his shoulders made his rank an easy call.

  “I am. But, please, let’s dispense with the military rank. Chris is fine. I had an early meeting in Annapolis or I would have been in civvies for this visit.”

  He took the mug of steaming coffee over to the small table and sat.

  “Did Rosemary bring in any of her legendary blueberry muffins this morning?” He scanned the room hopefully, then pinned her with an expression of mock suspicion. “You’ve hidden them, haven’t you?”

  Amanda couldn’t help but laugh at the twinkle of mischief in his summer-sky-blue eyes.

  “If you think I’m giving up the location of the best blueberry muffins in Somerset County, you’re mistaken,” she said, then glanced pointedly at the tin on top of the refrigerator. “I’ll never tell.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve met your match, Amanda,” Dev said from the doorway. He watch
ed the other man and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. “Captain Majewski is a master at getting people to tell him everything he wants to know.”

  “Really, Chris? Are you an interrogator? Should I be worried?” She was sure Dev was joking but more than happy to follow his lead. “Will you pull my fingernails out one by one until I tell you where the muffins are hidden?”

  “Nah, no bright lights or waterboarding from me. That’s for the guys in black over in intelligence. I find asking politely usually gets me what I want to know.” He swiveled in his chair to face Dev. “So tell me, my friend, how did you find this lovely lady and talk her into working here?”

  Dev shrugged out of his coat and slung it over the back of a chair, shooting the other man a scowl.

  “Actually, it was more the other way around,” Amanda offered. “I wanted to hire him to do a deejay gig for a party and when I showed up here one morning out of the blue, I think I surprised him into agreeing.”