Reality of Love Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Marika Ray

  The sounds of the people milling about faded away and all I saw were the words Fifty Ways to Find a Husband. I scanned the list like a kid at the donut counter. I devoured each one and wanted to take a screen shot to reference back. Then I realized the ridiculousness of that statement as this was paper and ink, written long before smartphones or even desktop computers.

  Instead, I dug in my pocket and found the quarter I needed to buy the magazine, which I realized was highway robbery for an old magazine, but desperate times and all that. Once I’d paid, I hustled to my car and slid inside to read in private.

  “Hot damn, Ms. Sanders. You’re an angel,” I whispered to the empty car, in awe of the drops of wisdom this woman had imparted to the world before I was even born. Okay, wisdom might be pushing it. I mean, she had some interesting ones that were more comical than wise.

  Learn to paint...set up an easel outside of an engineering school.

  I was all for thinking outside the box, but that one didn’t even make sense. Could you imagine if I tried that in today’s era? I’d probably be arrested for trespassing or given a psych evaluation.

  Dropping the handkerchief still works.

  Say what now? That one would probably need to be modified. Maybe dropping a pen or something would work better. Hell, I didn’t even own a handkerchief, so a pen would have to do.

  That thought stopped me up short. I raised my head and blinked, taking in the world around me. What was I thinking? Was I actually considering attempting these fifty ways to find a husband?

  “You’ve lost it now, Lily-Marie.” I laid the magazine down on the passenger seat and started the car. I needed to pull my head out of the 1950s and get real. A modern woman didn’t find a man by turning into a simpering airhead and playing these games. Did she?

  I pulled away from the curb and hung a left to head back home, my mind swirling. I’d been trying the dating apps, which according to Gabby and quite a few of my single coworkers, were supposed to be the number one way to find a match. And so far all that had netted me was a headache and a solo trip to the adult toy store.

  Those weren’t the men I wanted. I needed a man to sweep me off my feet like they did in the movies or romance novels. A man who could fix my car, provide for our family, and rock my world at night when the kids went to bed. Those kinds of men didn’t seem to be on dating apps.

  So maybe Gabby was wrong. Maybe my coworkers were wrong.

  Maybe what I needed was some old-fashioned advice from Loni Sanders, circa 1959.

  Couldn’t be any worse than the men I’d met through Kinder, that was for damn sure. By the time I swung into my driveway, I’d convinced myself to give the list a shot. Maybe not all fifty ways, but at least a few. At the very worst, there was no harm in it, right?

  So, I slid into a chair at my kitchen table with the Prevention magazine and my spiral notebook side by side and laid out a plan. Some of the fifty were flat-out ridiculous and I would skip over them.

  Go to a football game and get lost.

  I scrunched up my nose. Who gets lost at a football game? Better to streak across the football field in my birthday suit. Now that was more likely to win myself some husband potential! Then I remembered the twenty pounds I kept meaning to lose and I tossed the idea aside in favor of less revealing things. Also, I didn’t want to get arrested. That would be a bad thing to have to inform my young children of. Sorry to miss your play, darlings, but Mom’s in the slammer.

  Take up golf.

  I’d rather die a thousand deaths than hit a ball with a stick. That one wasn’t making the cut. Of course, there were others that wouldn’t work, simply because I was living half a century after she’d written the article. No payphone booths to get tangled up with a good-looking man. Or harpsichords I could borrow to impress the gentlemen with my strumming skills. Ah, well, fifty was probably too many to tackle anyway.

  Decision made, a list of twenty seemed more realistic. I got busy transcribing the ones I planned to try out in my notebook. If I made a goal of two per week, I would have a nice long line of men waiting outside my door, I just knew it.

  Once I had my twenty all laid out, I grabbed my phone to call Gabby to tell her about my change in plans. I wasn’t going modern with dating apps, I was going retro with vintage dating advice from Prevention magazine. She’d be thrilled, I was sure.

  “Hey, Lil, what’s up?”

  “Gabby?” I could barely contain my excitement. You know that feeling you have at the top of the roller coaster? My heart was pounding and I could barely catch my breath. I was exhilarated. “You’re never gonna guess what I’m doing.”

  Twenty Ways to Find a Husband:

  Get a dog and walk it

  Have your car break down in strategic places (fire station!)

  Be nice to everybody—they may have an eligible brother/son

  Flirt even with ugly men...they’re the ones who will be faithful

  Sit next to men, not women, in public social situations

  Stumble when you walk by him, so he knows you’re there

  Wear a Band-Aid, men will ask what happened

  Stand in a corner and cry softly, he’ll come over to see what’s wrong

  Learn how to bake tasty apple pies...bring one to all areas where eligible bachelors go

  Accidentally drop your purse/bag and have contents fly all over the street so he’ll help you

  If you look good in sweaters, wear them more often

  Go on a diet if you need to

  When on a date, order a rare steak

  Don’t whine—girls who whine stay on the vine!

  Don’t talk about how many children you want (the cows may have already left the barn on that one...)

  Learn to sew and wear something you made yourself

  Very early in your dating, why not get a favorite song that you both regard as “your song”?

  Resist the urge to make him over—before marriage that is!

  Clip and mail him a funny cartoon you think he’d like

  Make and sell toupees—Bald men are easy catches!

  4

  Jameson

  Today was the day. I was ready. I’d constructed my hypothesis, written out my predictions, and designed the experiment the best I could. I didn’t have the luxury of a control group to test the effect of my independent variable, but I did write out all the steps of my experiment in great detail, going so far as to type up the ways I’d attempt to woo my neighbor. Laminating the list was a little over the top, but I didn’t like to take any chances once an experiment was underway. What if I spilled my coffee?

  Twenty Ways to Find a Wife:

  Be involved in civic affairs

  Be athletic

  Be helpful around the house

  Do unexpected nice things often (flowers, candy, etc.)

  Be well-read

  Have a good, steady profession

  Learn to dance, especially the waltz

  Don’t scold children too harshly in front of an attractive female

  Suggest going clothes shopping on your date

  Prepare your own breakfast or even breakfast for her!

  Be neat in appearance—shoes shined, hair combed, shirt pressed

  Be courageous, not a sissy

  Eat whatever is served without complaining

  Give swoon-worthy movie kisses, not a peck on the cheek

  If girlfriend is ill, call from work to inquire about her health

  Compliment her incessantly

  Don’t be a bookworm, talk to her!

  Hold her coat, open doors for her, help her into and out of chair, stand up when she leaves the table

  Pop a button off your shirt so she can sew it on for you

  Keep tools in your car so if you see her on the side of the road, you can swoop in and fix her car

  When Stein’s mother had called the night before and asked to spend the weekend with him, my first instinct was to say no. She’d missed the last two times she’d been sche
duled to spend time with him. Plus, how about giving me advanced notice, huh? But then I saw the laminated list on the table, which was just the motivation I needed to tell her yes. Of course, I hadn’t told Stein until this morning when I’d texted her and she’d confirmed she was in the car, on the way over. I needed some adult time to get started on my love experiment.

  When I turned around to walk back into the house after making sure Stein was in the car with his seatbelt fastened, I saw some movement in the front window of my neighbor’s house. Considering I’d seen her kids getting picked up the night before, I knew she was the only one in the house. Plus, the bright blond hair shining through the glass had given her away.

  So, she was spying on me, huh? That would do just fine to start my experiment.

  I went back inside and changed out of the clothes I’d just gotten into. Step number two on my list was begging to be enacted. Despite the fact I usually had my nose in a science textbook or something equally intellectual, I did enjoy athletic pursuits. A few years back I joined a colleague for a bike ride and found myself hooked. I was hoping my tight cycling jersey would be just the thing to turn the lady’s head.

  Once my shorts and shirt were on, I had a tough decision to make. I could go out barefoot, but that didn’t seem like the best idea when it was fifty-five degrees outside, but the only footwear appropriate would be my cycling cleats. Anyone who’d ever worn bike shoes knew those suckers were hard to walk in. They had a stiff sole and a metal cleat smack-dab in the middle, which made for comfortable riding, but walking in them left the rider looking like a drunk flamingo. You couldn’t really push off like in a normal gait with the metal cleat hindering natural movement. Not really the impression I wanted to make, but barefoot seemed even worse, so cleats it was.

  I went out through the garage and grabbed my bike off the hook I installed that week. Rolling it out to the driveway that butted up against my neighbor’s property, I flipped the bike over and prepared to grease my chain in full view of her front window. I even zipped the front zipper down a bit on my shirt, making sure my manly chest was displayed to its full advantage. I didn’t want to brag, but I had a muscle or two thanks to good ol’ Dad’s genetics.

  Before long I saw the blind move on the front window again. My heart started pounding in my chest, but I remained steady, pretending my whole focus was on my bike. I was just spraying some more lubricant on the chain when her front door cracked open and she sauntered out.

  “Oh!” Her hand fluttered to her chest, like she was surprised to see me there.

  I had to admit, her acting skills were quite good. If I hadn’t seen her spying on me from the front window just moments ago, I would have believed I’d startled her. Instead, I smiled at her and lifted my hand in a wave. Time to start my experiment.

  “Hello! I’m the new neighbor,” I called out.

  I proceeded to bobble the can of lube like an inexperienced scientist when my gaze met hers for the first time. Her blond hair was a gorgeous tumble of beach-y curls, longer than most women wore their hair these days. And the curves didn’t stop there. I tried to keep my eyes on hers, but the lure of her generous breasts, tight waist, and flared hips were too much for my self-control. I did a quick scan—enough to tell me I was talking to one of the most attractive females I’d ever encountered—and then I gritted my teeth and forced my gaze to stay on hers.

  She walked toward me, those hips shifting and swaying, taunting me. But then a smile split her face and I was entranced. Those lips were made to grin like that: wide, open, genuine.

  When she was on the other side of my bike, close enough to touch, close enough to smell her flowery perfume, I forgot all about my experiment. Forgot completely that observing my subject and cataloguing all her features wasn’t a necessary part of testing my hypothesis. Because at that moment, it felt most definitely necessary. Maybe even imperative.

  “Hello. I’m Lily-Marie.”

  Her throaty voice washed over me, swirling with her perfume in teasing my senses. I reached out my right hand automatically, expecting a quick handshake as was customary when meeting someone for the first time. She glanced down at my hand, then back up at me, her smile slipping. A moment of awkward silence hung there before I also looked down and saw that I had a greasy can of lubricant in my hand. The hand that was outstretched, almost sullying Lily-Marie’s blouse.

  “Oh! Sorry.” I quickly dropped the can, but jumped again when the impact of the can hitting the ground shot a stream of lube into the air, narrowly missing Lily-Marie’s boots.

  I wasn’t a man to blush, but I felt the heat anyway, the burn of embarrassment creeping its way up my spine. I wasn’t one for crude innuendo, but nobody could have missed that obvious enactment. She finally slipped her hand into mine and gave it a firm shake.

  “Wow, that was a narrow miss.” She laughed and I tried to follow suit. “So, Lance, what are you doing out here?”

  My lips pinched together. “Who’s Lance?”

  The smile was back, lighting up the conversation when it most badly needed it. “You, silly. Lance Armstrong? Famous bike rider?” When I still looked perplexed, she spelled it out for me. “You haven’t told me your name.”

  Ah! She was telling a joke. I got it. I totally got it. “Good one!” I laughed again, amazing even myself when it came out sounding like one of my father’s wheezy guffaws. “It’s Jameson. Jameson MacMillan.” Great, now I sounded like James Bond.

  “Nice to meet you, Jameson.” She was gracious enough to ignore all my ridiculous ramblings and fluid spraying. “Looks like you ride quite a bit, huh?”

  Time to get this conversation back on the rails. I was competent enough to have a normal conversation, I was sure of it. And I had an experiment to complete. “Why yes. I ride all the time. I find it helps keep me in shape and there’s nothing quite like staying physically fit, you know?”

  Her eyebrows rose up on her forehead. “Oh, for sure. I feel the same way.” She lifted her arm and flexed her bicep muscle, none of which I could see because of the little white sweater she was wearing over her blouse.

  “You, uh, lived here long?” I had to keep her talking. I wanted her to feel comfortable around me, not only for my experiment, but because we were now neighbors.

  Her hand spun the wheel of my bike absentmindedly. Somewhere in my chest there was an odd tugging sensation. I liked her touching my things.

  “Yep, I’ve lived in this house almost my whole life. It was my parents’ house and they gave it to me when they moved to Arizona to retire about seven years ago. Now I’m raising my kids here.” Her eyes went soft and I noticed their slate blue color.

  “Wow, that’s pretty amazing. Most people move more often than that around here. My son, Stein, and I moved in last weekend so I could start a new job. Before that, though, we’ve lived a couple other places already.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I guess it is a bit weird to still be in the same house, but I love it. Lots of history.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “So, a new job, huh? What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a science professor at Pacific Coast College. You?” I shifted jerkily and my cleats scraped across the cement. Damn shoes.

  Lily-Marie crossed her arms across her chest. “I work as an executive assistant at Disney.”

  That got my attention. “That’s pretty cool. My son would love to hear that. He had a year or two where he was obsessed with Cars. Now he’s too cool for any of that, but...” I shrugged.

  “I hear you. My son, Clark, is eight. Said he met your son at school this week. He and my daughter, Mildred, are with their father this weekend, but we’ll swing by and formally introduce ourselves soon.”

  I nodded. “That would be good.” I could continue my experiment. “I’d love to help Stein make friends. Might also help ease the guilt of moving my kid to a new school.”

  She tapped the wheel of my bike. “Okay, well, have a nice ride. I’ll, ah, see you soon.”

  I nodded aga
in. “Yeah, sounds good. Have a good day.”

  Jesus Christ, how many times could I offer a lukewarm “good” in my sentence? “Good” was like the carrot shreds in a salad. It was simply there, but had no purpose. No one actually wanted to eat carrot in their salad. No one said “you know what’s missing in this salad? What would really take the taste up a notch? Carrot shreds!” I wanted to be a deep-fried habanero pepper on top of her salad, not a limp shred of carrot to be pushed aside and forgotten.

  She gave one last broad smile and then spun around and walked back to her house. When she got to the porch, she spun back around and caught me staring at her, trying to figure out how to be a different vegetable.

  “Can I ask you for a favor?”

  All thoughts of salads and word choices fled, leaving behind a renewed sense of confidence.

  It’s working! She’s already reacting to my athleticism. These shorts must really accentuate my butt.

  “Sure, what’s up?” I took shallow breaths and remained calm.

  She started wringing her hands and I was perplexed. It must be something really meaningful for her to find it difficult to even ask. Maybe she wanted to compliment me on my obvious athlete’s body. Maybe she wanted to ask me out already, but didn’t want to appear too forward. God bless Granny and her impeccable list.

  Lily-Marie took a deep breath, dropped her hands, and thrust back her shoulders. My gaze wavered and dipped to the curves now thrust between us, but I wrangled it back up to her face in time for her question.

  “Do you think we could help each other out with school drop-offs and pick-ups sometimes?” She rushed on. “I mean, our kids are at the same school every day, so it might make sense to carpool, you know?”

  My amorous hopes were dashed, but I kept a smile in place. “Sure, sure. That makes sense. Why don’t we introduce our kids and then see what makes sense?”

  She blasted me with a mega-watt smile again and I felt taller just for having put that smile there. “Okay, sounds great! See you soon!” And then she bolted into her house.