7 Days and 7 Nights

by Wendy Wax

  Charles smiled at the thought, because anything resembling a relationship between the proper Dr. Moore and the alley cat Matt Ransom would warrant that kind of attention. It was his job to make sure of it.

  At 9:45 P.M. Olivia locked her bedroom door, slid between crisp, cool sheets, and congratulated herself on surviving her first day of captivity. She’d taken a few hits, but she was still alive. For a good five minutes she reveled in her newly appreciated privacy, breathing the quiet into her being and attempting to exhale the anxiety.

  Snuggling deep under the covers, she breathed in the good thoughts and tried to breathe out the bad. She could do this, of course she could. All she needed was a good night’s sleep.

  Olivia closed her eyes and tried to drift off, but her brain refused to shut down. Old memories, the very ones she’d spent most of the evening trying to block, rose up to taunt her: the feel of Matt Ransom’s skin against hers, the merging of his body into hers, the utter contentment of drifting off to sleep in the shelter of his arms.

  She breathed in and she breathed out until she was huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, but sleep eluded her. With a groan, Olivia sat up in bed, clicked on the radio, and tuned in Guy Talk.

  “Thanks for the donation, man. Remember, you can donate food or money, and you can donate it in the name of guys everywhere. To find out how we’re stacking up against the ladies, just log onto our website for an up-to-the-minute tally.”

  A prerecorded chanting of “Go men, go men, donate” done to the foot-stomping rhythm of “We will, we will, rock you” played out full blast as Matt engineered a one-man pep rally.

  The chant continued for several seconds and then faded out. The next thing she heard was the unexpected sound of waves washing up on the shore. If she’d had any thoughts of falling asleep while she listened to Matt’s show, his next words quashed them.

  “I had a chance to listen to Liv Live this morning, fellas.”

  The sound of canned gasps and murmurs rose, then fell as Matt continued. “Yeah, I know, I know. The woman is way too preoccupied with life’s harsh realities.”

  Another wave rolled into shore, and the surf pounded. A gull cawed.

  “I prefer a little fantasy in my life. Tonight I’m going to show you how to add some to yours.”

  Olivia let out the breath she held and abandoned the in-and-out thing. Like a conductor staring into the headlights of an oncoming train, she closed her eyes and braced for the crash.

  “Pretend for a minute that you’re shipwrecked on a deserted island. You’ve got warm trade winds, a lovely little inlet for swimming and fishing, and unlike Tom Hanks, you do not have to form an intimate relationship with a rubber product. You get to choose both your companions and your supplies. This is, after all, your fantasy.”

  Reggae music snuck up full and then lowered to background volume. Gulls called again and mingled with the subtle rhythm of waves lapping gently on the shore. Olivia could almost feel the sun on her back as Matt continued.

  “It’s a gorgeous day. The sand is like powdered sugar. The sea is that bright blue-green color it gets when the sun is dancing on top of it. I can see a shipping channel off in the distance, so I know when I’m ready to be rescued everything will get worked out. No pressure, just a great escape.”

  His voice was as powerful and warm as a deep-tissue massage, and Olivia began to relax despite herself. What could happen on an island getaway?

  The soft strains of “Don’t Worry Be Happy” joined the audio mix and then disappeared beneath the mesmerizing timbre of Matt Ransom’s voice.

  “I walk down the beach and discover two crates that have come in on the tide. One of them holds twenty-four jars of beluga caviar packed in ice. The other is a case of Guinness with an opener attached.”

  The happy island music cranked up and then faded back under.

  “As I set the crates under a palm tree near the entrance to a cave, I spot the only other people on the island—you can have a maximum of three companions, guys. In my case, they’re Heidi, Lourdes, and Veronica—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—who look absolutely exquisite in the only article of clothing they’ve brought with them: thong bikini bottoms.”

  Male sighs of ecstasy mingled with the island sound effects. Then came several seconds of teasing feminine laughter.

  Alone in her room, Olivia gritted her teeth.

  “Okay, guys, that’s my scenario, but everyone gets to create his own.”

  Matt paused and then brought the soft feminine laughter up once more.

  Olivia was just getting ready to write off the whole thing as a waste of time when Dawg came on the air. She recognized his name from her conversations with JoBeth, and she wasn’t surprised to discover that he spoke like a good ole Southern boy—and an unhappy one at that.

  “Hey, Matt.”

  “Dawg. Did you call to pledge food or to visit Fantasy Island?”

  “Well, I wanted to pledge some milk for the food drive, but I’m not getting any of that anymore.”

  Olivia caught herself smiling at Matt’s puzzled silence.

  “JoBeth moved out. She’s left me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, man. You definitely deserve a getaway. Who do you want to take with you?”

  “JoBeth. She’s the only one I want on my island, but thanks to you and that Dr. O, she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

  “We’re talking Fantasy Island, Dawg. You don’t need to invite JoBeth...or anyone else you actually know. I’d consider Miss March. Her last pictorial tells me she knows exactly how not to dress for an island vacation.”

  “Matt, I don’t think you’re listening. JoBeth has moved out. And not only that, she’ll barely talk to me. Threw a damn pie in my face when I tried to get her to come back home.”

  Olivia sat up in bed, intrigued, but Matt refused to be drawn into Dawg’s reality.

  “I’ll say this one more time, Dawg, because I like you and you’ve been calling in to the show for a while. This is not Relationships R Us. You can call Dr. O in the morning if you have to, but the only advice I’m going to give you is this: Suck it up, man. Stop whining. There are probably two million women in Atlanta. Pick another one. Women are like buses. If you miss one, another will be along any minute.”

  Olivia felt her spine stiffen. She heard none of Dawg’s protests or Matt’s flip responses as he moved on to the next caller. She remembered all too well how easily Matt had switched buses in Chicago, though she couldn’t understand why the memory still hurt.

  Olivia burrowed back down beneath the covers. She wanted to be in her own bed. She wanted her life back. She also wanted to be asleep right this very minute and not lying here wondering whether Matt Ransom really remembered exactly how she had tasted eight years ago.

  Olivia reached over to snap off the radio, but something perverse inside her made her keep listening.

  “I’ve got Jason on the air. Who are you with, Jason, and what have you brought with you?”

  “Wow. I can’t believe I got through. I listen to your show all the time.”

  “Thanks, Jason. Does your mother know you’re up this late?”

  Jason laughed, but Matt was right. The caller sounded distinctly pubescent.

  “Tell us what’s happening on your island.”

  Jason cleared his throat nervously. “Well, I, um, spend the first day just hanging out drinking beer.”

  “You can imagine yourself under a palm tree drinking until you puke if you want to, Jason, but I’m not sure this will appeal to our other listeners. So . . .”

  “Wait. A raft is floating toward my island.”

  “A raft?”

  “Yeah. It’s just a bunch of trees lashed together with a little lean-to on one corner. And there’s some kind of material rigged on a really tall branch for a sail.”

  “That’s nice, Jason. But what about the occupants?”

  “Well, at first I can’t tell if there’s anyone on the raft or
not. But then I spot this really long pair of legs sticking out of the lean-to.”

  There was a pause and Olivia imagined she could hear the boy’s Adam’s apple bob up and down.

  “It’s a woman.”

  “Very good, Jason. You have real potential. Who is she?”

  “I can’t tell yet. But when she comes out and stands up, I can tell that she’s really tall, you know. Like an Amazon.”

  “Ah, a Xena, Warrior Princess, fantasy.”

  “Well, she’s tall like her, but she’s blonde. And it’s really weird, but there’s something familiar about her, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s naked except for this little, like, animal skin between her legs. And she’s tan. All over.” Jason’s voice went up another octave.

  “This would be from floating on the raft without clothing?” Matt’s tone was dry.

  “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, she steps off the raft onto the beach and I can see that she’s in really incredible shape, but older. You know, like thirty or something.”

  “That old, huh?”

  Jason totally missed Matt’s sarcasm, but as a woman turning thirty in a matter of days, Olivia was not amused.

  “So I can’t believe this is happening, and I—”

  “Jason, please. Just tell us who the woman is. Believe me, at this point, that’s all anyone wants to know.”

  “Well, that’s the really strange thing, you know? Because when she gets closer I recognize her.”

  “And?”

  “And, well, I hope it’s okay to say this.”

  “Don’t worry, Jason. As long as it’s not obscene, you’re okay with—”

  “It’s that head doctor you’re locked up with. The one you call Dr. O.”

  “Why, of all the . . .” Olivia muttered as she sat straight up in bed. She flipped on the light and swung her legs over the side.

  Matt’s shout of laughter filled her ears. He laughed for a good thirty seconds until Olivia pictured tears running down his face.

  “Boy, Jason. I have to hand it to you. I didn’t even see it coming.”

  Yeah, right. Olivia sprang out of bed. In two strides she had her hand on the doorknob.

  “What a fertile imagination you have, son. And a thing for older women, too. I can just picture how flattered Dr. Moore will be when she discovers she’s every boy’s fantasy.”

  The reggae music swelled up and then faded underneath Matt’s voice. “Thanks for sharing, Jason. You’ve given us all something really . . . special . . . to think about. This is Guy Talk, where a guy can be a guy.”

  When she heard the first commercial come up, Olivia yanked open her bedroom door. Unwilling to get too close to the Webcam, she stood in the doorway and hissed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Matt looked up from the audio board. “Olivia?”

  “No, it’s Xena, Warrior Princess. Come here.”

  He got up, walked around the equipment, and came to stand in front of her door. “Nice pajamas.” Reaching out a hand, he traced a part of the design with his finger. “Are those sheep?”

  Olivia slapped his hand away. “How dare you set that boy up to talk about me that way?”

  “You think I arranged that?”

  “I know you did. And I won’t stand for it.”

  “This is talk radio, Olivia. People say things. I did not put those words in that boy’s mouth.” He laughed. “But I really wish I had.”

  The blood thrummed through her veins, urging her to wipe the smile off his face. “Your show is a complete and utter travesty. For your information, women are not buses to be ridden at will. Your advice to that poor Dawg was completely insulting. And if you ever hold me up to that kind of ridicule again, I’ll—”

  “Listen, I hate to interrupt, but I’m back on in thirty seconds. Why don’t you come on out and tell my listeners how you feel?”

  His hand clamped around her wrist. “Come on. You can give Jason a piece of your mind and tell the world that you’ve never been on a raft naked in your life.”

  Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And be sure to stand right in front of the camera so they can see the pretty pink and blue sheep on your jammies.”

  The challenge in his eyes was unmistakable. He wanted her out there in her sheep pajamas trying to defend herself against a ridiculous teenage fantasy. Which was all the reason she needed not to.

  “Good Lord, you piss me off.”

  “I know.” He offered her a smug, lopsided smile that she wanted to rip right off his face. “It’s one of my greatest assets.”

  9

  JoBeth waved goodbye to her daddy’s La-Z-Boy recliner.

  “We sure do appreciate the donation, JoBeth. This’ll help make the group room a whole lot cozier.”

  JoBeth watched the pickup back out of the driveway and make a right out of the small Lawrenceville neighborhood. She knew exactly what Horace Namey would have said about his prized possession serving out the rest of its usefulness under rear ends at the Union Mission Halfway House, and the thought of his outrage provided the first real smile she’d managed in days.

  She walked back into the tiny house. The living room was empty except for the few pieces she’d claimed for herself. She ran a hand over the old pine sideboard that had belonged to her great-grandmother and let her gaze linger on the bun-footed curio cabinet that now held the best of her mother’s Depression glass. Dropping into the rocker she’d dragged in from the front porch, she surveyed the beginnings of the room’s transformation with pride.

  The baseboards and trim gleamed under a fresh coat of white paint, and the corners and edges of the room’s longest wall carried a first coat of apple green. She planned to finish painting the living room today and start on the kitchen tomorrow. JoBeth found comfort in the logical progression of the work and fully intended to deal with her inheritance the same way she’d learned to deal with her life—one day at a time.

  Originally, she’d thought she was fixing up the house to sell and had imagined the proceeds as a kind of dowry she’d bring to her marriage to Dawg, her contribution to their life together. Now there would be no life together, and there was no reason to sell. She’d fix the house up for herself, get one of those home equity loans so that she could see some of the world or go to college full-time. She’d spent her twenties running around wild, and most of her thirties taking care of her parents. It was more than time to start looking after herself, like Dr. Olivia said.

  JoBeth turned the baseball cap backward on her head to keep the brim out of her way and rolled up the bottoms of her overalls so they wouldn’t end up apple green. The smell of fresh paint battled the old, more familiar smells of cigarette smoke and medicine, vanquishing them in the same way the pretty pastel green drowned out the dingy undercoat of white.

  She moved the ladder onto the newspaper that lined the edges of the room, and hooked on the aluminum paint tray. After climbing the first few rungs, she dipped her roller into the paint.

  As she reached for the wall, the screen door creaked open, then slammed shut. Before she could turn, boots clumped across the hardwood floor and came to a stop behind her. She recognized the footsteps even before she heard Dawg’s voice.

  “Hey, JoBeth.”

  She didn’t turn or pause in her painting. She just tapped the excess paint off the roller and began to apply it to the wall.

  “Need a hand?”

  She extended the roller smoothly upward, then brought it back down. “No, thanks.”

  “I, uh, just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “I’m fine.” She lifted the roller out of the pan, reached for the wall without tapping off the extra paint, and felt a glob land on her cheek. The back of her free hand found the glob and turned it into a smear.

  “It looks a lot bigger here without all your folks’ stuff in it.”

  “Yep.” Hurt warred with anger, and JoBeth stoked the latter, afraid of what would happen
if she showed the least bit of weakness. She needed Dawg out of here now, before she caved in and let him see just how miserable she was without him.

  “Mind if I take a look around?”

  “It’s a free country.”

  She heard his boots clump down the adjoining hallway, heard a door creak open, and heard the sound grow muffled by carpet. With an iron grip on the roller, she continued spreading paint on the wall, keeping her movements slow and controlled until Dawg clumped back and stopped directly behind her.

  “You’re sleeping on a mattress on the floor?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “You’d rather sleep on the floor than stay with me?”

  Feeling the crackle of his anger in the air about her, JoBeth set the roller in the pan and backed down the ladder. Once her feet touched the floor, she had no choice but to turn and meet his gaze. Schooling her paint-streaked features into a casual expression, she turned her face up to his. Dawg hadn’t bothered to mask his feelings, so she was forced to stare into his storm cloud of a face, all dark and seething with disbelief.

  He ran a ham-sized hand through his hair and then shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. “I told you you could have my spare room until you got things taken care of here.”

  “I don’t need your spare room when I have a perfectly good house sitting right here.” She inhaled the rugged spice of his aftershave and felt herself drawn to the massive body she knew so well. Alarmed, she pushed by him and came to a halt a good foot and a half away, where resisting him would be easier.

  “But what about us, JoBeth? How can you walk away from three years?”

  “I’m not the one turning my back on what we’ve had, Dawg Rollins.”

  “Aw, honey.” He reached out toward her, clearly intending to scoop her up into one of his big, brawny embraces, the kind that had always made her feel so safe and protected. If she let him get his hands on her, she knew she’d be lost.