Man of Her Dreams

by Patt Marr

  “On the other hand, you already have a college degree. You have a trust fund! You have a family who sends you applications, probably to support and encourage you, not run your life. You say you want to do more, but you’re here, working a job that no longer gives you satisfaction. How am I doing? Have I left anything out?”

  He looked out the window and muttered, “I think that about covers it.”

  “No, one more thing. For the past several months, I’ve seen you read your Bible when we get a break. I’d like to ask you, on what page does it say it’s okay to waste your time doing less than you can?”

  He had to take issue with that. “Being a paramedic isn’t a waste of time, Doc. I’ve loved it.”

  “Are you saying you love it now?”

  No, he couldn’t claim that.

  “I’d give anything to have what you’re throwing away!”

  He’d had about enough of this. “That’s a great idea, Doc. You use my trust fund.”

  She slammed her hand down on the steering wheel. “That is so stupid, I’m through talking to you.”

  That was convenient, because he was through listening.

  She started the engine, pulled away from the curb and drove straight to the station house without speaking to him again. From the jut of Doc’s jaw, he’d say it was a good thing their shift was over.

  His flash of anger had already settled down, and guilt set in. Doc had merely told it like it was. Here she was killing herself to get what he already had, and he didn’t appreciate his advantages and opportunities enough to use them. He gotten so used to going his own way in life that he’d forgotten he was a Christian whose life was not his own anymore. The Word had plenty to say about a person who wasted what he’d been given.

  It wouldn’t be a waste to support Doc with a full scholarship from an anonymous donor. He could set that in motion. And he probably ought to take a good look at those application forms for himself.

  With only two weeks into the new year, Meg felt she had the right to be rather pleased with herself. Not only had she identified two candidates for Mr. Right, she had already dated them both. The butterfly troop hadn’t bothered to show up for either guy, but she’d accepted second dates from both of them. That was the deal, after all—to give love a chance to grow. Life was full of opportunities to trust God.

  Or that’s what she told herself when she wanted to give up on her New Year’s resolution. It was depressing, facing the future without the butterfly troop. How could they ignore great guys like Kevin and Jonathan, yet perform fancy loops at the mere sound of Ry’s voice? The last time the troop had made an appearance was when Ry called to see if she’d gotten home safely from the airport.

  She ought to call Ry right now, strictly as a scientific experiment, just to see if the troop was voice activated. Even if she only got his voice mail message, they might be happy.

  She punched in his number and the troop spiraled wildly at the mere prospect of talking to their guy.

  “Hey, Power Woman,” Ry answered, sounding happy.

  He knew it was her? That meant he’d added her number to his caller ID—such a little thing, but it pleased her so much. The troop liked it, too. They whirled about and made her heart race. “How’s New York City?” she said, breathing as hard as if she’d worked out.

  “Cold,” he said. “How’s L.A.?”

  Too far from where you are. Lonely without you. “Perfect,” she said, putting a smile in her voice so she wouldn’t give away how lonesome she was without him. “I had the top down on the convertible today. How was your day?”

  “Too cold for the top down, that’s for sure. Today was my last day working with my partner, Doc. She quit just after I got back and worked out her two-week notice. I’ll miss her, but she’s going to college full-time, and that’s good.”

  “What’s she working toward?”

  “Doc wants to be a real doc.”

  “How do you feel about that?” She held her breath, knowing this was a sensitive area for him.

  “A person ought to follow her dream, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, as long as it doesn’t rob anyone else of theirs. Is Doc married? Does she have a family, close friends, special people in her life? If she does, she might as well tell them goodbye.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way, Meg.”

  Maybe not, but that’s how it was when Beth went to med school. But she hadn’t called Ry to hold a pity party.

  “We taped four shows this week,” she said, changing the subject, “and tonight I’m field producing a dream date.”

  “What do you do when you ‘field produce’?”

  “We go along on the couple’s dream date, record parts of it and show it on a future telecast. Since I was promoted to casting the show, I don’t do much of that anymore.”

  “Beth says the ratings for Dream Date have gone up since you’ve been in your new job.”

  That was nice of Beth to brag about her.

  “Did you match anyone today?” he asked, teasing.

  “I found a guy who’s a perfect match with my List.”

  There was a pause, and then he said, “Good for you.”

  “And I’ve had second dates with two excellent Mr. Right candidates.” She tried to sound positive, which wasn’t easy when she already regretted her vow to give love a chance to grow. It had taken real willpower to date those guys.

  “Which one of them seems like a better prospect?”

  It was just like the old days, with her talking about boys that she didn’t care about just so she could talk to Ry. “They’re about even.”

  “Tell me about them. Maybe I’ll notice something you didn’t catch.”

  He was serious. That made her smile. He might be an excellent judge of character, but she was the one who actually got paid for sizing people up.

  “They both go to my church,” she offered.

  “That’s good. And they both eat healthy and work out.”

  She laughed. He was quoting from The List. “They look as if they do. Especially Kevin Fletcher. The man is really built.”

  “Hmm, how’s his ego? Sometimes bodybuilders enjoy the look of themselves in the mirror a little too much.”

  That was funny coming from a guy who should know. “I’m sure I like his looks better than he does.”

  “I thought ‘good looks’ wasn’t on the list.”

  “It isn’t, but I’m not going to disqualify Kevin for being great-looking even if he isn’t a very good dresser.”

  Ry laughed as she hoped he would do.

  “Kevin’s taste in clothes is awful, but a woman in his life could change that, don’t you think?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” he said dryly.

  “Did I mention Kevin is our children’s pastor? He’s wonderful with the little kids. Everybody loves him. The only thing, Ry… He’s a few years younger than I am, and he still lives with his mother. Do you think that’s a problem?”

  “Only if his mom is still laying out his clothes. Don’t worry about the age thing. You’re young at heart. Kevin sounds like he’s the one. Congratulations, babe.”

  “But you haven’t even heard about Jonathan Tremayne.”

  “I don’t think I have to. Kevin seems perfect.”

  “But my date with Jonathan was so romantic. He really knows how to treat a woman.”

  She heard a choking sound. “Ry?”

  “Just a minute,” he said in a strangled whisper, followed by big clearing-the-throat sounds.

  “Ry, are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he responded, his voice extra raspy, extra deep. “A sip of coffee went down wrong. You were saying…?”

  “Jonathan Tremayne is a business associate of Pete’s. He just started attending our church.”

  “Is he at least as old as you?”

  He made it sound as if she were middle-aged. “I thought age didn’t matter.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t. So what has Jonat
han got to offer other than romance?”

  “It’s not on The List, and it isn’t important to me, but Pete says he’s very successful. Pete also says that ever since Jonathan found the Lord, he’s been wife shopping.”

  “‘Wife shopping’?” Ry laughed until she thought she was going to have to hang up on him. “That’s real romantic.”

  “That’s not different than what I’m doing. Maybe he’s got a list of his own.”

  “You’re right,” he said, settling down. “How’s Jonathan’s taste in clothes?”

  “Great. He doesn’t need any help. But I might. He looks better than me.”

  “Babe, I guarantee he does not look better than you, and he’s not going to care what you’re wearing. You’re the catch, Meg. Not him.”

  That was a sweet thing for him to say. “You’re prejudiced,” she said, wishing he were here in the room.

  “Well, I do have a thing for dark-haired, blue-eyed Irish women.”

  The butterfly troop flitted as if their lives depended on motion. His buttery baritone made her think of moonlight, roses and a trip to New York in the dead of winter. She had some unused vacation days. Would he want to see her?

  Moonlight, roses and candlelight on a terrace overlooking the Pacific—that was Meg’s workplace tonight. From her position behind a potted palm, she watched the Dream Date couple at a cozy table for two.

  The pretty blonde was a kindergarten teacher named Tami, and the quiet, dark-haired guy was a mechanic named Stan. In their formal clothes, fresh from their makeover sessions, Tami and Stan could have passed for movie stars. If ever there was a dream date, this was it.

  The splash of ocean tide against the rocks below vied with piano music being played nearby. White linen, sparkling silver, tinkling crystal and a couple falling in love—that’s what millions of viewers would see, and they would love it.

  Meg put another notch in her matchmaker belt. At work they said it was uncanny, the way she scheduled the right combinations, but she thought anyone might fall in love in a setting like this.

  She ought to test the theory on herself. Kevin couldn’t afford this place unless she could get them a discounted rate, but Jonathan could. She could see the two of them there, Jonathan in a tux and herself in white with a long scarf that would float in the breeze. She would wear her hair long, pulled up on one side and fastened with a gardenia.

  Actually, with her dark hair, Ry would be a better partner since Jonathan’s coloring was so much like her own. Ry in a tux, his eyes intently on hers, while a smile deepened those dimples. Her heart beat madly, knowing—

  “Meg.” The irritated growl of Brad, her camera operator, came through her headset.

  She covered her mouth and whispered into the mike of her headset, “Brad, are you getting this?”

  “I’m getting it, but, Meg, c’mon! This is bor-ing! Have ’em do something. We can’t use any more of this.”

  Brad and his attitude. If he wasn’t so good at his job, he’d be looking for work. But he was right. They’d shot Tami and Stan getting in and out of the limo; they had them watching the ocean at sunset, and they had Stan stealing a kiss. But they needed something that would make this segment pop, something that would make the studio audience laugh, moan, groan, sigh—anything, as long as it was big emotion. That was what made good TV.

  Usually creativity on a shoot was Meg’s strength, but tonight she had been so caught up in her own fantasy that she drew a blank. What could she have them do? It looked like she’d have to resort to the old finger-feeding ploy.

  Strolling over to the couple, she put a big smile on her face. Compliment them first. Even the most confident Dream Date contestants were nervous in front of the camera.

  “You both look fabulous,” she said encouragingly.

  Tami, who’d confided that she hoped this shot would lead to an acting career, fluffed her hair and looked directly at Brad’s camera—which she’d been told not to do.

  “Really?” Her wispy light voice sounded familiar.

  “Hello, Marilyn Monroe,” Brad said in the headset.

  Meg ignored Brad and noticed that Stan was wearing clear nail polish tonight. His cuticles were in better shape than hers. “Having a good time, Stan?”

  “Oh, baby,” he said, his lip curled like an Elvis Presley wannabe.

  In her headset, Brad burst out laughing. “Ladies and gentlemen, The King has entered the building.”

  “How are your appetizers?” she asked, ignoring Brad.

  “I don’t know,” Tami said, looking down at her appetizer as if she hadn’t noticed it was there. “I’ve been listening…. Oh, Stan, do you mind if I tell Meg what you just told me?”

  With a suave wave of the fork in his hand, Stan granted permission.

  “Stan says he knew I was the one for him the first moment he saw me on the show. Can you believe that?”

  Meg smiled. She had pegged them to win when she made out the schedule. “Before we wrap up the shoot and leave the two of you alone, we just need one more thing, something a little special, perhaps something a little more intimate.”

  “Oh, baby,” Stan intoned again with a silly half grin.

  “I was thinking you might feed each other bites of your appetizers.”

  “Feed me first, Stan,” Tami said.

  Meg murmured into her headset, “Brad, stand by for a close-up of Tami. We’re finger-feeding.”

  “Gotcha.” He moved to one side for a better view.

  Stan took one of his oysters on the half shell, squeezed lemon juice on it, leaned toward Tami and slid the oyster into her mouth. She closed her eyes and acted as if it were the most delicious thing ever.

  Meg turned away, the better to control her gag reflex. She wouldn’t eat raw oysters for any man. Maybe Tami was a good actress. She spoke softly into her mike. “Did you get that, Brad?”

  “Oh, baby,” he said, mocking Stan.

  Tami picked up a piece of her fancy Thai appetizer that looked like a glorified egg roll to Meg, although it did come with an orchid on her plate. She hand-fed it to Stan. He chewed, swallowed and took Tami’s hand, kissing the fingertips.

  Meg could barely look, it was so silly.

  “Oh, no!” Stan abruptly stood, frantically patting his tux pockets. “I don’t have it with me.”

  “What, Stan? What’s the matter?” Meg said, moving into the shot. It wouldn’t matter. They couldn’t use this.

  “My shot. I don’t have my shot. Call 911.” He slumped in his chair.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Call it in. Now!”

  Meg whipped out her cell phone and placed the call. She could see for herself that the man was in distress. Right before her eyes, Stan’s face swelled, contorting horribly. His throat must be closing because his breathing was terribly labored.

  Tami wrung her hands. “Do something, somebody!”

  Guests from the nearby tables looked alarmed. Some rose from their seats to get a better look.

  “Is there a doctor here?” Meg called out.

  No one responded, but the maitre d’ hurried to their table. “Should I call 911?”

  “I already have. Have someone watch for the ambulance,” Meg said, kneeling beside Stan. “Have you had this before, Stan? Do you know what’s wrong?”

  He nodded. “Peanuts,” he said, gasping.

  She checked their food. “You didn’t have any peanuts.”

  The maitre d’ looked over their food. “The lady’s appetizer is prepared with peanut oil. Did you have some of that, sir?”

  Stan nodded, fear in his eyes.

  Tami sobbed. “This is all my fault.”

  Meg’s heart sank. She was the one who’d suggested this. She was the one to blame.

  Weakly, Stan tugged at his black bow tie.

  “Let me do that,” she said, brushing his fingers aside to unsnap the tie and undo his top shirt buttons.

  “Is he going to die?” Tami cried. “Don’t die, Stan.�
�

  “Meg!” Brad’s stage whisper got Meg’s attention. He waved her out of the shot.

  He was taping this disaster? “The shoot’s over, Brad,” she muttered into her headset. At the sound of an arriving ambulance, she said, “Hang on, Stan. The paramedics will be here any second.”

  Almost unconscious, Stan fell from his chair, and the maitre d’ eased him to the floor. Meg held his head, and the waiter frantically fanned Stan with a starched linen towel as if that would help.

  Meg had never been happier to see anyone than the pair of paramedics. In perfect unity, they calmed Stan, gave him medicine and worked swiftly and competently, their professionalism something to admire.

  This is what Ry did, helping people, saving them. Meg couldn’t wait to tell Ry how much she valued the work that he did. Maybe she should tell him in person. The troop fluttered madly in her stomach just thinking about it. To see that deep-dimpled smile, she might be able to fly to New York on the power of butterfly wings alone.

  Chapter Eight

  Whump…whump…whump.

  Meg lay in her bed, her eyes on the ceiling, following the sound of the new guy upstairs bouncing a basketball from the bedroom, through the living room, to the tiny kitchen and back again. Since all of the apartments at Los Palmas had identical floor plans, she knew exactly where he was. And she knew exactly where she’d like him to be.

  “Take it outside,” she yelled. There was a very nice hoop and a fenced-in court where New Guy could play. He’d have no trouble finding a pickup game.

  Whump…whump.

  She should call the bikini twins, and have them entertain him. Meg didn’t know what the twins did for a living but they had more bikinis than Meg had bridesmaid dresses, and nothing happened at Los Palmas that they didn’t know about. They would knock on a person’s door, offer freshly baked coffee cake and leave fully informed.

  Just yesterday, the twins had showed up when she was packing her carry-on bag for her overnight trip to Honolulu. Before she knew it, she was telling them about Stan’s problem, and they were assuring her she wasn’t to blame.

  The honchos at Dream Date apparently thought differently. Before Stan was released from the hospital, they’d offered him a second date with Tami and sweetened the deal by sending them to Hawaii in exchange for Stan signing a liability waver.