His 1-800 Wife

by Shirley Hailstock

  She sat down. Jarrod sat next to her, and the swing moved back and forth. He was close to her, his leg touching hers. She knew why he wanted to talk to her. At least he wasn't doing it in front of the crowd. She was surprised. This was at least a different aspect of Jarrod's character. Then she remembered their past. Jarrod often got her to talk so he could use the information against her later.

  He'd probably led her here for the same reason. She stiffened and vowed to keep her secrets to herself, including that her body tingled when his leg brushed hers. She fidgeted with the Dolly Levi confection she carried. Jarrod took it away from her and placed it on the opposite seat of the swaying chair. He wore a black baseball cap bearing the letters NASA stitched in white above the bill. Now he tossed his cap on the other bench too. It landed, bib tipped up against the gauze and flowers of her organza covered chapeau. The two looked ridiculous next to each other. Catherine thought of them as the incongruous romance between the sportswriter Spencer Tracy and the political activist Katharine Hepburn in the black-and-white movie Woman of the Year. she and Jarrod were the 21st Century version of that couple.

  Jarrod took her hands and held them. Catherine didn't pull away. His hands were strong, smooth, and tender to hold. She looked into his face. His absence hadn't changed the way he looked. She couldn't deny he was attractive. Not just attractive; he was devastatingly handsome. Catherine remembered seeing him in a tuxedo for the first time. Her cousin was visiting from Boston, and Jarrod was taking her to a Christmas ball. Catherine was only fifteen, Jarrod nineteen. When she opened the door for him, she'd nearly melted in the foyer. He'd squeezed her nose and asked her if she got any dolls for Christmas. She wanted to kill him, but she couldn't deny that he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

  He looked even better now. His face had more character. There were tiny lines around his eyes and a greater confidence that could be seen. His smile showed even white teeth, except for a tiny chip on his front tooth, the result of a tussling match with her. He was over six feet tall, with a healthy brown tan that she'd bet was the same even tone over his entire body. His hair was clipped short. His build had been average when he left for England, but now it was more defined. She could see the strength in his arms and legs even through his clothes. He had broad shoulders proportional to his waist and hips, which were easy to delineate since he wore dark gray slacks and an open-collared white shirt that looked as if they'd been made for him.

  His smile fascinated her as much as his light brown eyes that said. "Trust me." She wanted to trust him. She wanted to hold his face in her hands and look into the depths of his eyes and see what he was think­ing, just as she wanted to run her hands over his hard body. She'd done it only once. He'd been uncon­scious, or at least acting unconscious. They were both in a first-aid class, and somehow he had been paired with her. After that incident, she asked for a differ­ent partner. She couldn't keep her thoughts off him despite his constant ridicule. Women vied for his attention and he had many dates when he lived in Newport. No doubt that would resume as soon as word got out that he was back in Newport.

  And unattached.

  "Tell me what's been happening," Jarrod said, pull­ing her out of the fog she'd drifted into.

  Catherine pulled her hands free. She sat back in the swinging chair.

  "We used to be confidants," he reminded her.

  "I was ten years old then," she said. "And afraid of a thunderstorm." She wasn't often afraid of storms, but that one had made the sky dark as night, and the wind made the rain sound like fingers on her windows. Her parents and Jarrod's were out together. She'd screamed and screamed, and finally Jarrod had come to her room. She flew into his arms, sobbing her eyes out and clinging so tightly to him that he couldn't have left her if he wanted to. He lifted her and sat down in the rocking chair. Catherine fell asleep there, and when she woke, the sky was bright and birds sang cheerfully. Jarrod was still holding her.

  "So tell me about the storm that's scaring you now. I'm good at keeping secrets."

  Catherine stared at him. He'd played practical jokes on her, pulled her hair, grilled her dates as if he was her father, but he'd never mentioned the night of the storm to anyone, or the questions she'd asked him when she was growing up and afraid to ask her parents.

  "I'm twenty-six and unmarried."

  "Last time I looked that wasn't a crime."

  "It is if you ask Audrey or my mother."

  "I take it they've been throwing men at you, telling you about the joys of marriage and children, con­stantly calling to see if you're dating anyone. And setting up days like today."

  "How did you know?" Her eyes opened in surprise. "It doesn't just happen to women, Catherine."

  She smiled. "I know that. I just didn't know you had the same problem."

  "I hadn't been home thirty minutes before my mother was asking probing questions about a possible special woman. Within twenty-four hours she was parading young women of marriageable age before me."

  "So there is no one special?" He reached over and took a lock of her hair. "You're special."

  She grabbed her hair back. "Be serious," she said.

  "I am being serious."

  Catherine couldn't help laughing. Jarrod laughed too. It felt good to laugh with him again. He could be charming when he chose. She knew Jarrod's mother. She was eccentric and a little transparent, but Catherine couldn't help loving her. Catherine was somehow glad there was no one special in Jarrod's life. She told herself it was because there was no one special in hers either.

  "I thought of a plan to get them off my back." She relaxed, leaning forward slightly.

  "1-800-WIFE?"

  "How did you know about that number?" she asked. "I recognized your voice this morning."

  "I didn't try to conceal it."

  "As I did," she finished for him. "No one knows about the number, not even Elizabeth." Elizabeth Westfield was Catherine's best friend. The two had bonded in kindergarten and been closer than sisters ever since, but this one thing Catherine had kept to herself. It helped that Elizabeth was busy with her business and had little time for getting together right now. Catherine could reach her by e-mail and cell phone if she really needed to, but she hadn't men­tioned the 1-800 number.

  Catherine didn't want to explain the number to anyone, but somehow Jarrod, who'd been able to read her like a book for as long as she could remem­ber, already knew.

  "I'm flattered you recognized my voice after so long," Jarrod said. Catherine suddenly thought she'd revealed something she hadn't intended. How could she not know his voice? It was brandy dark, warm, velvet soft, and Catherine knew he could use it to entice and seduce any number of females. She was glad she wasn't one of them, yet she loved to listen to its cadence.

  She covered with, "You have a very distinctive voice, but you haven't told me how you knew I owned the phone number. Or were you calling the number for yourself?"

  Catherine felt at ease. Jarrod often did that to her, before he got her with one of his jokes. She cautioned herself to be careful.

  "I didn't know until the machine picked up and started to speak."

  "You couldn't be looking for a wife." Catherine knew if he was, there would be a line outside his mother's house that wrapped the full perimeter of their extensive property.

  Jarrod shook his head. "1-800-WIFE. It was too intriguing not to call. That number was the topic of conversation almost as soon as I got off the plane."

  "Your mother knows about the number?"

  "I don't think so. She didn't pick me up. Robert Wells met me. I wanted to surprise my mother. She didn't know I was coming. Robert had a newspaper in the car and I hadn't seen any news from home in months. He pointed out the ad in the personals sec­tion."

  If anyone knew about the number, it would be Rob­ert Wells. Young, healthy, eligible, never married, Robert was prime husband material. He was a ladies' man, suave and handsome, and had just as many suitors as his best friend, Jarrod. The two of the
m could have been cast from the same mold. They'd known each other since the cradle. Two practical jokers out to turn the world on its side. Robert owned a string of car dealerships all over the area. He'd taken over his father's one dealership and turned it into ten more in the last three years. This year he'd added a classic car dealership to his list. He was quite successful, as Catherine knew he would be. Selling cars was a game, and no one played it better, since Jarrod had gone to England, than Robert. She wasn't surprised that he had been the messenger in her tournament of hide-and-seek.

  "And you just decided to call?" she asked.

  "Not until this morning. I wasn't going to say anything. I just wanted to know what the message said. Imagine my surprise when I knew whose voice it was.''

  He should know, Catherine thought to herself. He'd taught it to her. During one of their periods of friendship, again when the rain was pouring down and there was nothing else to do, Jarrod had taught her how to conceal her voice. He told her that he often used a different voice to play tricks on his par­ents and the teachers at school. She knew he'd done it more than once to her. Even though she was appalled at his trick, she learned how to do it anyway. It kept him too busy to play jokes on her.

  Learning from Jarrod was one of the few times she remembered sitting in the same room with him without one of them being angry. It was always her. He was usually laughing.

  "I suppose I didn't conceal my voice very well."

  "It's a very good imitation. Only I would recognize it, Catherine. You learned well. Now, what's the plan?"

  Catherine swallowed. He already knew about her owning the number, she might as well tell him the rest of it. "I'm so tired of both my sister and my mother harping on my marital status that I knew I'd either have to leave Rhode Island or get married. So I decided to get married."

  "Both drastic measures," Jarrod interjected. "But you shouldn't need a machine to find a husband." His gaze rolled over her from head to foot, taking in the shortness of her dress. Catherine accepted his gaze, although it made her uncomfortable and slightly warm, as if he'd opened an oven and the heat blew over her.

  "I don't want a permanent husband. It's not like I can walk up to a man and ask him to marry me."

  Catherine's voice trailed off. She sat forward, star­ing at Jarrod. Suddenly she thought of something. Another plan. And she had Audrey to thank for it. There was a man she could walk up to and ask him to marry her—Jarrod. Her 1-800 plan was good. Mar­rying Jarrod was even better. She inched to the edge of the bench, her feet stopping the gentle swing. She stared directly at him. They knew each other. They would both understand all the rules going in, and they could each satisfy a parent with the same plan.

  It was perfect

  Maybe.

  "Catherine, what are you thinking? I don't like that look."

  "Jarrod, will you marry me?" She blurted it out, not giving herself time to think it over.

  "What!" He sat back suddenly, rocking the swing.

  Her hand flashed out to brace herself. Then Cather­ine leaned forward. "It's a perfect plan."

  "No, it's not. I'm not looking to get married, no matter how many women my mother parades in front of me."

  "That's what makes it perfect," she countered and inched closer. She lowered her voice. "If we get mar­ried, we'll get them off our backs, and in six months, a year at the most, we can get divorced."

  "Catherine, I've been gone for five years. No one is going to believe a marriage between us. We've always been at each other's throat. How can we suddenly be in love?"

  Catherine smiled. "We've never been at each oth­er's throat. It's all been good, clean fun." She paused. "Isn't that what you told everyone?"

  He looked exasperated. Catherine didn't wait for an answer. "Everyone knows the line between love and hate is no wider than a thread. They'll all pat themselves on the back and say they knew all those fights were just to disguise our being in love."

  "Not everyone," Jarrod said almost to himself, but Catherine heard the doubtful words.

  "Jarrod, you can act as if you're in love with me." She moved closer to him. He inched back.

  His hesitation was only slight. "Catherine, it isn't a matter of acting. It's deceit."

  "And of course you've never deceived anyone." She lowered her head and raised her eyes, staring at him sarcastically. Then she stood up and caught hold of the support beam. The unit rocked.

  "Cathy." He shortened her name. She never let anyone do that, but when Jarrod said it she felt as if he caressed the syllables. "What I did were harmless jokes. This could really hurt someone."

  She hadn't thought his jokes were harmless. She'd cried herself to sleep many nights, embarrassed beyond her ability to comprehend.

  "No one gets hurt, Jarrod. We get married and six months later happily divorced. No one will know about the deceptionbut us. When it's over, we'll both be friends and never have to have our parents bother us again. We'll be free to do whatever we want."

  "What happens when we get divorced? What will they say then?"

  "They'll say they only gave us six months in the first place." Catherine knew this was a good plan. It would make life so much easier. "Jarrod, we already know each other. We won't have to learn each other's habits or pretend anything except being in love, and that only in front of an audience. When we're alone we can just be friends." She took his hands the way he'd held hers. "We can do this."

  Jarrod was hesitating. She had to convince him, before he decided against her.

  "Jarrod, I'm sure this will work. It will be much easier with someone I know and trust than with a stranger I meet on the 800 line." She paused. "And it will work for you too. You already told me your mother is just as bad as mine."

  "Aren't there any other men you know who'd make you a better husband?" Jarrod asked.

  "Sure, but they want to be married forever. With you it'll be six months, then we'll be respectably divorced." She crushed her hands together as if she were finished with something. Jarrod's face changed, and she realized how flippant her voice had been. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded," she apologized.

  "Respectably divorced?" he asked. "What does that mean?"

  She took his hands again and spoke softly. "It means we'll be free and friendly. No one will try to get us married again. We can say we've been married and it didn't work out. Then we can do whatever we want without anyone pressuring us again."

  Jarrod sighed. "Have you thought this all the way through?"

  "Of course I have," she stated confidently. "What could possibly go wrong?"

  Jarrod shrugged. He tightened his grip on her hands."Suppose you wake up one morning, say three months from now, and find I'm hopelessly, desper­ately, unconditionally in love with you?"

  Catherine's throat suddenly went dry. Had she heard a crack in his voice? She wasn't sure. Something pulsed within her. Then she laughed. Tentatively at first. "You?" She pulled her hands free. "You, in love with me?" Her laughter intensified.

  Jarrod moved, and the sway made her lose her balance. Catherine sobered, grabbing for something to hold on to. She found his arms reaching for her. "That won't happen," she said, her voice a little breathy. "We've been enemies since the dinosaurs disappeared. It's not likely we'll suddenly change in six months."

  Catherine's confidence faded for a moment. She hadn't thought of Jarrod falling in love with her. He wouldn't. And neither would she. They were friends, despite their rivalry. She'd go out of her way for him, and she knew he'd do the same for her, but friends didn't fall in love. She was friendly with many men, but she'd never fall in love with any of them. She and Jarrod could marry and nothing between them would change.

  Jarrod frowned and started to speak. "Don't refuse right away." She stalled a response she knew was coming. "Why don't you think about it? Let the idea sink in. You can let me know tomorrow."

  "Cathy, I'm not the one who needs to think this over." He stepped directly in front of her, standing so close she could fe
el his body heat, and she was still holding his arms. It made her warm and a little uncomfortable, even afraid.

  "You need to think about what you're asking, not just of me, but of any man who'd agree to marry and divorce."

  "I have thought it over. It's a perfect scheme. And with you it can really work." Catherine made the mistake of putting her hand farther up his arm. She felt his muscles tense under it. Now she wanted to move it, but it would appear as if she didn't want to touch him. Actually she felt good about touching him. Somehow her mind wanted her hand to move over his arm and up to his shoulder.

  Catherine saw something out of the corner of her eye and started to turn to look.

  "Don't move," Jarrod said. "Audrey is on her way over."

  Catherine smiled. "Why shouldn't I move?"

  "Look at me." She returned her attention to him. His eyes were serious. He squinted slightly. "Do you really think this will work, Cathy?" There was almost no distance between them. Jarrod put his hands on her waist.

  "Of course I do." She answered confidently, but a finger of fear slid over her, along with a ripple that centered around her heart. She came close to shivering even in the heat of the day and the circle of fire that spread through her from the exact point where Jarrod rested his hands.

  "Okay."

  "You'll do it?"

  He nodded. His hands slid around her waist and pulled her closer. Her body touched his from breasts to thigh.

  "Jarrod, what are you doing?"

  He leaned closer to her. Heat drenched Catherine. She wanted to move back, and she didn't want to at the same time.

  "I'm going to convince your sister this is real."

  He kissed her. Catherine froze. Jarrod had never kissed her before. He'd hugged her once or twice, kissed her cheek or her forehead. Once they'd been under the mistletoe and kissed briefly, but he'd never made any move that she could construe as sexual. Yet his mouth felt good. Catherine relaxed. She stepped closer, putting her arms around his neck and angling her mouth to fit his, her body to match his. Jarrod's lips were soft when they touched hers, yet sensation as prickly as electrical shock arrowed through her all the way to her toes. Her breasts grew heavy, her nip­ples pointed, and she felt herself growing wet. Jarrod lifted his mouth, but only for the second it took to resettle it and deepen the kiss. His arms around her crushed her to him.