by Jean Stone
SIGN UP NOW. The button was enticing, a Hershey’s Bar to a Weight Watcher, a nip of gin to Darryl, the village “drinker.”
It was after lunch and Elaine had not eaten because she’d been too busy scanning the web. She glanced around the shop to see if anyone was watching: Jo had returned and was directing new energy to someone on the phone; Andrew was typing something on his laptop. Sarah was in her workroom, and Lily announced she was going somewhere with Frank to check out a bagpiper he knew who might be an amusing addition to the Benson nuptials.
Elaine turned back to her computer, dug her credit card from her purse, and wondered if she truly dared.
I met him online, she could hear herself tell her daughter Karen.
I’m having you arrested, Karen might retort. For impersonating my mother.
Then her daughter would call her Uncle Russell, Detective Sergeant Russell Thomas, or worse, she would call Lloyd, and soon all of West Hope would know that Elaine McNulty Thomas had resorted to the Internet to find a date.
Poor Elaine. What had happened to the nice girl she once was?
She clicked back to her selections.
WAYNE, age 46. 5'11'', brown hair, blue eyes. I love museums and the theater and the Indian casinos. I love thunderstorms and cuddling. I own three businesses.
NICK, age 49. 6'1'', gray hair, blue eyes. Cooking is my passion! I’m a gourmet chef at night, a successful investment counselor in the day. I have a yacht at Old Lyme, CT, and a second home in Naples—Italy, not Florida.
GERARD, age 36. 5'10'', blond hair, brown eyes. I do some modeling for TV and magazine ads. I prefer older women. I workout every day because it keeps me in perfect shape.
It did not escape Elaine that Gerard had spelled “workout” as one word, as if it were a noun. Nor did he mention what his profession was. But in his picture, all he wore was a Speed-O and a smile.
She went back to the order form and typed in her credit card number. Not that she’d submit it.
She stared at the little SIGN UP NOW button.
Did she dare? Did she really?
“Elaine!” Andrew called from across the room.
She must have jumped a foot or more. She jerked her hand that rested on the mouse and inadvertently clicked the button.
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes?” she asked meekly, her eyes glued to the pixels on which big, bold type appeared.
“Congratulations!” the type read. “Thanks for joining mates.com.”
She turned to Andrew. “Have you decided about going to Saratoga?” he asked.
She supposed her father would side with Karen on having her arrested if he knew what she was up to.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m going Saturday.”
Jo was off the phone now. She looked at Andrew and Andrew smiled. Jo asked what was up and he mentioned Elaine’s father and the restaurant, but Elaine quickly flicked her attention back to her computer and the new line that crawled across the screen that said the mates she’d selected should be in touch soon.
Andrew told Jo about Lily’s idea for Elaine to loot her father’s archives.
“That’s great,” Jo said. “We need all the help we can get.” She stood up and stretched. “Speaking of which . . . I need help. Here.” She reached across her desk and placed a pile of papers on his. “If Elaine works on the food, maybe you can do the media.”
The media?
The media? As in newspaper, radio, and . . . television?
He might have swallowed his tongue if one really could do that.
“We need to get them revved for the Benson wedding,” Jo continued. “Let them know this will be an outstanding photo op. Tell them we’ll help with their accommodations. The bigger a deal they think this wedding is, the greater the chances they’ll show up. And the more media that come, well, the better for us, right? Not to mention it will make us look good to the Bensons.”
Andrew blinked. Moisture spread across his face.
“Could you start by calling the networks?” she asked. “Then the cable shows. You know, that TV journalism stuff. It would be a big help.”
He supposed he’d asked for it.
He narrowed his eyes and tried to grasp what the top page read. It was information about the network he’d last worked for, the place he’d been an up-and-coming star on the program, The Edge. To make things more alarming, the contact person—Betsy Gardner—had been a college intern the last year he was there, the last year Andrew David had worked. Betsy had been eager, sometimes too eager. And she often ate glazed donuts that left sticky marks on the sheets of copy. Perhaps she’d been too busy eating and angsting to have given Andrew David much notice.
He felt a sudden tightening around his sweaty head, as if he’d put on a hat that was way too small. “Can I start on it tomorrow?” he asked. He knew that to pull this off, he must be at his best, at the top of his game. He sighed with the knowledge that this, indeed, was a game.
“Tomorrow’s fine,” Jo said. “And if anyone’s looking for me tonight, I’m staying at my mother’s house for a few days.”
Andrew left work early and drove out to the stables to watch Cassie put Big Bailey through his paces. It bothered him that his daughter hadn’t bounced back from the funk she’d been in since she’d seen the picture of her mother romping on the beach with her new family and a smile.
He wondered if Cassie had the same tight head that Andrew now had.
Maybe a visit from old Dad would help cheer her up. Wasn’t that what fathers were supposed to do?
He thought about Elaine’s father. He hoped they could reconcile. Fathers were important, weren’t they? Or was Andrew confusing fantasy with truth?
After all, he’d never had the father he’d dreamed of. Oh, sure, Dr. David Kennedy had been brilliant and in demand, and, for godssake, he saved lives. But he wasn’t the kind of father who’d played ball with Andrew or rode bikes with him or who’d taught him how to swim.
It was too late for Andrew and his father, but it wasn’t too late for Elaine, and it wasn’t too late for Cassie to know how much her father loved her and wanted her to have the best life in the world.
He was, however, too late for the lesson. Cassie was in the barn, rubbing Big Bailey down.
“Hey,” he said, approaching the stall, “I was hoping to see you in action.”
“We were fast today. Bailey was hungry.”
“And Cassie was distracted,” Mary Delaney said as she pitched a clump of hay from the next stall. Mary was a West Hope townie who was majoring in mathematics at Winston College and taught equestrian skills to cover her tuition.
“‘Distracted’?” Andrew asked, and Cassie rolled her eyes. She reached into her pocket and gave Bailey an apple.
“Long day at school,” Cassie said. “I forgot to study for an English test.”
He wanted to ask Mary if she could confirm Cassie’s excuse, but the girl had left the area. He looked back to the horse: It gnashed its top teeth against its bottom ones; bits of apple sprayed from the sides of Bailey’s mouth.
“So,” he said, “any homework tonight?” He wished he had someone to talk to, specifically, a woman. He sensed he and Cassie had entered that dark territory of the Men/Mars, Women/Venus thing.
“Just studying,” Cassie replied. “Mrs. Donovan is going to let me make up the test tomorrow.”
“What’s it on?” he asked. Andrew knew there were four women he could ask about raising a girl. But how could he do that when the problem seemed to lie with Patty, and none of his friends at Second Chances knew the connection?
“Oh, it’s just stuff,” Cassie said, then brushed the front of her jeans.
“Maybe we should pick up a pizza tonight. Save time once we get home-on-the-ranch.” It was a ha-ha phrase he’d coined when Cassie first took riding lessons. It almost made her smile now.
“Sure, Dad,” she said and walked out of the barn.
Andrew followed close behind. Irene would be coming to West Ho
pe soon to review the wedding plans: Irene would talk to Cassie, would make her feel better.
Then Andrew thought about Jo. Cassie liked her a lot. Jo said she’d be at her mother’s—would she enjoy a visit from the Kennedys? They couldn’t talk about Patty, but they could talk about, well, stuff. Besides, as much as Andrew hated to admit it, Jo was probably bummed about what had happened with that guy from her building.
Maybe Jo and Cassie would be good medicine for each other. Maybe they’d be good medicine for him.
21
Jo forgot that her mother had cleaned out the refrigerator before the wedding and what food remained had either been transferred to the condo over by Tanglewood or thrown out in the trash. Not that it mattered; she had no appetite anyway.
She went in the back door and tossed her pocketbook and the Buzz magazine on the kitchen table. She’d start perusing the Buzz pages after her shoes were off, after she rested a few minutes, after she answered the phone that suddenly started ringing.
“Pizza?” It was Andrew. “Cassie and I ordered a large veggie thin crust, and we can’t possibly eat it alone.”
“Oh, Andrew, thanks for the thought, but I just got home and I’m too beat to go out again.”
“No problem,” he said. “We’ll bring it to you. We’ll be there in ten minutes. Five if the traffic light is green.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” Jo said as she took plates down from the cabinet, the same pale yellow plates with tiny painted bluebirds that she’d eaten most every meal off of for as long as she could remember: her mother’s Sunday pot roasts, her grandmother’s tuna casseroles, her grandfather’s fresh-caught trout from the Housatonic River.
“It was Cassie’s idea,” Andrew said, peeling back the corrugated cardboard box lid.
“No, it wasn’t,” Jo said with a smile. “You thought I was depressed. You thought I needed friends.” She winked at Cassie. “Right?”
“I know nothing,” Cassie said, rolling her eyes. “I am innocent. I am only eleven.”
Andrew tossed a stack of napkins at her. “You are incorrigible,” he said, and Jo and Cassie laughed.
Jo told them both to sit. Curiously, Andrew went to the far end of the table, the place tucked under the corner of the ceiling that was slightly slanted to accommodate the flight of stairs around the corner that led to the second floor. It had been her grandfather’s chair. He’d said the slanted ceiling was because of a design flaw for which he took full responsibility because he’d changed the architect’s basic design. “I don’t want a straight-up staircase,” he’d supposedly told the man. “I want a fancy one that has a few stairs, then stops for a window seat, then turns and climbs the rest of the way.” Grandma often said that Grandpa had “grandiose ideas” for a man who worked in a paper mill.
Andrew ducked his head and sat down. He moved Jo’s pocketbook from the place in front of him. He picked up the magazine. He hesitated. “Buzz?” he asked.
Cassie leaned over the rock maple table and peered at the cover.
“Don’t be shocked, Andrew,” Jo said, sitting across from him and swiping a lock of hair from her forehead. “It’s only for research. I thought I might learn something about John Benson that we could use in the wedding.” She looked at Cassie. “Mr. Benson runs the magazine,” she explained.
Cassie nodded as if she already knew that.
“But it’s a men’s magazine,” Andrew said. “I can’t believe anything in here might help. . . .”
“You never know,” she said, serving veggie thin-slice pieces onto the pale yellow plates. “Don’t worry, I won’t look at the pictures.”
The dimple in Andrew’s right cheek showed its boyish curve. “Nonetheless,” he said, “it sounds like man’s work to me.” He slid the magazine onto his lap. “I’ll take it home with me. You have enough to do.”
Jo shook her head. “Absolutely not. You are our receptionist. Not a slave required to donate thankless hours.”
He shrugged. “I’ll enjoy the reading. I’ll get to see how the other side lives.”
Of course it was a joke, because Buzz was a straight-man’s periodical. “No,” Jo repeated. “Leave it here.” She looked at Cassie. “I doubt that it’s required reading in the West Hope sixth grade.”
This time, Cassie shrugged. “I’ve seen it before,” she said. “It’s helped me pick out Uncle Andrew’s clothes. It might be straight, but it has a great take on fashions for every kind of man.”
Andrew laughed, as did Jo, then Andrew said, “It’s fine, Jo. Honest.” He picked up his pizza slice and took a big, assertive bite. “One of these days you’ll have to come watch Cassie ride Big Bailey. Do you like horses, Jo?”
She knew when a subject had been changed, and she was too tired to argue over something as ridiculous as a glorified, sex-selling magazine.
It would have been worse if she’d taken the down payment she’d saved for a new minivan and spent it on a dating service for professional people, or at least that’s what Elaine told herself when she crept downstairs after Karen had gone to bed, sneaked into Kory’s room, and logged on to the web site for a fast peek.
At least it was only $19.95 a month—less than the cost of twelve Beef Teriyaki with hot mustard sauce.
She had mail.
Playing with the drawstring of what once had been Kory’s college sweatpants that she’d recently commandeered as her at-home-when-no-one-is-watching attire, Elaine wasn’t sure if she had the courage to open the mail.
Was it from Wayne the Business Owner? Nick the Investment Broker? Gerard the Young Hunk?
She put her finger on the button, closed her eyes and whispered, “Gerard, please.” If she were going to be daring, she might as well go all the way.
Ha! Ha! She laughed at her own little pun, then clicked twice and waited for strength.
She opened her eyes. The subject of the e-mail was Nick. She went back to his profile to see what she’d landed. The chef . . . like her father! And the yacht and the house in Italy. Well, she’d been saying she’d never been to Europe. “Way to go,” she whispered.
And then her heart began to race. A date. A real date! Her breath began to stutter small bursts of excitement, as if she were in the waiting area of DiNardo’s or Judie’s or Bubba’s Bar-B-Cue, waiting for her man.
Six one. Gray hair. Blue eyes.
Elaine smiled and sucked air through her teeth. Then she quick-clicked the button to open her mail.
Sorry, the type read. This mate is currently unavailable.
She stared at the screen. Unavailable? How could he be unavailable? He was supposed to take her to Europe, like Jack Allen was supposed to have taken Jo.
“Damn,” Elaine said. “Damn, damn.”
Her eyes traveled the screen.
Want more mates? A large link summoned. Post your Profile.
Well, she wouldn’t do that. She would never put her story up on the web for West Hope, or the world, to see. She would never post her story, her likes and her dislikes, and she would certainly not put up a picture.
For one thing, she wouldn’t know what to say.
For another, she didn’t have a recent photo of her as a blonde, in her makeover clothes, except the snapshot for her ID badge at Laurel Lake.
No. She wouldn’t post her profile or her picture.
Elaine McNulty Thomas was not that desperate. Yet.
Age, 43.
5'5''.
Blond hair.
Brown eyes.
Well, Elaine thought as she drew her feet up in the chair and sipped a cup of tea, it was a beginning.
After all, why not? Why the heck not?
She’d sat there for an hour or maybe it had been two, perusing other profiles and potential mates. Surely those people had family and friends and coworkers who might embarrass them if they saw their profile online. Surely they hadn’t been afraid. It was the new millennium, had been the new millennium for a few years now.
Besides, she hadn’t se
en anyone she recognized. Maybe the existence of mates.com hadn’t yet reached West Hope.
Weight, Average. She deleted “Average.” Slender, she checked. After all, Lily had implied that the new pants made her hips look less bulky. And Elaine was so tired of being “Average.”
Likes. I like sunsets and thunderstorms and traveling. (She’d borrowed that line from the profile of a particularly lovely woman who was half her age.) I like cooking (for Nick’s benefit) and museums and the theater (for Wayne’s), and I really like younger men.
She smiled. Would she dare to post this? Her mother would turn over in her unassuming grave, but it was Elaine’s life, wasn’t it? Elaine’s chance to take or leave?
She took another sip of tea and glanced at the clock in the shape of a basketball that Kory had bought at the Hall of Fame in Springfield. It was two-fifteen. Somehow the night had crawled into the morning. But now that she’d started, Elaine couldn’t stop. She took another sip of tea.
Dislikes.
That one was easy.
Anger. Betrayal. Not taking risks.
She stared at the last line, surprised she’d written it. Maybe the makeover was beginning to take shape on the inside as well as the out.
She smiled another smile, this one a little braver. Then she got up from the chair and went to the kitchen where her purse hung on the doorknob. She opened the zipper compartment and reached inside and slowly took out her Laurel Lake Spa ID, the one with the picture of a blonde named Elaine.
Wasn’t it ironic that Lloyd had bought Kory a scanner last year for Christmas and now here was Elaine about to use it to find herself another man?
“Betsy Gardner, please,” Andrew said into the phone the next morning. He’d decided to begin with the toughest call—the young woman who’d once worked for him. If she didn’t catch on that it was him, chances were the others wouldn’t. “I’m calling about the Benson wedding.”
Jo looked at him oddly from across the desk.
He touched his throat. “Allergies,” he mouthed, as an explanation for why his voice sounded like sandpaper on the banister of the old West Hope Town Hall. He could not, of course, admit that he was trying to sound like someone else, anyone else. It was bad enough he’d practically stolen Buzz—hell, he’d practically dropped it into the pizza box, he’d been that stunned when he’d seen it—from Jo last night. Who’d have thought she would have bought a copy? Someone else might read the issue from one cover to the other and not get it that he was the clandestine author of the “Real Women” column. But Jo wasn’t someone else. She was way too smart.
