by Peggy Webb
Jenny looks so forlorn I’m sorry I said anything. Leaning over, I reach for her hand. “What do you want, Jenny? If your life were a movie, how would you write the ending?”
“With Rick and me living happily ever after. No matter what.”
“All right then. Let’s fight with every weapon in your feminine arsenal. Be a bombshell. Vamp him. Bewitch him. Make him forget he ever saw that other woman. If there is another woman.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I look more like an eggshell than a bombshell. And I couldn’t vamp my way out of a paper bag, much less into Rick Miller’s bed.”
“My track record is horrible in that department, too, but Jillian Rockwell’s is not. They don’t call her TV’s sex goddess for nothing. I’ll give you lessons.”
If I go from woman-who-organizes-church-picnics to talk-of-the-town, will my husband notice?
—Jenny
I CAN’T BELIEVE this. Here I am on my own front porch with none other than Jillian Rockwell, learning the secret goddess code.
After Gloria said she’d give me the first lesson in seduction, suddenly she became Jillian.
Don’t ask me how. She didn’t change clothes, add makeup and jewelry or even fix her hair. She didn’t do a thing except close her eyes for a minute. When she looked up she was Jillian. The tilt of her head. The mysterious air. The mesmerizing eyes.
“Men love to be touched,” she’s saying, except it’s not Gloria’s ordinary husky voice; it’s Jillian’s sexy purr.
“You mean, hugging?”
“Hugging is nice, but I’m talking about touching your man in subtle, sensual ways.”
“I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.” More than twenty years of diapers, teenaged diatribes and dog hair on the sofa have beaten the sensuality right out of me. Or maybe I never had any in the first place.
“I’ll show you. Pretend you’re Rick, and I’m you.”
Gloria aka Jillian slithers my way saying, “Hello, darling.”
How she can slither on a crutch is a pure miracle. And how she can capture your attention is another. I swear, if a tornado swept through my yard and uprooted every tree I still wouldn’t notice a thing except her.
I nearly jump out of my pants when she caresses my cheek and briefly brushes her fingers through my hair. I’m Rick, I’m Rick, I keep telling myself.
What I am is too ridiculous for words.
“Did you have a nice day?” When Gloria aka Jillian drops her hand lightly onto the top of my leg, I hold my breath and wonder what in the world I’m going to do now. Sure, she’s said she wants to be my friend. And sure, I asked for her help. But, lord have mercy, I never expected to be caught up in an X-rated position in broad daylight on my own front porch. I just hope that old nosey biddy from next door is not watching.
Suddenly Gloria laughs. “Relax. We’re just acting.”
“How’d you know I wasn’t?”
“If you’d held your breath much longer, I was going to have to do CPR.”
“I can tell you one thing. If you did that to Rick, he’d about have a heart attack.”
“When you do that to Rick, he won’t notice a person in the room except you.”
“I thought this goddess thing was some big secret. You make it sound so simple.”
“It isn’t, of course. Obviously, the relationship between a man and a woman is extraordinarily complicated. But I think being feminine and sensual is a wonderful way to keep the fires of passion burning.”
“I can’t even get a spark. I wish I could be more like you.”
“Every day for the last twenty years, I’ve walked into the studio and become a femme fatale. It’s second nature. I can turn it on and off like a faucet.”
“Why didn’t you turn it on for Matt Tucker? You’d have had him on his knees proposing.”
She plops back into a chair, Gloria now instead of Jillian Rockwell.
“It feels too much like acting. I’m a straightforward woman. In real life I don’t want pretense. I want truth.”
“My sentiments, exactly,” Tuck says.
He’s standing in my front yard as big as sin and twice as appealing. He and Gloria are eyeing each other as if they’ve spotted something good to eat, while I’m turning red as a beet. I’d die of mortification if he saw the little seduction lesson. Of course, I know he’s not one to eavesdrop, but who wouldn’t want to watch Gloria when she goes into action?
Tuck gives me this great big smile, and from the ways his eyes are sparkling I’d bet my bottom dollar that he’s now privy to the code.
“Thanks to Jackson, nobody hears my car. That boy’s a genius with machines.”
It’s a black Jag, well-suited to him. Tuck’s like a big cat, all muscle and grace, stealth and cunning. I mean this in the best of ways, of course.
He has one booted foot propped on my front-porch step, and belatedly I remember my manners.
“Have a seat, Tuck.”
When he tells me he was passing through and dropped by to discuss plans for the benefit, I know he’s making up excuses. Tuck never drops by. He consults his daily planner and writes down appointments and keeps them to a T. I’ve served on enough boards with him to watch him in action.
His unprecedented departure from the rules makes me want to stand on my front porch and announce to the whole world, See. Love is out there if you just know how to reach out and grab it.
“I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t call first.” He’s talking to me. He’s even looking at me, but he’s hardly even aware I’m on the porch. I can almost see his pheromones leaping toward Gloria. If she were vanilla ice cream, he’d be eating her with a spoon.
“Of course not. You’re always welcome here.”
And oh my gosh. Look at her. Reclining in that chair in her goddess persona, her eyes at a sultry half-mast, her right hand lightly caressing her left arm. I feel like I’m watching a love scene with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Antony and Cleopatra.
I wonder if she’s even aware of what she’s doing, of the effect she’s having on him.
Gloria hasn’t said a word, but the way Tuck’s attention is riveted on her, you’d think he was the United Nations and she was unveiling a sure-fire plan for world peace.
“Jenny and I are co-chairs for the benefit for the Volunteer Fire Department.”
This is so thrilling, to see romance abloom on my own front porch.
“I have a wonderful idea,” I tell them. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could advertise that Gloria will be at the benefit, signing autographs? We’d get a ton of people.” I turn to her. “Gloria, would you?”
“If it would help you, Jenny, I’d be happy to.”
“Great. Why don’t I get some sweet tea while you two discuss it?”
I practically float into the kitchen. The only thing better than having a great relationship yourself is being the instigator in somebody else’s good time.
Maybe if I dawdle long enough, Gloria and Tuck will…oh, I don’t know. Kiss? That’s a bit premature. I’d be happy if I could walk onto my front porch and see him reach over to touch her hand.
Or vice versa. If Gloria leaves her alter ego Jillian in the driver’s seat, there’s no telling what will happen.
I swipe at a few smoke stains on the wall, then spot my roses lying on the floor, neglected. I’ll fix a tray, add a few cookies from the cookie jar and the Gertrude Jekyll roses.
When I get my favorite crystal vase, I remember the day Rick and I bought it at a yard sale. The old couple who sold it said it had been a wedding gift to them, and through the years they’d filled the vase with roses on every special occasion—birthdays, holidays, anniversaries.
They had no children and were selling their possessions because she had to go to an assisted living home, and he was going with her. They held hands the entire time, and looked at each other with such joy and tender regard I knew it was possible to love someone so dearly you couldn’t bear to be without
them. Ever.
On the drive home, Rick and I talked about the couple. He swore we would be like that, and I believed him.
Gathering the drooping roses, I spot Rick’s jeans, and the romantic steam hisses right out of me.
How easy it is to make promises and how hard to keep them.
All the wilting roses need is a bit of water and they’ll perk right back up. If only it were as easy to revive a wilting marriage.
Just add water and voila, Rick and Jenny Miller kiss and make up, then life becomes a Currier and Ives Christmas print, everybody smiling and holding hands while peace and joy reign forever.
Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, focusing so hard on Rick and marriage I’ve neglected to take stock of myself. I wonder what would happen if I got in my truck and drove off somewhere to find the real me.
CHAPTER 6
How do you tell if a hero is real or make-believe?
—Gloria
While I wait for Jenny, I ask Tuck about the benefit. He tells me it’s a barbecue picnic, and practically everybody in Mooreville and the surrounding communities will be there. The annual event is always on his farm and he donates the barbecue.
I make some inane comment—“How nice of you”—then sit back, watchful. The Matt Tucker on Jenny’s front porch is likeable and approachable, not at all like the big arrogant male I’d met astride his black stallion.
“I guess you know I didn’t drop by to discuss a barbecue with Jenny.” His smile is boyish, slightly lopsided and extraordinarily charming.
“No, I don’t know that. I don’t walk on water, in spite of what my fans think.”
“I’m shy, Miss Hart.”
“Call me Gloria.”
“Most people mistake it for arrogance. If I seemed that way at Jack’s garage, I just came by to apologize.”
I’m amazed. In the space of five minutes Matt Tucker has turned into somebody I’m thinking couldn’t be more perfect if I’d put in my order with God. Listen, I know all this sounds mystical and shallow and immature, but I’ve been paired with some of Hollywood’s most handsome, richest, most sought-after leading men. Who you fall for is not about looks and desirable assets. It’s not even about character and matching interests, though heaven knows, those qualities ought to count.
In the end, perfect matches are about spirit and soul and passion. They are about magic.
Though that sort of connection has eluded me, in my heart I know it exists.
“Gloria?” As Tuck leans toward me, I notice that his eyes are green with warm starbursts in the middle. “How long will be you here?”
“Until Jackson gets my Ferrari fixed. At least a week, probably.”
“And you’ll go back to resume your career?”
“I’m not sure.”
What happened to going back to Hollywood to kick some serious butt? Where’s the career-oriented, totally focused Gloria who never lets anything get the best of her, who is determined to convince the producers that America’s soap-opera fans can’t live without her?
Obviously, Jillian has taken over my body—which is leaning dangerously close to Tuck—and she’s intent on taking over my life, reshaping it to suit her own needs. The thing is, being Jillian feels right. She knows how to let herself fall into a moment, how to let every one of her feelings show, how to balance her personal life with her career as investigative reporter.
Of course, I’m not Jillian, not really, and this is Mooreville, Mississippi, not Love in the Fast Lane.
Or is it? Tuck and I are now listing toward each other like two clipper ships, sails billowing and the winds of Fate carrying us at will.
“It depends,” I add in Jillian’s breathless purr. It has been the undoing of more than one Tinsel-Town hunk and it seems to be working on Mooreville’s answer to Hollywood’s A-list of leading men. Not that I’m trying to vamp. I’m just letting myself ride this tidal wave of raw emotion.
“On what?”
“I don’t know. Things.”
I catch a glimpse of chest hair above the top of a white shirt. Dark, tipped with gold.
Jillian runs her tongue around her lips and so do I. This man is delicious. And I want a taste. Just one. Then I’ll go back to the west coast happy.
He leans closer, touches my arm, runs his fingertips from elbow to wrist then briefly squeezes my hand. And it’s better than any kiss I’ve ever had, more satisfying, more real.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”
Put your hand back, I want to tell him. Make me feel that way again. Make me feel as if I’ve never been touched until your hand made contact with my skin. As if I’m the only woman in the universe, and you’re the only man.
I’ve come undone.
“Anyone ready for tea and cookies?”
Jenny’s standing in the doorway, too bright-faced and perky, a cat-who-swallowed-the-cream look on her face. She saw, she knows. And she’s tickled.
“Thanks, but I have to be going.”
After he leaves, Jenny sits in the rocking chair and hands me a glass of tea.
“That went well,” she says.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course it did. My gosh, he was touching you just like you showed me.” She takes a guilty bite of cookie. “I didn’t mean to be spying. Really. I just happened to be in the doorway.”
“Jenny, I’m a great big fraud. I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“What I don’t know about men would fill an encyclopedia. Maybe two. I didn’t know what in the world I was talking about when I gave you that so-called seduction lesson.”
“Does anybody ever know the opposite sex? Even one you’ve lived with for twenty-three years?”
Never comfortable in uncertain waters, I change the subject to the benefit, tell Jenny I need to use her phone. I need to arrange to have the studio head send publicity photographs to sign at the barbecue. I need to check my messages.
Most of all, what I need is to find my footing, ground myself in familiar territory and move forward. Focused. In charge.
Unbidden, the memory of Tuck’s touch waylays me, and I stare over the top of my sweet tea wondering if it’s possible to have it all.
WE GO BACK inside where Jenny calls the press about my involvement in the benefit. Then I call home to listen to my telephone messages while she’s doing something else—laundry, I think.
“Gloria Hart, where in tarnation are you? Gone to hell in a handbasket without me, more than likely.”
Roberta’s third message, screamed loudly enough to break the sound barrier, jerks me back to my real self, the self who can’t make up her mind what she wants nor how to get it.
“If you don’t return this call, I’m sending a posse after you. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m worried about you. You’ve probably gone off and got your skinny butt in trouble.” If only Roberta knew. “And I know you can’t get out without me. You don’t know up from Adam.”
She’s got that right. I dial Roberta’s cell phone and tell her about the accident.
“And you did all this when?” She shouts. “And I’m just now finding out? I ought to hop on a plane for the specific purpose of giving you a piece of my mind.”
“You do that every day, Roberta. Why don’t I just pull one of your lectures out of my memory and make do with that?”
“Don’t you get sassy with me. You forget who you’re talking to. I don’t get mad, I get even.”
From the way we talk, you’d think we don’t like each other, but just the opposite is true. Sometimes I think our constant sparring is the only way I can tell I’m connected to the real world. I can’t say the same for Roberta. She’s like a World War II army tank. She knows exactly where she stands and she rules the ground she stands on. Nothing stops her.
“How’s the vacation, Roberta?”
“If I never see another beach it’ll be all right with me. I look like a shriveled up old frog and I won’t even begin to desc
ribe Hubert.”
Hubert’s her husband of forty years, and, in spite of the way she talks about him, Roberta loves him fiercely.
“They can have Puerto Vallarta for all I care,” she says.
“I thought you were in Cancun.”
“Wherever. All I know is I’m tired of being someplace where nobody speaks my language. How come you left without letting me know? Are you in some kind of trouble you’re not telling?”
I tell her that Jillian’s private plane went down over the Atlantic.
“Currently I’m lost at sea.”
“In a nutshell, you got canned. And you want me to think up a way to rescue you.”
“Yes. You’re good at scheming.”
“Does anything go?”
“As long as it’s legal.”
“That lets out my best plan. Murder. I’ve been wanting to coat that producer with peanut butter and hang him out for the buzzards ever since he killed off Dirk.” My fictional husband, and the only man who ever made Roberta wish she was a tramp. Or so she claims.
Now that Roberta’s on the job, I feel confident that nothing can stop me from snatching back my limelight.
I’m on the phone to the studio about sending publicity shots when Angie walks in looking flushed and up to her ears in trouble. Now what?
Jenny already has more problems than she can handle. The last thing she needs is to have her daughter dump another load of trouble in her lap.
Angie sprawls on the sofa, her long, tanned legs stretched out for what looks like miles. “Hi, Miss Hart. What ’cha doing?”
“Call me Gloria. Please.” I hang up then sit beside her and tell her about plans for the barbecue.
“Neat. All my friends will want your autograph.” Twisting her long hair around her fingers, Angie shifts her gaze from me to the window.
I wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s dreaming. She reminds me of myself at her age—high-strung, independent, sometimes belligerent. In Angie, I see so clearly what I’ve missed. Sure, she’s a challenge, but not having children suddenly seems like such a lonely choice.
