7 Days and 7 Nights (23 page)

29

Matt considered calling Olivia for all of five seconds. He'd been in the shower when she signed on, toweling off when she first uttered the L-word, and breaking out in a cold sweat by the time she challenged him to call.

Tucking a towel around his hips, he wiped steam off the bathroom mirror and caught a glimpse of his face. Grooves of panic sliced across his forehead, and his eyes were those of a cornered animal. His usual expression of detached amusement was nowhere to be found. Olivia had turned the tables on him so neatly, he had no idea what he felt or how to respond.

Matt covered his cheeks with shaving cream and jerked the razor downward, nicking an ear in the process. He couldn't imagine what Olivia was thinking, but if she expected him to call and “share” his innermost feelings on demand, she was living in a fantasy world screwier than the one she'd accused him of inhabiting.

He'd call her when he was good and ready and had some earthly idea of what to say. And not a moment before.

In the meantime, he'd put some miles between them. He was way overdue for a trip home to Chicago. This was an excellent opportunity to catch up with his mother and sister and spend some quality time with his nephews. The station could go find some other trained monkey to fill in for him. After the shit they'd pulled, he didn't owe them squat.

Matt added clean clothes to the duffel bag still sitting on his bedroom floor and called the station, refusing to talk to anyone but T.J. Then he backed the car out of the garage and headed toward I-75, where he pointed the nose of the Corvette north and applied his foot firmly to the accelerator.

He spent the next 422 miles trying to fathom the turn his life had taken. He still couldn't believe Crankower and T.J. had pulled off such a sordid little scheme, any more than he could come to terms with the whole mess between himself and Olivia. Once again she'd managed to scale walls he'd spent years erecting, and once again she wanted to drag him to a place he'd sworn he'd never go.

She'd made him talk about Adam, forced him to share feelings he'd kept locked away for a lifetime, and no matter how hard he tried, she refused to let him slide back to his comfort zone. Olivia Moore expected more of him than any woman ever had, and it annoyed the hell out of him that some perverse part of him wanted to give it to her.

He stopped for the night at a Holiday Inn just north of Louisville and was registered by a smiling, pink-cheeked college student who seemed younger than he'd ever been. She actually blushed when she asked him if he was traveling on his own, and he told himself it was only fatigue that stopped him from inviting her to join him for dinner.

Letting himself into his room with the key card, Matt dropped his bag on the bed. He'd made good time, first on 75, then jogging west on 24 around Chattanooga, and under other circumstances he would have driven straight through, but now that he'd put Atlanta behind him he was strangely reluctant to reach his destination. Maybe he'd take a couple of extra days before he faced his past,
not
, he hastily assured himself, that that was the reason for this trip.

While driving, he'd purposely left his cell phone in his bag in the trunk so he wouldn't be tempted to use it, but he pulled it out now to call an old friend who lived in the area. His next call would be to his sister to let her know when to expect him.

All he was looking for was a little R and R, a little time to regroup and get his head back on straight. There was no reason at all why he couldn't hang with friends and enjoy himself a little.

As far as Matt was concerned, there wasn't a damn thing wrong with Never Land as long as you still knew how to fly.

JoBeth handled the overflow lunch crowd on automatic pilot. She waited on customers and cleared tables, smiling and nodding her head at what felt like the right moments. It was a damn good thing her mouth and body could work independently of her brain, because her brain was full of the question Dr. O had raised the day before. And her gut was too busy churning to provide her with an answer.

She wanted to fall in love with Kevin Middleton. She already loved his mountain house and the lifestyle he offered, but every time she tried to examine her feelings for him, her brain shut down and her stomach hurt.

At three o'clock she untied her apron and clocked out. All the way home she told herself she was finished with Dawg, that Kevin deserved a chance. That there didn't have to be wild heart-throbbing love for a relationship to work. But the thought of never feeling that again filled her with such sadness she wanted to cry.

By the time she got home and parked in the drive, she had calmed down enough to think rationally. She was too old to worry about true love and old enough to appreciate the importance of compromise. Two people who shared the same vision could build a life together, she told herself. She could live without excitement and passionate lovemaking if she got children and security and respect in return. And she knew she could make Kevin Middleton happy.

But not to hold Dawg in her arms again? Never to feel him settle inside her and rock her world to pieces? Could she really live without that?

JoBeth spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning house. She chased nonexistent dust bunnies out of corners, wiped baseboards that already gleamed with fresh paint, and took a toothbrush to the newly installed tile in the guest bathroom. While she worked, her head and her heart battled, her brain arguing the logic of a life with Kevin Middleton, her heart clinging stubbornly to its memories of Dawg Rollins.

By six o'clock her tiny house sparkled. Spent, JoBeth poured herself a tall glass of sweet tea and carried it out to the porch, where she sat and rocked for a time, studying the bright yellow daffodils that bordered the walkway and testing her resolve.

She would go for moderately-happy-ever-after with Kevin Middleton. She would settle for less than a love match in exchange for the family she wanted to build, and she would make it work. But not before she had one last night with Dawg.

There was nothing like rejection to put a woman in touch with her insecurities. As Olivia rediscovered in the aftermath of her confession, neither education, occupation, nor social position could prevent a woman from falling into the pit of self-doubt. Nor could they predict how long it would take her to claw her way back out.

Despite her training and the years spent counseling others, Olivia Moore, Ph.D., handled Matt's rejection in much the same way early cavewoman must have handled hers when her Neanderthal man used his club to drag another woman back to the cave. That is to say, she handled it badly.

For two point five days Olivia did
Liv Live—
which used to last only three hours and now seemed to go on forever—and then she went home and engaged in pathetically clichéd behavior. Like countless women before her, she donned her fuzziest bathrobe so that she could sit on her couch and eat large quantities of Ben & Jerry's straight from the carton, which was immediately followed by more chocolate than the law allowed. At night, suffering from insomnia and her self-induced sugar high, she paced the rooms of her home until she could have called out their dimensions in her sleep—if only she could have gotten some.

For two point five days she wallowed and paced. And paced and wallowed. Not even James's betrayal and the resulting divorce had shaken her so completely.

And then on Friday afternoon, when it was finally possible to leave town without looking like she was running away, she took a flight to Tampa and picked up a rental car for the drive over the Howard Frankland Bridge to St. Petersburg. With her hair whipping around her face and the salt-tinged air filling her lungs, she followed the familiar scent to the Gulf of Mexico where a small beach road took her toward the southernmost tip of Pass-A-GRILLE.

New multimillion-dollar homes dotted the sandy white beach, but there were still plenty of small funky beach cottages lazing under the swaying palms. It was in front of one of these, on the corner of a tiny street that stretched from the beach to the bay side, that Olivia parked.

The house was hers, bought with her first radio money and held on to with steely determination through the chaos of her divorce. It had a faded picket fence, a crabgrass-and-sand lawn, a sagging front porch, and gulls wheeling in the blue sky. Less than a block away, the waves kissed up to the shore.

Olivia breathed in the damp salt air and felt her heart lighten a notch. She and James had lived in a well-manicured north Tampa suburb, but this had always been her preferred retreat. It was a place for getting heart and head in line, and its magic had never failed her.

Pulling her bag and a sack of groceries from the car, Olivia held the screen door out of the way and fit her key into the ancient lock. Minutes later every window in the house had been thrown open to the late afternoon breeze, and she and her glass of wine were outside beside a sand dune, waiting for the sun to sink into the sea.

On Saturday and Sunday she woke with the sun and crossed to the beach to begin her trek toward the northernmost tip of St. Pete Beach, where she sat at a concession stand with an egg sandwich and orange juice and people-watched until she was ready to head back down the beach again. She walked countless miles under blue skies stuffed with cotton-ball clouds, and the slap of hard-packed sand against the soles of her feet soothed her in a way indoor pacing never had.

In the afternoon she lathered on sunscreen and stretched out on a blanket to read. Or gave herself up to the enjoyment of the ever-changing light that danced across the swells, reassured to see that fiddler crabs still scurried across the wet sand, and seagulls still knew how to cage food from the less savvy tourists. All the while her mind whirled with the jumble of thoughts and feelings that had brought her here.

By Sunday evening her hurt and humiliation had been tempered by a new sense of calm. She'd been honest and ultimately true to herself and her feelings, just as she counseled her listeners to be. Matt Ransom was either uninterested or unable to do the same.

She had only one course of action open to her: to pick up the pieces and go on. She'd survived Matt Ransom eight years ago with far fewer tools and resources at her disposal than she had now. She could survive him again. She had a life and a career to pour her energies into, and if the ache in her heart hurt even more than the egg on her face, she'd make sure no one else ever knew it.

Early Monday morning as she flew back to Atlanta, the concept of survival was still very much on her mind. Women survived heartache and disappointment all the time, and daily demands that men could never fathom. An idea mushroomed as she worked her way out of Hartsfield Airport and into the flow of rush-hour traffic.

She called Diane from the car to pull some music and give her a heads-up while she contemplated what she wanted to do on the air. She'd try not to bash too hard, but she intended to have her say. This morning's show would be dedicated to all the women out there who knew how to survive . . . and the men who couldn't seem to keep up with them.

30

JoBeth reached across Dawg to switch off the alarm clock before it rang. The move brought her breast in direct contact with his arm, and she saw him smile automatically in his sleep.

She wasn't sure why she'd set the alarm, when she'd had no intention of sleeping. At 3 A.M., when he finally drifted off after their last round of lovemaking, she'd propped herself up on one elbow to watch him breathe, not wanting to miss a single minute of her last night with Dawg.

“Mmmm.” Dawg reached out one big hand and ran it slowly down the curve of her hip. His eyes remained closed, but hers were riveted on the familiar planes and angles of his face and the golden morning stubble that covered it.

Her gaze traveled down the massive chest with its curly golden-gray mat of hair. He was warm and solid and smelled of their lovemaking. Quietly she drank him in, branding this man and this moment into her memory forever.

When she couldn't ignore the clock any longer, JoBeth eased gently out of bed, careful not to wake him, and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

It was the muted sound of the shower that penetrated Dawg's sleep-filled brain, but it was the image of JoBeth climbing in all dewy and delicious that brought him fully awake. Rolling over and stretching contentedly, he considered joining her.

Instead he lay there grinning. Lord, he felt good. Tired, even a little bit sore from all the gymnastics, but deep down good and satisfied.

He'd just hit town after a run up to the Northeast when he picked up the message from JoBeth. It had been too many days since he'd seen her, too many days in the cab of his rig with nothing to think about but their relationship. Days he'd used to hash out his feelings. For the first time, he was ready to discuss what might come next.

But for the first time in who knew how long, JoBeth had not been eager to discuss the future. In fact, she'd hardly seemed interested in
talking
at all.

Dawg settled onto his back and pillowed his head in his hands. He could hear JoBeth singing in the shower, and he grinned again as his mind played over the night they'd spent together.

She'd greeted him at her front door wearing the crotchless black teddy he'd given her for her birthday. When he'd tried to tell her what he'd been thinking about their relationship, she'd put a finger over his lips to shush him and crawled into his lap. All the blood in his body had immediately rushed to his head, and he didn't mean the one that supported his baseball cap.

She'd teased him with the crotchless lingerie until he'd been wild with wanting her. He'd dropped his pants and taken her the first time while she bent way over into the refrigerator, supposedly looking for a bottle of wine. And a second time on the living room floor after she undressed him in the candlelight.

By the time they made it to the bedroom, the only sounds he was making were groans of ecstasy. It was a night he'd remember until the day he died.

Dawg blinked and sat up in bed as he realized just how strange JoBeth's behavior had been. She'd always been a willing sexual partner, and they'd passed some great hours in bed, but he couldn't remember her ever being quite so aggressive. And why hadn't she wanted to talk?

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. After a brief knock on the bathroom door, he pushed it open.

“JoBeth, why don't you come on out here and sit down so we can talk about us?”

He watched her wrap the white terry bath towel around her body and tuck one end in above her breasts.

“Can't do it, Dawg. I'm already late for work.”

His eyes narrowed. “But what if I have something I want to tell you? What if I want to—”

She stepped forward and put a finger over his lips just like she had the night before. “No, Dawg. Let's not spoil what we've just had. Didn't you think it was the most awesome night?”

“Well, of course, I . . .”

She picked up a brush from the bathroom counter and ran it through her short curls. Her face glowed, and her lips looked all shiny and kissable.

“There's really nothing to talk about,” she said. “I'm still floating on air from all the lovin' you gave me.”

He heard the word “love” and opened his mouth to tell her what he'd been thinking, but she put her finger to his lips again and brushed by him on her way into the bedroom.

He followed her, trying to figure out just what was going on, and got there in time to watch her drop her towel and wiggle into a lacy white bra and panties.

“I really have to run. Noreen'll never be able to handle the breakfast rush without me.”

She stepped into her uniform and pulled it up. Moving in front of him, she presented her back for zipping. He obliged and then put his hands on her shoulders, thinking he'd turn her around so they could talk, but she slipped out of his grasp and scurried over to the closet, where she poked around until she located her white cushioned loafers.

“But, JoBeth, I'm trying to tell you I—”

“I'm sorry to have to run off like this, Dawg. There's coffee in the cupboard and some muffins in the bread box.” She smiled sweetly, but he was starting to think he'd been had. “Will you lock the door behind you when you leave? You don't need a key to do it.”

“JoBeth, why don't you just call in sick? I have something I want to tell you.”

“Sorry, can't do it.” She went up on tiptoe, gave him a friendly peck on the cheek, and practically ran out the front door.

Dawg watched the door swing shut. In the empty living room he muttered, “I guess I won't be needin' to get down on one knee today.” And wondered why he didn't feel relieved.

At 9:00 A.M. Olivia went on the air looking for a little satisfaction. “Good morning, everyone,” she said. “This is
Liv Live
fresh from the beach, back in the saddle, and eager to deal with your problems. But before we start with your questions, I'd like to do something a little different.”

Olivia punched up the music she'd asked Diane to put together, a compilation of female affirmations from the seventies and eighties. Helen Reddy's “I Am Woman” bled seamlessly into Gloria Gaynor's “I Will Survive” as Olivia prepped her listeners.

“My recent experiences have forced me to take an all-too-personal look into the male psyche, and I have to tell you it's not pretty in there. In my opinion women are looking for answers, while men—at least the kind of men who dwell in places like Never Land and Fantasy Island— are busy trying to duck the questions. Today's show is about coping with reality, women's reality.

“My declaration last week, and Matt Ransom's lack of response, is a prime example of how differently men and women handle their lives. I find myself wondering how many men could survive even one day as a woman.”

Olivia let the question hang there for a few seconds and then continued. “So today, just for fun, and because I really need to vent, we're going to create our own version of
Survivor
. . . for men.”

She winked at Diane and settled into her seat. “Here's the deal: Ten men get dropped in suburbia and have to survive a woman's life. They each have an SUV, three kids—all of whom play at least one sport and take either music or dance lessons—and little to no help from their significant other.

“Your job is to help figure out what hoops they have to jump through.”

Olivia brought the instrumental track of “I Will Survive” up full and then took it under. A glance at the monitor showed callers stacked up and eager to play the game.

“Okay, I've got Miranda on the air,” Olivia said. “What else do you think our contestants should have with them?”

“The family dog,” Miranda chirped. “She's in heat, wearing diapers, and the kids are asking questions.”

“Gee, that's really good, Miranda. Any other ideas?”

“I think they should have to shave their legs and wear makeup.”

Olivia's next caller was a woman named Dawn.

“It's the middle of summer and they have to wear panty hose—the twelve-dollar-a-pair kind that run just before a big presentation. And high heels with pointy little toes.”

“Been there, done that.” Olivia smiled. “And why don't we go ahead and outlaw fast food while we're at it? I think our contestants should have to cook everything they serve.” She smiled again as the number of waiting calls doubled. “Hi, Tina. You're on the air.”

“Hi, Dr. O. I think we should make them do the laundry and clean up after a sick kid at 2 A.M. And I don't think they should be allowed to watch television until the kids are asleep and all the chores are done.”

“Cool.” Olivia grinned evilly. “And let's make sure none of the TVs have a remote.”

Diane punched up a sound effect of gasps of horror while Olivia kept the music low underneath.

“This is your fantasy, ladies. Don't hold back,” Olivia said as she took another call. “Carmen, it's your turn. Tell me what you have in store for our contestants.”

“I'd like to see them sit through a PTA meeting and accurately report the results. Or build a model of Mount Vesuvius out of flour and water—the night before it's due. Better yet, let's let them convince a three-year-old to eat a spoonful of peas.”

Olivia blinked. “Gee, this is getting kind of scary.”

Carmen laughed. “Yeah. Real life can take a lot more out of you than the Australian Outback or the Dark Continent.”

Olivia couldn't help smiling as she prepared to segue into the commercial break. “You know, if we throw in potty training and trying to get the opposite sex to admit their feelings, our contestants will be begging to get voted out.”

Olivia sneaked in Sister Sledge's “We Are Family,” letting it continue underneath her voice as she headed into the commercial break. “As far as I'm concerned, we have a hit TV show on our hands. Thanks for helping me vent, ladies. I think it's time to move on to your issues now. If you've got something on your mind, give me a call. I'm ready to help you live your life . . .
live
.”

Matt stepped onto the front porch of the home he'd grown up in. It was a low, sprawling house built in the once popular Prairie style, and like the more impressive Victorians and Tudors that dotted the tree-lined Northside Chicago neighborhood, it had been painstakingly maintained.

He rang the bell and soon saw his mother's figure approaching through the art glass inset in the old wooden door. He could still remember her shouts of “Don't slam it, you'll break the glass,” but couldn't remember a time he or Adam had ever heeded the warning.

The door swung open, and his mother stood there. Before the smile lit her face, for just that instant before she caught herself, her gaze swung to Matt's right, where Adam had always stood. And even after twenty-three years, she seemed surprised to find him missing.

In the past he would have ignored it, made a joke, let it go, but thanks to Olivia's damned interference, he'd spent too many hours remembering, and he was too raw for that. “You've never once looked at me without wishing Adam were here.”

The smile froze on her lips, and he knew she wanted to deny it, but the truth radiated from the brown eyes she'd passed on to both her sons. “No,” she admitted. “I haven't.”

Matt opened his mouth expecting to make a typically glib response, but came out with, “And I've been trying to live a big enough life for Adam and me. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it up.”

He wasn't sure which of them was more surprised.

“Goodness, Matthew. Whatever happened to ‘hello'?” Margaret Ransom went up on tiptoe to peck his cheek.

He saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes and watched her blink them away before she turned on her heel to lead the way into the kitchen. He felt like a complete and utter shit.

“Your sister and the children are here. She and Dan just got back from Italy, and she's made us some of her new specialty. It's something, something over fettuccine.”

Matt dropped his bag in the foyer and followed his mother into the heart of the house. Funny that he thought of it that way when it was he and Sandra who had forced that heart to beat. He stepped into the kitchen and sniffed appreciatively, determined to drop the introspection and get back on more familiar emotional ground. He enjoyed food and cooked for his own amusement, but his sister had channeled their childhood discovery into an increasingly successful Italian restaurant.

“What's that I smell? Pomodoro? Marinara? Something smells downright incredible.”

Matt's nephews jumped up and threw themselves at him while his older sister looked on with an affectionate smile. “Downright? I think someone's been in the South too long.”

He ruffled the twins' hair. “Ya'll think I have a funny accent?”

Kyle and Kenny giggled and tried to reach his head to ruffle him back.