Dear Love Doctor
Authors: Hailey North
For Barbara Gross, Tricia Hiemstra, Amy Powell, and Devon Scheef, for friendship that spans decades and continents.
Dear Perplexed
,
What a pushover you are! You want to get a woman’s attention? Try ignoring her!
Yeah, but only after you’ve tantalized her. That thought rang so true that Daffy typed it in next. Then she added:
I’ll probably get skewered for this statement, but women like masterful men. Wimps are yesterday’s news.
Masterful—like Hunter James, the dark-eyed satyr who’d told her with a straight face that given thirty days, he could make any woman fall in love with him.
Two days, and all she’d thought about was Hunter James—followed by all the reasons she had no business thinking about him.
What you lack is confidence. If you want something badly enough, you have to be prepared to walk away from the table. There’s your Rx. Try that. Write back and let me know your wedding date.
D
affodil Landry stared at the semicircle of letters spread on her desk. She had exactly thirty-seven minutes to make the deadline on her column and she’d yet to write the first word.
“Eeny-meenie-minie-mo,” she murmured, fingering the only letter sent via USPS, noting the postmark from outside New Orleans.
“Not done yet?” A flash of red hair whipped by the cubicle, then reversed as a slip of a woman hovered just close enough to distract. “Losing your touch, Daffy Doc?”
Daffy summoned her sweetest smile for
The Crescent
’s managing editor. Marguerite had vehemently opposed the idea of Daffy authoring the Love Doctor column, yet when it became a hit, the editor remembered only that it was something she’d said that had sparked the concept.
“I always make my deadlines,” Daffy said, slitting open the letter with the Ponchatoula postmark. Perhaps country people had more interesting love dilemmas than the city-bred. After six months of secretly penning the column, Daffy was getting restless. From the countless emails she’d waded through, she’d learned that lovers tended to make the same mistakes over and over; something she’d certainly found to be true in her own life.
Marguerite continued to fill the doorway, drumming her bright red nails on the metal frame of the cubicle wall. Daffy unfolded the single sheet of pink-and-white stationery and forced her attention to the somewhat childishly formed lettering. From the time she’d spent at
The Crescent
, Daffy had learned that if ignored, Marguerite would flit away to alight elsewhere.
Dear Doctor Love
, Daffy read, noting the transposition of her title. Well, it was better than Daffy Doc, as Marguerite insisted on calling her. The name had stuck among the few staffers at
The Crescent
privy to the identity of the Love Doctor.
Outside the brick walls of the paper’s offices, of course, the Love Doctor’s identity remained a secret. As Marguerite, in one strategy session, had put it, the paper would be laughed out of circulation if the citizens of New Orleans discovered they were lapping up love advice from Daffodil Landry! Unless, of course, a socialite’s string of broken engagements, mashed hearts, and public displays of misdirected affection could be considered prime qualifications.
But
The Crescent
had been struggling in its efforts to unseat its rival tabloid,
The Gambit
. A year ago Daffy’s aunt Wisteria had bequeathed Daffy a ten percent interest, which gave Daffy some say in operations. So Marguerite had given in.
To avoid any conflicts of interest, Daffy had her editor over at the city’s “real newspaper” (where she reigned as society columnist and photographer) sign off on her participation and
The Crescent
ran a trial column introducing Dear Love Doctor.
And now hundreds of women—and men, though they weren’t quite so open about it—rushed out for the latest edition of
The Crescent
, eager to see just whom the Dear, but rather acidtongued, Love Doctor would diagnose next. As Daffy often said to her twin, Jonquil, her own life might be a mess, but she was awfully good with other people’s problems. But even Jonquil—or Jonni, as everyone called her—didn’t know the identity of the Love Doctor.
The tapping had stopped. Alone again, Daffy blinked and realized she’d read not a word of the letter. A glance at her pavé diamond evening watch reminded her of her next obligation.
We’ve been dating six months, a dream come true. I’ve known H for years but never really dated him before. He was always popular in high school and now, well, now everyone’s after him. I’m head over heels, but he’s starting to make excuses about not being available, due to his work, he says. He’s in New Orleans a lot and I’ve been told he goes out with other women there, but when he comes to see me and tells me I’m his country princess, one look at his big, brown eyes and his sexy smile and I start to melt. I can’t bring myself to ask him about those other women. Should I?
Signed,
Loyal But Lonesome in Ponchatoula
Daffy groaned and crumpled the letter. What a nitwit! Well, this letter would do just fine. Her readers seemed to enjoy it when she skewered someone. And with this letter, not only the writer but also its subject, H, made perfect targets.
Six months and he’s restless
. Daffy poised her hands above the keyboard. Six months was pretty much her limit, too. After that, a guy started to expect you to be there for him, and the men Daffy dated assumed she was as interested in marriage as they were. Mistake. Six months was about the point Daffy found some clever way to sabotage any relationship that threatened to become too comfortable. Otherwise, she’d be forced to overcome her demons and take a risk with one of them.
But that was something Daffy had never been able to bring herself to do.
She was willing to bet this H never had, either. Mr. Popular, eh? Daffy bent her fingers to the keys. She knew all about being the most popular one and how others wanted to cluster around you but never really wanted to know who you were beneath the pretty surface, and soon you got so used to protecting the image you never even looked beneath it, either. No, the nitwit in Ponchatoula was better off without this guy.
Should you ask him
[she typed hastily, her own emotions interfering somewhat with her editorial judgment]
about those other women? No, my dear, sweet country mouse, you should not. And why not? Because you should never speak to him again. If he calls, you’re not in. If he drops by, the doorbell is broken. This man isn’t ready, willing, or able to settle down—with you or anyone. Find a man who wants only you, and you won’t have to be lonesome. This relationship is diagnosis terminal.
Daffy sent the file to production, printed a copy for Marguerite, and watched her trembling hands in dismay. She knew she was reacting to her own problems, but she didn’t have time to reflect on that influence. She slipped the printout into the plain brown envelope the editor insisted on for secrecy, and held it out as she appeared once more at her desk.
Daffy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Right on time,” she said.
“Daffy Doc strikes again?” “You’ll like this one,” Daffy said, pushing back her chair and reaching for the silk evening bag she’d brought with her. “You might want to arrange for extra copies for north of the lake.”
Marguerite’s eyes widened. “Broadening our readership?”
“The letter was from Ponchatoula.” That small town, famous for its strawberry festival and antiques shops, was about an hour’s drive north of New Orleans.
Marguerite smiled and Daffy knew she was calculating circulation increases. Tucking the brown envelope under her arm, she said, “And what party are you off to tonight?”
“It’s not one of the usuals. It’s a fund-raiser featuring some new tech guru.”
Marguerite nodded. “That would be the Hunter James meet-and-greet to raise money for the Orphan’s Club. We’re sending Jill to cover it.”
“Jill?” Daffy couldn’t hide her surprise. Jill handled technology, not society, and wouldn’t know a fish fork from a sorbet spoon. And Daffy would bet she didn’t possess a stitch of evening attire.
“Don’t you do your homework? James made a fortune in Internet technology.”
Daffy let the slap go without retorting. Just because she was the society columnist for the city’s daily newspaper, people assumed she was nothing but an airhead, certainly not a true journalist. Normally she would have read all about Hunter James in advance, but she hadn’t planned to cover the function, considering it of little import, especially on a night when two other galas demanded her attention. But her editor at the other paper—her primary job—had called her at home only that morning to ask her to stop by the James affair. It was, as the editor pointed out in response to Daffy’s grumbling, at a private home only a block down from the Opera Guild House, where she had to be anyway.
“At least Jill will deliver an unbiased report,” Marguerite said, her eyes narrowing in a way that made Daffy a trifle nervous.
“Why wouldn’t anyone?” Okay, so she took the bait.
“You tell me. Next week.” Laughing softly, the editor disappeared from view.
“You tell me,” Daffy murmured, summoning an image of her idea of a computer guru. Young, no doubt, with pimples and glasses and pant legs that hit somewhere between his calves and anklebones. And worth enough money to make the society patrons of New Orleans sit up and take notice. Because it had to be his money that attracted people’s interest—he possessed no lineage.
Otherwise, Daffy would already be acquainted with the mysterious Hunter James. Born into the landed gentry of the city, clutching the proverbial silver baby bottle to her lips, Daffy Livaudais Landry couldn’t help knowing anyone who was anyone. And for the past several years, it had been her job to call on that background for the social events covered by the
New Orleans Times.
Daffy reached the reception area and smiled at the new girl behind the front desk. She smiled back shyly, her glance taking in Daffy’s elegant black cocktail dress. “What a pretty dress, Ms. Landry,” she said.
“Thank you,” Daffy said, acknowledging the compliment with a slight smile, careful to maintain a dignified distance in keeping with her role as part owner of
The Crescent
. That role explained her presence at the paper and helped Marguerite guard the Love Doctor’s identity. She’d once said to Daffy, “All we need is some tart receptionist selling us out.”
This girl looked so un-tart-like, Daffy had to hold back her impulse to take the young woman under her wing and shape her journalism career. The two previous receptionists Daffy had met at the paper had fallen into the same category. They wanted to be in television, only they couldn’t get jobs in that industry, so they settled for answering the phones at
The Crescent
and hoping a TV producer would stumble through the doors and offer them a morning anchor spot. No wonder none of them stayed for long. Daffy didn’t know this new person’s story, but she knew she’d probably find out. People always told her things about themselves.
“Are you and Mr. Landry going to a party?”
Daffy stared at the girl. Of course she assumed there was a Mr. Landry. Who wouldn’t? Daffy had friends her age who were on their second husbands. She shook her head and glanced at the receptionist’s nameplate. “No, Yvonne, I’m going to work.”
A few miles away from the mid-city offices of
The Crescent
, in a section of town that might as well have been on another planet, Hunter James tugged at the cummerbund his business partner insisted he wear along with his custom tuxedo for these formal occasions. “Damned thing feels like a girdle.”
Aloysius Carriere grinned and said, “You’ll get used to it.”
“My ass,” Hunter said. “Who’s tonight’s quarry?”
“Tiffany Phipps. She’s young, she’s smart, and she’s worth about ten million.”
“Hmm.” Hunter studied his friend across the cluttered second-floor sitting room of a Garden District house that belonged to one of Aloysius’s aunts, who preferred dogtrotting around Asia and Europe with her middle-aged girlfriend to pretending to live properly with her husband and grown children back home. He and Aloysius stayed at the house when either or both of them were in town. “Is she pretty?”
Aloysius grinned again. “I’ll let you be the judge of that. She’s coming with an escort tonight, but I happen to know there’s no rivalry in that quarter.”
“Why do you try so hard to fix me up?”
In response he received a wide-eyed stare. “What’s good for the heart is good for business. And as your partner and investment banker, it would be shortsighted of me to look only for potential investors for donors or investors who are good for the wallet without considering your emotional well-being as well.”
Hunter made a rude noise that pretty much indicated what he thought of his friend’s perpetual caretaking. “Stick to the banking. I can take care of my own needs.”
Lifting a crystal brandy snifter from a side table cluttered with ivory figurines, Aloysius said, “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Hunter, he’s the guy with a girl in every port. No problem satisfying your
needs
.”
A bell rang, saving Hunter from the punch he felt inclined to deliver to his partner’s self-satisfied jaw. He glanced at the fancy porcelain clock on one of the room’s two fireplace mantels. A picture from his childhood flashed as he remembered the Christmas his mom couldn’t pay the power bill and the two of them had spent the holiday beside the fire in their one fireplace. “That would be Mrs. Jarrigan. She’s always prompt.”
“And most efficient,” Aloysius said, draining his snifter. “Before she took over managing the Orphan’s Club, we were running a deficit. Now it’s becoming one of the most popular and bestfunded charities in town.”
“Good,” Hunter said, shutting out the chill that had crept into his body despite the unseasonably warm April heat from outside that wafted into the centuries-old house and did battle with the central air. “Every Child Deserves a Christmas,” the theme of this year’s fund-raising efforts spearheaded by Hunter’s company, CyTekk, Inc., had taken the region by storm.
Hunter descended the stairs, noting all seemed in order in the entertaining area on the ground floor. The rent-a-butler had opened the door for Mrs. Jarrigan, who was now standing in the entryway glancing around as if checking a mental list. Which, Hunter concluded, she probably was. She glanced up, smiled, and said, “Want to come with me to inspect the staff?”
That was the last thing he wanted to do, but he nodded and walked with her through the double parlors and into the huge kitchen in the back of the house. His mother would love this room, but when he’d tried to buy her a new house with this sort of luxury, she’d shaken her head, put a finger to her lips, and told him to use his money more wisely.
It had been about three months after that when he’d come up with the idea for reviving the Orphan’s Club. Aloysius had told him there’d been such an organization years ago in the city, but that it had died off along with the onset of taxpayer-financed social services. Hunter wasn’t an orphan, but as the bastard son of a teenage mother growing up in a small Louisiana town, he’d often felt a kinship with anyone missing a dad or a mom, and how much worse if a kid didn’t have either parent.