Authors: Gwen Jones
He watched through the window as she climbed into her Jeep. “She wanted to write a story on me.”
“Ooh—competition. Lucky I got here first.”
“Yes.” His eyes shifted firmly to mine. “Wasn’t it, though?”
“So,” I said as I raised the mic, “have you found your wife?”
“Yes,” he said. “You.”
One Day I’ll Look Back on This and It’ll All Seem Funny
“Y
OU,”
A
NDY
D
EVINE
said. “I want you for my wife.”
As that statement traveled the neuron pathway to the part of my brain which would absorb, interpret and decide how to answer, I couldn’t help but think of all the bizarre I’d seen. From the dog on a high wire balancing an egg on his nose; a three-legged goose; a woman who ate nails; a man surgically altered to look like Chewbacca; a woman living in a refrigerator; an old man who hoisted a truck when it rolled atop his grandson’s leg; to a couple whose house had two rooms filled to the ceiling with pennies, I’d seen heroism and lunacy, oddity and insanity. But up until that moment, none of it had made my jaw drop. Because up until then, none of it had involved me.
So,
“What?”
was all I managed to reply.
To which, he reiterated, “I want
you
for my wife.”
I smiled, clearing my throat; he had to be playing with me. “I’m flattered, Mr. Devine, truly I am, but what’s your real answer?”
He leaned in, his proximity sending numbing signals to my brain. “The same.”
I laughed. “You’re joking.”
“When I’m joking,” he said, moving even closer, “you’ll know it.”
Denny lowered his camera. “Excuse me,” he said to Andy Devine, “but are you for real?”
“Pardon?” he answered, unblinking.
“Okay, never mind,” Denny said, realigning the camera. “Go on.”
I slapped my hand over the lens. “Shut that thing off. Are you insane?”
Denny lowered it. “I ought to be asking you the same thing. It’s the best offer you’ve had in years.”
I scowled at him, returning to the subject at hand. “Mr. Devine—a word.” Then I promptly crossed to the other side of the room. When I turned, Denny had sunk into a folding chair, and my would-be suitor was standing before me.
“Yes?” he said, calmly attentive.
A part of me was so flabbergasted I hardly knew where to begin, but I retained enough professionalism to override anything. “I’m a TV reporter, Mr. Devine, not a candidate for your fiancée. I’m here to cover a story, not to become one. So, as tempting as your offer may be, I have to decline.”
He lifted a brow. “Why, Ms. Knott, are you patronizing me?”
That threw me. “What? No!”
“Because I detect a hint of condescension.”
“Then you’re imagining things.” My hands were sweating; I swiped them on my skirt. “I’m just stating a fact.”
His gaze dipped seductively. “So, you don’t think I’m worth considering?”
“Mr. Devine, don’t take—” Suddenly I was struck by the line of his jaw, so angular and forthright. I swear, he could be a judge or a juror or anyone who’s supposed to be capable of impartiality, and yet . . . There was something about it, in his emerging beard and how it sloped toward his mouth, that was so indefinably sexy it knocked all sense out of me. I was fighting a losing battle and I knew it.
I cleared my throat and began again. “Look, I don’t want you to take this personally, but—”
“I won’t,” he said. “In fact, I’ve gone out of my way to make sure personalities have nothing to do with it. I need a wife to help run the farm and have our children. And if she does, she’ll share equally in all the rewards and benefits. All I ask is that she’s healthy, able to have children, and be willing to work hard. You, Ms. Knott . . .” He looked me over. “. . . appear to meet all the criteria.”
The man was astounding. “But you know nothing about me!”
“What do I need to know beyond what I can see?”
“How about what’s inside me, what my interests are, if I’m honest, how I take my coffee—Christ!” I stabbed my fingers into my hair. A comb tumbled out. “Why, if I even
like
you, for Pete’s sake!”
He plucked the comb from the floor. “Do you like me, Ms. Knott?” he said with the barest of smiles, the bit of tortoise-shell plastic pinched between his fingers.
I snatched it from him, shoving it into my hair. “That’s not the point, and it never was.”
He leaned in. “My point exactly.”
Good God! He was infuriating. “Look.” I took a breath, forcing myself to calm. “I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation. I came here to cover a story—”
“Like the woman who just left,” he interjected, and not without apparent distaste.
I blinked, though I didn’t let it throw me. “She was practically your clone. Pick her. She’s perfect.”
“You’re perfect,” he said, closing in so tightly my back smacked against the wall. His eyes were like two blue burning coals. “I’m sure your fiancé knew how you liked your coffee, what magazines you read, how you looked first thing in the morning. Yet he left you anyway. Maybe because he couldn’t see what I do, even without looking. You’re what I want. Sometimes you just know.”
He reached into his vest and pulled out a business card. “Take three days to think about it.” He slipped the card into the pocket of my blouse. “Then call this number.” And with one more rake of those eyes, he walked out of the hall.
He left me a shivering mass of disorientation, wondering how the hell I’d let the man flip the tables on me. I looked to Denny as he watched Andy Devine go. He set his camera on a chair and joined me.
“Jesus—you’re white as a sheet.” His face darkened. “What’d he say to you?”
I took a moment for my heart to slow, and reaching into my blouse pocket, idly handed him the business card. “He asked me to marry him.”
“I already know that.” He glanced at the card. “Jinks’ Gas? What the hell?”
“He said to call that number when I’ve made up my mind. Gave me three days.”
“From the way you look, you must be considering the possibility.”
That snapped me back to reality. “Do you have any idea what kind of day I’ve had?” I grabbed my gear and headed for the door. “I’m out of here.”
“But what’s the story!”
“There is no story!”
“Oh, there’s a story,” Denny said, following me out. “We’re just not filing it yet.”
Then file this: they were all crazy. This Andy Devine, Denny, all those insane women who thought the answer to their dreams waited inside that firehouse. As if it were that easy to hop into a new life as simply as changing your shoes! Well, I wasn’t blinded by Mr. Devine’s divineness, and the only thing I’d fall for right now was a stiff drink and my feet propped atop something soft and cushy. I squeezed my eyelids, near running to the van. When would this hell-day be over?
I
’D BEEN SO
jangled by Andy Devine, I didn’t even remember Richard’s text until we were at our building. As Denny pulled the news van to the no-parking curb, our press credentials giving us access to virtually anywhere, I dug my phone from my purse.
“I’m coming up with you,” he said, already climbing out of the van.
“Oh no you’re not,” I said, slipping the phone into my pocket. “He’s probably left for the airport anyway, and if he hasn’t, he knows how you feel about him. I don’t want any drama.”
“You’re getting it anyway,” Denny said, cupping my elbow as we entered the lobby. Geraldo, the doorman, looked up from his desk, seeming genuinely surprised to see me.
“Ms. Knott!” the doorman said. “You’re here! But I’d been told—”
“We’re really not interested,” Denny said, sailing past him and into the elevator. He leaned into me as I inserted my key for the penthouse floor, and whispered, “Jesus. Their jaws are flapping already.”
“That’s weird,” I said, the slip for my keycard blinking back red. “It won’t . . .”
“But Ms. Knott!” called Geraldo, loping toward us, “Ms. Knott!”
Denny’s hand stopped the door. “You saying it won’t work?”
I tried the card again. “I think the code’s been changed.”
“Son of a bitch.” Denny looked from me to Geraldo. “Why can’t she get up to her house?”
The doorman wrung his hands. “Mr. Sayles had the locks changed. Just after Ms. Knott left.” He looked to me, pleadingly. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to think I—”
“Are you joking!” Denny roared.
Somewhere near the edge of my consciousness I could hear Geraldo apologizing as Denny vented his spleen, but at that moment all my attention was clamped on the digital ‘Dear Jane’ Richard had left on my phone.
The locks have been changed. Ask Geraldo for access to your things. Call 215-555-8935 for that apt I told you about. I’m so sorry
,
but it’s cleaner this way
. I stumbled out to the lobby, dropping onto a sofa.
Cleaner
. “Oh Richard . . .” I said, ready to hit
reply
, “how could—”
“Give me that,” Denny said, snatching the phone. He dropped it into his pocket and grasped me under the arm. “All right. Let’s go.”
I gaped at him, unable to mouth the word,
Where?
“You’re coming home with me,” he said, dragging me toward the door. “I have plenty of extra toothbrushes.”
“I’m sorry,” Geraldo said again.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re all sorry,” Denny muttered, “until we do it again.”
T
HE ONE THING
I’d always loved about Denny’s partner, Brent, besides his eclectic Walnut Street gallery, was his uncanny ability to match the perfect food to every crisis.
“Here you go, love,” he said, his English accent like raw silk. I curled my fingers around a mug of hot Dutch chocolate. You wouldn’t think something producing such a head of steam would work on a sultry August evening, but right then, as it slinked down my raspy throat, it was comfort incarnate. And it was about all I could stomach at the moment.
“Bastard. Piece of metro-ass shit,” Denny spat out, pacing. “I’d like to slam those veneers down his gullet.”
“You need to take it down a tad,” Brent said, his arm around me. “Why don’t you return the news van before they clamp a boot on it? It’ll give you a chance to calm down while Julie has a good cry on the sofa.”
“I’m not going to cry,” I said. “I’m too angry.”
That’s what I’m talking about,” Denny said. “Better to get even.”
“Dennis!” Brent cried, “Will you go already?”
Denny snatched the keys and stomped out.
Brent sighed. “I love the man, but he gives
machismo
a meaning I’m sure no dictionary has ever heard of.” He turned to me. “So, my darling, what shall we do now?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” I said, as various scenarios of Richard’s demise formed in my head. “Besides Denny’s most excellent suggestion.”
“Oh, come now,” Brent said, “you’re a clever girl. You didn’t see this coming?”
I left the sofa, dropping to a window seat across. “Damn!” I slammed my fist into the cushion. “You have to admit he was perfect on paper. He was so smart and ambitious, and didn’t he always know exactly the right thing to say?” I laughed, the irony hitting me. “He must have told me he loved me ten times a day.”
“Proving how fake he really is.” Brent sunk to the opposite end of the seat. He ruffled his salt-and-peppered hair and pushed the window full-open, the evening breeze sweeping past the brick townhouses of Old City, promising rain. He took the hot chocolate from me and set it on the floor, leveling his gaze to mine.
“I’ve been with Denny almost two years,” he said, “and in all that time, I can count on two hands the times he’s told me he loved me. And because of that whenever he does, I’m dead certain he means it. With repetition comes dilution, don’t you think?”
I squeezed his hand and leaned back into the molding. “I don’t know what I think anymore. All I can see is red. It’s not every day your future gets tossed out the window. I can’t wait until the ‘I told you so’s start rolling in.”
Brent’s mouth crooked. “I promise I won’t say it.”
I waved him off. “You’d just be another voice in the chorus.”
He took a sip of my chocolate, then handed it to me. “Julie . . . this might sound callous, but did you love him?”
It was the same question Andy Devine had asked me earlier. The difference was, my answer then had been knee-jerk, whereas Brent knew me so much better. I stared into the mug. “I thought I did.”
“Even though he was still seeing Annika Eden?”
I looked up. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “Everyone knows, darling.”
“Everyone?”
In many ways, Philadelphia was a small town; I could only imagine how they were laughing at me. “Yet he was still going to marry me?”
Brent cocked a brow, as if obvious. “Was he?”
“Oh, come on! Why would we make all these arrangements together if he never intended to go through with it?”
“Perhaps to keep you around for a while? You’re successful, a cash cow. Very good for his portfolio.”
I could feel my throat closing up. “And now he doesn’t need me anymore?”
“I’m sorry, Julie,” he said quietly. “Truly I am.”
How much more obvious did I need it to be?
It really was true
. I burst into tears.
“That’s it, my dear, get it over with . . .” Brent murmured, rubbing my back. “It’ll wash him out of you like a good dose of ipecac.”
I cried and cried for I don’t know how long, first in a gasping torrent, then with a moan or two coloring a few choice epithets, until I finally succumbed to a pathetic whimpering that eventually gave way to the immediacy of the moment.
“Brent—I have no place to live! And two hundred invitations floating around out there! What’ll I tell my family? My job? My
caterer
!”
He shoved a wad of tissues at me. “That you’ve come to your senses. What else could you say?”
“But he’s made an absolute idiot out of me. How will I ever show my face to the camera again?” I honked my nose. “I’m ruined.”
“Julie, enough already.” He grasped me by the shoulders. “I’ve every confidence you’ll find a way to work it out. Why, I’ll bet the next best thing for you is just around the corner. Now, go upstairs and revive that gorgeous face of yours. As soon as Denny comes back we’re taking you out for dinner. And cocktails. I suspect we’ll need many.”