I'm Jane Browning — welcome to my life. Until a few days ago, it was rather ordinary being me. I'm a 27-year-old underappreciated assistant to the most infuriating, nit-picking interior designer in all of Atlanta, Georgia. Like most gratefully employed single women with outstanding school loans, I live in a substandard apartment with bad water pressure and a roommate. I have no social life because my evenings are typically spent sewing pillow covers on the portable Singer sewing machine my parents bought me when I graduated high school — at five bucks a pop, I figure I'll be debt-free in just over 17 years.
Oh, sure, I'm hoping one day to find a terrific guy to spend the rest of my life with, but so far, they've only been so-so. Well-meaning friends, relatives, and clients of Mrs. Thornberry (the tyrant I work for), are constantly threatening to set me up with Mr. Wonderful, but I have a feeling that when they say, "Hey, Mr. Wonderful, there's an average-looking, poor, workaholic shop-girl named Jane that I'd like to introduce you to," Mr. Wonderful respectfully declines.
But doesn't fate have the most delicious sense of timing? Last week I was sitting in the stockroom surveying an hour's worth of sewing that Mrs. Thornberry had destroyed in a one-minute rage because I'd used the two-and-a-half-inch gold fringe instead of the two-and-a-quarter-inch gold fringe, and I was seriously reviewing my employment options. Up to that point, I'd hung in there because I'd always thought that by the time Mrs. Thornberry keeled over from an aneurysm, I might be in a position to take over her client list and parlay my creative talents into an above-poverty-level existence.
But I digress. Like I said, I was sitting there trying on the phrase, "You want fries with that?" when I received a telephone call. Mrs. Thornberry was not happy about me taking a personal call at the shop, but made an exception, probably because of the Valium she'd just downed.
The caller was a Mr. James Van Meter, attorney-at-law for one of the most esteemed firms in Atlanta (his words, not mine). Mr. Van Meter wanted to inform me that Miss Millie, the old lady in my building for whom I ran errands and baked the occasional loaf of banana nut bread, was in reality Millicent Maxwell, reclusive millionaire and, luckily for me, an incurable romantic.
You see, Miss Millie passed away two weeks ago. I found her, poor soul, when I dropped by before leaving for work to see if she or her cat needed food or medicine. She was sitting up in bed, white hair flowing around her shoulders, looking mighty pleased with herself for dying in such a pretty pose.
Since Miss Millie didn't have family or friends that I was aware of, I suspected I might inherit her cat, Boswell, a cranky gray male with a broken tail, by sheer default. And I was right. But I didn't suspect the other male-related gift that Miss Millie would bestow on me.
"You're kidding me," my roommate Linda said when I told her.
Except she didn't say "kidding." I met Linda Bledsoe at the Laundromat when we were both posting a notice for a roommate. Linda is a short flashy hairdresser with a penchant for tube tops and reality television shows, but she pays rent on time and doesn't complain when fabric samples overflow into our kitchen, the biggest room in the apartment, and where I broke the news.
"That old bat left you a million bucks?"
"With one condition," I said, still a little stunned myself — both over the attorney's revelation and the fact that Mrs. Thornberry, upon hearing the news, had let me off work early.
"What condition?"
"That I get married within 50 business days."
Linda frowned. "What? Why?"
"Mr. Van Meter said that Miss Millie fell in love with a young man her family didn't approve of. So she didn't marry him, but she always regretted it."
"And what does that have to do with you?"
I shrugged. "She was always asking me why I didn't have a boyfriend. She said I worked too much."
"You do."
"Well, anyway, I guess this inheritance scheme is her way of forcing the issue for me."
Linda grabbed me by the shoulders and jumped up and down. "You're a millionaire! You're a millionaire!"
I laughed. "Not unless I'm engaged and I don't know about it."
Linda pshawed and waved her hand. "A mere formality — guys will be lining up to marry you now."
"Gee, thanks."
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded. This is your chance to really put yourself out there."
"Linda, Miss Millie was obviously senile. I can't just marry some guy that I meet in the next few days."
"Why not? Get married, get rich, then get divorced — simple!"
"The will has stipulations — consummation, married for at least a year, and we have to live together."
Linda was unfazed. "So?"
"So? Linda, I'm not going to sell myself into marriage, not even for a million dollars."
"Wait — wouldn't the groom be the one selling himself?"
I sighed, exasperated. "It's the same thing!"
"Don't tell me you're considering not doing this?"
"Are you deaf? I don't even have a boyfriend. Besides, I want to be in love with the man I marry."
Linda tapped her foot. "Lots of cultures have flourished for generations with arranged marriages."
"This is insane."
She leaned in, eyeball to eyeball. "Think about it. You have 50 business days — that's 10 entire weeks to find the right man. That's roughly a year collapsed into serious full-time man-hunting!"
"Did you hit your head on the bookshelf again?"
"Don't change the subject. Does your mother know about this?"
"Not yet."
"Good." Linda rummaged in our junk drawer and withdrew a pad of paper and a stubby pencil. "Let me handle everything."
"I'm afraid to ask, but what are you going to do?"
"Mobilize my contacts and yours to come up with a list of potential candidates."
"Candidates?"
"Marriage candidates."
"Linda —"
"Jane, this is the chance of a lifetime! What's the worst that could happen? You meet and date guys for 10 weeks, possibly find the love of your life, and become a millionaire! Hello?"
"But what if I don't meet the love of my life?"
She put her hands on her hips. "And you would be worse off how?"
I opened my mouth to say that I didn't want to face that much rejection, but then I realized that I'd never before had the dazzle of a million bucks to offset my lack of sex appeal.
Linda took my silence as acquiescence, and ran to the phone. "This is going to be so much fun!"
Needless to say, I had my doubts.
I stared at the page of the Atlanta-based tabloid, bug-eyed in disbelief that a story about me, Jane Browning, was printed alongside "German Shepherd Flies South with Geese." My life was over, and my obituary would list my cause of death as APH (abjectus publis humiliationitis).
"This nutty reporter actually went through my trash after I refused to talk to her!" I tossed the paper on the kitchen table, where my roommate, Linda, and I were having our Sunday morning cinnamon-sugar oatmeal. "Ooooooh! I just wish I knew how she found out about Miss Millie's will in the first place."
Linda seemed preoccupied with scraping the sides of her bowl.
I squinted. "Omigod, you're the anonymous source!"
She finally looked up, then blasted me with a smile. "Come on, Jane — it's great publicity."
I stood. "You can't be serious." I flailed my arms, pajama sleeves flapping. "These guys are going to get up this morning, open the paper, and discover that those innocent phone calls you and my mother made drafted them into a warped version of The Dating Game!" I continued to flail and flap.
"If any of the guys read this rag, they're off the list."
"We read this rag."
"That's different — women require information."
I leaned forward. "And what's in this for you?"
She shrugged. "A teensy finder's fee?"
I narrowed my eyes. "How teensy?"
"Ten percent —"
"Ten?"
"Two. Two percent to start my own hair salon. And I'll only collect if I'm successful in helping you choose a husband in 50 days." She grinned. "Just like those lawyers who advertise on television."
"I can't believe I'm having this discussion." I pivoted and headed toward the doorway. "I'm going back to bed. Wake me up next year."
Linda snagged my arm. "Jane, don't tell me you haven't thought about how a million dollars and a hunky husband could change your life forever."
Okay, I had. All night long, in fact, which probably explained why I was so cranky. My mind had bounced back and forth between the ridiculousness of the situation, and fantasizing about alighting from a coach dressed in a filmy white gown, accepting the hand of my Prince Charming. Except he had dollar signs in his eyes. Still, a prince was a prince. And I couldn't help but think that this reporter chick had ruined any chance I'd had at a happy ending.
I gestured to the page of men's profiles in the paper. "I can't face these guys, not after this…exposure."
"I was afraid you'd say that." Linda pointed her spoon. "That's why I arranged for them to contact you first through email."
I shot a suspicious glance toward her computer in the den. "I don't have an email account." Who had the time when there were pillow covers to sew?
"You have an email account now, and all the guys agreed to send you a message today by noon. If you don't like what they say, you don't have to go out with them."
I glanced at the clock — it was already 10:30. I instantly broke into an unbecoming sweat.
"Chances are," Linda said, "the guys will already have heard about the, um, coverage, so if they want to, they can bow out with no awkward face-to-face stuff."
Maybe Linda had slipped something in my orange juice, but when she put it like that, the process didn't sound so daunting.
She made a shooing motion. "Go take a nap. Take a bath. Take a chill pill. When you're ready, we'll get this show on the road."
I took her advice on the bath thing, which was a luxurious ordeal in our building. The hot water always ran out before reaching halfway in the ancient tub, so the trick was to stack bricks inside the tub to raise the water level. After a little hard labor, I hunched in fragrant bubbles around me, surveying the stained ceiling of our bathroom and realized that with a million dollars, I could have a swimming pool of hot bubbles whenever I wanted it.
I could start my own design company without working my way up from glorified gofer for Mrs. Thornberry.
I could attract an attractable, attractive guy for a year's worth of playing house.
I bit into my lip when I thought of Linda's finder's fee — two percent. And then 33 percent to the IRS. Of course I'd offer up a portion of my windfall to the potential groom — make that another 10 percent. It would be, after all, a business arrangement. The best I could realistically hope for would be to find someone whose company I wouldn't despise within the year.
The faces of the men from the pictures in the paper flipped in my mind over and over like a deck of cards. Would they all send a message? Would they still want to meet me? The thought that one of them could be my husband before the end of the year sent a chill through my unmarried body…then I realized the bubbles had dissolved and the water had cooled to room temperature.
I dried and dressed and dragged myself out to the den by a few minutes after noon. Linda was waiting, wound as tight as a permanent wave curler.
"Hurry! All t10 of them sent you an email!" Here's the paper so you can compare the photos when you read the messages. Oh, this is so exciting!"
"I don't know how to do this," I said, staring at the screen.
"Here — move the mouse around and click twice with your index finger to open the messages one at a time."
The movement wasn't natural, but I could thread a needle in two seconds flat, so I caught on.
The first note was from Dean Everman, a sales rep, and the son of one of my mother's friends.
Hey, Jane — My mother has been saying for months that you and I should get together. I would've called, but until recently, I was involved with someone. That's over now, so your mother's call came at a good time. I didn't expect to be competing for a chance to go out with you, but after the initial shock of seeing my picture in the paper, I think it could be fun. Dean
I looked at Linda. "What do you think?"
"Well, if he was in a relationship, we know he can commit. What do you know about his family?"
"Normal."
"Normal is good. But he could be into drugs."
"Huh?"
"He's a pharmaceutical sales rep, so he could probably get whatever he wants."
"That's absurd."
"Still — something to think about."
I clicked on the next note, which was from Billy Renaldi, a fireman who knew Miss Millie — he'd once gotten her cat, Boswell, out of a tree. I'd met him at the memorial service, but only in passing.
HEY, JANE — I'M NOT MUCH ON EMAIL, BUT HERE GOES. I'M ON THE COMPUTER AT THE STATION, AND THE GUYS ARE GIVING ME HELL. I'M NOT AFTER A RICH WIFE, BUT I'D LIKE TO HAVE DINNER WITH THE GIRL WHO WAS NICE TO MISS MILLIE. BILLY
"Well, he doesn't know much about email etiquette," Linda huffed. "All those caps — he's yelling."
"But being a firefighter is such a noble profession," I said.
"It's not very noble to write to you while his buds are standing around."
"I think it's cute."
"Let's keep going."
The next note was from Paul Messer, a math professor at the college where my mom had taken photography classes for the past two years.
Jane — Your mother explained your situation, and I just want you to know that I'd be glad to get to know you better, no strings attached. I'm a quiet guy, who likes to read and travel. I think we would enjoy each other's company. Paul
"Seems nice," I said.
"And smart."
"And upstanding."
"I'll bet he's a sleeper."
"Come again?"
"A sleeper — one of those quiet guys who turn into an animal in bed." Linda nodded knowingly.
"Ah." Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, I clicked on the next candidate.
The next note was from Eliot Black, architect, and older brother of Linda's former boyfriend.
Hi, Jane. Linda told me over and over that I should meet you, but I've been working overtime on a new project. Glad she gave me the nudge this week. I'm working downtown on a new office building, so I can meet you for lunch sometime. I like your name. Eliot
"Flattering," I said.
"And hot. But really shy. And he's a workaholic."
"So he wouldn't be around all the time…afterward."
"Which could be a good thing."
I was starting to feel a little light-headed, but I clicked on the next note, which was from Jake River, pediatrician. Mrs. Thornberry had tossed his name in the hat because she had decorated his new offices.
Hello, Jane. My receptionist showed me the morning paper, and I find I'm unexpectedly in some kind of a pageant. But it appears that you, too, are in an awkward position. I don't know about marriage, but we can throw a couple of steaks on the grill sometime if you'd like to. Dr. Jake
"Well," I said, "he seems to have a good sense of humor."
"And he must love kids if he's a pediatrician."
I frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"
She ignored me. "And he doesn't need your money."
"He could be in debt."
Linda sighed and nodded. "Keep going."
The next note was from Kris Callihan, a computer programmer for the government who had been a U.S. Marine with my older brother Tim.
Hi, Janie-girl! Tim said you were in a fix, and maybe I could help. Would love to see you again, regardless. Call me — we'll take the boat out on the lake for some serious fun. Kris
"Sounds like fun," Linda said.
"He and I never really saw eye to eye."
"Good chemistry."
"He calls me Janie-girl."
"You just don't want to put on a bathing suit."
I frowned. Kris hadn't appealed to me before — was I considering him because of the million dollars? Then again, maybe he'd changed. "Next."
The subsequent note was from Wally Benson, a widower and carpenter — Linda cut his hair and the hair of his six-year-old son.
Hi, Jane. Linda said this would be a good time for us to meet. How do you feel about baseball? And tables for three? Wally B.
"I'm way too young to be a mother."
"He's way too young to be a widower."
"I hate to get a kid involved in this mess."
"These two guys could be the best thing that ever happened to you."
I moved on. The next message was from Pablo Ricci — another one of Mrs. Thornberry's customers. He was from London, but had happily settled into the Atlanta investment community.
Dearest Jane — I'm amused by your current situation and think we could help each other, and have a brilliantly good time to boot. Call me. Yours, Pablo
"Vavoom," Linda said.
I sighed. "He is delicious."
"He doesn't need your money, but I wonder what he means by 'helping each other.'"
"I can't imagine."
"I can." Linda wagged her eyebrows.
I scoffed. "Who's next?" I clicked on the next line and smiled. "Ian Saunders."
"Who's he?"
"An old family friend."
Hi, Jane — long time, no see. Your mother tells me you're setting the decorating world on fire. If you'd like to take a break, come up to the farm and we'll go for a ride. Flax and Raze miss you…and I wouldn't mind seeing you again, either. Ian
"You've been holding out on me," Linda accused.
"No, I haven't. Ian used to work for my folks — landscaping, household repairs, that kind of thing. He has a horse farm north of the city."
"Sounds earthy. And sexy."
I laughed. "He's almost like a brother to me."
"Don't feed me that line — you're blushing."
"Next," I said. The last note was from Tommy Andersen, another customer of Linda's who tended bar while pursuing a master's degree in literature from Georgia State.
Jane — I've been waiting all my life to meet an authentically interesting lady. Let's get together sometime over coffee. T.
"He's a writer," Linda said. "Has two finished novels under his bed."
I raised my eyebrows.
"Not that I've ever seen his bedroom," she said hastily, then sighed. "Not that I haven't tried — the guy is so romantic, it makes me hurt."
A writer — hmm.
I sat back in the chair and exhaled. Ten eligible guys, and they all wanted to meet me. Wow. This was going to be harder than I thought.
Voted off:
Number of husband candidates remaining: 8
"Jane, relax," Linda said. "This won't hurt a bit."
I frowned at my roommate-turned-militant-matchmaker as I sat at a card table and awaited my very first experience with speed dating. "You'd make a great gynecologist."
She pshawed. "This speed dating is all the rage, and perfect for the next step." She held up a pink stopwatch. "Each of the eight men will come in one at a time and sit at the table with you. Then you have six minutes to get to know each other. At the end of six minutes, I'll ring this bell."
She tapped the little chrome dinger she'd swiped from the hair salon where she worked, and I winced.
"And that's their cue to leave," she finished cheerfully. "See? Painless. And you'll be back to work in an hour, so Mrs. Thornberry can't complain."
"Right," I murmured, although I was certain my employer, Mrs. Thornberry, would find something to complain about.
I was grateful that at least the field had been narrowed a bit before Linda contacted the men about participating in this human gauntlet. Kris Callihan, one of my brother's friends from the U.S. Marine Corps, had sent me a telegram to say that he'd been called up as a reservist, and so was effectively unavailable, at least for the purposes of my timeline.
And Dean Everman, the pharmaceutical sales rep son of one of my mother's friends, well…what can I say? Linda was right about him — oh, not the part about him being into drugs, but the part about him being able to commit since he'd just gotten out of a relationship. How did we know he was commitment material? Our first hint was when we opened the newspaper two days later and discovered that he and his old girlfriend had eloped.
Man Chooses Love Over Money. Dean Everman decided to forego his place among the candidates in the running for the hand of Jane Browning, an Atlanta shop-girl who recently was bequeathed $1 million under the condition that she marry within 50 days. Everman eloped last night with his longtime girlfriend, who said that when she saw his picture in the paper linked to Browning, she realized how much she loved him.
So, I had managed to secure a marriage, just not my own.
"Ready?" Linda asked.
"I don't know what to say to these guys."
"They're vying for your hand, remember?" She leaned down. "Let me check your lipstick — yes, you look fine. Good, even."
I tried to smile.
"Okay, here we go. Mr. Billy Renaldi."
The door opened and Billy emerged. I was surprised to see him dressed in fireman regalia, but reasoned that he was probably on call.
"Oh, I forgot," Linda whispered. "I told them all to dress the part. It makes for better photos."
Oh, no — that meant she was still feeding info to that nosy tabloid reporter.
Linda lifted the stopwatch. "And…go."
Billy smiled at her. "Hi, Jane."
"Hi, Billy."
"Am I on camera?"
"Um, no."
"Good. How's Boswell?"
Boswell was the cranky gray cat with the crooked tail that I'd inherited from Miss Millie. "He misses Miss Millie, I think, but he's adjusting, and so am I. I'm not used to having a male around." I was rambling, and had gone too far. "I mean — well, I've had men…around…before."
He looked a little lost.
"Won't you sit down?" I squeaked, indicating the folding metal chair across from me that pretty much summed up the bleakness of the entire situation.
He laughed and my heart shivered a little at his gorgeousness. "I'm wearing so much gear, I'd better not, or I won't be able to get back up."
"Okay, so I'll stand up." I did, and instantly felt like an idiot.
"Nice dress," he said, nodding.
"Thanks. I made it."
"Oh?"
The bell rang, startling both of us. Linda waved from where she'd stepped back a few feet — although not back far enough that she couldn't eavesdrop. "Time's up."
Billy and I looked at each other, unsure of couple of minutes, he looked me over. "Nice dress."
Except he was looking at my legs. I felt like a filly, but I was suddenly seeing Ian in a whole new light.
The bell rang, and he slowly got to his feet. "Real nice seeing you again, Jane. Stay in touch."
I had to take my pulse after that one. And where was a drink of water when a girl needed one?
"And last but not least," Linda said. "Tommy Andersen."
Tommy was another customer of Linda's. He was tending bar while pursuing a master's degree in literature. He was a writer.
He walked in and dispelled all of my preconceived notions about writers. Wow.
Linda hit the stopwatch, then proceeded to chat with him for the first two out of my six minutes. She had a wild crush on him, although I could tell from his body language that she put him off. He kept backing up. I liked him immediately.
"Hi," he said to me after he'd escaped. He oozed a bohemian lifestyle, and seemed comfortable in his own skin.
"Hi. I understand you're a writer."
"Yeah. Well, not a paid writer yet, but someday. What do you do?"
"I'm an interior designer."
He smiled. "Then we're both in the arts."
I wasn't used to men respecting my career choice, so I was pleased.
"Do you like to read?" he asked.
I told him I did, and we spent the next few minutes talking about books we'd enjoyed and some we hadn't. I was caught up in his enthusiasm for experiencing life and culture, and knew that a year with Tommy would be an unforgettable experience.
Linda rang the bell triumphantly, and we said our goodbyes.
I sat at the table, limp and a little shell-shocked by the whole speed-dating thing, a concept dreamt up, no doubt, by some mother desperate for grandchildren.
When the door closed, Linda rushed over. "Well, what do you think?"
Voted off:
Number of husband candidates remaining: 6
"Jane, I realize you're running a husband-hunting contest," Mrs. Thornberry said primly as she inspected the pillow covers I'd sewn the previous night — eight in all, embellished with enough fringe to make a flapper swoon. "But I still expect you to abide by the one-hour-lunch rule."
Now I've never taken a full hour for lunch in all the years I've worked for this woman's interior design firm, but I wasn't about to point that out on Monday morning of my official Week of Lunch Dates. I couldn't afford for her to foil my plans to get to know each of the six guys who were left in the pool.
At the end of another five weeks or so, I was supposed to pick among the eminently marriageable men that my roommate, Linda, had scrounged together by comparing notes with my mother, friends, and even Mrs. Thornberry. But halfway through my 50-day cutoff point to find a husband and inherit one million dollars, compliments of a reclusive millionaire in my apartment building, I was beginning to think the spoils would go to the man who simply managed to outlast the others.
This week, I'd learned of two more casualties. Eliot Black, an ambitious architect who had fostered my fantasies of living in an award-winning home that I could decorate, had been offered the deal of a lifetime — to study architecture for two years in Paris under his mentor. Sigh — I could just imagine the French countryside, the cafés, the chocolates — all the things that workaholic Eliot would miss out on while he was there.
And Wally Benson, charming single father of a six-year-old son, had decided to relocate to the Pacific Northwest so his son could be near his grandparents. Since I'd grown up a stone's throw from my own dear grandparents, I saluted his decision and stuck the postcard he'd sent me on the refrigerator.
Which was darling, really, except my eyes are brown.
I tried not to take the moves personally, tried not to think about the fact that both men seemed to have made a rather hasty exit, not to mention moving about as far away from Atlanta as possible. It was simply bad timing, I told myself, and reflective of the dynamic group of guys who had agreed to consider marrying me so I could receive the inheritance of Miss Millicent Maxwell, a slightly senile incurable romantic.
"This one has a crooked seam," Mrs. Thornberry declared, holding up a pillow cover. "I'll only pay half." Half of five lousy dollars.
Which made me all the more anxious to have those lunches. After all, the money Miss Millie was offering me was equivalent to sewing 200,000 perfect pillow covers.
Linda had insisted that I meet all the guys at the same restaurant to keep the playing field as even as possible.
"That way," she said. "You'll fall in love with the man, not the manicotti."
I'd chosen Jazzy's because it was a low-key lunch place with a varied menu. Monday at 12:03, I walked in to meet Billy Renaldi, and thankfully, he was already there. Billy is a fireman, so his schedule is always subject to change.
We said hello, and were seated at a private table for two.
"How's Boswell?"
It was his standard opening. I'd inherited Miss Millie's gray cat with a bent tail. Billy knew Boswell because he had once fished him out of a tree when Miss Millie was alive.
"Fine. I need to get him a scratch post, I think."
We chatted about our jobs, and I waited for a way to interject the sneaky question that Linda and I had decided would give me insight into each man's personality.
"So, Billy, what's your favorite movie?"
He didn't blink. "Rocky. What's yours?"
"It's a Wonderful Life."
He made a rueful noise. "I've never seen that movie. Always wanted to, but just never got around to it. Isn't it the one with the big rabbit?"
I smiled and nodded politely. I ordered a salad, he ordered a hamburger. We had a nice lunch, but he was paged and had to leave early. He tossed money on the table and gave me a swift kiss on the cheek as he ran out. I couldn't help the swell of pride when people turned to look at me.
"He's a firefighter," I announced, and everyone smiled.
The kiss stayed with me all afternoon. I dutifully relayed every detail to Linda that evening.
"Rocky is good," she said, nodding. "Macho, moral."
I was thinking sweaty and sexy.
The next day, Tuesday, I arrived at Jazzy's and the host smiled. "Weren't you here yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Jane?"
I turned and welcomed Paul Messer. Professor Paul taught at the college where my mother took night classes. The host looked him over and realized he wasn't the same guy I'd met the day before. He lifted his eyebrows and seated us at the same table.
Paul seemed less nervous than he'd been at the speed dating session. He chatted easily, and somehow I maneuvered the subject around to movies.
"The Empire Strikes Back."
Okay, that surprised me. I had enjoyed the movie, too, but wouldn't have listed it as an all-time favorite. "Mine is It's a Wonderful Life."
He made no comment.
"Have you seen it?" I asked.
He nodded, but still offered no comment. Our lunch arrived — my salad and his quiche — and we ate companionably.
Linda pursed her mouth when I told her. "Okay, minus one for the science fiction flick."
"But he tipped well," I commented. And maybe I shouldn't marry someone who was just like me. After all, I'm a boring person.
On Wednesday when I arrived at Jazzy's, the host pulled on his chin. When Dr. Jake River arrived, we both perked up. The host showed us to my "regular" table, and Jake and I fell into an easy conversation.
"My favorite movie?" He looked thoughtful.
With his Native American heritage, I was betting on Dances with Wolves.
"I'd have to say Patch Adams."
Ah, the doctor connection — of course. "Mine is It's a Wonderful Life."
"Yeah, I wish they would colorize that one."
Hmm. My salad arrived, and his veal. We both ate quickly because he had to get back to his wee patients, and I had to get back to my wee paycheck.
"Patch Adams is good," Linda said at our nightly post-date wrap-up. "Sensitive, poignant."
But the man had ordered veal. Ugh.
When I arrived at Jazzy's on Thursday, the host didn't blink an eye. But when Pablo Ricci walked in, the man did give me a "you go, girl" look when he seated us.
I was nervous because during the speed dating session with Pablo, he had made me a proposition — he would marry me if I would give him a child. Even Steven. In fact, if I had a boy, I just might name him Even Steven Ricci.
"Have you thought about my offer?" he asked as soon as we placed our order.
I could roll up in his European accent and die happy. "Yes, and I'm still thinking about it." I diverted the conversation to safer topics, and segued into movies. This would be interesting because Pablo's pick would undoubtedly be some foreign art film that I'd never heard of.
"Ghost," he said solemnly.
I couldn't hide my surprise. "Ghost?"
"Yes, what is yours?"
"It's a Wonderful Life."
He kissed my fingers. "How perfect — also about the netherworld."
My salad and his smoked salmon arrived. He'd also ordered wine for us, and I drank a glass, thinking it would help me deal with Mrs. Thornberry all afternoon. When we parted, he kissed me full on the mouth. It was a good kiss. I left tipsy, and talking with a bit of a British accent.
"Go with him," Linda said, fanning herself.
"But…Ghost?"
"Hey, it's romantic."
But I wasn't sure I was ready to be a mother.
When I arrived on Friday, the host simply shook his head. Ian Saunders was already waiting for me, holding his western hat by his thigh.
Conversation with Ian was effortless because he'd worked for my family when I was a teenager. "Ian, what would you say is your favorite movie?"
He laughed. "I can't tell you the last time I saw a movie. When my TV conked out a couple of years ago, I didn't even replace it."
Hmm. I adored television — it entertained me while I sewed. "Surely you used to go to movies?"
He shrugged. "Nothing memorable, I guess."
"Not even John Wayne?"
"I'm more of a Jimmy Stewart fan."
I brightened. "My favorite movie is It's a Wonderful Life."
"I know," he said, then smiled. Our food arrived — my salad and his enormous steak. As he left he put his hand on my waist, and tipped his hat. I resisted the urge to curtsy.
"You can't give him more points for knowing you better than the others," Linda said. "If anything, he's been around all this time and hasn't come around."
She had a point, but still…
Saturday was less busy at Jazzy's. The same host stood by the door. "This is my day off," he said. "But I had to see if you'd be back."
"My last lunch," I promised him just as Tommy Andersen arrived.
We were seated, and I relaxed. Tommy was a great conversationalist with lots of interesting life experiences. I only had to nod and hum. I ordered salad, and he ordered salad. We munched like a couple of rabbits, and talked.
"My favorite movie would have to be Memento," he said. "Tricky, complicated, thought-provoking. Yours?"
I was almost embarrassed to say. "It's a Wonderful Life."
"Oh. Yeah, that's a classic." Then he started talking about an article he'd read in The New Yorker. We chatted until I was almost late getting back to work. Mrs. Thornberry frowned as I slid in the door.
"You have a visitor," she said, her voice ringing with disapproval.
It was Linda, sitting with her feet propped up on my meager desk. "I had to hear about the last date so I could plan accordingly for the next step."
I told her.
"You don't want to feel like you can't be yourself around him," she said. "But he will challenge you to grow." She grinned and leaned close. "See how well this is going? At this rate, you'll definitely be married and rich by the end of the year. Just think of it!"
I was thinking, I was thinking.
Voted off:
Paul Messer, Professor
Number of husband candidates remaining: 5
"Rise and shine, Jane Browning."
My eyes flew open and I was gripped with that panicky omigod-I've-slept-through-my-wedding feeling. Then I frowned. Just a few weeks ago, my dream anxieties centered around missing an appointment with one of Mrs. Thornberry's cranky customers. Five weeks into my husband hunt, and even my nightmares were skewing toward matrimony. Yikes.
I squinted up at my roommate, Linda. "Sunday is the only morning I get to sleep past six-thirty. Something had better be on fire."
"Only your birthday cake," she said, all attitude. "Twenty-eight candles. I had to buy an economy-size box of those little candles to have enough."
I groaned and pulled the covers back over my head. "Go away."
"If you don't get up, we'll never have this place clean before the guys get here."
I pulled down the corner of a sheet. "Guys? What guys?"
She grinned. "I'm so clever. I invited all your potential husbands over for your birthday party."
I almost swallowed my tongue. "But I'm not having a birthday party."
"Oh, yes, you are." She checked her watch. "In about six hours."
I sprang up. "Are you crazy for inviting them all here? What am I supposed to do, give them numbers?"
Linda sighed. "Don't you want a chance to see them all side by side? Good grief, Jane, I'm just trying to earn my finder's fee. Besides, I invited other people, too — your folks are coming, and all the girls from the hair salon. There'll be a nice mix."
"You know I hate birthday parties, especially my own." I was a throw-up away from full panic. "Are all the guys coming?"
She made a rueful noise. "Except for Paul Messer. He sent an email message saying that he's leaving town for a few weeks."
"Leaving town?"
"Something about a science fiction role-playing seminar. How lame is that?"
I stared. "And he's the one my mother picked for me."
"Yeah, that's unfortunate." She clapped her hands. "I'll tackle the bathroom, if you'll take the kitchen."
"Deal," I muttered.
We spent the next three hours cleaning like fiends. I needed the last three hours to get presentable. Thank goodness Linda shooed me away so she could blow up balloons and such. I heard a couple of her giggly coworkers arrive and figured they had enough hot air to get the job done. I emerged from my bedroom 15 minutes before curtain, and from the look on Linda's face, guessed I looked passable.
"Jane, you look hot."
Okay, now I knew she was blowing sunshine up my sensible skirt — the only deviation in my grooming routine had been to use an eyelash curler.
I said hello to Linda's friends and downed a glass of wine to quell my jitters. When the doorbell rang, my heart jumped to my throat for almost no reason — almost. My parents had arrived.
Now, my parents are the best people who've ever walked the good green earth, but they have no grandchildren. Since my older brother is still "finding himself" on the slopes of a Colorado ski slope, they have all their hopes pinned on me. They were both wearing their church clothes and "I'm good in-law material" smiles.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart," my mother said, and kissed my ear. "Are the men here yet?"
"Er, no. Come in and have some punch." It was spiked.
My father looked a little bewildered, but Dad basically just does whatever my mother tells him to do.
The next few rings of the doorbell admitted two more of Linda's friends, a girlfriend of mine I see on rare occasions (she's married with two kids and doesn't have time to "loaf" anymore), and an empty-nester couple from down the hall in our building. But then Billy Renaldi arrived, and my adrenaline started to flow like the punch.
"Billy is a fireman," I said after I introduced him to my dad.
Billy set my inherited cat Boswell on the ground and shook my dad's hand. A good sign.
"Are you one of the guys who's thinking about marrying my girl, Jane?"
"Dad," I said with a big smile. "I think Mom is looking for you." That was enough to send him trotting.
"Sorry," I said to Billy.
"It's okay," he said, then pulled me into a quiet corner. "Happy birthday." He picked up a large box and put it in my arms. "It's a scratching post for Boswell. I remember you saying you could use one."
At least the man listened. And he liked pets — that was a must since Boswell and I were a package deal.
"And I was hoping maybe we could have dinner one night this week, although not Tuesday or Thursday because I'm on call."
Mrs. Billy Renaldi would always be subject to a schedule change, but would sleep with a hero.
I smiled, but was pulled away by Linda, who announced that Dr. Jake River had arrived. I tucked the scratching post into a cabinet, which was a mistake, because by the time I turned around, my mother had cornered Jake.
"So you're a doctor," my mother said in a falsetto singsongy voice. "A children's doctor, no less." She looked at me and mouthed "He's the one." I wanted to die, but I was afraid Jake would bring me back to life, and then I'd be doubly humiliated.
I rescued Jake, and he laughed. "Moms. I have one of those, too." He handed me a sheath of white lilies, and not the kind you get at the self-serve refrigerator from a grocery florist. "Happy birthday, Jane."
So romantic. I thanked him and went to find a container. While I ran water into the vase, he said, "Can we go to dinner one night soon?"
I nodded and he asked me to call and get his schedule from his secretary. Mrs. Dr. Jake River would have to put up with a hectic schedule, but would get flowers for her trouble.
A few minutes later when Pablo Ricci walked in, I slipped Linda a $10 bill to keep him away from my mother — she simply could not know about the offer that Pablo had made me about providing him an heir. Little did Pablo know, today I planned to be on the lookout for signs that he would make a good father. He kissed me on both cheeks in a European greeting, then pulled me aside and handed me a small box. "Happy birthday, dearest Jane."
I opened the box and pulled out a rubber ducky. I had the feeling he hadn't meant it for my bath. My heart jerked a little — perhaps I had gotten my sign.
Pablo leaned in close. "Just a reminder. Want to come to my house for dinner this week? I'll have my chef whip up something wonderful."
"Jane!"
My mother was calling, so I held up my finger. "I'll be right back."
I turned and saw what — or rather, who — had my mother in a lather. Ian Saunders had arrived.
"Jane, look who's here."
"Hi, Ian." I telegraphed an apology, but he only smiled.
"Jane, I'm going to get your father — he'll be so glad to see Ian." She walked away, head pivoting.
He grinned. "Since we might not have another minute alone, happy birthday." He produced a small white box. Inside was a tiny wooden ring box carved with an intricate design.
I looked up. "You carved this, didn't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I was touched.
"I was thinking in case you ended up with a heap of rings, you'd need somewhere to put them all." One side of his mouth slid back, then he looked over her shoulder. "I think I'll go say hello to Mr. Browning."
I was still trying to decide whether to be irritated when Tommy Andersen walked in carrying a bottle of peach wine and a copy of Anna Karenina.
Big points for him, I thought.
"Happy birthday," he said with a grin. "What are the chances of the two of us cutting out of here to split this bottle?"
I opened my mouth, but Linda yelled for everyone to be quiet and carried in my flaming birthday cake. Everyone started singing "Happy Birthday" and gathering around me and the cake.
"Make a wish and blow out the candles!" Linda cried.
I leaned over the cake and practically singed my eyebrows. Then I looked up and saw, lined against the wall opposite me, all the guys. I had a flashback to a sixth grade sock hop where the boys stood against one wall and the girls against another.
Five beautiful men lined up, all of them looking at me. I made a wish, took a deep, deep breath, and blew out all the candles.
Voted off:
Tommy Andersen
Number of husband candidates remaining: 5
My birthday wish? That one of my potential husbands would distinguish himself as THE one and end my torture.
"In the olden days, we could've put them all in an arena and let them fight to the death," my roommate Linda said over breakfast the next morning. She'd seen the movie Gladiator 11 times. "But I've come up with something else that's almost as good."
I winced, afraid to ask. "But they all asked me out on a date — won't that be a good way to narrow the field?"
She shook her head at my apparent simple-mindedness. "Not yet. I'm thinking you need to see them together one more time to get a sense of where they stand on the big issues of trust, sex, paper or plastic — that kind of thing."
"And?"
"And —" Linda grinned. "Tune in to FM 95.7 today at noon."
I frowned suspiciously — that station was known for its gimmicks. "Why?"
"Just do it." She drank the rest of her milk from her bowl.
I stared — I drank from my bowl, too, but not while anyone else was in the room.
"Gotta run," she said, then dropped her bowl into the sink, grabbed her purse, and vamoosed out the door.
I fretted and fidgeted all morning at my desk, mulling over curtain swatches for a bank lobby and worrying what Linda's next move as my self-proclaimed husband-hunter would entail. At 10 minutes before noon, I tuned to the said radio station.
"Stand by, folks. In a couple of minutes we'll be going live to the Shear Indulgence hair salon in Buckhead where Linda Bledsoe will be giving a complimentary haircut to the husband candidates for her roommate, Jane Browning, and conducting an on-air interview at the same time!"
I swallowed hard — Linda was determined to get that two percent finder's fee.
"For those of you who don't know the story, Jane Browning was recently willed $1 million by a reclusive millionaire in her apartment building under one condition — that she marry within 50 business days! We'll meet the four men vying for the millionaire maiden right after the break!"
The commentator belly-laughed, and I felt a little ill. Millionaire maiden? Then the announcer's words sank in — four men? At last count there were five — had I managed to scare off another one?
"Jane!" Mrs. Thornberry called from the hallway. She did not sound happy. In fact, she grew increasingly cranky each day and hinted that she hoped I wouldn't leave her in the lurch just because I suddenly would not need to work.
I glanced at the clock, then sighed and trotted toward the showroom. "Yes, Mrs. Thornberry?"
Her mouth turned down. "There's a police officer here to see you. I hope you haven't done something that will reflect poorly on my business."
My heart vaulted to my throat when I saw the man in uniform standing in the showroom with his back to me. Was someone I knew injured? Had my apartment been broken into? Had my nasty habit of jaywalking finally caught up to me?
"May I help you?"
The man turned and I blinked — the face was familiar, but out of context in the navy uniform. "Tommy?" Tommy Andersen was a bartender-slash-aspiring writer who appeared to not have a conformist bone in his body. So what the heck was he doing in a cop's uniform?
The dark-haired man smiled and removed his hat — shorter hair, trimmed sideburns. Had he already been in Linda's chair? His gaze swept over me, and I was shaken with a jolt of awareness. From his blink and slight hesitation, I sensed he was equally affected, which affected me more. We stood there, affecting each other as my mind raced for an explanation to the unfamiliar currents ping-ponging between us. How had I missed the chemistry?
"You must be Jane," he said.
I squinted, thoroughly confused.
"I'm Teddy Andersen, Tommy's brother. We're twins."
I absorbed the subtle differences — wider shoulders, darker eyes, and — God forgive me — bigger feet. "Oh. Hello."
His eyes danced — the brothers were obviously used to being mistaken for each other. "Tommy asked me to give you a message. He didn't tell me you were so..." He blushed and toyed with his hat. "I'm sorry. It's just that you're not the sort of woman that my brother usually dates."
I wasn't sure how to take that, but I felt obligated to murmur, "We're not dating really."
He blushed deeper. "I mean, you seem so...normal. And pretty. Tommy seems to go for girls with shock value — blue hair, tattoos, that sort of thing."
"Ah." I felt a little better. "Is Tommy okay?"
"Oh, yeah. He asked me to give you this." He extended a sealed envelope.
I took it and withdrew a folded sheet of stationery with "Kick Back at Shookie's Bar" letterhead.
I sighed — that explained the four husband candidates instead of five.
"I'm sorry," Teddy said. "I know my brother, so I can guess that's a 'Dear Jane' letter."
I looked up and he winced when he realized what he'd said.
"It's okay," I said. "Tommy and I weren't really close."
Teddy looked relieved. "I thought you two were serious since he asked me to give you the letter as soon as possible."
"It's a long story," I told him. "But trust me, Tommy doesn't owe me anything."
He shifted foot to foot with genuine concern on his face — was he used to cleaning up behind his brother? I glanced at his ringless left hand and for a split second, couldn't help wishing I'd met Teddy first.
"Look, this probably won't make up for Tommy's manners," he said. "But can I take you to lunch?"
That...electrical thing started bouncing back and forth again. I had the wild urge to chuck the million-dollar quest and have lunch with this man who knew nothing about the will. But my 50 days were running out, and the radio show was about to begin.
"I'm sorry," I said, gesturing vaguely behind me. "I have to work."
He nodded, and I bit my tongue to keep from saying, "Some other time?" After all, I already had too many men in my life.
Officer Teddy Andersen said goodbye, then tipped his hat and walked to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he looked back and hesitated, then simply smiled and left.
I frowned and resisted the urge to go after him — I would simply be running from my current situation. Speaking of running, I dashed back to my desk just as the announcer was catching the listeners up on their lunch publicity stunt.
"We're back live at the Shear Indulgence Salon where the first husband candidate for Jane Browning has taken a seat in the stylist's chair and is ready to be clipped and quizzed at the same time. What's your name, sir, and what do you do for a living?"
"My name is Billy Renaldi. I'm a firefighter."
"A man used to risking his life, eh?"
Billy chuckled. "You only go around once."
Fatalistic or optimistic? I couldn't tell.
"What are you going to have done today, Billy?"
"Just a little off the top."
I could picture him patting his flattop.
"And now we'll turn the mike over to Linda Bledsoe, hairstylist and Jane Browning's roommate, to start the interview. I understand that Ms. Browning is listening?"
"Yes," Linda said.
Me and half of Atlanta. I put my head down on my desk.
"Go ahead," the announcer said.
The sound of electric clippers came over the air. "Now then, Billy," Linda said. "How do you feel about marrying a woman you've only known for a few weeks?"
"I think you know right away if a person is someone you can trust. Jane is a stand-up gal. With my schedule, it's hard to meet single women. I don't think about the circumstances of how Jane and I met — what matters is that we know each other now."
I lifted my head. Plus 10 points.
"But do you think you could be happy married to Jane?"
"We're both nice people, and we like animals. Marriages have been based on less."
Hmm. Minus five.
"What about sex?" Linda asked.
Billy laughed. "I'm in favor of it. And I'm a one-woman man."
Plus 20.
"You're all done," Linda said. "Thanks, Billy."
The announcer broke for a commercial, and I took a deep breath. It would be over soon.
"And we're back at the Shear Indulgence Salon where husband candidate number two has just taken a seat. Tell us your name, sir, and what you do."
"I'm Dr. Jake River. I'm a pediatrician."
"Another man who's used to life-threatening situations!"
The audience laughed. I frowned.
"What are you having done today, doc?"
"Just a little off the back."
"Take it, Linda."
The sound of scissors slicing came over the air. "Dr. River, how do you feel about arranged marriages?"
"In my Native American culture, arranged marriages aren't unheard of. A marriage is more about being helpmates than soul mates. A marriage is a compromising relationship, push and pull. It works if two people want it to work."
I nodded. Plus 10.
"And do you have a problem with the consummation part of the agreement?"
Jake laughed, and my stomach flipped. "Jane is a woman, I'm a man. I suspect nature will take its course."
Minus five — but only because my parents were probably listening.
"How do you feel about monogamy?"
"I believe monogamy is the foundation of trust in any relationship."
Plus 10 — I didn't want any nasty diseases making their way into my bed, even if he could cure them.
"You're all done," Linda said.
Another break, then the announcer gave a traffic update. "And speaking of traffic, a big crowd has gathered here at the hair salon where husband candidate number three has just taken a seat. Introduce yourself to our listeners, sir."
"My name is Pablo Ricci. I'm a venture capitalist, among other things."
I sensed a collective tremor going through the female (and gay) listeners as his creamy accent floated over the airwaves.
"And what are you having done today?"
"Just a clip or two around the edges, and the sideburns."
"Over to you, Linda."
"Pablo," she said over the sound of the clippers. "Don't you feel a little funny about marrying a woman so she'll inherit a million bucks?"
"I don't need Jane's money," he said. "I need Jane."
Yeah, to breed, I thought, thinking of his proposition to give him an heir ASAP. Although a woman could do worse in the stallion department.
"And how do you feel about monogamy?"
"I prefer monogamy, but it is up to the couple, is it not?"
Hmm.
"And what do you feel is the most important aspect to a successful relationship?"
"Family," he said quickly. "I think it's important that two people build a legacy of their love."
On the other hand, I wasn't getting any younger.
"And you're all done," Linda said.
The announcer broke again, then came back with the weather. "And it's raining men here at the hair salon where the last of the Jane Browning's husband candidates has settled into the barber's chair. Sir, tell us who you are and what you do."
"My name is Ian Saunders. I own a landscaping business, and horse stables in Alpharetta."
"Whew, ladies we have a bona fide stud here. What are you going to have done?"
"Take it all off."
"What?"
"Shave my head."
I gaped at the radio.
"Are you trying to make a point, Mr. Saunders?"
"I've known Jane all my life — I've learned it takes a lot to get her attention."
I shook my head when the electric clippers buzzed to life. Ian confounded me.
"And over to you, Linda."
"Ian, do you think you can make Jane happy?"
"Yes."
No elaboration, but then that was Ian. I imagined his black hair falling to the floor.
"And do you have a problem with the consummation clause of the will?"
"Only that we'll have to wait until the wedding night."
I blinked and crossed my legs.
"And monogamy?"
"I wouldn't share my wife with any other man," he said. "And I only want one woman in my bed."
But was I that one woman? I swallowed — this was getting a little R-rated for lunchtime listening.
"You're all done," Linda said. "For all you listeners, he has a nicely shaped head."
There was that, at least, although his cowboy hat was bound to sit a little lower on a shaved head.
The announcer made a few more jabs at the husband hunt, then went back to a music program. I was weak with new revelations, and wondered how on earth I'd be able to work the rest of the afternoon.
Mrs. Thornberry stuck her head into my cubbyhole. "You have a phone call. I hope this doesn't become a habit."
I tried to look apologetic, then picked up the receiver.
"This is Jane Browning."
"Jane, this is Teddy Andersen."
My pulse picked up. "Hi...Teddy."
"After I left, I turned on the radio and caught the show on 95.7."
I winced. "Oh?"
"Yeah." His voice was smiling. "Listen, I was wondering...is it possible to throw my hat in the ring?"
Voted off:
Billy Renaldi, Dr. Jake RiverNumber of husband candidates remaining: 3
I now knew what a laboratory specimen felt like. Mr. James Van Meter, Attorney-at-Law, surveyed me over reading glasses before moving on to study my three potential husbands sitting in a semicircle in front of his massive desk.
I know you're thinking, But there were five men vying for Jane Brown's millionaire hand. At last count, there were five. But they were dropping like flies.
When presented with the invitation from Mr. Van Meter to review the terms of my impending inheritance from a reclusive millionaire, two of my beaus had balked, albeit with good excuses. Billy Renaldi had decided to answer the call for temporary firefighters to help with the Montana wildfires that were consuming forests by the hour. Noble to the end, it seemed. And apparently less afraid of a raging firestorm than marriage.
Meanwhile, handsome Dr. Jake River had been "discovered" by the producer of a national morning news program who needed to replace its pediatric consultant pronto because of some legal indiscretion by the previous contributor.
Right about now, the good doctor was winging his way toward L.A. — those precious and infectious little patients of his had evidently lost their charm when compared to the lure of fame...and evidently, so had the prospect of taking my hand in marriage.
The room was fraught with tension — the men kept glancing at each other, then at me, and shifting in their chairs. Mr. Van Meter was obviously billing Miss Millie's estate by the hour, and I suspected he had already stalled for a good thousand dollars' worth of time. The scene was so surreal, I was seized with an urge to do something completely out of context, like yodel, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming.
I think I'm losing it, I really do.
"Now then." Mr. Van Meter gave us his best impression of a smile. "Jane and I thought it would be a good idea for all of us to get together to talk about the terms of her bequest." He cleared his throat for effect. "According to the last will and testament of Miss Millicent Maxwell, Jane will inherit $1 million if she marries within 50 business days of the reading of the will." He consulted a calendar. "Which is now down to 21 days."
I was glad I wasn't standing, because my knees felt a little weak. I was tempted to ask Mr. Van Meter if I could plea bargain down to 10,000 bucks or so without the hubby clause, but he didn't seem to be in a compromising mood. In fact, I could tell from his demeanor that he thought I was one undeserving millionairess wanna-be.
"So," he continued, clasping his hands in front of him on his desk. "Just to make sure that we're all clear on the requirements set down by Miss Maxwell — Jane must be legally wed within the time limit specified, plus the marriage must be consummated, and of a duration of no less than one year, during which the couple must live together."
There's never a nice abyss handy to crawl into when a girl needs one.
Van Meter pursed his mouth and glanced all around. "If the marriage doesn't take place, the money in question will revert to the estate. If the marriage does take place, the inheritance will be paid out on a schedule that ensures the bulk of the money will be received toward the end of the prescribed year. If the marriage does take place, but ends before one year, the balance will revert to the estate." He cracked his knuckles as if to infer that he would personally enforce the terms. "Any questions?"
"Yes," said Pablo Ricci, leaning forward. He was looking scrumptious today in a double-breasted olive Hugo Boss suit. "Will I be required to sign anything?"
My split-second of distress gave way to common sense — he was only protecting his interests, I told myself. Every inch the successful businessman, inside and out.
Teddy Andersen scoffed. Everything about the yummy policeman screamed authority — even the angle of his head. Based on the way he carried himself, I thoroughly trusted him, which was strange since I'd only recently met him.
Teddy gave Pablo's scrupulous duds the once-over. "And who says Jane is going to pick you, Dapper Dan?"
I blinked at the sudden spike of testosterone in the room. I reasoned that since men didn't have to go to the OB-GYN, they weren't accustomed to being kept waiting. For hours.
Pablo jerked his head sideways. "Was that meant to be a joke, amigo?" With his rolling accent, even Pablo's threats sounded cheerful.
I gave Ian Saunders a "do something" look, but he sprawled in his chair and stared back with amused indifference. His hat sat on his knee. His shaved head was surprisingly...unrepulsive. Then he sighed.
"Boys, boys — not in front of the lady. This isn't easy for her." He gave me a pitiable look, but his eyes twinkled. "She has her head full of all that soul-mate-happily-ever-after stuff. She probably never thought she'd be picking a husband like she would a ripe melon."
Pablo frowned. "Jane is more sensible than you give her credit for." He looked at me with the longing of a man who wanted to duplicate himself. Oi. His proposition of his name in return for a child had weighed heavily on my mind — sure my biological clock was ticking like Big Ben, but did I really want to take on so many life-altering events in one year?
"Right," Teddy chimed in, looking in my direction.
God help me, but I felt as if I could fall inside him. His snug uniform had fostered more than one naughty fantasy since our serendipitous encounter.
"Which is why," he said, "we shouldn't assume who Jane is going to choose."
Mr. Van Meter took off his glasses and massaged his nose with thumb and forefinger. This hoopla was clearly beneath him. "To answer the question of Bachelor Number One, no you won't have to sign anything other than a marriage certificate. The agreement is between Miss Maxwell's estate and Jane. The choice of accepting the terms is Jane's. Likewise, it will be her responsibility to fulfill the terms." He focused on me. "So...do you have any idea of when you might let us in on your decision, Jane?"
I looked from Pablo to Teddy to Ian, and my stomach misbehaved. I had been so hoping the man wouldn't ask that question.
Voted off:
Teddy Andersen
Number of husband candidates remaining: 2
"Jane, time is running out," chided Linda, my roommate. She brought two cups of coffee to the kitchen table and set one in front of me. "Who are you going to choose?"
I looked into the depths of my coffee, as if the face of my future husband might appear. When no divine Colombian intervention seemed forthcoming, I gave in to the stomach-gnarling anxiety that had increased as the window of time set down by Miss Millie’s will closed in on me.
One week to make a decision, and that would give me a whopping three days to obtain a marriage certificate and a blood test, and to go through with the ceremony. I groaned into my cup. "I just don’t know."
"Well," Linda said, popping a doughnut into her mouth. "At least it’s down to only two gorgeous guys."
She rolled her eyes, a reminder that not many women in Atlanta, or in the country, for that matter, were feeling sorry for me this morning. Both guys were willing to marry me, sleep with me at least once, and live with me for a year so I could inherit $1 million from the estate of a reclusive neighbor. Life was tough, she was thinking.
But as strange as it sounds, my life now is a lot tougher than it was a few weeks ago, before Miss Millie died and left me her cranky cat and a remarkable opportunity to have the kind of money that could make a real difference in my life. Said cat, Boswell, must have picked up my vibe with his whiskers because he sauntered into the kitchen, yawned, and sat on my foot.
"I guess it’s a good thing Mr. Van Meter did that background check, or you might not have known that Teddy Andersen was still married until it was too late."
I nodded, having grown a philosophical bone over the events of the past few weeks. Bigamist was not an experience I wanted to add to my resume, notwithstanding the fact that marrying a married man would have knocked me out of my million, and sent my mother to the emergency room.
Granted, Teddy seemed as surprised as anyone to discover that a paperwork glitch was still pending, holding up a divorce decree that he had thought final a half-dozen years ago. When he’d finally found his voice upon hearing the news, he had apologized profusely. And cursed just as profusely.
"Let’s see how the men look in black and white," Linda said, reaching behind her for a take-out menu and a stubby pencil. She turned over the menu and across the top of the blank page wrote "Pros" and "Cons." Down the left side, she wrote "Pablo Ricci" and "Ian Saunders." She looked up and smiled. "Now, what do you admire most about Pablo?"
I pondered. "He’s charming, polite, and worldly."
She wrote that down. "And Ian?"
"He’s funny, irreverent, and independent."
She wrote that down, then propped her chin in her hand and grinned. "Who’s more sexy?"
Hm. I admit it — I’m human. I had imagined what it might be like to sleep with each of my potential husbands, and coincidentally, with Pablo and Ian, in great detail. In heaving, sweating, panting, fell-out-of-my-twin-bed-twice detail.
"Pablo always looks and smells like he just stepped out of a fashion shoot. He’s the kind of man that would probably set the mood with flowers and good food and wine." I could picture the two of us in a Finnish sauna. In Finland, of course. My medium-brown hair would be exotic there amidst all the blondes.
Linda nodded dreamily. "And don’t forget about the baby."
How could I? Pablo had told me I could keep all the money — all he wanted from our liaison was a child, an heir. It seemed like a good arrangement: I could do worse than dipping into his gene pool, and he was fond of me, I could tell. He appreciated the fact that I was well read and could speak Italian and German, and he spoke of exposing me to all kinds of adventures.
Europeans, I realized, were more pragmatic about choosing a spouse — find someone with common interests and goals, and make a life together. The passion I could see in his eyes, and who knew — perhaps love would come.
"So is that a ‘pro’ or a ‘con’?"
"Hm?"
"Having a baby — do you consider that a ‘pro’ or a ‘con’?"
"I consider it to be...neutral."
"Okay. Do you think Ian is sexy?"
I hadn’t before this situation unfolded. I had known Ian most of my life, had followed him around my parents’ house and his fledgling horse farm like a puppy. He had tolerated me. But I had always felt childish and gawky around him, and if I had ever come close to having a crush on him, I had squelched it before it materialized because...well, he was Ian. At the time I had needed his friendship, and hadn’t wanted my warm fuzzies to come between us.
Plus, I hadn’t wanted to profess a crush and have him laugh in my face, which he probably would’ve done. Ian was honest to a fault.
So, I had never allowed my mind to stray in the direction of lusting Ian. Until lately. And much to my surprise, I had been able to whip up an impressive amount of lust for him in a relatively short period of time. And it probably had something to do with the new way he seemed to be regarding me — like I was a full-grown woman.
"Yes, Ian is sexy," I admitted, picturing him on a horse, wrangling. Men didn’t wrangle much these days — it was a lost art. "He’s masculine and earthy and he’s good with his hands."
Linda quirked an eyebrow.
"Remember the little ring box he carved for my birthday?"
"Oh. Right." She scribbled. "Okay, they both get points for sexy. How about nice?"
"Both."
"Funny?"
"Both."
She frowned. "Give me some cons."
I drank from my cup and hummed. "Well, if I married Pablo, I wouldn’t get to see my family as often." Then I frowned. "But if I married Ian, I might get to see them too often."
"Both could be cons," she agreed. "What else?"
"Pablo’s job can be mentally demanding." He’s an investment broker/venture capitalist/all around international mover and shaker.
She wrote that down. "Right — that might not leave much time for you."
I tilted my head. "But Ian’s job is physically demanding." He ran a landscaping company and a horse farm and stables.
"Right — that might not leave much energy for you." She scribbled. "Do your parents have a favorite?"
"Ian, of course, since they know him. But if my mom knew that Pablo wanted a baby right away, he might overtake Ian in the running."
"You don’t think Ian would want children?"
I took another drink and swallowed. "I...maybe. Yes, he probably would." He came from a big family, I remembered. Lots of siblings. Then I shook myself. "But, Linda, I’m thinking in terms of getting through this next year, not forever."
She frowned. "But why not think about forever? One of these guys could be THE guy for you. Maybe it was fate that Miss Millie stepped in to speed things up a bit."
"Miss Millie didn’t ‘step in’ — she died."
"But who knows — maybe you would have wound up marrying one of these guys anyway."
I stared at her. "What did you put in your coffee?"
She gave an exasperated sigh. "All I’m saying is if you’re going to marry one of them, why not go into it with the idea that you will be married forever?"
"If I marry Pablo and have a child, I’ll certainly be linked to him forever, regardless of whether the marriage lasts."
"But maybe having a child together will give you both more reason to ensure the marriage lasts. What about Ian — can you see yourself being married to him forever?"
Thinking about Ian the loner being married, period, struck me as odd. But to me? And forever?
I was still trying on the idea for size when the phone rang. Linda yanked it up.
"Hello? Yes, Pablo, Jane’s sitting right here." She smiled and handed me the phone.
"Hello?" I said.
"Jane, darling. I was wondering if you could meet me for lunch. I wanted to talk about the prenuptial agreement."
For the benefit of both of us, I had brought it up before we all left Mr. Van Meter’s office last week. "Sure, how about one o’clock?"
"Yes, good. I’ll pick you up. Ciao." He hung up, and I bit into my lip, feeling a little let down at his brief conversation. On the other hand, no one liked a babbling man. And we’d have plenty of time to chat at lunch.
When I put down the receiver, it rang again, startling me. Pablo was calling back.
I picked up the phone and smiled into it. "Hello?"
"Jane? It’s Ian."
I blinked. "Hi, Ian." He didn’t sound like his usual, teasing self.
"I was wondering if we could meet for lunch."
"I...already have plans."
"With that Pueblo guy?"
I sighed. "It’s Pablo. And yes."
"Okay, then I’ll just ask you now."
My heart picked up — was he going to propose? Did he think that I expected him to? That I wanted him to? That he needed to in order to save face? Was he down on one knee? Hat off? Perspiring? Had he practiced in front of a mirror? My mind spun in a thousand directions.
"Jane, are you in love with this guy?"
I swallowed hard. "L-love? Well, this marriage is more of an arrangement between two people who care about — I mean, who accept each other. L-love doesn’t have to be in the equation...yet...or ever...really." I was rambling, I knew.
"Jane?"
I closed my eyes. "Yes, Ian?"
"I’ll give you a million dollars if you don’t marry Pablo."
I stared around the room at my audience of four and couldn’t remember when I’d ever been so nerve-wracked. Thank goodness Mr. Van Meter’s phone had rung and bought me a bit of extra time. I had no fingernails left. My stomach churned. On top of revealing my "big decision" this morning, I was operating on about 15 minutes of sleep.
My inherited cat, Boswell, had inducted me into the world of feline flu. Yes, cats can catch the flu, I learned, and their symptoms imitate humans’. (Picture me with a tiny tissue dabbing at a tiny nose, and applying ointment to tiny little eyes.) I had fretted and petted and cooed for hours, and had felt tearfully relieved this morning when he’d lifted his gray head. I was hopelessly in love with the crabby little fellow.
But I digress.
Linda had accompanied me to Mr. Van Meter’s office, where I now faced him, as well as Ian Saunders and Pablo Ricci. Both men seemed fidgety and kept glancing at each other warily. Pablo was dressed in an exquisite dark suit, a pale blue mock turtleneck, and Italian shoes.
He seemed concerned — had he heard about Ian’s offer? Pablo kept leaning forward on his knees, as if he wanted to say something.
Ian wore jeans, a khaki-colored shirt, and handmade Western boots. He drummed his fingers on the foot he had propped up on the opposite knee, and in general, looked as if he didn’t quite know how he’d gotten here. I marveled that out of all the men I had started with, the remaining two were at opposite ends of the personality spectrum, yet both so appealing in different ways.
Although I attributed my recent sleeplessness to taking care of Boswell, I confess that in between coaxing my cat to ingest vitamins, I had feverishly contemplated the possibility of being married to both men — not at once, of course, but you know what I mean.
My roommate, Linda, sat in the back of the office and offered me a reassuring smile. On the drive over, she had hinted for clues as to what my decision was, but had respected my silence. The past few days had been a virtual blur. I was still reeling over Ian’s offer to pay me $1 million if I didn’t marry Pablo. First of all, I had no idea the man had amassed that kind of wealth from his landscaping business and horse stables. Second of all, I couldn’t believe he was willing to toss such a healthy chunk of it my way to save me...although he might have made the offer to save himself :— from marrying me.
Mr. Van Meter ended his conversation and hung up the phone. He gave me a tight smile and folded his hands on his desk. "Well, now, Jane. Don’t keep us in suspense any longer. What is your decision regarding the marriage as spelled out in Miss Maxwell’s bequest?"
I opened my mouth, but only a squeak emerged. I swallowed and tried again, looking from Pablo to Ian. "I...can’t marry either one of you."
Okay, I don’t think anyone was expecting that one. The men stared back at me, and Linda made a strangled noise.
Mr. Van Meter cleared his throat to fill the awkward silence. "Jane, did you have someone else in mind to marry in the next, um, three days?"
I shook my head, feeling ridiculously close to tears. I pinched the back of my hand to regain my composure, then included both men in my gaze. "Pablo, Ian, I appreciate what each of you have gone through for me — the publicity, the embarrassing questions — I know the past few weeks haven’t been easy." I sighed. "But even though I’m grateful to both of you, and even though I’m tempted by the money —" I splayed my hands "— I simply can’t marry except for love."
I turned my attention back to Mr. Van Meter. "Miss Millie was a sweetheart to want to see me married, but as good as her intentions were, I came to the realization last night that I can’t sacrifice my values about marriage and commitment for any amount of money." I blinked back a bit of moisture, then looked at Ian and added quietly, "That includes money to marry, and money not to marry."
He studied my face, then nodded his understanding. And was that a tiny flash of relief in his eyes?
Pablo’s expression was unreadable, but I rather imagined he was calculating how much this little fiasco had cost him in terms of his time.
Meanwhile, the finality of my decision was settling into my stomach like a stone. I’d just turned down Miss Millie’s million and Ian’s million in the space of 30 seconds. Oi. Still...I consoled myself with the knowledge that I could respect myself and sleep at night.
Alone.
Linda was holding her head in her hands. I did feel guilty about her lost "finder’s fee," the 20,000 she was counting on to help start her own business. I swear if I had the money, I’d just give it to her. In consolation, I was planning to offer to do her laundry for six months. Well, okay, maybe three months.
Ian stood and ran his hand over the hat he held. "So we’re finished here?"
He was looking at me, not Mr. Van Meter. I hesitated, then conjured up a smile and nodded. Ian and I would never be anything more than good friends. I mourned that revelation and joined the legions of women whose circle of longtime acquaintances included that one great guy with all the appearances of a great match...but for some cosmic reason, the relationship just missed the mark.
Ian smiled back, plunked his hat on his hairless head and touched the brim, then walked toward the door. Linda lifted her head and stood with a sigh. "I need to get back to work. I’ll talk to you later, Jane."
I winced and nodded. Maybe I’d extend that laundry offer to nine months.
Mr. Van Meter stood, as well. "Jane, in light of your decision, I need to retrieve an alternate set of papers for you to sign. Please excuse me a moment." From his expression and tone, his estimation of me seemed to have increased a notch. He left me alone with Pablo, and I rushed to apologize.
"Pablo, I’m so, so sorry —"
"No," he cut in, and surprised me by leaning forward to capture my hand between his two warm ones. "I’m the one who should be apologizing, Jane." He looked up, and I had the feeling of being cloaked by a warm blanket. (I was pretty sleepy, so my analogies were running toward bedclothes.)
He sighed, and his breath smelled sweet. "I’m used to seeing something I want, and buying it. I was attracted to you from the first time I saw you up to your neck in fabric swatches at Ms. Thornberry’s." He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "You put up with that woman’s demands with such grace and good humor. In you I saw a young, bright, sensitive, creative person — the kind of woman I wanted to mother my child. But I thought you would probably think I was too old for you, so instead of taking the time to woo you, I saw my chance to strike a deal. I truly believed you would come to care for me later." He wet his lips. "I handled the situation abominably, but I would be forever grateful if we could start over."
My heart unfolded a tiny bit. "Start over?"
"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
I bit into my lip. "I’d love to, but my cat is ill and I’d like to stay near him."
"How about if I bring over takeout, and we’ll watch him together?"
I blinked. This was a side of Pablo I hadn’t seen. Domestic. I liked it. "That sounds...wonderful." Of course I wouldn’t be able to sew any pillow covers this evening, but I could probably catch up over the weekend. I would need those extra dollars to pay for Boswell’s vet bills.
Pablo’s grin made my mind skip ahead to things I hadn’t allowed myself to imagine. This was turning out not to be the worst day of my life after all.
He squeezed my hand. "See you at seven?"
I nodded, and closed my eyes when he kissed the corner of my mouth. Ding-dong. At least I’d have a spot of good news to impart to my mother when she called.
He and Mr. Van Meter passed at the door and shook hands. I glanced at the stack of papers in the attorney’s hand and balked — apparently, turning down a truckload of money required a great deal of paperwork.
Mr. Van Meter reclaimed his seat, leaned back, and was quiet for so long, I felt compelled to ask, "Is something wrong?"
Finally, a little smile played on his mouth. "No. In fact, I have some very good news for you, Jane."
I lifted my eyebrows.
"It’s true that by not fulfilling the terms of Miss Maxwell’s will, you have foregone the $1 million that she bequeathed to you. The money now reverts to her next heir."
I still didn’t get it.
"Boswell."
Now I got it, although I was stunned. "She left $1 million to her cat?"
"To your cat. And you are executor of the money. Congratulations, Jane, you are a rich woman." He lifted an envelope from the top of the stack of papers. "Miss Maxwell left this letter for you."
I swallowed hard. I was rich, or rather, my cat was. With a shaky hand, I took the envelope and removed a letter written in small elegant script.
I read the letter quickly, then smiled through sudden tears. My clever old friend had changed the course of my life forever.
I closed my eyes and thought of Pablo’s eyes, the warmth of his hands.
Yes.… Thanks to Miss Millie, my life would never be the same!
The End!