It's 10:00 pm on Saturday night — date night — and I'm sitting on the couch in my fuzziest robe tallying my evening's thrilling activities. Laundry done. Refrigerator and oven cleaned. Kitty litter changed. Manicure, pedicure and leg wax accomplished. Sock drawer in pristine condition and arranged by length — ankle, calf, knee-high, thigh-high and full-fledged pantyhose. If there is a more boring, mind-numbing way to spend a weekend night, I don't know about it. Yet.
I even replaced that mechanical man on my answering machine with my own greeting. "Hi!" my perkiest voice chirps. "You've reached Jenna Kirk. I'm unable to answer your call right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you." It's just like everything else in my life these days — excruciatingly ordinary.
I've been suffering from terminal boredom since David Martin and I decided to go our separate ways. We had an amicable parting and, as an extravagant show of freedom, David signed up for a month in South America with medical missionaries to fill teeth and left me, on my own, to get a life.
David and I have always been more each other's safety nets than lifelong romances. As long as David was around my mother was happy that I had "someone" in my life. Better yet, my annoying married sisters couldn't tease me about being an "old maid." And, probably most significant, David and I were both building businesses important to us — his dental practice, my mortgage company — and we understood each other. I made use of the energy that my friends were employing to find a mate and get married to build my business and to volunteer for a host of my favorite charities.
But now I've discovered that, for me, at least, looking for love is one of those muscles that if you don't use, you lose. After flying practically solo for so long, I'm very out of shape in the couples' department.
The only male of the species I've noticed with any interest so far is the hunky guy down the hall — Mike Morrison. He must put woman-repellant on every morning because so far he's certainly kept us all at bay. I've only heard him say a few words including "Hello," "Goodbye," and "You're parked in my spot." He didn't say anything at all when he found my forgotten nightie in the clothes dryer in the laundry room. He just rang the bell, held it out to me, flushed red and left. He makes most strong, silent types look like chatterboxes.
The phone rings and I grab for it like a drowning woman for a life raft. "Hello?"
"Hi, it's me," my friend Amy says, cheerfully. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing." That's an understatement.
"Missing David?"
"Not as much as I should. I miss his company, of course, and his friendship, but we all know that what David and I had was a 'handy' relationship. I do miss is having something to do on weekend nights. When we were together, we both knew we had plans for the weekend because we had each other. He's left a huge hole in my social life. We were always busy but never… ."
"… in love?"
"We were 'in like,' I suppose. David and I were each other's 'habit.'"
"Welcome to the rest of the world, Jenna. You two were just so busy establishing yourselves, that your dating 'habit' was enough. But now that your mortgage company is doing well that you can relax, you've discovered there's more out there than interest rates, loans and thirty-year mortgages."
"You're right and … and I feel stupid saying this…but I'm not sure I know how to act any more. I've been so focused for the last six years on growing the business that the idea of dating again is almost … scary. How many Christian men are there out there, Amy? And how do I find them?" Had I spent so much time building my business and hanging out with David that I'd allowed the best part of my life — the part in which people usually fall in love and get married — to fly by?
"You're just rusty, that's all. You've allowed yourself to become the Tin Man of romance." Amy imitates the sounds of an oil can greasing squeaky joints. "I know just the one who can get you up and running. Turn on KWKK, the Christian radio station. There's a guy on there that will give you hope. And he's great to listen to. He has a voice like melted butter." With that, Amy hung up.
If a person could die of boredom, I'd be a goner. It's a weekend night and my only date is a late night talk show host. How pathetic is that?
Melted butter, huh? A sudden craving for popcorn hits me. I turn on the radio on the way to the kitchen.
"Welcome to The Midnight Hour, KWKK's innovative new radio show for singles. Home alone on a Saturday night? Here's good news — a talk show with relevance just for you. It's talk radio for those Christians who haven't found that perfect mate and those who enjoy the single life. No child-rearing experts here. No advice on how to potty train that toddler or get your husband to pick up his towels. In fact, tonight's guest is Jean Landers, owner of The Gift of Love Christian dating service. So, Jean, tell us a little about yourself and how you came to create The Gift of Love… ."
I stare at the radio as though a little television screen will pop up ay any minute and let me see the man behind the voice. If he is even a fraction as delicious as his sultry voice, he'd be a dream come true. I turn up the radio so I can hear it over the sound of kernels popping in the microwave. By the time Jean Landers invites the DJ, who calls himself Ryder Williams, to sign up for her dating service free of charge, I'm a little bit in love.
"Thanks, but not right now." His chuckle is a deep rumble in his chest, "I'm not ready for that yet. I'm still recovering from a break-up myself so I know the pain some of our single listeners are feeling. But when I'm ready, you'll be one of the first to know."
Then that intimate personal voice spoke directly to me.
"How about it listeners? Let's take some calls. Are you looking for love and want to ask our guest some questions? Or do you have something to say to those of us not quite ready to venture into the dating scene yet? Remember Genesis 28:15. You may be lonely but you aren't alone. 'I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go… I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.' Wherever you are in your life, whether you are alone by choice or not, He's there. He's the relationship you need first. I see the phone lines are beginning to light up, so we'll go to caller number one… ."
I drop the now-empty popcorn bag, lean back on the couch and let my cat Bob crawl onto my lap. A man who's been hurt by a relationship gone wrong. That voice alone is enough to make my legs wobbly. A smart, Christian man. A man who doesn't jump from the frying pan into the fire. One who wants to heal from one relationship before starting another. Who could ask for more?
I feel mildly cheered as I pick Bob up and go to bed. At least a man like that exists even though he's just a disembodied voice to me… .
For now.
Ryder Williams has been on my mind all day long. I wish I had his picture — no matter what he looked like — on my desk to remind me that there are still desirable, single men left in the world.
The problem with being a mortgage broker is that I spend all day, every day with happy couples — buying their first homes, building their dream houses, wanting more space in order to make room for more children, choosing their retirement locales or lake cabins. I have never had a single man come in to ask for a mortgage to build a dream home for the perfect woman he hasn't found yet.
"Are you daydreaming again, Jenna?" My secretary Millie is standing in the doorway grinning at me.
I'm quickly brought back to the real world. "Sorry. I've had a busy morning… ."
Millie is the ideal secretary for me. We think alike. When I ask Millie for something, she's already handing it to me. The unfortunate part is that sometimes I think she can read my mind.
"You've changed," Millie says bluntly, staring at me.
"I don't think so… ."
"Ever since David trotted off to fill teeth in the tropics you've seemed lost and sort of dreamy."
"Don't be silly. Me? 'Dreamy?'" I like to think I have my feet planted firmly on the ground.
"Okay, if you say so." Millie disappears, leaving a trail of doubt behind her.
I chuckle at Millie's ridiculous idea. It was ridiculous, wasn't it? Just because I no longer had David to rely on was no reason to panic. There had to be wonderful Christian men out there who weren't entombed in the catacombs. It didn't help that the singles club at church had recently been combined with the over-sixty group and what few hardy — meaning desperate — souls were left after the merger had vanished into the woodwork. Talk about looking your own mortality in the face.
If Millie had intended to make me uncomfortable, her ploy had worked perfectly. Now restlessness niggled at the corners of my consciousness. Who does one talk to about being on the dark side of thirty with no love interest in sight?
Ryder Williams, of course. I could practically hear his voice in my ears. Just listen to The Midnight Hour.
On my way home I'm so distracted that I nearly drive over my neighbor in our underground parking garage as he lies sprawled under his car changing oil.
"Hi," I say, greeting a pair of kneecaps. "You should be more careful. If I hadn't seen a glimmer of that trouble light you're using under there, I could have taken you out at the knees."
Although all I can see of him is two denim-clad legs and some really cool boots, I recognize him from the coffee mug beside the tire. No one in the building but Mike carries a cup with "Save the Kumquats" printed on it.
His knees bend a little as he puts the soles of his boots on the concrete, but he doesn't make an effort to creep himself from beneath the car. I hear a muffled "Sorry" drift from somewhere under the chassis. Well, so much for a stimulating conversation.
Then, after a long pause, he adds, "Did you know your muffler is coming loose?"
I squat at the back of my car, peer underneath it and sigh. I knew it was a little noisy back there but… .
"Do you have someone you can take it to?" His voice is muffled from beneath his convertible.
"No, but I have a phone book. I'll find one, thanks."
I make my way towards the stairs up to my apartment, where I run into Mrs. Ingerson.
"Hello, dear. Do you have time for tea?"
"I always have time for you." Clara Ingerson was the first to welcome me when I moved into the building. I'll never forget her sweet face peering over a still-warm loaf of cranberry bread. "Welcome home, my dear," she had said. "You're going to love it here."
And I have. Granted, I, my headless neighbor under the car and a handful of others are the youngest in the building by twenty or thirty years, but I love the camaraderie and the concern we all have for one another. I just avoid the monthly hi-cal potlucks and we get along fine.
"Did you see Mike in the garage?" Mrs. Ingerson asks. "Fixing a car?"
"Yes, but he didn't say much."
"Oh, he never does. I think he's shy."
Maybe that's why he stayed hidden under that car. I thought he might have been ignoring me because of the laundry incident.
It's 9:59 pm and I am poised in front of the radio with Bob beside me giving himself a bath. I try to ignore the disgusting ablutions and wait for Ryder to come on the air.
"Nobody really has the name 'Ryder,' do they?" I ask my cat. Of course who'd name a cat Bob?
"Welcome to the Midnight Hour, the program for and about Christian singles. . . ." I jump a little at the sound of his electrifying voice. "Tonight is call-in night. For those of you who are regular listeners the lines are open, and I invite all newcomers to call in too if there's something about living single that's getting you down. But first, here's the song that reached the top of the Christian charts just today… ."
His smooth, reassuring voice, wise words and obviously steady faith make me almost believe there is somebody "out there" for me. But for now, I'll settle for Ryder's company. After all, he doesn't care if I'm waxing my legs in a ratty old t-shirt or eating Cheez Whiz from a jar. All his listeners are beautiful to him. What a guy.
It's not until 11:45 that I build up the nerve to dial the radio station's number.
"KWKK. Are you calling The Midnight Hour?"
"I am, but… . " Before I realize what's happening, I hear the Midnight Ryder himself croon into my ear.
"You're on the air. What's your name and your question?"
No one can say I don't have quick reflexes. Without hesitating, I give my middle name, Anne, and blurt, "I've been away from the dating scene for a long time. I don't have any . . . I wouldn't know how to . . . I'm looking for . . . I need. . . where do I start?"
Who is this pathetic person using my mouth?
That wasn't what I'd planned to say, but it was probably closer to the truth. I'd planned to be cool and sophisticated, as if I were above this stuff, but obviously I'm not.
There's a brief, sympathetic silence on the air, then, "It's tough, isn't it, finding your way back into life? Listeners, I think Anne could use some help here, so if you have some advice for her, call in at… ."
Suddenly I'm the most popular girl on the airwaves as advice and consolation floods in.
Later I lie in bed beating myself up for being so pathetic as to call in on a stupid radio show and, at the same time, I pat myself on the back for actually having spoken to Ryder in person. Even over the airwaves, the man is an invisible magnet, drawing me in.
That's one interesting woman, Ryder thinks, slipping into his car. He rolls down the top and drives from the parking lot into the silky night air. He snickers a little. Annie, huh? She'd probably given her middle name. He'd known immediately that she wasn't the type to call radio talk shows often. She must be at a low point in her life. I wish I could help her. His hands tighten on the steering wheel. But I need to help myself first.
Images of Meggie flood his mind. Beautiful, gullible Meggie who had broken their engagement for a slick English guy who had wooed her away with his claim of being a shirt-tale royal, with stories of climbing the Alps and riding elephants in India.
He recalls the day he and Meggie met. At the time, it had seemed so easy for them to fall into step. He'd thought it was love, but maybe it was simply the path of least resistance for Meggie. Ryder shudders. He'd come very close to making a huge mistake. He planned to marry only once in his lifetime. If — and it was a big 'if' — he ever proposed to someone again that he would be very, very cautious.
"Father," he murmurs softly. "I'm giving up on women and finally allowing You find the one for me. Just let me know when she arrives. No offense, but until then, I'm steering clear of the opposite sex."
Late. I'm never late! Of course, I don't usually stay up until midnight having a one-sided conversation with a faceless radio personality. The only saving grace is that I own my business and the last person I'd fire is me. I'd demand way too big a severance package.
I twist my hair up and secure it with a clip. Hoping everyone will think I've gone for casual and not unkempt, I slide into the first dress I find and grab a bagel on my way out the door.
I'm in such a hurry I almost miss seeing the coffee cup on the hood of my car. It's Mike's cup. I remember he had it yesterday, sitting by his legs while he was sprawled under his car. I lift the cup to check for marks on my finish, mutter something about him being lucky nothing happened to it, jump in and start my car. Something is missing. I cock my head and listen. I takes me a moment to realize what's missing — the noise from my dilapidated muffler.
I get out and circle to the back of the car and peer beneath it to see that the muffler is back where it should be — fully attached to the underside of the car. Good as new. Positive I haven't been infested with garage elves, I look again at the coffee cup. Has Mike done this for me? How nice. How truly sweet. Reminding myself to thank him tonight, I race to the office.
When I return from work, I spot Mike carrying a basket of clothing toward the laundry room.
"Thank you for your help with the muffler," I call, hoping he'll stop and let me expound on how much I appreciate what he's done. Instead, he dips his head and does a 180-degree turn into the room so abruptly that I'm tempted to check to see if my deodorant is still working,
"Well, that was friendly," says Amy. I spin around to find my friend standing behind me with a large pizza and liter of soda in her hands.
"What do you mean? That's the most he's ever talked to me. Why, the way he chattered on…" Even though I'm joking, I feel a little sting. He'd fixed my car, for goodness' sake, but he couldn't say "hello?"
"I'm not much for the strong, silent type," Amy comments as we head back to my apartment. "I like a man who can verbalize his feelings and isn't afraid of his emotions." She looks at me slyly and I can guess what's coming next. "Like Ryder, the guy from The Midnight Hour. Yummy."
"You stayed up last night, too?" I blurt before I could stop myself.
"Gotcha! So you are still listening!"
"No fair."
"All is fair in love and war, Jenna," my friend intones in a voice so grave that next I expect her to say, "Quoth the raven, nevermore."
"Listen, Amy…"
"I know, I know. I'm the only one in the world you told about that dreadful blind date you had after David left." I shudder. If that guy ever did marry, I'd make sure there was a sympathy card winging its way to the poor woman with such bad taste.
What had seemed a perfectly nice gentleman that my secretary, Millie, knew only slightly — and had assured me "had always been a perfect gentleman" — had become an amorous hands-on beast between the main course and the after-dinner espresso. Boy, do I hate blind dates.
"Let's just say that next time I go on a date, I pick the man."
"How about that one?" Amy tips her head toward Mike, who's escaped down the hall.
"Yup. Okay. Uh-huh. Him. It's a deal," I say as I lead the way into my apartment. That was an easy pledge to make. He'd be as easy to catch as liquid mercury. It's a safe promise, no doubt about that.
"I dare you," Amy says, a familiar but unwelcome look in her eye.
"Aw, Amy, don't do that! I hate it when you do that!"
Amy and I have been friends since childhood. She knows better than anyone that my biggest weakness involves those three words. I dare you. That's how she'd gotten me to cut my hair with blunt school scissors in first grade, stick my tongue on the frozen post of the school swing set and hundreds of other even more embarrassing things over the years. I believe I am genetically unable to say no to an "I dare you."
"l'll give you a month. If you aren't on a first name basis and haven't gone out for coffee together by then, you have to give me those new Manolo Blahniks of yours that I've been admiring."
"Are you kidding? I love those shoes."
She crosses her arms over her chest and waits.
"Amy, I just can't —" and, as usual, my competitive nature takes over " — waste more than three weeks on this nonsense."
"Then you will have a date with Mr. Makes-Himself-Scarce or I get the shoes."
"Don't count your Blahniks before they're hatched," I say sweetly while mentally kicking myself all around the kitchen for being so gullible as to fall for this again. "Now, do you want extra peppers on your pizza?"
Mike pauses inside his door and scrapes his fingers through thick, dark brown hair. So, she figured out it was me who fixed her car. I suppose she'd have to be an idiot not to, but I'd have liked it better if she hadn't realized what was different for a couple days. That not letting your left hand know what your right hand is doing in Matthew 6:3 isn't easy. What's more, I don't want her to think I have mixed motives or some big design on her even though she is really a knock-out. And I certainly don't want her to think she owes me anything.
Why are things so complicated? Under other circumstances and at another time I might have been — no, would have been — on her doorstep in a heartbeat, borrowing sugar or needing a lightbulb or any other even slightly plausible excuse for getting to know her. But now…
His eyes wander to the framed picture still on his coffee table. "I'm keeping you right there, Meggie, where I can see you, to remind me that I need to be careful," he says to himself. "Even the most beautiful girl in the world — and I have to admit Jenna Kirk is close — won't tempt me now. I'm steering clear of women from now on. Except on the radio, of course. I might be avoiding women, but not my alter ego. Ryder Williams can be as charming and appealing as he wants."
Mike leans against the foyer wall with a small smile. Very few people in the world know who Ryder Williams is and I'm going to keep it that way.
Lord, help me through this one, will You? Everything is going well in my business, I have a lovely place to live, great girlfriends, a family that loves me and I'm still feeling edgy and dissatisfied. I'm so grateful to You that my heart aches with love and awe for You. And still, I'm restlessness. It's that goofy challenge Amy gave me. I'm in danger of making a fool of myself just to prove a point, and I'm not even sure what the point might be.
I look around at the others enjoying their coffee in the little shop where I've come to re-caffeinate and write in my journal. I chew on the end of my pen for a moment before continuing to write. My journal is where I go when I want to sort things out. My friend Whitney Blake recommended it. She's dubbed her journal The Whitney Chronicles and says she wouldn't be able to manage without it. Whitney is an extraordinary person and if it works for her, who am I to argue?
As I jot "Amy's birthday next Thursday" I have a brilliant idea. I'll just buy Amy the shoes. The card can say "Happy Birthday and You Win." Two birds with one stone. And I can put her challenge to rest.
"So, how's it going?" Amy inquires casually a few minutes later as she joins me. "I hear you have a date tonight."
I close my eyes and groan. Millie had found me at a weak moment — on the way out the door for lunch — and asked me if I'd go with her cousin Albert to a business dinner. In my haste and hungry condition, I impulsively told Millie that I'd be happy to go.
I've known Albert for years — through his scrawny, pumped and obese stages. He's dieting now and is back to mildly flabby. When he's struggling with his weight, he refuses to ask new women out so Millie is usually his date.
Though I'm enforcing a moratorium on blind dates Albert isn't exactly a blind one, although he is a little myopic. And that joke's funny only if you know he has glasses the thickness of Coke bottles and the sense of humor shared by so many computer whizzes — none.
Going out with Albert is part favor-for-a-friend, part great food and part just getting out of the house. Since Albert wouldn't be interested in me unless I sprouted icons, mice (or is it mousies), a plasma screen and had "Dell" tattooed across my forehead, I can spend our time looking at the scenery and enjoying the food.
I meet Albert at the restaurant, and he grabs my hand as soon as he sees me. "Jenna, I appreciate this. My boss is really pleased I'm here. I didn't want to come alone and you're perfect. You never make any big demands on me, I mean… ." Albert looked worried. "I didn't mean to offend you… ."
"No worries, Al. I wasn't busy tonight."
He scrutinizes me in this odd way he has. It's almost like being dissected like a frog in biology class. "I don't understand why you're still single. I mean, if I weren't such a computer geek and all, I'd go out with you."
"You are out with me, Albert."
"Oh. Yeah. Well, somebody else should do it too."
And that was the highlight of my evening. It all went downhill from there.
"Do you think they're movie stars?" Albert asks, pointing his fork in the direction of the doorway.
I turn to see where he is pointing and nearly drop my jaw into my tiramisu. The woman is fawn-colored from the top of her upswept hair to the hem of her beaded floor length dress, a monochromatic wonder. Her dark brown eyes and a topaz stone on a gold slide on the necklace around her neck are like dramatic punctuation marks. The man, with deep brown curly hair, soft blue eyes with a hint of the Caribbean in them, is wearing expensively casual clothing and highly polished boots. They look stunning together. And one half of "they" is my neighbor Mike Morrison.
At least, it's Mike Morrison inhabited by an alien movie star — one who is suave and dashing and a little like Little Joe Cartwright, whom I'd fallen in love with on the "Bonanza" re-runs. Where has my reticent, reclusive yet hunky neighbor gone? Who has turned him into this… this… masterpiece? His clothes, his attitude, even the way he holds himself is so… yummy!
I find myself automatically assessing my own put-togetherness. I'm glad I've gone all out for Albert's sake — the invaluable little black dress with simple beading, the upswept "do," and the heels that made my legs look long and athletic. Still, I look like a scrubwoman next to those two.
"What's wrong?" Albert asks, peering at me through his soda bottles.
"Oh, nothing. Just someone I thought I knew."
Albert looks longingly at the beautiful woman on Mike's arm. Was that drool I was seeing on the corners of his lips? "Yeah. I wish I knew her too."
What's Jenna doing here? And who's the guy? He doesn't look like her type at all… not that it's my business.
To his surprise, Mike is experiencing a strange emotion, especially considering it's directed toward someone he barely knows: jealousy.
Mike glances at his producer, Tricia, who is pointing him toward the private room off the main dining room where they are to meet some potential investors for the station.
My emotions are totally out of kilter. I'm being protective of a woman who doesn't need protecting. There's just something about her… . But the guy looks like he's saying something to make her smile. I have no business interrupting them. Not that she'd expect me to anyway.
Paradoxically, Mike feels sorry about that. For the first time in a long while, he is almost regretting that he's given up women.
If I were inclined to pout or sulk, this would be as good a time as any, I think as I sit outside enjoying the morning sun.
Things are in a maddening and exasperating downward spiral. First, David leaves and I discover that I've somehow forgotten to get a life. Second, I discover I'm quite attracted to my reclusive single neighbor down the hall. Third, Amy gives me that dumb dare that I'm even dumber enough to accept. Fourth, I love my Manolo Blahnik shoes and now I'm going to have to give them up.
Fifth, my reclusive fellow apartment dweller isn't so reclusive, after all. Sixth, the woman he sees is drop-dead gorgeous. Seventh, Mike has seen me with Albert, which gives the impression that a) I have someone in my life and b) I'm drawn to men who entertain me by drawing computer schematics on tablecloths in beet pickle juice. I may just as well begin planning the wake I'll be giving my shoes.
On beautiful weekend mornings, I often wander out to the small garden that forms the atrium in the center of the apartment complex in my sweats, even before my shower. Today, I am not alone in my quest for fresh air.
"Hi," I say perkily as Mike wanders by.
"Hi," he says sleepily, no doubt exhausted from the previous evening's rollicking activities. He's holding an empty coffee mug in his hand as if he's out foraging for Juan Valdez, his donkey and a strong hit of Juan's Columbian brew.
Now what? We've already exhausted the full extent of our conversational abilities. I do, however, happen to have a carafe of very fine French Roast on the table beside me. Bait. I don't even care about the shoes anymore. Mike presents such a fine challenge that every competitive fiber in my being is twanging like an electrical wire. I'm going to make this guy talk if it takes all the coffee beans in the Andes.
I hold up my carafe in offering. His eyes flicker warily and he glances around to see if he's been trapped or if there are still ways to escape. Reluctantly, he holds out his cup. The man must be desperate. It's time to make my first move. I hold out the carafe, about to pour, and then withdraw it and murmur sweetly, "Care to sit down first?"
I know I should be ashamed of the feeling of triumph surging through me as he grudgingly drops into the chair across from mine. This is the closest I've ever been to my prey and still there's a wrought-iron table, pottery and a flowerpot between us.
As I fill the mug, he grabs it with both hands and as soon as it's full, lifts it to his mouth in relief. After about four swallows, he opens his eyes and I notice they're clearing. I am again reminded of the Caribbean and how much I want to go there.
"Thanks," he says. "I'm no good in the morning without coffee."
"Did you sleep badly?"
"Nah. I always sleep like a log, but I work nights and I have a hard time getting started this early in the morning."
Work nights, huh? Was last night what you call a "working" night?
Then God tweaks my conscience. Behave. That's not the way I want a child of Mine to think.
"Sorry," I murmur, not even realizing I've spoken aloud. "I'll be good."
God and I have a running conversation. I consult Him, He guides me and on occasion, He figuratively waggles a finger at me and says "Tut, tut, dear, behave yourself." We have a close working relationship, God and I. We're both working on me all the time.
"Huh?" Mike looks at me bleary-eyed, wondering if I'd spoken to him.
Even barefoot in washed-out jeans and a snug white T-shirt he looks handsome. Watch it, Jenna. Here I am wishing I'd been the woman with him last night! I am in big trouble. Amy's challenge is becoming way too personal.
"Did you have a nice dinner last night?" I blurt, not wanting him to take my coffee and run.
He looks as if he is trying to recall the evening before. "Oh, that. Sure. Food's always good there."
I can't imagine that he'd pay that much attention to the food in that atmosphere and with that beautiful woman. Unless, of course, it was de rigueur for him — just another job. No wonder he barely seems to notice me. He travels in a different stratosphere.
"Thanks again for fixing my car. You didn't have to —"
"No problem. I usually check and change Mrs. Ingerson's oil when I do mine, so I was doing garage duty, anyway."
The garage Samaritan. He certainly is quiet about it.
He refills his cup, pushes away from the table and stands up, almost before I realize he is escaping.
"Thanks for the java. Have a good day." He walks off.
I look at my face in the reflection of the stainless steel carafe. What am I, chopped liver? I can't even keep a guy interested in hanging around when I've got Starbucks to offer!
Goodbye, my lovely three-inch heels.
"How are my shoes doing, Jenna?" Amy asks cheerfully when I pick up the telephone.
"They're walking your way — fast. This was a dumb idea. It serves me right for letting my pride and love of a challenge get in the way of my common sense. I'm sure there's a lesson in this that I need to learn. God works that way with me sometimes."
"You sound as if you've given up."
I feel like I've given up, too. It's not about the shoes or the game Amy and I have played many times over the years. It's about the fact that I really am interested in Mike Morrison and he really isn't interested in me.
Even though I live in the twenty-first century, I had certain ideas instilled in me by my very proper mother. One is that women don't "chase" men. "If he likes you, he'll call you," she'd say. The idea stuck. Mike doesn't even like me well enough to talk to me. It hurts, because I already care too much.…
I don't like feeling vulnerable or being at risk of heartbreak. Maybe that's why David and I hung out together for so long, because neither of us liked rejection very much. Had we simply been two cowards in cahoots all along?
I don't wear the garb of the martyr well, I decide, after getting off the phone with Amy and spending the evening contemplating my new observation. Sack cloth itches. I'm not one to sit around and stew. I like to take action, even if I don't know what the appropriate action might be. I suppose that's why my fingers take on a life of their own at 10:30 and dial the phone number for KWKK.
"This is The Midnight Hour. Who have I got on the line?" Ryder's voice in my ear seems so intimate and private that I choose to forget, for the moment, that he has thousands of listeners in an entire midsection of the country.
"This is Anne…" I automatically begin to lower my voice as I had the last time I'd called, as if I were keeping some big secret. Even Amy would freak if she knew what I was up to.
"Anne from the other evening?" he says, sounding pleased.
"That's me. But how did you remember…"
"I hoped you'd call back sometime… We took call-ins that night and the show was over before you and I could talk." His voice invites me to sit back and relax, to trust him implicitly, like Freud encouraging me to lie down on his couch for just a moment.…
Amazed at his memory, all caution flies to the wind and I blurt, "I've found someone I really like, but he barely knows I exist. I was wondering if —"
"How do you know he 'barely knows' you exist?" His voice holds a touch of amusement, as if that were impossible to imagine.
"Because he seldom puts two words together in a sentence when he's around me. And he's always looking for a way to escape an extended conversation. I'm not even sure he remembers my name. And he's like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde around me. He'll do something sweet for me —" like fix my car, I think "— and then vanish."
"What if he's just shy?" Ryder inquires. "There are a few of us left out there, you know."
"You're shy, too? Then why are you on the air when thousands can listen.…"
"Because they can only listen," he says with patient amusement. "Obviously, you aren't a shy person…Anne." He makes my name sound like a caress.
"No, I guess not."
"Then just be yourself around this guy. Assume for the moment that he is shy and you're the one who's meant to bring him out of his shell."
"Do you think that will work?"
He pauses and then in measured tones says, "It would work on me."
Oooh. Pleasant thought.
"Have you been praying about this, Anne? No matter how it works out, remember Proverbs 16:9. 'In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.'"
I've been planning my own itinerary, all right, not depending enough on God to show me where it was He wanted me to go. Isaiah 30:21 materializes in my head. "Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you saying, 'This is the way: walk in it.'"
Of course. God knows where I need to be. I sigh into Ryder's ear for all the world to hear. "You're right. Thanks. I'll just turn it over to Him — again."
Another delicious chuckle across the airwaves. "It's a good lesson for all of us, Anne. And now, I see that the message board is going crazy so I have to get back to the calls. I see we have Cynthia from Denver on the line…"
The line goes dead but I stare at the phone for a while, anyway. I put the receiver down gently and murmur, "Thank you for the reminder, Lord, of Who is in charge here. From now on will you guide my word and my steps? You've made me what I am so help me to be that — and the best of what I am."
And, as I slip into bed with Bob who is purring like a 747, I decide that what I am is outgoing, friendly, competitive, persistent and definitely not shy. So that's who I am going to be from now on when I'm around my hunky, possibly shy neighbor — just plain old me.
As he ends his call with Anne, Ryder shakes his head. I've got to be more careful. I'm the host of a Christian singles program. I can't play favorites with my guests even though I probably could talk to Anne all evening.
He realizes that no other caller has ever gotten to him the way Anne has. She has this underground river of humor that keeps bubbling to the surface. All she has to do is ease up a little. Getting to know a guy isn't like going on a guerrilla mission in the jungle or doing it as if she had something at stake on the outcome.
All I know is that I'm glad I'm on her side in this.
Is it possible to fall for someone you've never laid eyes on before?
Being me isn't as easy as it sounds. "Me" is a doer, an initiator, a campaigner, a take-the-bull-by-the-horns person. It's fine in the business world, but not nearly so useful in affairs of the heart.
But that is me and I have to deal with it. Besides being a take-action person, I am also a great cook. My father worked as a cook in the Navy before he became a civil engineer and my mother, after a few years in the trenches cooking lunch for elementary school kids, worked for a kitchen gadget store and wrote three popular cookbooks.
Needless to say, the stove was seldom off at our house. I was helping Mom scramble eggs before I was three and knew what huevos rancheros were long before I knew where Mexico was on the map. I could make a salsa to die for and name forty varieties of cheeses — including asagio, liederkranz and montrachet — before the end of first grade. (Weird, I know, but some kids remember the names of dinosaurs.…)
So for the time being, I choose to be the part of myself that loves to cook. I immediately work out a tasty pesto-tomato bruschette, quesadilla with garlic chicken, green chile enchiladas, a chili-stuffed steak, arroz verde and a nice quasi-Mexican cinnamon-sugared tortilla cup in which to serve ice cream.
Since cooking is therapy for me, I've made enough food to feed the Mexican army. Now I have to find a way to get rid of it. Fortunately, Mrs. Ingerson may solve the problem for me.
"It smells wonderful in the hall by your apartment, Jenna. What are you cooking?" She pokes her head into my partially open front door. I wave her in with a slotted spoon and gesture at the counters. I'm midtaste on some croissant bread pudding I'd made so my mouth is full. "Are you having company?"
I make a mental note to add just a tad less cream next time and swallow.
"No, not yet. Do you know anyone in the building who likes Mexican food?"
"Let's have a party! That nice young Mike is coming by with my car keys in an hour. Just about dinnertime. He washes it for me, you know. You bring the food, I'll set the table. That handsome widower down the hall has lost a little weight. I'm sure he's not cooking properly for himself. I wonder if we could get him to come.…" She wanders out, making a party list.
I grin and shake my head. Mrs. Ingerson has her eye on the "handsome widower," huh? Does this romantic nonsense never end? Apparently we never grow out of it.
To my surprise, they both accept the invitation. "You cooked this?" Mike asks, sounding strangled. "By yourself?"
"I'm just a regular Susie Homemaker," I retort. The way he flinches, I know I'd chosen my words unwisely. Note to self: do not refer to homemaking — he equates it with marriage.
Seeing the benefit of keeping my mouth shut for anything other than eating, I turn my attention to Mrs. Ingerson and the Handsome Widower whose name is actually Fred. She looks and acts twenty years younger than she did yesterday. She is also behaving as if she'd lovingly cooked every morsel herself — just for Fred. She coos and fusses over the two men and leaves me in the role of schlepping servant girl. Both men are quite taken by our little gray-haired lady. I couldn't help asking myself the age-old question: What does she have that I don't?
"So you had him over for dinner?" Amy helps herself to my leftovers after work the next day. "Do you have any more of the quesadillas?"
"In the fridge." I drop into a kitchen chair. "And we were so captivated by the two geriatric lovebirds that we said very little to each other. And then Mrs. Ingerson linked arms with both men and announced that she'd be delighted to have both 'her' men walk her home."
"She only lives across the hall!"
"Maybe they took a tour through the janitor's room, I don't know. I have a high school infatuation with a completely disinterested man. It is totally out of character for me and terribly annoying." I throw my hands in the air like the drama queen I can be. "I give up."
Amy squints at me. "I've never heard you say that before. Even when you started your business and things were tough, not once did I hear you consider conceding. Many times when I would have thrown in the towel, you just became more determined to make the business happen."
"That is a business. This is a relationship. There's quite a difference."
Amy furrows her brow. "It isn't like you to give up. Shouldn't you change your hairdo, buy some glamorous new clothes and try to knock his socks off?"
I've never been sure of the relationship between a woman's clothing and a man's footwear but Amy's questions did jar something in me.
"That is so not me, Amy. I made a promise to myself to just be who I am. That's who God created me to be. If Mike likes that, great. If not, too bad. What I will go out and buy are some cozy new sweats and a pair of Birkenstocks."
"Sunk," my friend intones. "Now you're sunk."
Actually, having stated my case for Amy, I feel much better. Mike isn't the only fish in the sea. And if a guy can't love me for myself sans a closet full of evening gowns and fancy shoes, why would I want him? After Amy leaves I feel compelled to pick up my Bible and see what it had to say about my decision to forego sore feet for comfort.
I love Proverbs because it's such a savvy, with-it book and it has wisdom for just about any situation. I find the thirty-first verse and read "…Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain…" Oooo-kay. Got it.
I flip through the book looking for whatever verse was meant to catch my eye. Not only does a verse catch my eye, it pokes a finger in it. "Like a gold ring in a pig's snout is a beautiful woman without good sense."
There's something about Jenna these days, thinks Mike. She's more relaxed when we meet in the hall. She's also been baking up a storm. She's the most beautiful, funny, creative woman I've ever met. If I were to decide to date again…and I'm not… it would have to be someone like her.
Who am I kidding? I'm dying to ask her out. This is killing me. I can't get her off my mind. It might help if I had issues to think about concerning the station, but everything is going just as I'd hoped. The Midnight Hour is a huge success. My producer is smiling like the cat that got the cream over that. Still, Jenna is always there in the back of my mind. She's smart, she's funny, she's beautiful, she's independent, strong… She's everything a guy would want a woman to be. Maybe that's why I can't quit thinking about her.
"You did what?" Amy yells. "Without telling me? Are you nuts?"
"I didn't 'do' anything yet. All I said was that this week I had a very attractive offer to merge with a larger mortgage company. We've been considering some options.…"
"You talked to them. That's doing something, Jenna." She waves a dill pickle in my face. I'd canned a couple of quarts just to see how they'd turn out. Pretty good, I guess. "And then what?"
"That's what I don't know yet. It would free up a lot of my time. Maybe I'd start something new from scratch. Hmm, 'scratch.' My mother made the best scratch cakes. Maybe I could open a bakery, or do some traveling. There won't be as much to keep me here."
"I'm here."
"Maybe you can travel with me."
"Mike is here."
I turn to look at her pityingly. "No, he's not, not for me. I can't take any more rejection."
Every day that I greet him in the hall or run into him at Mrs. Ingerson's, I fall a little more in love with him. It can't go on like this. I don't want to give my love away to someone who couldn't care less about me. I have to break the pattern. Perhaps, this merger option is God's way of telling me to get on with my life.
A knock on the door saves me from having to say more. Mrs. Ingerson darts in like a hummingbird to a flower and thrusts an envelope into my hand.
"What's this?"
"An invitation to the party I'm having."
"Really?" I run the names of her elderly friends through my mind. "For who?"
"For Mike, of course. He's moving, you know."
"Where?" Amy demands to know. I just stare stupidly at the older woman.
"He bought a new home, just today. Pretty ritzy, I think." Mrs. Ingerson puts her face close to mine. "He's got money, you know. He owns a television station…or something…" She waves a hand in the air. "I can't remember. Anyway, I'd like you to bring a pot of that lovely stroganoff you make — enough for twenty-five. And some of your lovely salads. "
"Are you cooking anything?" Amy asks the question I'm trying to keep to myself.
"I'll cook the noodles."
Assignment accepted, I trudge to the market just down the street to buy steak and sour cream. Every step seems heavier than the last. Things have changed 180 degrees over night. I'm selling my business. He's buying a new home. We'll never see each other again.
"'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." Hah! I would feel much better right now if I'd never laid eyes on Michael Morrison.
Thinking it might be wise to fortify myself for a round of cooking, I turn into Starbucks to order a whole milk, triple espresso latte. That should keep me going through next Wednesday. Moping, I don't see Mike until I trip over him.
He is sitting at a table with his long legs stretched out in front of him, staring into what looks like a mocha with extra whipped cream. He looks up. "Careful. You could get hurt. Want to sit down?"
Now he asks!
I land in the chair across from his. "I hear you're moving. Mrs. Ingerson told me your news."
He nods and takes a sip of his coffee. Who was it that said the strong, silent types are romantic? They're frustrating, exasperating and annoying, that's what they are.
"Why?"
He studies me with those blue eyes fringed with black lashes and my frustration oozed away. He looks…sad.
He shrugs. "I need to…get away. There are some hard memories at that apartment. I've moved on but the place still brings me down. It's time to start fresh."
So, it was about a woman.
Trying to keep this — the conversation I'd dreamed of having — light, I say, "I've got the opportunity to start over myself." I tell him about the potential merger, my ability to take more time off and my plans to travel.
"Is there…someone special…in your life?" He inquires, sounding only mildly interested. He was no doubt thinking of the evening he saw me with Albert, but it was Ryder Williams who shimmered into my mind. "Sort of…" I murmur. If a disembodied voice counts.
"So we're both moving on."
To my surprise, he reaches out and takes my hand. Slowly, as if he'd rehearsed this a dozen times before, he raises it to his lips and kisses it. Then he skewers me with his gaze and murmurs, "To things that just weren't meant to be.…" And as I sit transfixed, feeling the searing heat that his lips have left on my skin, he rises and walks away.
"Welcome to The Midnight Hour with Ryder Williams," the voice croons to me as I sit on the couch with my guys — Bob and Ben & Jerry.
Ryder's first caller is a young woman with a question about a man she likes from work. "He doesn't really notice me, or anything, but I think it's because he can't. Rules and all. But I was thinking, like, if I didn't work there anymore than maybe we could, like, go out for coffee and…"
"Are you saying you'd quit your job for this man? With no promise that he'd 'notice' you any more later?" "It sounds that way, but I just know that if we could get to know each other, he'd see who I am and…"
I sit straight up and dial KWKK. As soon as Ryder says hello, I blurt, "Hi, Ryder, it's me, Anne."
"Hey, Anne! Good to hear your voice. What can I do for —"
"I'm calling to speak to the woman who was just on the line."
"What would you like to say to her?"
"I want to tell her to stop fantasizing about what 'could' happen. If he's not showing interest in her now, it certainly won't happen later. I let myself fall for a totally unavailable man and it's the dumbest thing I've ever done. Besides, you don't want to deal with the ghosts of girlfriends past. He has these amazing eyes and he's nice to old people and…oh, never mind. I don't want anyone else to make the same mistake, and certainly don't quit your job!"
"Thanks, Anne, for that sound advice. Is there anything else you'd like to say?"
I take a deep breath. "I want you to know that your program helped, Ryder. It reminded me that God is in all parts of our lives — including the icky interpersonal relationship things.… And if you look half as good as your voice sounds… Wow. Anyway, thanks." And I hang up.
Talk about burning bridges! I'll never dare call KWKK again after that little off-the-cuff, on-air rant. Feeling as low as a centipede's tummy, I go to bed.
It's after 1:00 a.m. when my doorbell rings. My heart leaps immediately into my throat. No one calls me on the phone or comes to my door at this time of night unless something really dire is going on. It's a good thing the building has great security because without even thinking, I pull on a pair of jeans, run down the hall and throw open the door.
"What's happened…" My panic fades away. "Mike? What are you doing here?"
"I just got home from work."
"This late? Mrs. Ingerson said you owned a television station. Why…"
"Actually, it's a radio station."
He's behaving very oddly and I wonder if I have reason to be concerned. I back up a little and try to wedge the door between myself and him.
"After all," he says in a voice so familiar that I would have known it anywhere; a voice that I realize is a stage voice. "I'm Ryder Williams and it's The Midnight Hour."
At this stunning moment, Mrs.Ingerson opens her door to peer out. When she sees Mike…er…Ryder and I together she grins broadly — quite a sight without her upper plate. "Well, it's about time you two figured it out!"
We both look at her, confused.
"That you two are a match made in heaven, of course. Everyone sees it but you!"
He turns to me, those Caribbean blue eyes alight. "Do you think she's right? Jenna? Are we 'a match made in heaven?' I know I can't get you out of my mind…or my heart."
Heaven — where the Ultimate matchmaker lives. "I can deal with that."
He leans to kiss me and Mrs. Ingerson's voice behind us is like a bucket of icy water splashing us to our senses.
"Now will you two sort it out in the morning so the rest of us can get some sleep?"
He looks at me and brushes a stray hair from my cheek. "What do you say?" he whispers. "We do have a lifetime to figure this out."
A lifetime. I like the sound of that.
The End