Читать книгу She's Got Mail!: She's Got Mail! / Forget Me? Not - Darlene Gardner, Colleen Collins - Страница 11

“HELLO,” Ben mumbled as he entered the reception area of his office. He was wiped, burned out, after a long, tedious afternoon in court. Meredith, back from some shopping expedition as indicated by an assortment of nearby bags, was busy measuring the alcove where the couch sat. She barely nodded a greeting. Heather, a phone nestled in the crook of her neck, talked while holding a hand mirror with one hand and applying lip gloss with the other. She waved the tube of gloss in Ben’s direction.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he muttered, trudging into his office. This was how he’d felt when he’d lived with each of these women. Barely more than a passing blip on the screens of their wall-measuring, lip-glossing lives. Sinking into the chair behind his desk, he looked wearily through the open door at his ex-wife as she measured a side wall with obsessive precision. That must be what happened to Dexter. He didn’t measure up. Sometimes Ben wondered if Meredith wasn’t looking for a great catch, but a man she could redo. A man who was…

“Outdated, lumpy and gauche,” announced Meredith, straightening. The metallic measuring tape flew back into its container with a zinging sound.

Yep, that was the kind. Someone she could redecorate for the rest of his lumpy, gauche life.

“He’s always going for that yucky blue color, too,” chimed in Heather.

Super-Ex is back to their favorite topic. Me. “Heather,” Ben called out, forcing himself to sound pleasant, “please refrain from discussing me while you’re still on the phone.”

She made a huffing noise that sounded oddly muted. Probably from lip gloss overdose. “It’s my friend, Carla Wright, not one of your clients.”

So speaketh Princess Bagel. “Carla or not, you’re at work. I’d like my reputation to remain solid whoever might overhear.” Solid? As if there was anything stable about life in Super-Ex-Ville. Absently, he played with a piece of blank paper lying on the desk.

“Gotta go, Carla,” Heather said with great fanfare, followed by a crisp click as she hung up the phone. “Better, Benny?”

Benny—he cringed—the nickname she’d bestowed on him soon after their fateful bagel meeting. Solid Benny rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, making a mental note to correct his will to read that Heather Krementz had zero rights when it came to any words engraved on his headstone. The last thing he wanted was Benny Taylor chiseled into a slab of granite. With his luck, the instructions would be misunderstood—probably because Heather was applying lip gloss while talking—and the engraver would accidentally write Bunny Taylor.

No, worse. With his luck, Meredith would insist she pick out the stone—which would reflect some recent boyfriend phase. So Ben would end up as Bunny Taylor on a slab that resembled a hockey puck or a Cuisinart.

“Better, Ben-n-ny?” repeated Heather.

“Better,” he mumbled, grabbing the nearest pen. He scribbled the day’s date at the top of the paper, then held the pen midair, pondering how to best reword his will.

“That yucky blue is called French blue,” Meredith said, referring to Heather’s previous comment. “It’s that blue-gray hue that positively dominates the landscape in Provence.”

His pen poised midair, Ben squeezed shut his eyes and hoped fervently Meredith wouldn’t launch into a story about their honeymoon ten years ago….

“On our honeymoon,” Meredith said, raising her voice, “Benjamin fell in love with French blue. He bought shirts, tablecloths, even a ceramic fish in that color.”

Ben opened his eyes and gazed longingly at the “yucky blue” ceramic fish on his desk. He wished he could become that fish and swim out of here, away from the ex reunion. Forget the will. He didn’t have time to think and contemplate. He needed to vent. On the paper, he scrawled, “I’m swimming in a yucky blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée….”

“He bought sheets in that color, too!” Heather chimed in. “It was like sleeping on Windex!”

He crossed out “yucky” and wrote above it “Windex.”

“Heather,” Meredith said, “first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll make arrangements for moving personnel to retrieve this couch. While they’re doing that, they can also pick up that coatrack in Benjamin’s office—”

“The coatrack stays!” Ben surged from his chair, stabbing the air with his pen, like some kind of deranged scribe hailing a taxi.

Meredith turned, those orange-cone lips forming a surprised “Oh!” as in “Oh, what reactionary behavior have we here?” A moment later, Heather peered into his office, her glossed lips forming a surprised “What?” as in “What?”

He knew them so well, he could decode their thoughts from a single spoken word.

He kept his pen poised, defying them to interrupt. After a quick glance at his wristwatch, he announced, “It’s four-thirty.” When they both stared back, expressionless, he leveled a look at Heather. “Although you were late this morning, no need to make up the time tonight. See you tomorrow.” He swerved his gaze to Meredith. “The couch is yours, but the coatrack is mine.” Yours, mine. It felt like their property settlement all over again—except that had been more like yours, yours, yours. “If those moving people move it even an inch, I’ll sue them.” He never threatened anyone—even during intense legal negotiations—but suddenly, Benjamin Lewis Taylor swore he’d snap if that coatrack moved a millimeter. Deep down, he knew his reaction was over more than just an old rack, but if Meredith could transfer her feelings to furniture, then dammit, so could he.

He sat back down and rolled his shoulders dramatically, mainly because he knew they were both still staring at him and a dramatic shoulder roll looked authoritative. Poising his pen over the paper, he wondered how many other men had to dismiss their exes. For that matter, how many men kept their exes?

It was awfully quiet in Ex-Ville. He slid his gaze toward the door.

They remained frozen, obviously taken aback at Ben-Benny-Benjamin’s outburst. Or maybe he’d stunned them with his shoulder roll. He tapped the face of his watch, indicating the time. Heather, with a toss of her head, clomped away in her platform shoes. Meredith, however, took several steps toward Ben’s door, stopped and cocked one imperious eyebrow. Like a geisha with a bad attitude. “The coatrack is dead, Benjamin,” she said in that low monotone she reserved for serious confrontations. “Let’s give it a burial and move on.”

Only Meredith gave interior decorating a life-and-death twist. “The coatrack lives,” Ben countered, dropping his voice a register. “So does the couch, but I sacrificed it to you in your hour of decorating need.”

Meredith’s green eyes glinted. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Hour of decorating need or that the couch lives?”

Those glinting green eyes narrowed until all the glint was gone. “The hour comment.”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You need to decorate my office—or, more specifically some section of it—whenever a boyfriend era ends.” He scanned his office. “Let’s see…the cow-dotted landscapes were from your Cowboy Curtiss era—”

“Why do you always add the ‘Cowboy’ part? He was a master chef at a dude ranch—”

“The harp-shaped chairs were from your Antoine—or was it Beauchamp?—era, the fellow interior decorator.” Ben gestured toward another wall. “The Jimmy Stewart poster and matching Tinseltown cups were from your Rocky era—”

“Rock. No Y. Just Rock.”

“And those copper plates with the feathers and beads sticking out…what was his name? Thunder? Lightning?”

Meredith pursed her lips before speaking. “Storm.”

“Yep. He’s the one who should have had a y tacked onto his name because that relationship was storm-y. You didn’t care about the couch then. Remember? You had a desperate need to tear down a few walls.” Ben shuddered. “Fortunately, building management denied you a permit.”

Meredith brushed something off her kimono skirt. Putting on her noblest voice, she said, “I’m doing you a favor by removing that couch. Plus, French blue is passé.”

“So is Geisha orange.”

One of her chopsticks quivered.

Now he’d done it. Her face crumpled into that pitiful look of hurt he’d seen at the crash-and-burn ending of each boyfriend era. Now Ben felt like a cad. He’d glibly pointed out her past disastrous relationships. Mocked her decorator-recovery program. As recompense, he toyed with sacrificing the coatrack…but stopped himself.

That’s what I always do. He would offer some piece of his life to smooth things over. What would he do when he ran out of furniture? Offer a leg? An arm? A spark of anger flared within him. Yes, Meredith was hurting…but she needed to find a way through her hurt without literally dismantling Ben’s life. “Why can’t you swipe other people’s furniture?” he asked.

They stared each other down so long, Ben swore he’d lost feeling in his right eyelid. But he was tired of backing down. Refused to back down. Suddenly, he was ready to fight to the death over that couch.

Was that a tear in Meredith’s eye? Was her chin trembling?

He felt yanked back to his years growing up, being the built-in caretaker and mediator for his kid sister and mother. Good ol’ peacemaker Ben who could never stand to see a woman cry. Okay, he’d go the compromise route. “Let’s…re-cover the couch rather than replace it.”

Meredith sniffled. “It’s lumpy.”

“We’ll put it on a diet.”

Her orange-cone lips trembled as she smiled. He’d always liked it when she let down her guard. She looked younger, more relaxed. Ben would bet his coatrack that Dexter hadn’t seen enough of that smile.

“I’ll bring some swatches by tomorrow,” she said softly. “Some colors that will look darling, darling.”

She left so quickly, he still wasn’t sure which “darling” was the couch, which was him. As the main office door clicked shut, Ben breathed a mind-leveling sigh. Alone. Finally. No ex-wife. No ex-fiancée. Just he and several decorating themes…and the couch for which he’d been willing to fight to the death.

Although he’d never have gone to such an extreme, it felt good to feel passionate about something again. Even a couch! He hadn’t experienced a passion for anything—or anyone—in a long time. Forget passion. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had fun. Had to have been with his best pal, Matt, full-time lawyer and part-time rake, who fell hard for a beekeeper from Northern California. Almost a year ago, Matt quit his law firm and moved to California to help his wife-to-be with her bee farm. Matt had joked he’d gone from an A-type personality to a B-type.

It was funny, but also true. Matt turned from an uptight lawyer to a laid-back guy. Meanwhile, Ben remained in Chicago, an uptight lawyer who spent his days in court or in his office, Ex-ville. His only male bonding these days was with his dog, Max. But sharing a drink and swapping tales with a Brittany spaniel didn’t cut it. Plus, the conversations were awfully one-sided.

What were Ben’s options? He could hang out at the local bar, a watering hole for lawyers. But after a day of negotiating and mediating, it set his teeth on edge to hear more lawyer talk. Other options? Go to a strip club? Not Ben’s style. Take up fly fishing? He preferred chess.

“If I want male camaraderie, I first need to escape Venus and move to Mars,” he muttered, thinking again of those Venus-Mars books Heather was always reading. That author was making a mint telling women how to be Venus and men how to be Mars. Too bad Ben couldn’t drop him a line and get some shortcut directions to the manly planet.

Writing a big-buck author was far-fetched. But what about that columnist? The one in Real Men magazine, the periodical he made Heather hide. Ben tapped his fingers along the edge of his desk. Sure, buddy. What kind of man writes to “Mr. Real”?

From what Heather had read to him, men from all walks of life. Carpenters. Doctors. “Mr. Real” sounded sophisticated, but also gave some get-down, get-real advice on everything from predatory pricing to predatory dating.

Ben moved his fingers to his computer keyboard. It would be easy to search the net for Real Men magazine, find their e-mail address, type a note to Mr. Real. No. Heather had access to his e-mail, which was essential to his business. When he was off-site, he could call her, have her check his messages, write back to whomever. No, e-mailing Mr. Real was out of the question. Heather would read it, tell Meredith, and he’d never hear the end of it.

He glanced at the piece of paper he’d scrawled on earlier. I’m swimming in a Windex-blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée.

Hmm. Sounded like the beginning of a note to Mr. Real.

“WHERE’S MR. REAL?” Seth, one of the mailroom gulchers, waved an envelope over William Clarington’s desk.

“Blue?” Rosie blurted, checking out Seth’s short-cropped hair. “I had just gotten accustomed to medicine red.”

“Medicine-cabinet red,” Seth corrected. Two weeks ago Seth had dyed his short-cropped blond hair a neonlike red, which he claimed was labeled Medicine-Cabinet Red on the bottle.

“Let me guess,” Rosie mused. “Blueberry-Box Blue?”

“Squad-car Blue.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “The flashing blue light on top of the cop car?”

“Very…urban.”

“And distinctive. Yellow blends. Blue commands attention.”

Rosie figured if she took a picture of Seth outside, his blue hair would blend right in with the sky and he’d look bald—defeating the whole commanding blue-hair experience. “Interesting policelike hue,” she murmured, not sure how one complimented someone with Squad-Car Blue hair.

“So, where’s the dude?” When she didn’t answer, Seth elaborated, “Mr. Real?”

Rosie sat a little straighter. “You’re talking to him.”

Seth scratched his blue head. “You’re the copy editor who sits—” he looked around, then waved the letter at her desk “—over there.”

Rosie swiped at a curl that toppled over her forehead. “I’ve been promoted. Well, for a few weeks. Until they hire a new Mr. Real, I’m…the dude.”

“Whoa!” Seth took a step back, tilting his head as though to see her better. “You? Mr. Real? Men ain’t gonna like this.”

“Men ain’t gonna know.”

Seth cocked an eyebrow, which looked oddly blond with his blue hair. “How they not gonna know? Girls write different than guys.”

“Oh, really? Do tell.” Rosie leaned back in Mr. Real’s ergonomic desk chair and crossed her arms.

Seth seemed stymied for a moment. He scratched his T-shirt, decorated with a picture of a red-white-and-blue cow. Along its flank was painted the skyline of Chicago. Underneath, the words Chi-Cow-Go. Cute.

Seth stopped scratching. “Chicks—ladies write more flowery. You know, they use words like pink and pretty.”

“I’ll avoid all P words. What else?”

“And they gush on and on.” Seth made a rolling motion with his hand as though she might not understand what gush meant. “And they use too many words. Sometimes big ones.”

“I’ll work on the gushing. Never hurts to trim prose. But I can’t promise not to use big words. After all, I’m a seasoned writer.” Rosie smiled, liking the sound of those words as they rolled off her tongue. “Anyway, I’ve sat so close to William for the past seven months, I’ve heard nine-tenths of his conversations. I’ve proofread hundreds of his articles. I know how he talks, how he writes. For the next two weeks, no one could possibly guess it’s a woman behind the man’s words.” Actually, a goddess behind the woman behind the man’s words. Rosie wasn’t sure yet if she’d don Athena or Artemis for the next two weeks—which she could do as long as no goddesslike words slipped into her Mr. Real answers.

“What if some dude sees you?” Seth had moved closer to her desk and was fiddling with a pile of thick, gold paper clips, remnants of William Clarington’s former life.

“What dude is going to march into the offices of Real Men magazine, sneak past the front office receptionist, and know where to find William’s former desk? Such a dude would need some serious built-in radar.” Rosie leaned forward. “And no one within the magazine offices would blab because blabbing means that person would spend eternity in the gulch.” That last point cinched any blue-haired men gabbing to the wrong dudes.

“The gulch sucks.” Seth made a face.

“Tell me about it. This is my chance to prove myself. Make the great leap to life beyond the gulch.”

Seth stopped playing with the paper clips and held his hand up, palm toward her. It took Rosie a moment to realize he was giving her a high five. She stood and slapped the palm of her hand against his.

“You’re a cool chick,” Seth said. “I mean, uh, you’re a cool woman to be impersonating a dude. This is sorta like that Robin Williams flick.”

“Mrs. Doubtfire?”

“Yeah.”

Rosie tried to dismiss the image of Mrs. Doubtfire beating out a fire on her breasts. There would be no crises for the next two weeks, whether Rosie was a dude or a woman…or a goddess. “I get to wear my own clothes, fortunately.”

“Cool.” He tossed the letter onto the desk. “Can I have one of those?” He pointed to the gold paper clips.

Mr. Real was gone. Forever. Why not? “Sure.”

Seth picked up a clip and attached it to his belt. He adjusted it one way, then another. Seemingly pleased with the impromptu accessory, he walked away with his signature swagger. “Good luck, Mr. Real,” he called over his shoulder.

Rosie watched him leave, wondering what her oldest brother, Dillon, who’d never left the family farm in Colby, would say if he saw a man with blue hair. Nothing. He’d be speechless, thinking Seth was from another planet.

“Planet Chi-Cow-Go,” she murmured, chuckling to herself as she picked up the envelope and read “To Mr. Real” printed in black ink on the outside. Her eyes were tired of perusing William’s computer screen, reading the gazillion e-mails addressed to realman@realmag.com. No wonder the real Mr. Real ran off with Boom Boom the bongo player. After telling hundreds of men how to live their lives, Mr. Real probably decided to get his own.

She flashed on William and Boom Boom cavorting in the Bahamas or some other tropical paradise. Rosie sighed as images filled her head. Brilliant sunsets. Crashing waves. Two naked, sand-coated bodies writhing on a beach. But these bodies weren’t William and Boom Boom…

…they were Ben and Rosie.

Me and Ben? Writhing nakedly? She shut her eyes, her tummy clutching in anticipation of such a sensual encounter. The exploration of each other’s bodies, the discovery of each other’s pleasures…their inner world more fiery and exotic than the outside one.

She opened her eyes. “It’s this desk,” she whispered hoarsely, running her fingers over the smooth polished oak. “I’m picking up Boom Boom vibes. Better to pick up the letter opener.” Rosie snatched the silver opener and glanced at the words engraved on its handle: Old Men Ought to Be Explorers.—T. S. Eliot.

Why would someone engrave that on a letter opener? Perhaps a gift from Boom Boom? Rosie’s mind reeled with images of a bongo-playing stripper quoting T. S. Eliot. What a killer combo. Great beater, great reader.

Okay, she got what William saw in Boom Boom, but what did a stripper see in an uptight, persnickety columnist who ate a bran muffin at 8:10 sharp every morning?

Old men ought to be explorers. Maybe Mr. Real wasn’t as old or unadventurous as Rosie had labeled him. Maybe Boom saw the real Mr. Real—saw that he was, at heart, a globe-trotting tiger. An old fantasy resurrected in Rosie’s mind, one where she was Isak Dinesen, the writer Meryl Streep had portrayed in the movie Out of Africa. Isak was a woman ahead of her time. A multifaceted adventurer who ran a farm in Africa, maintained a long-term, torrid love affair and wrote memorable stories.

With more flair than she knew she had, Rosie blithely zipped open the envelope, the tip of the blade barely missing her other hand. She paused, staring at the reflection of fluorescent light off the gleaming silver blade. “Stay focused, Rosie,” she whispered. “If you cut off your pinkie, you won’t be able to write back to Mr. Real’s readers.” That’s when she knew which goddess she needed for this job. Wise, coolheaded Athena. Rosie cooly laid the silver opener aside and eased the letter from its envelope.

The date at the top of the letter had been so hurriedly scrawled, it was difficult to decipher it was today’s date. Rosie glanced at the rest of the letter. No, the guy just had horrendous handwriting. Or maybe he wrote it in a frenzied hurry?

Thinking back to the crazed speed at which she drove into work most days, Rosie could relate to that. Already empathizing, Rosie read on.

“Mr. Real, I’m swimming in a Windex-blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée.”

Rosie paused, wondering why the word blue seemed to predominate the past few minutes of her life. Maybe there was some cosmic, mythical meaning behind this color? Nah. More likely, this man was simply blue. Depressed. She looked down at the scrawling handwriting and its terse loops and dips. Or angry? She continued reading.

Why are women so needy? Growing up, I was the built-in mediator, cook and limo service for my mother and sister. That was sixteen years ago, but not a damn thing has changed. These days, I’m still a nice guy to an ex-fiancée who wants me to be her caretaker and an ex-wife who has a deranged need to redecorate my office with busted love affair themes. And get this—some strange woman also wants my space!

My ex-fiancée has access to my e-mail, so respond to the P.O. box on the envelope.

Signed,

Wishing to move from Venus to Mars

He liked the Roman gods and goddesses while she stuck with the Greeks. But, hey, same thing. “He’s obviously one very together, insightful male,” Rosie murmured. “If anyone ever needed a goddess’s guidance, it’s this lucky man.”

Rosie quickly looked up. Good. No one heard that last comment.