7 Days and 7 Nights (6 page)

“I love him, Dr. O. I thought we'd be spending the rest of our lives together.”

“I know, JoBeth. Sometimes doing the right thing hurts.” Olivia closed her eyes briefly, then opened them, her look momentarily far away. “Now you just have to hang tough. And if that Dawg doesn't come through, then you'll go out and find someone who can appreciate you enough to commit. That's my best advice. You stay in touch. I want to know how it's going, okay?”

“Okay.”

Olivia gathered her notes as she launched into her sign-off. “And for the rest of you out there, keep those food pledges coming. You can post them on the station website at the same time you vote for your favorite host. Or you can call the station and make your pledge. Thanks for tuning in. I'm Dr. Olivia Moore, reminding you to live your life . . .
live
.”

Olivia removed her headphones, shoved her notes into a folder, and stood up. She knew just how JoBeth felt. It was hard to walk away from someone you loved, and even harder to walk away from someone you wanted to love you.

Lost in thought, she stepped into the kitchen to search for something to eat and started when she felt Matt's hand on her wrist.

“Are you happy?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you feel good about the advice you just gave that poor woman?”

“I don't know which poor woman you're referring to, unless you mean one of the naked ones you've been ogling for the last forty-five minutes.”

“I'm talking about JoBeth and all that bullshit about cows and free milk.”

“It may be bullshit to you, but to that woman it's a question of self-preservation. I'm entirely comfortable with the advice I gave her. If it weren't for irresponsible men like you and that Dawg she's in love with, maintaining self-respect wouldn't be so damned difficult.”

They glared at each other, neither willing to look away first. After a long moment, Olivia drew a calming breath and pulled her wrist out of his grasp. She'd known all along that the only way to survive the week was by maintaining her distance. Turning her back on him, she retrieved her briefcase from the floor next to the console and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

Coming to stand in front of him, she waved them in his face. “I've taken the liberty of drawing up some suggestions for our time together.”

She saw him bite back a laugh and watched the insulting glint of amusement steal into his eyes.

“I'll be glad to read them to you, if necessary. They don't have as many pictures as your usual reading material.”

She handed the pages over one at a time, practically nailing them to his chest with her finger. “This is a bathroom schedule. I've blocked out the mornings for myself, since I have to be up and on the air by nine o'clock. I wasn't sure what time of day you liked to shower, so I left your side blank.”

When he didn't comment, she continued. “I usually just grab a sandwich or something, but I'm willing to make extra for you and leave it in the fridge so we can eat in shifts. That way we won't be tripping over each other in the kitchen.”

He studied her from beneath sable lashes most women would kill for.

“I figured whoever ate last could handle cleanup. Obviously, on this chart you're ‘M' and I'm ‘O.' ”

“Obviously.”

“We should probably work out a schedule for the television, too. There are only a few programs I watch regularly.” She handed him a blank form and cleared her throat. “I've gone ahead and divided the living area into two sections so that we each have a place to sit and relax without intruding on the other.”

Matt walked the three steps to the refrigerator and took out a beer. Bringing it back to the living room, he took the diagram she handed him—the one with a dotted line down the middle of the sofa—took a long sip of beer, and sat right in the middle of her section. Then he put his feet on “her” half of the cocktail table and looked up into her eyes. “Tell me, Olivia, just what is it about me that scares you so?” He took another swig of beer while he considered her from beneath hooded eyes.

“Don't flatter yourself, Matt. I just want to be sure you understand what's acceptable. Take dressing and undressing, for example.”

“You're planning to tell me when to dress and undress?” He set his beer down and flipped through the sheaf of papers. “I can't wait to see this diagram.”

“There is no visual aid because there's only one rule: If you're not dressed, you need to be behind closed doors. In a word, no flashing.” Lord knew she didn't need the temptation.

“Well, you've certainly spent a lot of energy thinking all this out, Olivia. It's very . . . industrious of you.” He paused. “I'll be sure and give your suggestions the consideration they deserve.”

He folded the sheaf of papers in half, doubled them over once more, and shoved the whole wad into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he cocked his head in her direction and said, “I guess getting you to put on that thong would be out of the question right now?”

6

Lunchtime at the Magnolia Diner was no time for deep thought, a fact JoBeth appreciated at this particular point in her life. She'd already wasted an inordinate amount of time worrying over her relationship with Dawg Rollins, and an embarrassing amount in tears since she'd moved out two days ago. Crying over her disappointments was a luxury she'd never before allowed herself, and she wasn't wild about the idea now. She might not have a whole lot else, but she'd always had her pride.

Hefting her loaded tray high over one shoulder, JoBeth snatched up a fresh pot of coffee with her free hand and backed through the swinging door. Before she swung around to face her waiting customers, she found and put on her brightest smile. A good waitress didn't bring her personal problems to work. And she didn't slack off because some fool man had gone and mangled her heart.

“Hey, Bert.” One-handed, she set the tray on a serving stand and commenced to dole out the food, refilling coffee mugs as she worked her way around the table of four. “How's that new grandbaby of yours?”

“Just fine, darlin'. Head looks kind of like a bowling ball to me, but my Darcy's real proud of him.”

“That's great.” JoBeth fought off a brief stab of envy at Darcy's good fortune. “You tell her to bring that boy in here soon. I want to have a look at him.”

“You know I will.”

Whipping her order pad out of the front pocket of her starched white apron, JoBeth pulled a gnarled pencil from behind her ear and moved on to the next table.

“Hey, Homer, Myra. You gonna have the fried chicken today?” She scribbled out their ticket and slipped her pencil back behind her ear as she contemplated the white-haired McCauleys holding hands in their favorite booth. JoBeth tried to imagine herself and Dawg snuggling in a corner booth somewhere thirty or forty years from now, but the picture just wouldn't come.

Blinking back tears, she swapped the coffeepot for a pitcher of sweet tea and leaned over to pour the elderly couple's drinks. “You leave some room for dessert now, you hear? Ina made her strawberry rhubarb pie today.”

With calm precision, JoBeth worked her tables, taking orders, refilling drinks, chatting up the regulars. There was comfort in the routine tasks, satisfaction in the occasional appreciative glance sent her way. Her fortieth birthday had come and gone, but L'Oréal kept her short red curls free of the evil gray intruders, and she liked to believe that the fine lines now radiating outward from the corners of her eyes lent character to what she'd always thought of as a too-cute face. Smoothing a hand down her hip, she paused to straighten her apron and give herself a pep talk.

There would be life after Dawg Rollins, just as there'd been life during those long years of caring for her parents, and life after they died.

She had lots of good years ahead, years she could spend on herself now, if she chose. Plenty of time to get the college degree she'd always dreamed of and to turn the tiny house she'd inherited into a home. If Dawg didn't want to be with her while she did those things, she'd do them alone or take Dr. O's advice and find someone who didn't just say he loved her, but proved it. Someone who wanted to have a child with her before it was time to check into a nursing home.

The bell on the front door jangled, and awareness crept up JoBeth's spine. Even before she turned to look, she knew it was Dawg. Her heart raced like it always did at her first sight of him, but she made a point not to show it.

Why, after three years together, the big lug still made her palms sweat and heart pound, she didn't know. Earl Wayne Rollins, Jr., looked like what he was: an aging ex-linebacker with a profile created at the bottom of a ten-man pileup. His blond hair, shot through with gray, was in full retreat, and his athlete's physique had begun to lose its battle with middle age.

JoBeth wiped her palms on the short skirt of her uniform and stood her ground as he approached.

“JoBeth.”

She managed a polite nod before forcing herself to turn and go about her work, but she breathed a small sigh of relief when he had the good sense to bypass his usual seat in her section.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him chitchat with Jackie at the register and say something amusing to Emmylou at the counter where he took a vacant stool.

JoBeth frowned. Dawg sure didn't look like a man who'd lost the love of his life. And he sure as hell didn't appear to be nursing any broken heart.

JoBeth's fingers clenched on the handle of the iced tea pitcher as Emmylou batted her eyelashes at Dawg and leaned across the counter to display her double D's. When Emmylou turned and strutted her stuff back to the kitchen, Dawg's eyes were practically glued to the blonde's behind.

Putting down the pitcher, JoBeth walked through the counter opening, brushing past Dawg. Without a word, she opened the pie case, yanked the strawberry rhubarb off its shelf, and cut two large slices for the McCauleys, leaving the remainder on the counter. Emmylou served up Dawg's Mile High Burger, with a wide toothy smile on the side.

The big lummox winked and tucked into his burger, unaware of how close to death he'd strayed. He chewed with relish for a while, then put down his burger to take a big swig of tea.

JoBeth delivered the McCauleys' desserts and came back to face Dawg across the counter, the strawberry rhubarb in front of her.

“Hi, JoBeth. You're looking mighty fine.”

“Feeling fine,” she lied. “Never felt better.”

They studied each other, taking silent stock, and she felt her damned heart kick up again. Her insides went all warm and soft under his regard, and her pulse skittered just beneath her skin. Unconsciously, her hands wrapped around the pie plate.

“Aw, hell, JoBeth.” His voice was quiet and full of a lot of things she couldn't put a finger on. “When are you going to get over all this marriage nonsense and come on back home?”

“ 'Scuse me?”

“The house is empty without you.”

JoBeth swallowed. She wanted to take Dawg's head and cradle it against her bosom. Or slam it against the wall. It was a difficult choice.

“Don't you talk to me about empty. I'm about as alone in this world as it's possible to be right now. But I'm not looking for company. I want someone to share my life with. In my book that requires a Justice of the Peace.”

“Now, JoBeth, if you'd just calm down and come on home, I'm sure—”

“I'm not coming back, Dawg. We're not kids, and I'm not interested in being your live-in girlfriend anymore.”

“Aw, JoBeth, honey.”

“Don't you ‘JoBeth honey' me. And don't you come into my place of work and ogle other women.”

“But you're the one who moved out. You're the one who said—”

“I know exactly what I said. You don't have to throw it back in my face. You're the one who doesn't seem to be getting the point.” Her fingers picked nervously at the fluted edge of the pie plate.

“Oh, I get the point all right. It's just like Matt Ransom said. My big mistake was not being clear up front. I love you, JoBeth, but I don't want to get married. I've been married, and it's not the picnic you seem to think it is.”

A hush fell over the diner as the last of the lunch crowd gave up the pretense of eating. JoBeth pried her gaze from Dawg's for a slow scan of the room. Even the McCauleys were staring in shocked amazement at her and Dawg. Emmylou tittered out loud.

“Well, now you've managed to humiliate me in person.” Was that her voice going all shrill and quivery? “Why don't you just take out an ad in the damn paper— ‘JoBeth Namey gives great milk but she's not worth marrying.' ”

Dawg shot her a look of such wounded outrage that she almost managed to get herself under control. If he'd apologized then, or offered one ounce of reassurance that he'd never thought of her that way, she might have been able to avoid what came next. But keeping quiet had never been Dawg's strong suit.

“Now that is about the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say.”

“Stupid? Now you're calling me stupid?” Her hands stilled. Embarrassment spiked up her spine, fueling her anger, which was a lot easier to deal with than the hurt and desperation she'd been feeling. Then he got that annoying look on his face, the one that said he was the calm, rational one, and she was some harebrained female, and her hands wrapped tighter around the aluminum pie plate.

“The stupidest thing I ever did was waste three years loving you.” The next thing she knew, she was hefting the pie plate in her right hand, savoring its weight. “But I sure do hate to leave you without something to remember me by.”

A smart man would have backed off then, or at least put some distance between himself and an angry woman with a partially cocked pie, but Dawg just sat there glaring back at her, his face only inches from what remained of the strawberry rhubarb.

“Do what you gotta do, JoBeth. You are not making a lick of sense anyhow. And you haven't been since you started calling that Dr. O.”

She knew better, really she did. It wasn't going to solve anything, and it certainly wasn't going to win her any waitressing awards. But a herd of wild animals couldn't have made her put the pie down at this point.

She heard a collective gasp as she lifted the pie and pushed it firmly into the middle of Dawg's irritating face. No one spoke as she ground the pie back and forth with the heel of her hand until the flaky brown crust worked its way into the grooves of his face.

Dawg sat completely still. He barely blinked as the red-colored goo began to drip down his chin. For a minute she half expected him to stick his tongue out for a taste like they did on TV, but he didn't move a muscle.

Momentarily stunned by what she'd done, JoBeth froze, too. The silence ended just as suddenly as it had begun. The buzz of excitement built around her but it was once-removed, like something that was happening to someone else. She could barely think, let alone come up with an appropriately cutting remark. And instead of the elation she expected, she felt only regret . . . and the insistent welling of tears she refused to shed.

JoBeth placed the empty pie plate down on the counter in front of her. Then she untied her apron and laid it gently on the Formica next to it.

A dull ache settled around her heart as she faced the man she'd hoped to grow old with, but it was too late now for regrets. She straightened slowly and looked Dawg Rollins straight in the eye—the one not currently covered with crust.

With a small smile and an apologetic shrug, she pulled her order pad from her pocket and passed it over to Emmylou. She didn't think she'd have any trouble getting the rest of the afternoon off.

“I'm sure Em'll clean you up, Dawg. And I'll take care of your tab.” She paused for a second to survey the damage she'd done before offering her parting shot. “But it looks like dessert's on you.”