She's Got Mail!: She's Got Mail! / Forget Me? Not

“BENNY, you look so-o-o much better!” Heather cooed, cradling the phone in the crook of her neck while filing her nails. “I’d hardly know you’d been slugged except for your red jaw!”

Ben, showered and dressed in slacks and a shirt, halted in the doorway and closed his eyes. “Not while you’re on the phone, Heather,” he admonished quietly.

“Not what?”

He opened his eyes. “Don’t say such…personal things to me. I’d prefer my reputation at work to remain professional.” He was one to talk. He’d interviewed his 8:10 appointment dressed in a wrinkled, muddied sweat suit.

Heather stopped filing. Waving the receiver, she said, “It’s Carla, not one of your clients!”

How long had they been having this discussion? A hundred, a thousand times? Maybe he should quit fighting it. Save his energy for commode filchers and parking space thieves. “Tell Carla hello,” he mumbled, crossing to his office. Stepping into his inner sanctum, he tossed his workout bag into the corner before sitting behind his desk. To the right was a stack of folders, each holding relevant papers for a case in progress. He reached for the top folder when a white envelope in the center of his desk caught his eye.

On its front, in black ink, was boldly printed “To: Wishing to Move from Venus to Mars.”

Mr. Real wrote back! Finally! Ben wasn’t alone in a world of women. Ben ripped open the envelope, wadded and tossed it into the trash can. Pulling out the letter, he began reading: “Mr. Mars:”

Ben had liked that in all of Mr. Real’s responses. The guy had class. No matter the tone of the writer—and some got heated—or how the writer had signed his name, Mr. Real always called everyone Mr., Mrs., or Ms. Not only was he a man’s man, but a gentleman. Ben read on: “You ask why women are so needy? My conjecture is that you still seek those same types of relationships with other women.”

“Get down, Mr. Real!” Ben whispered to himself. This guy isn’t just a columnist, he’s a shrink. Leaning back in his chair, Ben continued reading: “Other types of women exist in the world: independent, adventurous, a man’s equal. Too many men look for the superficial and miss the substance.”

Ben pondered that last sentence for a moment. A woman being a man’s equal? He wasn’t born yesterday. He knew all about Gloria Steinem and the women’s movement. It’s just that Ben had never experienced a relationship with a woman who was his equal, who wanted to be his equal. He’d always taken care of women, been absorbed into their problems, issues. “No wonder I became a lawyer,” he murmured, reading on. “For whatever reasons in your background, it’s evident you’re feeling trapped. Let’s investigate that. You say you’re a nice guy. That you have a couple of manipulative exes and a strange woman who wants your space. My question to you: What is your space? Your world, your home, your office?”

Ben looked around at the variety of decorating themes in his office. This wasn’t a space—it was a high-end flea market. Shaking his head, he went back to the letter. “Right now, you’re wanting to move from planet to planet. I’m impressed. That’s one big move. I suggest you first pick a different space—a vital space. If you can’t share it, then place your stakes. As with most things in life, it’s best to start small, then think big. After all, every journey begins with a single step. Respectfully yours, Mr. Real”

“You should have seen my journey this morning,” Ben muttered, thinking of the hundreds of steps he took along those long blocks into work. He probably could have handled it if he hadn’t been slipped that quarter. Forget the insult—what could a quarter buy in today’s world? Ben made a mental note to give a dollar to the next homeless person he met.

But back to the letter. Share a space…He already did! His bathroom, his office. But find a space to mark his territory? Good thinking. A small, first step. Ben tapped his fingers against the desk. Small space. Small.

The parking space! Which was definitely small compared to Mars and Venus. He nodded to himself. He’d build from there—like, next claim his office, then his bathroom. Soon he’d be claiming his right to take on the world, to dust off his kayak and discover regions unknown.

A warmth flooded his veins, a feeling he hadn’t known in years. Satisfaction? Anticipation? If he didn’t know better, it was almost like falling in love, something he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. Of course, this wasn’t really falling in love—it was luxuriating in a moment of euphoria. One small step for Benkind, one giant step…

“To Mars!” he said out loud. “I’m building a new life!”

“What?” called out Heather from the other room. The thunk thunk of footsteps preceded a waterfall of blond hair as she peeked into his office. “You’re building something? In here?”

Ben looked at her platform shoes. Talk about building—Heather built an extra inch or three to her height when she wore those leg-tottering shoes. “I’m not building anything. I was just experiencing a moment of exuberance.”

She looked around the office. “Alone?” Flashing him a perplexed look, she added, “I’ve been worried about you lately, Benny.”

That confession took Ben by surprise. “You’re worried about…me?”

“Yeah.” She sidled into the doorway. Today she wore a shift covered with purple butterflies and pink flowers. Heather missed her calling as a flower child. “You seem—” she tilted her head as she scrutinized him “—more preoccupied lately.”

“Preoccupied?”

“Yeah. Like the couch. When Meredith has needed to redecorate before, you’ve let her do her thing. But this time, you got preoccupied with it!”

Preoccupied? Heather wasn’t worried about his well-being, she was worried about him setting a few boundaries. Unheard of before now. “What you two fail to understand is that it’s my couch. I love that couch. And Meredith needs to learn she can’t come back to me every time one of her love affairs goes bust. She has to learn that she has a strong heart, that she’ll be okay without re-covering or redecorating or stealing toilets.”

He meant to vent, but instead his on-the-fly analysis hit home. Meredith did have a strong heart. Damn it, she lived. She experienced life. Which meant she wasn’t afraid to love deeply, crash and burn, then pick herself up and love again.

Of course, during the picking-herself-up phase, a corner of his life got redecorated. Nevertheless, Ben had to hand it to Meredith—she had more guts to delve into life than he did.

After a long pause, Heather said, “See? You’re preoccupied again.”

“Maybe it’s time for me to be preoccupied,” Ben said quietly. “Time for me to figure out who Benjamin Taylor is, what I want.”

A second head appeared in the doorway. “Darling, what you want is to see some new commode samples!”

Ben flinched. What had Meredith done to her hair? Instead of chopsticks, she had small, bright, silver things sticking out of another wild bird’s nest number. For a mind-numbing moment, he wondered if she had stuck commode handles into her hair.

“You—” he tried not to stare at her hair “—you didn’t drag a bunch of toilets in here, did you?”

Meredith gave him an are-you-crazy look. “Do I look that strong?”

If you put your mind to it, you could drag in a herd of water buffalo. He offered a small prayer that Meredith’s next affair wasn’t with a safari tour guide. “Well, you have been lifting weights,” he muttered, eyeing the sheets she held in her hand. Photos of commodes? And he thought yesterday morning had started off strangely.

Meredith stepped jauntily into his office. Today she wore a red dress with a satin jacket embroidered with birds and bonsai trees. Good thing her business was lucrative, otherwise she couldn’t afford a new wardrobe every postaffair. Or afford these ex-husband redecorating binges. “Oh, you noticed,” she said, flexing one arm. “I’ve been working with a personal trainer—”

“Show me the pictures.” Ben didn’t need to see his ex-wife flex. He needed a commode and shower door, pronto.

The room filled with an incenselike scent as she walked into the room. Of course. New look, new perfume. “You’ll adore these commodes,” Meredith said. “Very European. Custom-mixed porcelain. This one is called the Renaldo. Notice the flowing, neo-Italian lines….”

It was too much. Truckers. Incense. A commode named Renaldo. “Meredith,” Ben barked, “if you put neo anything in my bathroom, I will throttle you with my bare hands!” He gripped the edge of the desk, resisting the urge to press one of those handles in her hair. “Just fix the pipe so I can turn on my water. And get me a square, white toilet. End of discussion.” To her stunned expression, he added, “And please close the door behind you. I need to make an important phone call.”

“NICE MUGS.”

Rosie looked up. Jerome slouched against her desk, wearing a pair of jeans, a white Gap T-shirt and a whiskey-colored leather jacket. Paige must be out of town. Jerome only dressed like Johnny Depp when his boss was out of the office. “What?” Rosie asked.

Jerome looked at the two coffee mugs, Rebel Without a Cause and My Fair Lady, on her desk. “Nice…” his dark-eyed gaze traveled up Rosie’s torso, lingering where they shouldn’t before meeting her eyes “…mugs.”

He could be such a scum. She’d witnessed his smarmy come-ons with others, but with her? He liked the type who giggled and walked provocatively in high heels. Rosie was the type who spoke her mind and speed-walked in loafers. Contemplating his motivations, she avoided Jerome’s gaze as she rearranged the mugs around her wind-up dinosaur with pom-poms. Suddenly it made sense to separate the rebel from the lady.

Which meant she’d act as though he hadn’t made that stupid mug comment.

Seemingly absorbed in her dinosaur-rearranging task, Rosie said nonchalantly, “Thanks for setting up that meeting with Paige.”

“You owe me lunch.”

“Yes, I owe you lunch.” And nothing else.

“Focaccio’s,” Jerome said, hitting the first syllable so hard, Rosie knocked over the dinosaur. One corner of Jerome’s mouth twisted into a lascivious grin.

Rosie clutched the dinosaur tightly. “We’re still talking about lunch, right?”

“Focaccio’s,” Jerome repeated in a husky whisper, “is a restaurant.”

“I know that.” He was pronouncing it differently this time. What a sneak.