Prescription: Marry Her Immediately

“He’s not in love with me.” Amy shrugged off the pink turtleneck and returned to her first choice, a blue work shirt.

“He never will be, either, if you dress like a boy!” Kitty said. “No offense or anything.”

“Don’t you have homework to do?”

Her cousin heaved an exaggerated sigh, the kind that teenagers reserve for grown-ups. “I do my homework after dinner.”

“Your mom doesn’t make you do it first? Lucky you! My dad was really strict,” Amy said.

“Mom says parents have to pick their battles. As long as I keep my grades up and help out with the day-care kids during school break, she doesn’t nag me.”

That bit of motherly wisdom made sense to Amy. She stored it away to share with the Moms in Training.

After tucking in the work shirt, she decided she looked fine for tonight. The only thing she lacked was a coat.

“Do you have a jacket I could borrow?” She made a mental note to stop by her condo and pick up more clothes, now that she was allowed inside.

“Take whatever you want,” Kitty said. “It’s the least I can do after you loaned me your car last night.”

“That was an emergency.” An ailing neighbor had needed help picking up her medication. Since Aunt Mary was out, the teenager had volunteered to go.

“I like helping people,” Kitty said.

“You’ve matured a lot.” Amy regarded her young cousin affectionately. “You’ve been a good sport about my moving in like this. I hope I’m not getting in your way.”

“It’s fun having you here.” Kitty sat up on the bed. “When the little kids go home, it gets too quiet. I wish Dad would hurry back.”

“I know he misses you a lot, too.” Uncle Will, an engineer with a multinational company, was on long-term assignment overseas. It was his third stretch of being gone for months at a time but, Aunt Mary had explained, in another year he’d be able to take early retirement.

Amy hoped that, when she got married, she never had to be separated from her husband for more than a day or so. That was, assuming she ever found the right man.

Of course, women these days didn’t have to get married to lead fulfilling lives, she reminded herself. She had an interesting job and plenty of friends. That ought to be enough.

But it wasn’t.

Out of nowhere came an image of Quent in a tuxedo, standing in a church with love written on his face as she, Amy Ravenna, sailed toward him in a wedding dress. Not just a church, but a vast cathedral-like expanse of high arches and stained-glass windows; not simply a wedding dress, but a designer extravaganza spun from yards of silk and lace; not merely love, but utter adoration…

What was she thinking? Amy wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to plan a wedding like that! And as for Quent, he’d stated soon after they met that he wasn’t the marrying kind.

“I gotta go help with dinner.” Kitty hopped to her feet. “Good luck tonight.”

“I don’t need good luck. He’s a friend,” Amy said, and went to her cousin’s room to borrow a jacket.

WHEN HE’D RENTED his apartment, Quent had gotten a kick out of decorating it to suit his own taste and no one else’s. Now he wished he’d given more thought to the future.

The large recliner in one corner was about as far from seductive as furniture could get, and while that clunky lamp provided lots of reading light, it wasn’t likely to inspire Amy to do a striptease. He didn’t even have a couch, just a bunch of plastic chairs clustered around the Ping-Pong table. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Leaving the pizza box and take-out soft drinks next to the net, Quent went into the bathroom to remove his contact lenses. The paint fumes at work made them sting after a while, and it would feel good to put his glasses on.

They didn’t look bad, he thought a minute later, regarding the frames in the mirror. In fact, they added a touch of class.

When he was younger, he’d figured most women would find him more attractive with contacts, but he doubted Amy cared. What a relief not to worry about something so superficial, he thought, and went to the kitchen to get paper plates.

THE GLASSES gave Quent a sexy, mature look, Amy thought when he opened the door. The contemporary shape of the rims emphasized the blue of his eyes and the strong contours of his cheekbones.

“I like them,” she said after studying him for a moment.

“These?” Absentmindedly, he pushed up the bridge. “They’re comfortable, I’ll say that.”

“You should wear glasses all the time. They’re cute.” She stepped inside and got her first clear look at the apartment.

Amy nearly laughed in relief. While she’d been imagining a den of iniquity, all she saw were the Ping-Pong table, a recliner, a few resin chairs and, in one corner, a tier of audiovisual equipment.

“The kitchen table is tiny,” Quent said. “I figured we could eat out here on the Ping-Pong table, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said. “We can pretend we’re having afternoon tea at Wimbledon. In miniature, of course.”

“Wimbledon. Isn’t that a race track?” he asked as he opened the pizza box.

“It’s a tennis court in Great Britain.”

“Oh, right.” From a sack, he extracted napkins. “So you’ve been to England?”

“A couple of years ago.” Amy used most of her vacation weeks for travel.

“Where else have you gone?”

“One year I did a whirlwind tour of Europe,” she said. “Another trip, I went to Washington, D.C., and New York City. I love historic sites.”

“I knew you were a woman of the world, but I didn’t realize the extent of it,” Quent teased. “Let’s see…I went to Tijuana a few times.” The Mexican border town lay a few miles south of San Diego.

“It’s a start,” Amy said. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Mostly I shopped. The last time, I bought a poncho and some toys for my niece and nephew,” he said. “And practiced my high-school Spanish on the natives. They were very patient.”

“Do you plan to travel more?”

“I guess so.”

They seemed to have run out of things to say. Always before, they’d chattered away about sports, favorite shows on television—they both enjoyed science fiction—or whatever was in the news.

Tonight, Amy felt stiff and self-conscious. She decided it must be due to hunger. Once they started eating, they’d bounce back to normal.

When she pulled up a chair, the Ping-Pong table proved an awkward height, but she supposed there were advantages to having her food closer to her mouth. Less likelihood of spilling it on herself, for instance. “Oh, good, you got pepperoni.”

“Everybody likes pepperoni.” Quent distributed slices onto paper plates.

“Not vegetarians,” she said.