Tame An Older Man

They stopped in the kitchen on the way out. Wyatt was still busily engaged with his plumbing. Well, at least they’d discovered he had a nice rear and a pleasant voice.

“Did you get the cat?” he asked.

“Yes,” Frannie said. “May I bring you some brownies to thank you?”

“I didn’t really do anything. Anyway, I’m allergic to chocolate, but thanks.”

Frannie and Phoebe looked at each other, but they were both out of ideas. “Well, guess we’ll leave,” Phoebe said. “Unless you need help with that plumbing?”

“Got it covered, thanks.”

They left. “Mission failed,” Phoebe murmured as she bid Frannie goodbye at the top of the stairs.

WYATT JUST LAY THERE under the sink for a few moments after the two women left. He’d been dying to get a look at the young one, Phoebe. He knew she was young because his grandparents had spoken endlessly of how beautiful she was, how nice, and how single. It was no secret they wanted him safely married off and providing them with great-grandchildren.

He’d always thought he wanted to get married someday, but someday had never come. He was thirty-nine but still in no hurry, not when he was on such a crucial rung of his career ladder, working sixteen-hour days to get “Heads Up” off on the right foot. He especially wasn’t interested in a platinum-blond beauty. The pretty ones were always trouble, their motives never to be trusted.

Still, Phoebe’s voice had sent pleasurable chills up his spine. He couldn’t be blamed for wanting to look.

When the plumbing job was finally finished, Wyatt took a moment to admire his handiwork. The kitchen faucet now ran hot and cold water at an appropriate volume without flooding the countertop. Satisfied, he grabbed a bottle of fruit juice as a reward and headed for his balcony. Since his move to Phoenix, he’d been stuck in the studio night and day. Now that he finally had a day off, he could appreciate the fine spring weather. What a switch it was from Chicago!

He sat down in one of the deck chairs and took a draw on his O.J. But relaxing didn’t come easy to him. Never had. First he saw some brown leaves on one of his grandmother’s ferns that had to be pinched. Then a spot of something orange on the balcony decking caught his eye. He picked up the small, soft, orange lump and sniffed it.

Smelled like fish. Cat food. Uh-huh.

Apparently Miss Phoebe felt the need for subterfuge in getting into his apartment. Apparently she believed that just introducing herself was too obvious.

He sighed, disappointed. Though why should Phoebe Lane be any different from every other attractive woman he met? It wouldn’t matter how subtle her machinations. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, get her on TV.

RATHER THAN TRAIPSING back to her own apartment two doors down from Wyatt’s, Phoebe went down to the second floor and knocked on Elise’s door.

“Come in, it’s unlocked,” Elise called. That seemed to be the policy around Mesa Blue. Everybody knew everybody—except Wyatt, of course—and since access to the building was controlled by twenty-four-hour security, the building had become its own small town. That was one of the reasons Phoebe had decided to move here. Her grandmother had left the condo to her in her will. Surprised and grateful—Phoebe had scarcely ever met her father’s mother—she welcomed the opportunity to flee Hollywood and settle into Mesa Blue’s warm, friendly environs.

She entered Elise’s apartment to find her friend lounging on her sofa reading a Bride magazine and sipping coffee. Her light brown hair was up in a ponytail, and she wore gym shorts and a T-shirt, looking as if she’d just finished an exercise routine.

Elise smiled a welcome. “Hey, get some coffee and sit down.”

Phoebe did just that. She loved Elise’s apartment, with its comfy furniture and its eclectic collection of books, pictures and plants. It was the sort of apartment a college professor should live in, which was only fitting, since that’s what Elise was. She taught French at Arizona State University.

Phoebe was sad that Elise would be moving out when she got married in a few months, though happy her friend had found such a wonderful man in James Dillon.

“Any progress in checking out Wyatt Madison?” Elise asked.

“That’s why I’m here. I’ve failed miserably. Although I can tell you he has a butt to die for.”

Elise’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh, really?”

“And a nice voice.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

“He had his head stuck under the sink, for gosh sake,” Phoebe said. “Even Frannie couldn’t lure him out. We’ve got to come up with a plan.”

Elise set aside the magazine. “In that case…” She hopped up, went to her bookcase, and after a moment’s perusal selected a large white paperback with blue lettering.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Phoebe said with a laugh, as Elise resumed her seat and started flipping through the book, 2001 Ways to Wed by Jane Jasmine. The book was a surprise hit with women all over the country, women who previously thought they were doomed to a life of loneliness. From Seattle to Miami, they claimed Ms. Jasmine’s eminently sensible advice had helped them find husbands.

Actually, Elise was one of those women, although she hadn’t actually been looking for a husband when she’d found James. She’d only been looking for a temporary escort to take her to a family wedding and pretend to be her fiancé. She’d sought out someone in the Drama Department at the university, a professor who could act the part of a devoted fiancé, and had found a millionaire, instead.

“This book actually has some wonderful advice,” Elise said.

“Any advice for luring a workaholic recluse from his lair?” Phoebe asked. “I swear, if the Madisons didn’t insist he was such a catch—so absolutely perfect—I wouldn’t bother with him.”

“There’s a whole chapter called ‘Don’t Forget Your Neighbors’ on finding compatibility with the boy next door. Actually, that’s the chapter that gave me the idea to go looking in the Drama Department. They’re my neighbors at the university.”

Phoebe stretched her legs out, propping them on Elise’s coffee table. “Let’s have it. What does Ms. Jasmine advise?”

“‘Sometimes the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’” Elise read. “‘Bake him a batch of welcome-to-the-neighborhood brownies.’”

“Would you believe Frannie already tried that? He’s allergic to chocolate.”

“Hmm. Oh, how about this one? ‘Is the man an animal lover? You could accidentally-on-purpose lose your dog or cat in his yard—’”

“Been there, done that. He had no interest in rescuing Daisy’s cat from a tree.”

“Darn, he is a tough case.” Elise flipped the page, scanning the text for gems. “Here’s one—‘Next time you have a domestic emergency, before you call a plumber or electrician, try the boy next door. If you’re lucky, he’ll be anxious to show off his manly prowess with power tools. Even if the two of you don’t hit it off, you could save yourself an exorbitant repair bill.’”

“Are you forgetting about Bill?” Phoebe said. Bill White was the super at Mesa Blue. He kept the building in top shape.

“You’re right. No one would impose on a neighbor when Bill is around. Okay, one more idea. ‘Have a party and invite him. If he comes alone, good for you. If he comes with a date, be gracious to them both. They might have eligible male friends. If he doesn’t come, you can always make so much noise that he can’t resist coming over to join the fun.’”

“That’s it!” Phoebe cried. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I thought you hated parties,” Elise said. “You said you’d had enough of them in L.A. to last you a lifetime.”

Phoebe wrinkled her nose at the reminder. Those Hollywood parties had seemed exciting when she’d first moved to California. She’d loved the schmoozing—name-brand producers making promises, aging movie stars making passes, other agents trying to steal her away from the one she already had. And all of them telling her how beautiful she was.

About the time she’d landed the part as Vanessa Vance on the nighttime soap opera “Skin Deep,” however, the schmoozing got old. Everyone assumed she’d slept with the handsome producer just to get the part.

People would have laughed if she’d told them the real reason she’d gotten involved with Joel Spinner. She’d thought she was in love with him. She hadn’t realized what a can of worms she’d opened. Joel had been less than discreet about their affair, and next thing she knew, the studly young star of the show assumed she would sleep with him. And when she didn’t, he told everybody she had.

For a few weeks, she was labeled Hollywood’s slut-du-jour. Unfortunately, she couldn’t claim complete innocence. On the rebound from Joel, she’d made a few bad choices in the romance department.

Still, she never sank to the level of sleeping with someone just to get a part, though the opportunities were there. And once it became obvious Phoebe Lane didn’t play the casting-couch game, she went from rising young star to has-been in a short time span. Vanessa Vance was killed in an unsightly car wreck. The soap got canned. And her agent expected her to do the next round of parties—only this time it would be harder, because she was no longer the freshest face in town.

And she had a bit of a rep.

That’s when she’d made her escape from Hollywood, much to her mother’s disappointment.