The Husband Project

“This was supposed to be my afternoon off,” he said gloomily. “If I was out beating the bushes for anything, it’d be a doctor—we’re short one just now.” He shook his head at the sugar bowl she held up. “I thought perhaps you’d decided on another approach to your problem, since you haven’t called for a referral.”

Alison set a steaming cup in front of him. “I’m amazed, with all those rafts of patients to see, that you’d bother to keep track of me.”

He grinned, and the tired lines around his eyes crinkled with humor. “Purely in self-defense, I assure you. Though as a matter of fact, I didn’t know till today that you hadn’t called.”

Alison poured her own coffee and sat down across from him. “So what was special about today?”

“This came in the mail.” He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “I don’t suppose you know anything about it.”

His tone, Alison thought, said that he’d already convinced himself differently.

She looked warily at the envelope. The return address was Tryad’s, the envelope identical to the ones they had printed by the thousands. Logan’s name and office address had been neatly typed. She turned it over, looked up at him, and shook her head. “I can’t imagine why you think I’d be sending—”

“Go ahead, open it.”

“The cloak-and-dagger way you’re acting, I’m not sure I want to leave my fingerprints,” she muttered, but she slid the contents out. She recognized the long, narrow card immediately; it was one of the elegant gift certificates she’d produced, good for one year’s membership in the Chicago Singles.

She tried without much success to choke back a laugh. Susannah, she thought, the little matchmaker! The whole notion of gift certificates had been Susannah’s; Alison should have seen this coming. “And you thought I’d enrolled you? No, I can’t take credit for that. Lucky you. It’s a pretty pricey gift, you know.”

“Can’t take credit? Or won’t?”

“I had nothing to do with it. I have to admit I have my suspicions about who’s responsible, but—”

“It’s your signature, Alison.”

“Of course it is. I signed a whole stack of blanks, but they’re not valid till Rita numbers and registers them. She no doubt has a record of who paid the bill. If you like, I’ll ask her tomorrow. I can also—”

“It’s a shame, you know. I was so certain it was you I brought you a gift in return.” From the other inside breast pocket, he took a small, flat white box and set it down on the table beside his cup.

“Very thoughtful,” Alison said dryly. “But I still don’t quite understand why you’d think that I—”

“Because the whole idea sounds like one of your fruitcake plans—and when I found out you hadn’t pursued the medical alternative, it all fit with your twisted logic. What better way to meet a transient population of males than to set up your very own singles club?”

Alison shook her head in confusion. “So I can look over the selection and choose one to father my baby? Oh, please. Even if I was crazy enough to do that, why would I let you in on it?”

“In the hope that I’d feel so bad about the risks you’d be taking that I’d volunteer to help after all.”

“You’d be more likely to issue a general warning in the name of protecting your fellow men.” She tapped the heavy vellum gift certificate on her palm. “I’ll give this back to Rita tomorrow and have her issue you a refund check.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it isn’t polite to return a gift for the money?”

“As a matter of fact,” Alison said dryly, “no, she didn’t.”

Logan extracted the gift certificate from her hand and put it gently back into his breast pocket. “Besides, someone obviously thought I’d find this fun—and who knows? They might just be right. And the least I can do is stand by to give—what did you call it? A general warning to protect my fellow men, wasn’t that it? Thanks for the coffee.” With a theatrical sweep, he bowed and was gone, leaving Alison sitting with cup in hand staring at nothingness.

Finally she shook her head a little and smiled. Let the man have his joke. He wouldn’t show up within miles of the Chicago Singles; he just wanted her to think he might.

She stood up and started to clear the table. Only when she picked up his cup did she realize that he’d gone off without the small, flat box.

I was so certain it was you I brought you a gift in return, he’d said.

If the box had been seated or wrapped, she wouldn’t have opened it. But it was neither, and it would have taken a lot more willpower than Alison possessed to keep from lifting the lid and peeking inside. She wasn’t hurting anything, after all. He’d never even know she’d looked.

On a bed of white cotton lay a silver pin just a couple of inches tall, in the shape of a musician with a flute raised to his lips. The workmanship was delicate, the most beautiful Alison had ever seen. And what instinct had told him that the flute was the instrument she’d always wanted to play?

Her fingertip went out hesitantly. The silver warmed instantly to her touch, and—almost frightened by the pleasure which swelled her heart—she snapped the lid back on the box and put it in the drawer of her desk, where it would be safe till she could send it back to him.

CHAPTER THREE

ALISON ticked items off the list in her head as she laid them out on her desk. Membership booklets to hand out at the Chicago Singles meeting, application forms for those who hadn’t already formally signed up, receipts in case anyone wanted to pay dues, notes for her brief introductory talk...

She reached for her soft leather briefcase and began to pack it. The back door banged and heels clicked on the bare wooden steps from the main floor down to Alison’s office.

“Nice little black dress,” Susannah said as she came in.

“Thanks. It’s not what I’d normally wear to the art museum on a Saturday afternoon, but I won’t have time to change before the Singles meeting.”

“I’m glad you’re not still calling it the Stupid Singles.” Susannah flung herself down on the wicker couch. “You know, I surmise you’re going to enjoy this club a whole lot more than you expect to.”

I’ll just bet you think so, Alison thought, because you don’t realize that I know about Logan’s gift certificate! The comment was the final confirmation of her suspicions that Susannah had been the source of that gift; she sounded entirely too innocent.

“Don’t get me started,” Alison said. “Sorry I’m not ready, by the way. It took longer to get everything together than I’d planned. I could have met you at the museum—there was no need for you to go out of your way to pick me up here.” .

“Oh, no. I asked you to provide moral support, and I’m going to squeeze out every drop of it I can—which includes having you walk into the Dearborn with me.”

Alison put the last of her papers in place and picked up the flat white box which contained the tiny flute player. Though she didn’t for a minute expect that Logan would show up at the meeting tonight, she might as well be prepared; she’d drop the box into the side pocket of her briefcase just in case.

The lid slipped, and the pin tumbled from its bed of white cotton onto the slick surface of Alison’s desk. Susannah swung around. “What a luscious pin! You’re going to wear it, aren’t you? It was made for that dress.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit much for the museum?” The excuse was feeble, Alison knew, but it was all she could think of.

Susannah’s eyebrows rose. “Obviously you haven’t been there for a while, or you’d know that anything goes. It’s perfect. Want me to help you put it on?”

Great, Alison thought. Now I have to start explaining how it’s not really mine, it’s sort of a gift from Logan, but I’m giving it back...and won’t Susannah have a field day with that?

There wasn’t much choice except to explain—and Susannah wouldn’t be easily put off with less than the full story. Unless...she could just wear the thing. What would be the harm? The pin certainly wouldn’t be injured, and if she took it off the minute she was out of Susannah’s sight, Logan would never know it had been out of the box.

Coward, she told herself. But she handed Susannah the small silver figure and stood very still while it was fastened to the shoulder of her dress.

It was apparent the moment they stepped into the Dearborn Museum of Art that everyone knew the famous artist would be inspecting the damage to his work that afternoon, for the museum was as busy as Alison had ever seen it. Most of the crowd was gathered in the main gallery where the damaged painting was, to Alison’s surprise, still hanging. Few of them were looking seriously at the art, and when Susannah and Alison came in, the noise level dropped and all eyes focused on them.

On Susannah, rather. Alison knew very well that no one was paying any particular attention to her. Still, as they walked up the wide ramp into the main gallery, she felt as if every gaze in the museum was directed at the small silver flute player on her shoulder.

Guilt, she told herself, is a powerful thing.

“Perfect timing,” Susannah murmured, and just as Alison started to ask what she meant, the double doors at the back of the gallery opened and two men—the museum’s director and a Bohemian figure who could only be the famous artist—strolled in and straight across the gray-carpeted floor to the painting in question.