

### The Numbers Man

By

### Pat Muir

Copyright © 2017 by Pat Muir  
PMBOOK

Smashwords Edition

The Numbers Man, 2nd edition, is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is either coincidental or, if real, used fictitiously with no relation to their actual conduct. All rights are reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portions thereof in any form whatsoever as provided by U.S. Copyright Law.

PMBOOK  
2240 Encinitas Blvd, Suite D  
Encinitas, CA 92024  
Website: www.whathappenedtoflynn.com

Cover by: VPG Printing

Editing by: Jefferson of Firstediting.com

### Also by Pat Muir:

Stories to Entertain You...If You Get Bored on Your Wedding Night (1999)

What Happened to Flynn (2017)

The author would like to acknowledge Evy Anderson, Mary Hartley, Patty Thistlethwaite, Anke Kriske and Susie Ernau for reading the draft manuscript, for offering me constructive criticism, and for encouraging me with their commendations. Finally, I need to thank all those internet ladies who inspired me.

### CONTENTS

Chapter 1  
Chapter 2  
Chapter 3  
Chapter 4  
Chapter 5  
Chapter 6  
Chapter 7  
Chapter 8  
Chapter 9  
Chapter 10  
Chapter 11  
Chapter 12  
Chapter 13  
Chapter 14  
Chapter 15  
Chapter 16

CHAPTER 1

Many stories start serenely with a description of characters, environment, and circumstances; others start with an event. This story falls in the latter category, on a particular date: Valentine's Day, Thursday, February 14, 2008—a perfect day for the start of a romance. The date is written in the USA as 2/14/08, and two times fourteen is twenty-eight, the usual number of days in February, the second month of the eighth year of the new millennium. What a great number, so even, so well balanced! However, 2008 was a leap year—twenty-nine days in February—so perception of balance is incorrect. Certainly, that day jolted my balance.

Bill Hancock got my attention with: "You know I've being going with a gal called Ruby for the past two months." He paused. "We've gotten engaged."

I stopped counting the laundry-machine money and looked up at Bill, the manager of the forty-unit apartment building in Lawndale I own jointly with my ex-wife. Bill smirked at the surprised expression on my face. He had been looking for a long-term girlfriend since his divorce a year before. He conducted his search at bars and local casinos, and the women he met seemed ready to hop into bed with him or anyone else who bought them a drink and a meal. I had listened to his adventures with amusement and distaste; to get engaged to one of these women evoked concern. By contrast, I had been using the internet to find a new partner for over two years and thought my approach logical and systematic. And here, my manager, a former construction worker, overweight, with less education and resources, had found somebody to commit to in half the time.

"Really! You haven't known her very long."

"Long enough to think we can make a go of it."

I gathered my thoughts as I absorbed the news. "Tell me more about her... I assume you want to live here together."

"That's right. Ruby's thirty-two, nice looking...used to work as a hairdresser but doesn't have a job right now. Her last employer's husband kept hitting on her, so she had to leave. I wondered if it would be okay if she ran the office instead of me. I'll be able to refurbish vacated units faster, and I could take over the landscaping from Hanson Brothers."

I'm being hornswoggled into this. I raised my hand to slow down decision-making. "Bill, I don't want to be pressured into this." I thought for a moment. "If I employ her, I'll need to interview her. And you should understand I'll probably have to assign some of your pay to her in order to meet minimum wage requirements."

Bill reluctantly acknowledged my last sentence and asked when I could interview Ruby. "Anytime," I replied.

"She's at my apartment right now. I'll go get her."

A few minutes later, Ruby walked into the office behind Bill, who introduced us. She had a Marilyn Monroe body, her low-cut pink top displaying the tops of firm, round, creamy breasts, her tight brown shorts revealing well-proportioned legs, thighs, hips, and buttocks, and her moderate waist emphasizing her curvaceous figure. Thirty-five, twenty-five, thirty-five on a five-feet-five-inch frame, I reckon. How about that! Every number a five. But for looks, a ten. Why would this babe be attracted to Bill, whom most gals would classify as a three or less? Why do we men initially classify a woman by her body? Sexual potential, of course. It's always there, no matter our age. The voluptuous body, long blonde hair, and smiling face with its accentuated eyes made me stare.

Bill saw me staring and smiled, saying, "She's a looker, isn't she?"

I said hello to Ruby and put out my hand to shake hers. Instead, Ruby grinned and squeezed me tightly to her bosom, saying, "It's lovely to meet Bill's boss. He says a lot of nice things about you."

Astonished and embarrassed at this unexpected almost-sexual embrace, I could only utter, "My pleasure," and gently disengage myself. Bill's going to have trouble with this gal.

Ruby waved her hand, displaying an engagement ring on her finger, and said, "I'm so lucky to have a man like Bill," squeezing his thigh with her other hand. That ring has a two-carat sparkler with two green stones on the side set in gold. I just hope they're all simulated; otherwise, Bill's savings will be wiped out.

Still recovering from my astonishment, I asked a desultory question: "Where did you live before you came to Los Angeles?"

"San Diego," she replied. "I was there most of my life and came to this burg to find something livelier. And now I've hooked up with Bill."

Does that mean she thinks Bill's a live wire? Is there a side of him I don't know? She squeezed Bill's thigh again and splayed her little finger to poke his crotch. Ruby saw I noticed the movement and winked. Bill is asking for trouble with this woman. I just hope I can find a reason to reject her. I asked a few questions and said I would mail her forms to fill out: an employment application, an I-9 employment eligibility form, a W-4 tax deduction form, and a copy of my controlled substance policy.

"No problem," she replied and gave me another squishy tight embrace before she left the office.

Bill smiled at me in amusement. "She's a very affectionate gal. She loves to hug everybody."

I raised my eyebrows and told him there was no guarantee I would hire Ruby, but I would consider it carefully after I had checked her application. Bill grunted his acknowledgment. This development makes me very queasy. Pointless to attempt dissuading Bill out of this. Just have to see how it plays out.

Six in the morning next day found me at home listening over the phone to the booming voice of my interviewer, Jock Stevens, who seemed excessively confident and out of place at this small radio station, WBPT of Brownstown, Pennsylvania. Somehow, I expected a less strident voice, appropriate for the small community that WBTP served. Maybe his confident exposition would help sell my book. I waited as Stevens discussed local happenings: the break-in at Bert's hardware store, the uproarious meeting of the chamber of commerce, the fete at Hepler Elementary School, the potholes along Brandon Street, the new eatery at Smith Avenue, a further candidate for mayor, and the local weather. Finally: "Our guest today is Pat Muir. He wrote the book, The Single Man's Guide to a Quick Meal. We'll be taking questions to Pat in a few. We have copies of his book for the first five people who call in. But first, let me ask Pat how he came to write the book."

I turned on my speakerphone and the connected tape recorder, since I record each interview. "After I was divorced, I had to cook for myself. I wanted to make meals that took the minimum time and the minimum utensils. I finally compiled my ideas into a short book."

"Did you ever cook for yourself before?"

"Oh yes. I cooked for myself—and my roommates—when I was in college thirty-five years ago."

"Did you enjoy cooking then?"

"We all felt the same way. How could we bring good chow to the table in the minimum time with the fewest pots and pans? It was one of the necessary chores that interfered with our graduate studies, the others being buying groceries and washing dishes."

"Which of these chores did you prefer?"

"We had good appetites but only a small refrigerator; thus, we bought groceries three or four times per week. If you were the procurer that week, you could buy the food you enjoyed. I liked certain types of food especially, so I preferred to shop. Unfortunately, some roommates developed an intense dislike for some of my preferences."

"Such as?"

"Lorna Doone shortbread cookies. My roommates hated them so much that we agreed to buy our own cookies rather than use the communal budget. Of course, that worked both ways. I still have an abiding aversion to hot dogs and beans."

"You don't like hot dogs and beans, the classic American dish?"

"No, I don't like them. I've managed to avoid eating them since I left college."

Stephens snorted before continuing. "Were you the favorite cook among your roommates?"

"No. We usually took turns for the week. One roommate had his girlfriend come over for the weekend. She liked either to cook or to demonstrate her cooking skills to her boyfriend. She epitomized the cliché: 'The best way to a man's heart is through his stomach.' We knew a good thing and encouraged her return at the price of listening later to noisy lovemaking. Better meals those evenings for those of us not partying. Count me among those who stayed in for a good meal."

"Do you have a favorite recipe?" asked Stevens

"Recipes are for people who enjoy cooking," I answered and then, after a short pause for effect, added, "or those who need directions."

"And you don't need directions?"

"I don't like directions." I chortled. "I dislike people telling me what to do. That's not to say I never use a recipe, but I prefer to think of cooking as a free-form art. You take what's available and make something tasty from it without wasting time."

"So, you don't enjoy cooking?"

"Only that it's necessary when I'm hungry. I'd much rather have somebody cook for me."

"Does that mean you don't care about food as long as you get it quickly?"

"Obviously, I like nice food better than mush. It's simply a balance between remaining hungry and waiting for something that tastes better."

"Do you advocate any particular quick meals in your book, Pat?"

"As a single man, I strongly believe in meals that can be heated or cooked quickly in a microwave oven. You simply have to pick those that have good nutritional value, and fully assuage your hunger. I found many TV dinners at the supermarket didn't fill me up. I preferred the higher-calorie foods like Banquet Hungry Man meals for dinner and Jimmy Dean sausage, cheese, and egg croissants for breakfast."

"Please," Stevens interrupted, "no more proprietary names on the show, Pat. My producer doesn't like it... So, does your book have any recipes?"

"There are a few recipes, such as bubble and squeak and toad in the hole from my days growing up in Scotland."

"Bubble and squeak?"

"Fried leftover mashed potatoes with cabbage or spinach." Sounds revolting now I think of it, but it tasted very good to me as a child with an appetite. Boy, didn't I hate that boiled spinach served at lunch or dinner—so wet, cold, and tasteless! The boiled cabbage was little better. But fried with potatoes and served hot for an evening snack, I remember to this day.

"And what's toad in the hole?"

"Sausages baked in an egg batter. Neither are my favorite foods now."

"Then why did you put them in your book?"

"Nostalgia. They're penance food, the kind of food you eat when you don't want to drive to the store and your girlfriend has said she doesn't want to see you anymore. They're usually leftovers because you want to sulk in solitude. When you eat that kind of food—institutional food from my days at a Scottish boarding school—you are reminded things could be worse and there will be better food...and girlfriends...next time."

"Girlfriends? Oh yes, you said you were divorced." Stevens paused. "Do you have a current girlfriend?"

"No."

"Then, you're looking for one?"

"Oh yes, and I find most women on the internet think it's a plus if a man can cook."

"The internet... I think we should let listeners ask questions about this," said Stevens. "Let's take the first call... It's from a Betty Harkin."

There was a pause of a few seconds before there came a voice that lay somewhere between the freshness of youth and the quavering of the elderly—I call it settled middle age—but not a voice exuding the confident warmth of women I wished to meet. "Mr. Manure, have you found anybody on the internet yet?"

Geez, nobody has called me "manure" since grammar school. Should I correct this lady or let it slide? Or should I counter with the story of President Truman's daughter asking her mother if her father would use "fertilizer" instead of "manure" together with Bess Truman's reply: "You don't know how long it took me to get him to say 'manure.'"

"No, I haven't found a partner yet." I did not mind this line of questioning, since my book suggested several ways for somebody else...usually a girlfriend...to cook or procure a meal. However, if the questioner were excessively serious, the lightheartedness of my book would be lost. To come across as a pompous misogynist would not help promote my book.

"And you think the internet is a good place to find a partner?" asked the lady.

"Oh yes, Mrs. Harkin. Women who advertise on the internet are indicating they're interested in a romance or some type of relationship. It's much easier than approaching a stranger at a bar or cocktail lounge or expecting your friends to fix you up."

"It's Ms. Harkin," came the voice with emphasis on the Ms., "and have you met many women on the internet?"

Not too quick here, Pat. "I've met fifty-six."

"That's a very large number—very specific. Are you simply keeping score?"

Don't like the tone in her voice. I bet she'll next ask whether I'm truly searching for a partner or simply seeking to have serial relationships of a casual nature. Not that there's anything wrong with that provided it's made clear to the prospective partner. Most women value constancy and loyalty in their mate; I do also. "Well, yes. I do keep a record of them by number since I remember numbers better than names."

"But why so many? My former husband said I was only the second woman he ever dated."

"Finding a partner is a numbers business. An article in the Wall Street Journal said one should meet thirty screened prospective partners on average to find one suitable as a spouse or long-term partner."

"Well, you are way over thirty. Are you just fussy?"

"No, I don't think so. It's a matter of probability. After thirty such meetings, the probability you haven't met someone suitable is thirty-six percent. After meeting sixty women, the probability of not having met the right one is still significant at thirteen percent."

"At fifty-six, I think you're just fussy or a skirt chaser."

Jock Stevens interrupted before I could reply, an interruption I appreciated since I did not know what to say. The conversation had gone off track, and I was sure Stevens had cut off Ms. Harkin for that reason. "Thank you, Betty, for your questions. We'll send you a copy of Pat's book... Let's take another call... It's from a Jean Smith."

The lady said in a stern voice, "I'm a professional nutritionist. Those foods you mentioned are high in fats. You shouldn't be eating them or, worse, promoting them in your book."

I had expected this kind of attack. Other internet ladies had said the same thing.

"I don't want to argue with you, Ms. Smith. Nutrition is your business. But I enjoy eating these foods. I don't eat them all the time, and I'm healthy and not overweight."

After a pause: "Mr. Muir, would you please tell more about the contents of your book? Why would anybody want to buy it if it is not really about cooking and you admit it contains few recipes? Isn't your title a little fraudulent?"

"Ms Smith, my book discusses the problems a single man has in preparing a meal. Notice I do not use the word 'cooking' in my title," I replied. "A man values his time, perhaps more than a woman, because society—sorry, I should have said commerce—also values it more."

"That's sexist," said the lady.

Time to duck on this issue. "What I said may not be politically correct. The point I am making is that if one values one's time, whether man or woman, and does not value food taste as highly as gourmets do, then preparing a meal quickly is a valuable asset. If it were not, there would be little demand for fast-food restaurants."

"But surely, you're going to lose taste, vitamins, presentation, ambiance, and all the other things that make eating worthwhile?"

I liked these questions. She was getting to the heart of the matter. "I agree with you. Fast food is not for everybody. Morgan Spurlock, who made the movie Super Size Me about eating at McDonalds three times a day for a month, gained thirty pounds, a fatty liver, and reduced sexual potency. Any sensible person would have told him that eating five thousand calories each day, without engaging in an offsetting strenuous activity, would have led him to the conditions he experienced. Mind you, he made millions from his movie, so he would certainly have time and money to enjoy gourmet food later."

"But you were saying earlier in the program about egg and sausage croissants for breakfasts and large-calorie meals for dinner. Are you not, in essence, doing what Spurlock did?"

"Ms Smith, you should read my book. I also advocate salads, buying delicatessen foods, eating with friends and relatives, and, for the single man, making friends with women who like to cook."

Jean Smith evidently had no response to this, and Steven terminated the dialogue.

"Thank you, Jean. We'll send you a copy of Pat's book." There was a pause before he asked me, "What food would you recommend to somebody who comes home late from work and doesn't want to cook?"

"In those circumstances, especially if it's been a hot day, I would make a strawberry protein drink. I put frozen strawberries in a blender, some ice and whey powder, usually adding orange juice to dilute it if I'm thirsty. You can add liquor if you need to forget the day you just had."

"Do you have many days like that?"

"Not now," I replied. "I did have days like that when I ran a motel. But that's another story." An opportunity here, Pat. Run with it. "I did write about my motel experiences as short stories, some of which were compiled into my first book."

"Your first book?"

"Yes," I replied. "My first book, called Stories to Entertain You...If You Get Bored on Your Wedding Night." I emphasized the pause in the title of the book and was delighted that Stevens laughed.

"We had better concentrate on your present book, Pat. We have give-away copies only of that one." Stevens paused. "Did you invent that protein drink?"

"No. I learnt the recipe from Number 12, who believed I wasn't eating right."

"Number 12?"

"I can't remember her name now." I paused, adding apologetically, "It was more than two years ago."

"Did she give you any other recipes?"

"She gave me the idea for my book because she didn't care to cook. We ate out a lot, and my bringing food from a takeaway or a delicatessen satisfied her. Occasionally, I would make a meal, and she seemed to appreciate it."

"Did she drop you, or was it the other way around?"

"We really were not compatible, but it took a few months to find that out. The end came when she continued to read poetry to me while food I had cooked cooled on the table." I could hear Stevens chuckling. "I thought the poetry she read to me—prose written by a close friend of hers—was gibberish. I decided to pay her back by writing poetry and reading it to her at a later meal."

"And how did that work out?"

"She said my stuff was doggerel and fiercely defended her friend's writing. I said I preferred poems that rhymed—I even mentioned that Shakespeare's sonnets rhymed. She said I, being a mere uncultured scientist, didn't know what I was talking about."

Stevens chuckled. "Did any of the other ladies give you recipes for your book?"

"I can't think of any," I replied. "I'm sure some of the ladies I met on the internet tried to impress me with their cooking, but I don't remember any memorable meals. Most of the time, I took them out to dinner. Cooking for myself and dealing with Number 12 motivated me to write my book."

"Did you ever cook for any other ladies you met on the internet, Pat?"

"Oh yes. I always kept frozen TV dinners in my freezer and could readily whip them out for myself and a guest."

"Did you ever cook a meal for them from scratch rather than just heat prepared food?"

"No. I tried to avoid just that, though I could make a tossed salad in a pinch for those who talked about losing weight. I deliberately left the impression with many internet ladies that I didn't know how to make a meal from scratch, thus encouraging them to show me they could do better."

I could hear Stevens chuckle. He paused, and I could sense my speakerphone being deactivated. "Thank you, Pat, for being a guest on our show." A few seconds elapsed before he remembered to promote my book and mention the salient details. I turned off the tape recorder and put the phone on the hook. Stephens phoned me an hour later. "Thank you for answering the questions from our callers, Pat. It was a good show with plenty of phone calls. It looks like your book stirred up controversy. Good luck with it." I thanked Stevens for the opportunity, said I would appreciate a return interview, and complimented him on his show. He sounded pleased as we said goodbye.

The interview by Jock Stevens had come from my contract with Radio and Television Interview Report (RTIR) to promote my book. For three thousand dollars, RTIR had agreed to get me thirty radiotelephone interviews in a contract similar to that for my first book, a compilation of short stories that, having no central theme, sold poorly. Clearly, to promote effectively, these interviews required focusing on a defined topic, such as a how-to-type book, the biography of a celebrity, or the details of a historical event. My new book on meals for single men was therefore much better suited to this type of marketing.

The Stevens interview had gone well, and I felt pleased with myself since it had lasted for some fifteen minutes, far longer than any previous interviews. I rewound the recorder and played it back. As I listened, I reviewed the questions raised by callers-in and concluded there were more questions about myself than the contents of the book. I would have to do better to motivate people to buy my book. Unfortunately, my book did not concern itself solely with cooking or food preparation. It dealt more with the fortunes of single men who, on leaving home, are poorly adjusted to not having a woman look after them. I would need to say something on that issue to distinguish my book from the plethora about cooking on the market. After reviewing the recording, I faxed employment documents to Ruby at the apartment building office.

Sonia Riley, my contact at RTIR, telephoned me later that day. "Good afternoon, Pat. WBTP called me to say thank you for the radio interview, and they might be interested in having you back. I trust you sent them a thank-you note like I asked you to do for each completed interview?"

"Of course I have, Sonia," I lied, making a mental note to do so as soon as the phone call ended. "I assume that if I'm asked back, it doesn't count against the thirty interviews in the contract."

"No, it won't count against the thirty. But if you are called back, let me know. If you become popular on the radio circuit, then I can get you television appearances. They will cost you, but they are dynamite in promoting your book. That was your sixth interview with this book. How did it go?"

"Very well. It must have been, since you say they may call me back. Callers' questions were directed as much to me as my book. One of them even called me 'Manure.'"

"Better exploit it," Sonia replied, laughing. "Tell them your name isn't shit. Incidentally, have you had more inquiries on your book website following the WBTP interview?"

"No, Sonia, I haven't seen any uptick there," I replied. "It's too early for that."

She continued: "I've arranged interviews with KDIN of Denton, Iowa, and WBUV of Harrison, Virginia. They will be calling you to set up interview dates. You'd better send me a dozen more copies of your book. I'm sending them to producers who like cookbook authors on their shows."

"It's a joke cookbook, you know, Sonia. I got asked more questions about dating in the WBTP interview than about any meals I wrote about."

"Well, let me remind you of how you are being promoted to producers. I sent you a copy of the ad sheet; it says to listen how guys on the internet cook for themselves and their girlfriends. It's up to you whether to talk about the book as funny or serious."

Sonia had been my RTIR contact for my first book, where, in support of its title, she had promoted me to radio-show producers as "the Honeymoon Expert." The label had been a source of amusement to us both since I had absolutely no supportive qualifications. "It's just hype to get their attention," Sonia had told me. When I had apprised Sonia of my divorce, our conversations had become personal, since we were both in the same position, namely unmarried and looking for new partners on the internet. We had concluded that the three thousand miles between us and our age difference precluded dating, but we appreciated sharing our search experiences. I found it useful to have a female perspective on interactions I had with internet women. On this occasion, I told Sonia about Ruby, emphasizing her anatomy and conduct.

"Did you like being hugged by this Marilyn Monroe?" Sonia asked, giggling.

"I didn't know how to react. I didn't know whether to be flattered or embarrassed. She's a beauty. Does she hug everybody like that, or was I singled out because she wants a job from me? If I were Bill, I would be concerned if she hugs everybody that way. She gives the impression of a woman motivated entirely by sex."

"Is there anything wrong with that?"

I pondered before replying, since my experience had always been with women playing hard to get. "Well, it invites men who have only sex on their mind. I always thought that men gave love to get sex and women gave sex to get love. If the woman has gotten her love, in this case Bill, why does she act as though she wants more?"

"You're getting an education. I'll look forward to hearing how it turns out."

Time to change the subject. "Anything happening at your end?" I asked.

"I met a nice guy on the internet the other day," remarked Sonia. "He's ten years younger than me and says he likes more-mature women."

"And?"

"He wanted to go to bed with me on our first date."

"And?"

"That's for me to know and you to guess."

"Sonia, many men have nothing but sex on their mind. You have to figure out if this guy has potential beyond his dick."

"He's been married, and his children are grown, so he has no entanglements."

"What kind of a car does he drive?"

"A three-year-old Corvette."

Sonia and I disagreed about dress. She believed a newish car and nice clothes were indicative of financial independence. I do not. Clothes are very casual in warm sunny Southern California. Furthermore, in the book The Millionaire Next Door, the wealthy next-door neighbor drove an older truck. Still, we both developed the habit of noting the vehicle of the prospects we met.

"You're sure he's divorced," I asked.

"Won't know that until I see where he lives."

"You mean he went to your place?"

There was a pronounced silence. "How's your love life?" she asked.

Okay. Okay. "Not much going on. I'm scheduled to meet somebody on Saturday."

"How many will that be?"

"She'll be the fifty-seventh."

"Good luck. Tell me about it when we next talk."

The phone conversation ended, and I wrote the thank-you note to Stevens, mentioning my hidden thought about being called "Manure." Hopefully, the joke would make him remember me.

CHAPTER 2

Saturday traffic on Highway 405 near the airport held me up for my meeting. The lady, sitting at the coffee table, had a different hairstyle from that on her internet profile. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, making me uncertain about her identity, so I approached cautiously.

"Beth?" I asked.

She smiled a generous smile, not a quick, polite one, but one conveying a genuine interest in me and welcoming warmth. I responded similarly. She stood up and stretched out her hand. I apologized for being late, and she pointed to her coffee cup and book to indicate she had occupied her time.

"Would you like a nibble or a refresher cup?" I asked, pleased when she responded yes to both. It lets me make up for my tardiness. I examined Beth as we spoke: about four inches shorter than my sixty-eight inches, nicely figured—perhaps a 36C—and trim for a woman in my age bracket, wearing a green jacket over a lighter green top and skirt, sandals, and no stockings or socks. She wore a silver lapis lazuli necklace, matching earrings, and two silver rings on her middle finger, jewelry of taste but not wealth. Her auburn hair was cut short. She's a good possibility, I thought as I went to the Starbucks counter. She has sex appeal and a pleasant demeanor.

"Tell me about yourself," I said, putting down the cookies and coffee on the table, which wobbled enough to spill the overfilled drinks. I apologized and suggested we get another table.

Beth removed her sunglasses. "No, let's move this table," she said and started pushing it with one hand while holding her coffee in the other. I grabbed my coffee cup and pulled in the same direction. The table still wobbled. She moved the table further, now a good six feet from where it originally stood. It still wobbled.

She smiled. "I guess we should change tables, then."

I smiled too. "Either the ground isn't level with that first table or it has one leg shorter than the others—surprising since they're metal tables."

I was impressed by her persistence to stay with the original table and surprised she hadn't noticed its wobble beforehand. I admired her initiative at moving it, her strength in pushing it with one hand, and her perverseness in ignoring my initial suggestion. Thus, I savored her acquiescence. Beth thanked me for the fresh coffee and cookies.

"Cream, no sugar, you said?"

She nodded.

"Tell me," I asked, "Do you normally move cafe tables when they wobble, or do you prefer to move to a new one?"

She smiled. "I really wanted to position the first one so your bare head wasn't in the sunlight."

Hmm! I hadn't realized my semi-bald head had been in the direct sun, though it would have told me soon. Ostentatiously, I pulled a baseball hat out of my carry bag and put it on. "Let's start again. Tell me about yourself."

"This is the first time I've ever met anybody on the internet. Is it your first?"

"No, I've met quite a few ladies. I'm trying hard to find a long-term partner." I avoided mentioning how many, since I didn't want to sound like a Casanova. "I divorced four years ago after a long marriage," I added.

"How long, and why were you divorced?"

"Thirty-three years. My ex and I didn't grow toward each other or develop common interests. I think we stayed together for the sake of our children. When they finished college and started work in cities distant from our home, we had nothing holding us together. A loveless marriage is uninteresting. After a series of modest disputes, I decided I'd had enough and moved out."

"Did your wife ask you to come back?"

"No. I was somewhat surprised she didn't, but not disappointed."

"How many children do you have, and where do they live?"

"I have two sons. One lives in Cleveland, Ohio—he's a radiologist. The other, a geologist, lives in Houston. They're both married, and I now have three grandchildren." I pulled pictures from my wallet of my children and grandchildren to show to Beth.

She studied the photographs closely before she spoke. "What did your sons think when you divorced their mother?"

"They didn't say anything negative, but I think they were surprised. Their concern was more with how their mother felt about it... Enough about me, though. How long have you been divorced, and why did that happen?"

She sipped her coffee. "I divorced my husband fourteen years ago for infidelity, and I was only forty-seven. That makes you sixty-one years old. I couldn't believe he was having sex with the school librarian. It devastated my daughter that her father would be intimate with somebody only five years older than she."

"Wow!" There has to be more here than meets the eye. Beth's a nice-looking woman, smiling face, clear skin, and good figure for her age. "Had your husband been unfaithful before?"

"Not to my knowledge," Beth replied. "I'm over it now, though it took time for my children to reconcile with him."

"And how many children do you have?"

"My daughter, Connie, who lives with me, and I have a son, Robert, who markets software in the Boston area. He's a widower with an eight-year-old daughter." She pulled a photograph of her granddaughter from her purse and showed me.

"Charming little girl... And what made you start dating on the internet?"

"I haven't been looking to date; it's just that Connie thought I should and put me on a trial subscription to matesearch.com."

"I guess I'm lucky to meet you, then, because I know these trial subscriptions only last five days. You have to put up your charge card to get the trial, so I hope you've cancelled the charge unless you're planning to continue using the service."

"No problem," replied Beth. "Connie's card."

We both laughed.

"Do you stay in touch with your ex?" I asked

"Yes. He's still paying me alimony. And you, how are your relations with your ex?"

"Businesslike, since the apartment building we own jointly provides us each with the bulk of our income. I try to be friendly by sending her a box of chocolates on her birthday, and she reciprocates by sending me a fruitcake on mine. I suspect symbolism in that gift."

Beth laughed. She asked me about my career. I told her about formerly being a geophysicist and a real estate investor. Beth told me she had worked as a school secretary after her divorce. She had inherited money from an uncle that had enabled her to retire early four years ago and buy the condominium she lived in.

"Does your daughter have a boyfriend?" I asked

"Oh yes," replied Beth, "she has a very nice boyfriend whom I hope she'll marry."

I asked Beth what her daughter and boyfriend did for a living, and she told me that Connie was a technical editor and Harry a systems analyst. She also volunteered the boyfriend frequently slept over and she had therefore given up the master suite to her daughter. Sounds like daughter wants to move mother out.

"It's interesting that your daughter is an editor," I said. "I needed an editor when I wrote my first book."

Beth's eyes widened. "Your first book?"

"Actually, I've written two, the first one a collection of short stories and the second a spoof on food preparation for a single man."

"Connie edits only technical material; she couldn't have helped with your short stories... I'd like to read your books."

"Yes, indeed." I pulled a copy of my short story collection from my carry bag and gave it to her.

She laughed at the title and then again at the book, which displayed on the front cover a cartoon of a woman in a nightgown avidly reading my book while the rear cover showed a man snoring in a bed draped with wedding garments. She flipped through some pages before asking, "Who published the book?"

I looked at her carefully. "Actually, I did. I had the book critiqued, formed a publishing entity called PMBOOK, and printed a thousand copies."

"And did you sell all thousand?"

"Hardly. A friend sold sixty-two books in his store by leaning on his customers. I have over five hundred copies left and have been giving a copy to every lady I meet on the internet."

Beth smiled. "Does that mean you plan to meet five hundred women on the internet?"

"I hope not," I said, laughing. "Meeting women takes a lot of time. The average time between meeting one woman and meeting the next, allowing for a possible date, averages about two and a half weeks. So that would take me over twenty years to dispose of my books."

"Did you try marketing it?"

"Oh yes. The key to selling a book is getting a good review. I sent over two hundred books to potential reviewers but didn't get a single response. I now realize no professional reviewers will look at a self-published book. Worse still, some reviewers listed their copies for sale on amazon.com where they appear in juxtaposition to the advertisement of the new book."

Beth laughed. "What chutzpah."

I grinned. "I tried marketing the book by sending audio samples to libraries and by radiotelephone interviews. The latter were unsuccessful, I think, because there was no central theme to the book."

"And your second book?"

"It's about meals for single men."

"Really! Do you know a lot about cooking?"

"No, I don't. I meant the book as a lighthearted guide on how to get a quick meal."

"Why did you make your book gender specific?"

"Because the majority of single men never learn to cook."

Beth smiled. "You'll have to show me an example of your quick meals someday. Personally, I like to cook, and I'm very good at it."

My turn to smile. "I'd love to sample your cooking."

Beth sipped her coffee. "And did you self-publish your second book also, or did you try to find a professional publisher?"

"I self-published again."

"Wasn't that a mistake given it precludes getting a professional review?"

"Perhaps. I doubted a publisher would accept mine, especially when I have no reputation in the field. The book, a combination of quick food preparation and advice, is well suited to marketing by radiotelephone interviews. I enjoyed that interview experience and wanted to repeat it with a product more amenable to that type of marketing."

"What do you think your chances of success are this time?"

"Beth, of the sixty thousand books published each year in the USA, only fifteen thousand are profitable. I doubt I'll make any money."

"Then, why bother to write it?"

I drank some coffee before replying. "I'm told many authors write just to please themselves, and writing to earn money isn't their defining stimulus. I wrote both books to demonstrate to myself that I could write more than just technical reports. I would like them to earn money, but I won't grieve if they don't."

Beth persisted. "But surely a professional review would help?"

I put down my coffee cup. "Many publishers these days want marginal authors to pay for some of the marketing costs. I would rather have the fun of marketing the book myself and avoid publisher's overheads."

There was a silence before the next question. "And how is your cookbook selling?"

"I've just started marketing it. At the moment, I have eleven full cartons of books in my condo and one being depleted as handouts on the radiotelephone interviews."

I then told Beth about the radiotelephone interview with WBTP and how much I had enjoyed the on-air conversation. She was especially interested in the questions by Jean Smith, the nutritionist. Time to change the subject. "Beth, is your name short for Elizabeth or Bethany?"

"Neither. It's plain Beth."

An opportunity. "Well, I don't think this Beth is plain."

She smiled broadly. "Are you as smooth as this with all the women you meet?"

"I doubt it. If I were, then I wouldn't have had to meet so many."

Then it came. "So, how many have you met on the internet?"

I looked at her quizzically at length, as though checking if she really wanted an answer to the question, before replying, "Fifty-seven."

She raised her eyebrows. "That many?"

"It sounds like a lot, but I only dated five of them."

"Dated?"

"Meeting them at least once after a Starbucks coffee."

"Are you dating anybody else at this time?"

"No."

Beth took a long swig of her coffee before she spoke. "So, am I number fifty-seven or number fifty-eight?"

"Well, the former. But please, Beth, you are clearly somebody I would like to meet again, and I promise not to call you 'Number 57.'"

She smiled. "I would hope not."

We talked about our interests and ascertained we both liked travel, dining out, movies, and television. She liked gardening, while I did not. I liked playing bridge, while she abhorred card games. She had visited Western Europe and Australia, an experience similar to mine. I asked her what countries she would like to visit, and she mentioned Northern Europe and South America. I told Beth about myself. We discussed what books we had read, what television shows we liked to watch, what exercise activities we undertook, and whom we had voted for. She impressed me enormously with her charm, easy conversation, and soft, warm femininity. We finished chatting with an agreement to meet again for dinner the following Saturday. I proposed taking her to a restaurant; instead, she said she would cook our dinner at her home. I accepted with alacrity, and we shook hands warmly.

I watched Beth walk across the parking lot—a firm and graceful walk for a woman of sixty-one, not the slow meander I sometimes see. She reached her car, a six-year-old blue Nissan Sentra with a damaged rear fender. Good. As I drove off in my eight-year-old white minivan, I felt very pleased with myself. I had met a charming and interesting woman with sex appeal, whose lifestyle, judging from her car, apparel, and jewelry, would match my means.

My meeting Saturday afternoon with Number 57 had taken place, as with nearly all the women I had met on the internet, at Starbucks. Such a convenient place to meet. The staff don't chase you out if you linger after drinking coffee. Consequently, people there play chess or Scrabble, students and businesspersons operate their laptop computers, and couples converse at length.

I more easily recall women I have met by their number. My scientific training has led me to remember numbers—all kinds of physical constants and conversion factors. Numbers offer me comfort and convenience; they remind me of the sequence in which I met internet ladies. I remember Number 49, an oriental lady, because she was only four feet nine inches tall. Nothing wrong with being short though—that was the height of the famous pianist, Alicia de LaRocha. I remember Number 36 because her dimensions, poor thing, were thirty-six by thirty-six by thirty-six. I remember Number 42 (farty-too)—the poor lady broke wind during our first and only meeting, and to lessen her embarrassment, I deliberately broke wind also, a talent many men have from assiduous training in their youth.

Of course, no women want to be known as a number, but the matter always comes up when they ask me how many I have met on the internet. "So what number am I?" is their usual question. I assure them I will always remember their name, and I might even mean it. But I know if nothing develops, they will simply go into my files as a number on the printout of their dating service profile. That printout may contain a few notations such as phone number, address, and perhaps a comment, by her or by me, that summarizes why we ended. These comments include such things as: "Left-wing radical," "Only wants a lover," "Whiner," "Thinks I'm extraordinarily fussy since I've met so many," "Nice-looking woman, but not interested in me for reasons unspecified," and "Chubski" for overweight women.

Odd, isn't it, that in Western culture, unlike African, being overweight has less sex appeal? This raises the question: why, at sixty-three years, should I be interested in sex appeal? For seniors, it shouldn't be that important. Our libido isn't what it was forty years earlier, and on average, it disappears by age seventy. Hope I'm above average. But sexual appeal still remains, and the old saw applies for both men and women: "You only have one chance to make a first impression." So, unfortunately, a fat woman would need an especially pleasing personality to motivate me to pursue a relationship. Call me a sexist if you want, but obesity brings health problems. I simply don't want to hook up with somebody with an imminent health issue.

Well, what about my health, you might ask? I take aspirin for my heart, Lipitor and niacin to reduce my cholesterol level, and finasteride for prostrate health. I tell these details to any woman I meet...though only when she asks. The question usually does not arise at a first meeting. Fortunately, I've found women to be more nurturing than men and inclined to look past a little extra weight and ill health. I'm also sure women in their senior years are more comfortable by themselves than are men. Meeting a man makes them realize their life with friends and shopping with daughters and grandchildren will be changed when a man with different priorities is interposed in their lives. That realization makes some decline further meetings.

I remember a few women by name, usually if they had some memorable characteristic. For instance, Gloriadominica Melfondereza, Number 15, whom I met at a writing group meeting, had the particular quirk of insisting she be addressed by all seven syllables of her first name. A "Gloria" did not listen. "Dominica" had deaf ears. "Hey, you" elicited no response. I could avoid using her name sometimes by calling her "dear." When a man is old enough, he may usually call all females "dear" without rebuke. It certainly eases the load on my memory. Gloriadominica wrote interesting and clever short stories, and I thought meeting her socially might lead to mitigation of her naming quirk. However, she talked incessantly throughout our lunch about herself and her writing, clearly not somebody with whom I could develop a relationship.

I also remember Wanda, Number 38, an absolute whiz at Scrabble. I had just begun to learn the game, and the second time I played it—the first with another woman—I improved my score from 180 to 229. I mentioned this improvement to Wanda, who sniffed and said, "I don't play Scrabble with people who score less than 250." Wanda, an English major in college, had a huge vocabulary and employed it skillfully. I never did beat Wanda at the game, but I thoroughly enjoyed the competition and her erudition. Her wanderlust for outdoor camping with other like-minded females made it clear we would never become more than friends.

As for Number 12, Margaret—I remember her name now—I dated her for three months, an exceptionally well-read woman with great sex appeal who insisted on reading fresh verses from her gibberish-writing friend as we dined. I wrote the poem below, which I entitled "Lovely Adipose," after seeing her swim wearing glasses and no bathing cap.

Please do not talk of subcutaneous fat

and then specifically refer to me.

It's impolite, it's really gauche. And that

is not the way to speak to your sweet pea.

You say I have an extra layer to make

my body smooth. What kind of compliment

is that to have me grapple in the wake

of a quite uncalled-for sentiment.

You tell me that is why I like the cold

and why I float so high. My flesh is made

of female stock, a treasure that is old.

Such talk of fat will never get you laid.

I read it to her between mouthfuls. "Doggerel," she called it. "And you're saying I'm fat as well. You'll never implement the last stanza."

"But I like poems with rhyme and easy-to-understand meanings," I told her. I pointed out the great poets of the past, Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, Keats, Dickinson, Homer, all wrote rhymed poetry. I wasn't sure they never wrote unrhymed poetry, but I wanted her to know the poetry she spouted was incomprehensible to former scientists like myself. Perhaps she felt I was insulting her friend, whom I had met once—thin as a rake and ate like a horse. She contrasted vividly with Number 13—fat as a horse and ate like a rake. Margaret stood me up on New Year's Eve to be with her poetry friend. And so, we parted with non-rhyming poems and cold food as a memory.

On the following Monday, I examined the employment documents Ruby had mailed back to me. She had no high school diploma and no record of attending a cosmetology college. How come she hasn't parlayed her good looks into something better? Ruby had run out of space on the employment record section of the application. Its seven spaces covered a mere four years. I phoned her listed references and reached five, who generally confirmed her work history; however, some gave evasive questions about her performance and whether they would rehire her. Her last employer was indiscreetly explicit: "I had to let her go even though she was popular with the customers. She kept making advances on my husband."

Not very satisfactory, but what am I to do? If I don't hire her, it will tee off Bill, who is a very good employee of six years, and she will be in his apartment next to the office anyway. My only way of rejecting her is to find she has committed theft or fraud. I decided to apply for a security bond for Ruby. Better to cover yourself. Why would a good-looking babe like that pick an older, overweight man like Bill who doesn't have a great deal of money? She would be a good lay, though.

My e-mail messages that day included one from matesearch.com. It detailed six local women who might be interested in me. I clicked on their profiles one by one. I had done this many times before and found perhaps one of the six might be a prospect. Two of them lived over fifty miles away. I eliminated them under my rule of excluding anybody living more than thirty miles from me. It's hard to establish a relationship with somebody distant. One of the remaining four was an athletic type whose boundless enthusiasm for water skiing, scuba diving, tennis, and golf far exceeded my modest interests in sport. One sought a nice Jewish man. Sorry, I didn't qualify. Too bad. She was nice looking. I could never understand why people so limit themselves by specifying a particular religion in a prospective partner. Maybe it's because I'm a non-believer and religion doesn't stir my interest. I had thought of joining the International Coalition of Secular Humanists, but suspected it meant participating in an advocacy group. My energy and interests were directed at this time solely to partnering with a nice woman.

The fifth prospect offered by matesearch.com looked much older than her stated age of sixty-two. There are many liars on these dating services, both men and women. Men lie about their income and health; women lie more about their age or their appearance---by using an older photo. I believe if one starts off a relationship by telling an untruth, it sets a bad tone. I crossed that lady off my list. The last prospect was fifty-four years old, nine years younger than I, and very overweight. Too bad. She should have put a photo of only her head on the profile.

I don't envy those men of my age who are wealthy enough to attract a gorgeous young babe. Wealth is the attraction. Their young partners will pressure them into marriage to ensure a continued enjoyment of that wealth. Those men may find they do not sexually satisfy their new spouses and may have strong prospects for a subsequent divorce. No, I decided some time ago to look for a woman in my age bracket, independent—did not need a man for income—with reasonable looks and enough interests in common with mine.

I sighed. Not a single prospect among those six. Can't complain, Pat. You've got a hot prospect in Beth.

Using Google, I checked the demographics of Denton and Harrison, the sites of the two radio stations Sonia had named. Denton is a community of 15,000 in eastern Iowa, Harrison a community of 12,000 in southern Virginia. This meant they would both likely have rural and, hence, conservative listeners. It would serve me well to avoid mentioning I was an immigrant, albeit one who had immigrated forty years earlier—I could never quite get rid of my Scottish accent—that I believed in gun control, and that I was divorced. I had learned from interviews promoting my first book that people readily question details of both book and author. Case in point, the Stevens interview.

The telephone rang that Thursday, the caller announcing himself as Jonathan Peters from WBUV in Harrison. After a few pleasantries, Peters asked me if he could interview me on his radio show next Tuesday. The show would start at nine a.m. East Coast time, requiring me to be ready for the interview at six a.m. on the West Coast. I readily agreed and asked Peters about his show.

"The show has a small studio audience even though it's broadcast only on radio. We have many retirees in our service area with time on their hands. We have found that many of them will come to the studio to listen, especially when they are offered free coffee and donuts, courtesy of nearby pharmaceutical and medical device companies. Most of our listeners are stay-at-home housewives. We have some affluent people with large horse ranches and stay-at-home—need I say trophy—wives. Some of those women are really into cooking, or perhaps supervising their cooks."

"Those ladies would not likely be interested in my book," I responded, "because it's largely how to make a meal quickly and simply. It simply isn't a gourmet cookbook."

"Then the working folk here may ask you questions about speed cooking instead. Could you send me a few books, say five?"

I agreed.

Howard Messner of KDIN in Denton called me the same day asking if I was available for an interview on Friday. He both produced and hosted the show. He asked about my book and then about me personally. I asked about the radio audience in Denton. "We're country folk for the most part. We have one major employer in the town—Waltham Chickens. They employ a lot of Hispanics, so if your cookbook discusses Spanish-style dishes, it could prove helpful."

"It's not really a cookbook," I told Howard. It's a joking book mostly for single men on how to use leftovers, get takeout meals, and search for a woman to cook for them."

"Hmm," said Howard. There was a pause. "Many of these Hispanics are single men from across the border. They won't find many single women here to cook for them."

"Yes, and those men aren't going to be listening to your radio show."

"You're right there. They'll be listening to Mexican music. Pat, I don't think your book is going to be a good fit for my listeners."

"How about my other book?"

"Which is?"

"It's a book of short stories." I gave Howard the title, and he laughed. "We'll probably turn the interview from the book to yourself," he said. "You're an immigrant whose children were born in the USA, you've turned your hand to science, real estate, and writing, and you appear successful. Those things will appeal to KDIN's radio audience. So, send me four copies of both books." I thanked him and agreed to send the books. Howard concluded with "Tell the listeners how you came to write both books and the factual basis, if any, of some of the short stories."

CHAPTER 3

Beth lived in a condominium complex in Culver City, a few miles from Los Angeles International Airport and about twenty miles from my home in Lomita in South Los Angeles County. Parking spaces for visitors at the complex that evening were scarce, and the threat of being towed if I filled a resident's stall, forced me to search at length. I eventually found a vacant space distant from Beth's condominium. The complex had no streetlights; only the outside lights of the units illuminated their addresses. Thus, I had difficulty finding Beth's home. These factors made me fifteen minutes late for our scheduled date; not a good beginning, I thought as I rang Beth's doorbell.

A young, attractive woman opened the door and stared at, nay examined, me and the bouquet of flowers I held. I took the initiative: "You must be Connie; your mother has told me about you."

"We weren't expecting you so soon," replied Connie—I was relieved that I had the right address and had correctly named her. "Mother said you would be here at seven thirty, so she's not ready yet."

Yet! I knew very well that the agreed time was seven p.m., but I demurred. "There must have been a miscommunication... At least I have the right day."

Connie smiled fleetingly. "Yes, Harry will be here shortly to pick me up. I'll tell mother you're here; she's still dressing. Take a seat," she said and disappeared upstairs. Only later did I realize the significance of the word "still" in that last sentence. The downstairs floor of the condominium comprised the living room at the entrance with the dining area and open kitchen at the rear. I looked around the living room and selected an armchair facing the television. The room was oddly decorated, several modern pieces of furniture mixed with an ancient miniature grandfather clock, a desk of the early nineteenth century, a mahogany sideboard, and three elderly lamps. The only lit lamp in the room flickered continuously, so the bulk of light came from a ceiling light in the adjacent kitchen. A stained rug covered part of the laminate-wood floor. The room was cold, this being February, so I checked the thermostat. The temperature read sixty-one, the furnace being in the off position. An oversight? The doorbell rang, and Connie, now in coat and gloves, descended the stairs to answer it. A young man appeared at the entrance, and without so much as a goodbye or an introduction to me, Connie seized his arm, turned him around, closed the door, and left.

I waited. I waited some more. I felt cold and ruminated over it. I hoped something was cooking in the kitchen oven, since I was hungry. After fifteen minutes, and to take my mind off the cold, which exacerbated my hunger, I looked for the remote control of the television set but could not locate it in the near dark. I felt around the set, located its control buttons, and turned it on manually, though without changing the preset channel. I felt a little rude in doing so but thought it matched the discourteous manner in which I had been received. Thus, I did not change the channel and watched a pathetic show with commensurate apathy. I then remembered how, long in the past, I had been kept waiting an inordinately long time while my date dressed and realized afterwards the wait had been an invitation to go into her bedroom. I recollected my naiveté. Surely not the case today. A frank or sexual invitation to me at this early stage would be unappealing. At seven fifty, Beth came downstairs, and I turned off the television. She apologized for keeping me waiting and said she thought our dinner date had been at the half-hour. "Did you find anything good to watch on the TV?" she asked, thus dismissing my sense of impropriety for turning it on.

I hugged her. I have found this modest intimacy useful in breaking the ice. "Not really. I didn't want to change the channel, set to Jerry Springer. Do you really like his show?"

Beth smiled. "No. It's not my taste. Connie and Harry like to watch it, though. Make yourself comfortable while I finish dinner." She turned toward the kitchen, and I followed her.

"I made a poem up while I waited for you," I said, leaning at the counter bar.

Beth turned from the refrigerator, her head at a quizzical angle. I took my cue:

"Do you have a thermostat,

and can tell me where it's at?

If you don't turn the furnace on,

this cold Pat will soon be gone."

Beth laughed. "Actually, I like it cold. I spent several years near Fairbanks, Alaska—my ex-husband was in the army at Fort Wainwright—and I got used to it. Turn it up to sixty-eight, the temperature President Carter recommended for a home. I don't like to waste energy. It's expensive and causes global warming."

I replied I was not a fan of Jimmy Carter, that I did not like the cold, that I had left Scotland because of its perennial chilly dampness, and remained unconvinced that global warming was manmade. Beth chuckled. "Then turn the furnace on to a temperature comfortable for you. The thermostat is at the foot of the stairs." I walked over and turned the thermostat to seventy-two, reveling in the prompt response of the furnace.

My date took off the long gray sweater she was wearing over her white top and black slacks. She had on a necklace of green malachite beads, matching silver-malachite earrings, and the same two silver rings on her middle finger. I moved closer to the counter bar, where the better light allowed me to examine her more closely. Why had it taken her thirty-five minutes from my arrival time to finish dressing and put on her makeup? I could see no evidence of brilliantly applied makeup or hairstyling. The puzzle remained for several weeks before I discovered Beth's perpetual indecisiveness on what to wear.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied. "You said you were a good cook, so I'm looking forward to dinner."

"You may have to wait a while," she replied. "I put a roast on just before I went to dress, and it needs another thirty minutes... You do like roast beef, don't you?"

I said I did and engaged her in conversation. She began to set the dining room table as we talked. "Connie didn't introduce me to Harry," I remarked.

"They're both shy and reserved," she replied. "Did you find anything good on the television?"

"Not really. I didn't change the TV channel, because I couldn't find the remote control. You keep the living room rather dark."

"That's because only the standing lamp works and the bulb keeps flashing."

I went to the lamp and unplugged it, waiting for the bulb to cool down before unscrewing it. Then, with a miniature penknife attached to my key chain, I scraped the connections of the bulb and lamp, reinserted the bulb, plugged the electric cord back into the wall socket, and switched on the lamp. The immediate and constant glow warmed the living room and revealed the missing remote.

"Wonderful! How did you do that?" Beth asked excitedly. "Harry could never figure out what was wrong."

I liked her comparing my skills to those of another man. It also told me Beth and Connie had no idea how to maintain their home, while I had the experience of years. "I just cleaned up the connections. Let me look at the other lamps." It was a productive way to pass the time before dinner. I discovered one lamp had a bad bulb; the other had an electric cord so frayed as to be dangerous. I told Beth my diagnosis and said I would rewire the bad lamp if she invited me back to dinner again. "Anything else around the house that needs fixing?" I asked.

"Well, the smoke detectors kept making noises, so we disconnected them."

I nodded.

"The tray in my refrigerator has broken, and they want seventy dollars for a new one."

"Anything else?"

"I could use more shelves in the garage. The man who put up a single row of shelves cost a fortune."

"Anything more?"

Beth smiled. "You like fixing things?"

"I do indeed. I do some repairs at the apartment complex I own in part. I'll be happy to fix some of your problems." Even my book says repairs to a woman's house may lead to many a quick meal.

Beth said that would be wonderful. She lit the candles on the table and asked me to sit down. She turned out the kitchen light and, in the semi-darkness, brought out the roast, followed by an array of steamed vegetables over which she had liberally sprinkled rosemary. She said grace, and I bowed my head. I feel uncomfortable about a host saying grace before guests with unknown religious inclinations. It imposes on the guests by soliciting their participation in a religious ritual, although slight and no different really from the pledge of allegiance. As a non-believer, I have found it simpler to lower my head than not to. Beth began carving the roast and then noticed the absence of serving spoons and napkins on the table. She went to the kitchen, and I asked if I could help her by bringing water glasses and condiments. She gave them to me. And so, finally, we began to eat the food. It tasted good, and I complimented her. She thanked me and then, out of context, asked, "I see you wear blue suede shoes. Are you trying to imitate Elvis Presley?"

"Oh no. I don't think Elvis wore blue suede shoes; he just sang about them."

"So, why did you buy them."

"I like Hush Puppy suede shoes; they're very comfortable. These are seconds and were on sale."

"Couldn't you have bought a different color?"

"The only colors available in seconds were cherry red, lime green, and light blue. I thought the latter were the least conspicuous."

"Well, I certainly noticed them," she added.

"You're right," I said with a smile. "They're more noticeable than I expected, but I quite enjoy people remarking on them in public. Indeed, I expect such remarks for many more years, since I bought all three pairs the store had."

"Couldn't you have bought new ones and had a normal choice of colors?"

"But then I would have had to pay twice as much money for no improvement in foot comfort."

Beth did not reply. I considered it untimely to say something about how long it took her to dress.

"You like rosemary?" I asked, putting a sprig on the side of my plate.

"I love it. You can eat the sprigs too if you like," and she did so herself.

"The roast is very good, but I prefer it and the vegetables without rosemary," I told her gently.

"I grow it in my herb garden," she added, glancing toward the patio window at the back of the living room. "I'll show it to you after dinner."

After dinner, I helped clear off the table and load the dishwasher despite her protests. She then showed me her garden, which was illuminated by a floodlight. Her pride welled as she pointed out beds of different herbs—rosemary, mint, basil, bay laurel, sage, marjoram, tarragon, and more. What I noticed was the rotted fence that separated her small backyard from its neighbors, the unevenness of the tiled patio, and the dirt puddled onto the patio from the unrestrained earth bank of herbs. I mentioned these problems to Beth.

She shrugged. "When the fence falls down, I'll have it replaced. I like the tiled patio the way it is, and I love sitting out here in the summer surrounded by the smells of my herbs."

Back inside, we talked of our interests in literature, movies, and television shows. She said she had read just a few stories in my first book, but did not care for them. I expressed disappointment.

"The stories are written too matter-of-factly," she said. "It probably reflects your science background. There is nothing wrong with the plots in the ones I've read, but the characters are thin. They and their environment should be fleshed out more."

"I wrote the stories largely for competitions," I replied, "where word count is strictly limited, which doesn't allow for the fleshing out. These competitions have entry fees usually of ten to twenty dollars. The competition sponsors can't hire judges to read lengthy stories for these kinds of fees. My longest story is just under four thousand words and most stories probably average closer to two thousand. It makes for an easy read. Now, if you take a book of short stories written by famous authors such as Joyce Carol Oates, Saul Bellow, or William Trevor, you'll find them in the range of six thousand to ten thousand words, plenty of opportunity there to flesh out characters and backgrounds. But I'm not a famous author. I simply looked on writing stories for competitions as exercises in developing writing skills."

Beth smiled. "I'm sorry if I offended you by saying I didn't care for your book."

"Don't worry about it. It's a matter of personal choice and preference."

While I would have been delighted if she had enjoyed the book, that she had confessed she did not spoke of candor to be valued. I said I could get her a copy of my second book, one she would not need since it was directed toward single men. Furthermore, the book had nothing to teach her about cooking.

"Why do you think a single woman would not be interested in your book?" asked Beth.

"I think men are generally, though not always, less interested in cooking than women."

"That's a sweeping generalization."

I agreed it was, but said it was smarter to write for the widest appeal rather than niches unless one had specialized knowledge. I pointed out the market for short story compilations was less than one percent, whereas romances and mysteries together covered seventy percent of the fiction genre. "My first two books taught me a lot about writing and marketing of books. So, I'd like my next book, a novel, to go through the conventional route of book agent and publisher, professionals in marketing."

"Have you started writing it yet?" asked Beth.

"Just started."

"A mystery or a romance?"

"A romance."

"What will it be about?"

"The rule is to write about what you know. It gives the book verisimilitude. However, I would rather have a romance than write about one. My plan is to fictionalize my experiences looking for a new partner."

Beth grinned. "Does that mean I might be in it?"

"Some attributes of people I've met might appear in my novel, but in characters quite unlike themselves."

She laughed. "Well, I hope you don't write about me."

"That depends on whether we move from being mere acquaintances."

Beth put her hand on my shoulder and said she hoped we would be friends. Our further conversation finished when Connie returned home. Beth accepted my invitation to go out for dinner next Saturday. We hugged, and I departed.

The bond company faxed me their acceptance of the bond application and quoted me a price equal to two days of rent on the complex. Not cheap. Bill's gal is going to cost me. The bond would be issued after receipt of my check. I put the check in the mail and called Bill, who expressed his pleasure and gratitude that I would employ his fiancée. He put Ruby on the phone, and she thanked me exuberantly. "I'm so looking forward to working with you," she gushed. I asked her how she was doing learning to post the rents and other charges on the apartment books. "I just don't understand why the deposits are a negative balance on the books," she replied, "but Bill is very patient with me. I'm sure I'll learn." I told her I would be at the complex at the end of the month and would assess her progress.

The last day of February at six a.m. found me waiting for the call from KDIN in Denton. A technician had phoned me a few minutes earlier to say my phone would be coupled to the studio's microphone about a minute before Howard Messner introduced me. The technician said I was the last of the radio interviews Howard had scheduled that morning and there was a possibility I might not be called if one of the prior interviews took longer than expected. "It's a business," said the technician. "If we receive many phone calls about the interview, then we stretch the interview. It expands the radio audience. If you are not called, Howard will reschedule you."

An hour went by, and no telephone call came. Disappointed, I went outside to pick up my newspaper and returned to make myself a light breakfast. During the middle of breakfast, Howard Messner called to apologize. "I'm sorry we didn't interview you as scheduled, but we had an earlier interviewee talking about her life as a professional shopper for society women. You wouldn't believe what those rich women asked her to buy. The listeners called in so heavily we extended the interview. To make up for it, I'll schedule you first next time if that's okay with you." I murmured my agreement, and Howard rescheduled me for two weeks later at the same early morning time.

Later in the day, I arrived at the apartment complex to find Ruby with a revealing top sitting on the bench outside the office, smoking a cigarette and in conversation with a standing tenant. He's looking down at your boobs, gal, and you're enjoying it. They were so engaged in conversation neither noticed me walking into the office. Inside, Bill sat at the desk, finishing the books for February and preparing the last deposit of the month.

"Several people paid March rent early this month," he remarked. "They forgot that it was a leap year."

I nodded. "I expected to find Ruby here in the office with you."

"I hoped that too," Bill replied. "It will take a few weeks before she's up to speed with posting to the accounts. However, she can currently take rents, give receipts, show apartments, and handle maintenance inquiries. That's a big help, anyway." He paused. "She's a super-loving gal. It would be too much to expect she also had a super brain. She might do better if we bought software and automated the bookkeeping."

I reminded Bill I considered apartment rental software to be either expensive and complicated or inexpensive and simple. He smiled. He knew my preference for economy and had teased me for being cheap in the past. He gave me the deposit in a bank pouch and then stood up to speak: "Pat, I want to get married to Ruby right away. We'd like to go to Las Vegas next weekend to do so. Would it be okay if we took off next Friday and the first two days of the week after? Nearly all the rents will have been collected by then."

Oh my! I wish Bill would have second thoughts about this. But it's his life to live. Let me make one cautionary remark before I agree to this. "Are you sure you're not rushing things, Bill?"

"Pat, I've been married before to a woman who proved cold—both in and out of bed. It's wonderful to be with Ruby."

Wish I could delay this marriage, but I've no power to do so. I've done my duty by expressing a cautionary note. Best to go along with his request, since he's a good manager. I told Bill I would cover for him on the days he was gone and wished him the best of luck. He called in Ruby, who gave me a big, squishy hug upon hearing the news. I thought it necessary to encourage them, so I proposed taking them to dinner at a nearby Red Lobster next Thursday, the day before they left. Ruby greeted my proposal with another tight embrace.

As usual, I had parked my minivan in the visitor section at the end of the apartment complex. The walk to the office allows me to inspect things such as the lawn and flowerbeds, damage or wear to the parking lot, dirty air-conditioner shells, windows or doors, swimming pool appearance, rust on the pool railings, paint fading on the fascia trim, and so on. As I walked back to my minivan, I spotted Mrs. Soames, a tenant of more than twenty years, sitting on a chair outside her apartment, enjoying the morning sun. I greeted her.

"I'm glad you're getting rid of the man in the apartment 19," she said. "He is a partying animal who had visitors that kept all of us awake into the wee hours. I thought he was into drugs also."

"I took action as soon as I became aware of the problem. I'm sorry it took so long to get rid of the nuisance."

"Could you also speak to the tenant above us?" asked Mrs. Soames. "He's very noisy when he makes love to his girlfriends late at night."

Girlfriends—plural. Hope they're not hookers. "I'll have Bill mention it to him."

"And what do you think of Bill's new woman?" asked Mrs. Soames.

New! Have others been staying with him? Better not compromise myself or Bill by saying anything negative about Ruby. "She's very pretty."

"You can say that again. She's going to be trouble."

I cocked my head. "Is there something wrong with her?"

"She's a terrible flirt. I just don't understand why Bill Hancock wants to marry her."

"Why do you say she is a flirt?"

"She sends out signals to every male tenant here, even my husband, Charlie."

Charlie, her husband, is eighty, has cataracts, and walks with a cane. "Ruby is young and very pretty, Mrs. Soames. She makes all men aware of how attractive she is. I think you're jealous," I added with a grin.

Mrs. Soames returned my grin. "You mark my words, Pat. She will cause trouble at the apartments."

"You haven't had any trouble with her at the office, have you?"

"No. Charlie always keeps finding excuses to go down there. If there is another man in the office, he comes back until she's alone. The good thing about this is it gives him the exercise he needs."

"You could always buy Charlie a subscription to Playboy instead."

Mrs. Soames snorted. "Men prefer the live ones to the photos. I bet she sends signals to you."

I ignored the truth of that statement. "I'm looking for somebody closer to my age, Mrs. Soames."

"Well, you certainly need a woman to look after you. Your sweater is on backwards."

I have a turtleneck sweater on. How can she possible tell it is on backwards? "How do you know my sweater is on backwards?"

Mrs. Soames laughed. "There are food stains on the back."

I arrived at Beth's condominium at the agreed time. I rang the doorbell. No reply. I rang it again and still no reply. Finally, Beth, in a bathrobe, opened the door, apologized for not being ready, and said, "Make yourself comfortable... I'll be back down in fifteen minutes." I entered, turned the television on to a news channel, and listened to the events of the day—largely polls of the presidential race. The cold in the living room motivated me to inspect the thermostat. It read sixty-two. I kept my jacket on and snuggled into the couch cushions. Beth came down thirty-five minutes later and asked, "Why don't we have pizza delivered instead of going out?" Since we would be late for our dining reservations, I said that would be fine if she would turn the thermostat to a reasonable temperature. She smiled and asked if sixty-eight would be satisfactory.

"Only if you'll snuggle up to me on the couch," I responded.

"I think that's possible," she said, smiling.

Beth went to the kitchen, ordered the pizza, and brought back two glasses of red wine. We both took sips. "What do you think of this wine—it's a Pinot Noir my daughter's boyfriend favors?"

Yuck! Yuck! Yuck! I hate dry wine, but how do I say it politely? "I'm not a connoisseur of wine, especially dry red wines."

Beth looked at me. "You really don't like this, do you?"

I admitted I could do without it.

"I bought this bottle because Harry raves about it. I can't say I like it either."

My host took our wine glasses into the kitchen and poured out their contents. She returned to the couch with two cans of Coca Cola. "I can put them in glasses if you prefer."

I told Beth a can was okay. She appeared perfectly comfortable in a sleeved white polyester shirt and black slacks, while I still had my jacket on. However, as the room warmed up, I took my jacket off and put my arm around my date, who proved surprisingly warm—and receptive. The pizza deliveryman arrived, and I paid him off with a generous tip. We ate our sausage and onion pizza and chatted while snuggling on the couch. Later, we watched a tape of one of Beth's favorite movies, My Best Friend's Wedding. Chick flick not to my taste, but it's okay with my arm around this gal.

Beth's daughter, Connie, dressed very smartly in a blue business suit, interrupted our snuggle at eleven o'clock. She walked past us into the kitchen without a word and opened the refrigerator. "Did you have a bad day, dear?" asked her mother. I could only hear a grunt from the kitchen, where Connie had pulled out bread, mayonnaise, and cold cuts. "She was at a company-required conference," Beth whispered to me. "She didn't want to go, especially on a weekend day—said it would be a waste of time. Sounds like it was." Then, louder: "Connie, come and say hello to Pat."

After a couple of minutes—time taken to make the point of not responding to a parent as asked—Connie came from the kitchen, said a brief hello to me, and disappeared upstairs with sandwich and a soft drink in hand. This entrance and exit were not conducive to romance. Beth indicated she needed to be with her daughter. Too bad. I was enjoying this snuggle and the hint of things to come. I put my arms around Beth and, when she did not push me away, kissed her on the lips. Very nice. We arranged to go out for dinner next Saturday.

Sonia telephoned me on the following Wednesday to say she had lined up three more possible interviewers for me—WHTD of Freeport, Illinois, WNKT of Vineland, New Jersey, and KKTP of Roswell, New Mexico. I told her KDIN of Denton had stood me up, but the interview had been rescheduled. Furthermore, Peters of WBUV had scheduled an interview in two weeks' time.

"How is it going with that guy who wanted to get into bed with you?" I asked.

"He never called me back," replied Sonia sadly.

I made sympathetic remarks.

"And what's happening with you?" she asked.

I described Beth, saying I thought her a great prospect.

"Have you gotten her into bed yet?" asked Sonia.

"No."

"Have you tried?"

"I thought it too early to try."

"My, you're slow. Most men these days try on the first date."

"Maybe it's because I'm old fashioned, Sonia."

"I'd like to meet someone like you sometime."

"Just stay on the internet and try to meet as many men as possible," I advised her.

I told her about Bill and Ruby going to Las Vegas to get married. Sonia agreed it sounded too quick. She asked me if sales of books from my website had increased, and I replied I had seen negligible change.

At the restaurant on Thursday, my eyes widened as Bill entered with Ruby, now wearing a low-cut short red dress, fishnet stockings, and red shoes with four-inch heels. A tight, buxomly embrace followed. Ruby, her hips swaying as she sashayed along, held tightly to Bill as the hostess walked us to our table. Makes me think of Jack Lemon's comment as he follows Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot: "Jell-O on wheels." Others stared at those swaying hips, bright-red dress, and wobbling breasts. I could see no panty line under her dress. Either no underwear or a thong. A waiter came quickly to our table, a big smile on his face as he looked down at Ruby's abundance.

"A beer and chaser, please, and Bill will have the same," she said. I wonder if Ruby will be the boss in the family.

The waiter took my drink order, and we began to discuss business. Her application form had shown her marital status as single. In the course of our conversation, I asked, "Still single after all these years?" An illegal question I shouldn't be asking. It's just my curiosity as to why a sexpot like her hasn't been hooked up.

Ruby did not hesitate to answer. "I've been married twice before. Even have kids, though they live with their dads." Plural "dads" too. I glanced at Bill to see if this was news to him, but he did not flinch. Good. Ruby has told him about her past.

I asked Ruby why she was not hairdressing currently, and she replied her prior employer's husband kept making advances on her, so she quit. Why didn't she try to find another salon? I had been concerned about what to pay Ruby. She was really just taking over some of Bill's duties. Now there would be two people living on one person's income. I bet he or she will want more money.

Bill sensed my thoughts. "We could use a little more money. My anniversary date is coming up. Could you give us three hundred dollars more each month and let Ruby do private hairdressing in our apartment?" We settled on two hundred and fifty dollars, with Bill taking over the landscaping instead of it being outsourced. I then gave Bill a congratulatory card plus a check. A squishy embrace from Ruby and a vigorous handshake from Bill indicated they were content with the gift and the business arrangement.

I worked at the apartment complex the entire next day. The tenant in apartment 19 had finally vacated following a lengthy eviction process. It griped me that a tenant could refuse to pay rent and request a trial for any reason, usually inconsequential, thus delaying the eviction by as much as three weeks. How much fairer it would be if the tenant were required to put rent into escrow to cover those three weeks. However, in California, the rights of tenants have been favored over those of owners on the theory of balancing power. I had received a judgment for two thousand dollars to cover lost rent, attorney fees, and court costs, but the chances of collection were remote. The former tenant had lost his job and moved to an unknown address.

I hauled out abandoned furniture—easy chair, old nightstand, bedframe, box spring, and mattress, all in wretched condition. Consequently, I broke them up and hauled them off to the dump in an old truck I keep parked at the property. I ignored the state-mandated thirty-day period to keep these belongings stored before disposing of them. I started patching up holes in the walls. The patching would be dry when I returned on Monday.

Mrs. Soames saw me and asked why I was working instead of Bill. I told her Bill and Ruby had gone to Las Vegas to get married and I was covering for them until Wednesday. "You shouldn't be working so hard at your age," she said.

"It's good for my health...and good for my wealth," I replied.

"You could afford to get somebody else to do the work."

"Even if I could afford to, what would I do with my time?"

"You could find a woman to look after you and then use all your time to look after that woman."

I grinned. "Like Bill?"

Mrs. Soames grinned back. I asked if she would let me forward the office phone to her apartment while Bill was out of town, and take care of any rental inquiries.

"Just while he's on his honeymoon," she replied.

CHAPTER 4

I arrived on time—seven o'clock—at Beth's condominium and rang the doorbell several times without response. Finally, I knocked heavily on the door. A window above opened, and Beth, a white towel over her head, looked out, told me to enter using the key from under a nearby pot of geraniums, and said she would be down in fifteen minutes. I did so, put the key back in its place, and entered the cold living room. I sat down to watch television, but then decided to be productive during the wait, one I had anticipated. I went to my van and returned with two light bulbs, lamp wire, insulating tape, wire nuts, pliers, and wire strippers. The lamp I had restored to life previously operated well enough to let me rewire the lamp that had the frayed wire. I inserted new light bulbs into the two previously non-operating lamps and switched them on to a delightful glow. In this now-excellent light, I examined the rest of the furniture in the room. Several elderly pieces, probably from her dead uncle's home, badly needed refinishing.

The front door opened, and in came Connie, followed by Harry. Connie stared at the brightly lit living room with obvious surprise. "It sure is brighter now the lamps are working," she remarked.

She introduced me to her boyfriend, and at that moment, Beth descended the stairs. She smiled and hugged me warmly. She too stared intently at the well-lit living room. "Wow! Pat, those working lamps really brighten up the place. Thank you so much for fixing them. I wasn't expecting this. It didn't take you long either." Forty-two minutes, actually. She turned and kissed my cheek.

Connie and Harry ensconced themselves on the sofa while Beth put on her coat. We would now be forty-five minutes late for the sushi restaurant reservation I had made. I mentioned this to Beth, forecasting a long wait at that popular eating place this Saturday evening. "Let's go to a different restaurant, then," she said. "I don't feel like sushi tonight anyway." Actually, I felt very much like eating sushi. Number 49 had shown me this particular restaurant in Marina Del Rey, and I had been immensely impressed with their food. After those tempting dishes, never again would I buy sushi from Costco despite my recommending it in my book. Hunger informed me sushi was out.

"Okay with me," I answered. "Where would you like to go?"

"There's a little café in West Hollywood I feel like tonight. It doesn't need a reservation, so we can just walk in."

Beth put her arm in mine as we walked to my minivan, a nice touch of intimacy that I enjoyed and that mollified my slight irritation at no sushi. At least her tardiness had given me the opportunity to fix her lamps, and I enjoyed her appreciation of my efforts. How much more appreciation are you expecting, Pat?

"What's the name of this café, and where's it located?" I asked.

"I don't know its name," responded Beth, "but it's painted bright blue, and it's on Canton Way."

The poorly lit streetlights turned the blue of the café into a gray. We cruised past it twice before we located it; thus, we did not sit down for dinner until eight thirty. The café had Formica-topped tables with cutlery over paper napkins and a laminated two-page double-sided menu. We ordered the house white Zinfandel wine since the café didn't serve cocktails. I hoped for good chow since the café did not have the ambiance I would have liked. Beth pulled the menu close to her face and studied it closely. I perused my own menu and quickly decided from the limited selection. When the waitress returned with our wine, she asked if we were ready to order. Beth lifted her head, shook a no, and continued to study the menu. I raised my wine glass and said, "Cheers." Beth took her eyes off the menu, grabbed her glass, and touched mine.

"What do you think of this restaurant?" she asked.

"It's okay. I would have selected a more upscale place for our first restaurant date. You must have had a reason for choosing it."

Beth raised her head pointedly. "I like its simplicity and charm. I think the food here is excellent."

"Good reasons," I responded. "Let's enjoy our meal and our conversation." I've no objections to a cheap date.

Beth turned to the menu again, studying it intensely. The waitress came and asked if we were ready to order. "Is the tilapia from the Pacific Ocean or the Sea of Cortez?" asked Beth. The waitress said she didn't know but would find out. Beth continued to study the menu intensely until the waitress returned five minutes later.

"The manager doesn't know where the tilapia came from. He purchased it from Santiano Wholesale Fish Distributors this morning and guarantees it's fresh. Would you like to order that fish?"

Beth ignored the waitress's statement and question. "Do you include broccoli or cauliflower in your steamed vegetable selection?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. You may have either or both."

"I would like to have a selection that does not include either of those vegetables. What can you offer me?"

"We have potatoes, squash, green peas, baby carrots, cabbage, broccoli and spinach. What would you care for?"

"Give me a few more minutes," responded Beth.

The waitress disappeared, and I sipped my wine as Beth continued to study the menu. The waitress returned. "Are you ready to order?" she asked, looking specifically at Beth. I wasn't sure if she had added the word "now" at the end.

"Is the liver baby calf liver?" asked Beth.

The waitress, looking surprised, responded affirmatively.

"Then I'll have the liver and onions with squash, carrots, and peas. Please don't overcook the liver." She paused. "I would also like your chef salad but make sure the tomatoes are sliced into nothing smaller than quarters." Beth sounds just like Sally telling how she wants food prepared in the movie When Harry Met Sally. The waitress wrote onto her notepad and turned to me. I gave her my order succinctly and rapidly. She smiled at me.

"The reason I like this restaurant is that I get what I want and have it prepared the way I like it," said Beth, no air of defiance in her voice, no element of regret at making the waitress and me wait so long. My stomach grumbled as it clamored for food now an hour and a half past the time it had anticipated. We chatted pleasantly and continued after our food arrived. I gobbled it quickly while Beth picked at it and talked. She asked questions about myself, where was I born, how many brothers and sisters did I have, what did they do and where did they live, how many children did they have, and the sex, ages, and professions of those children. This type of personal conversation went on for the evening, and I asked reciprocal questions. Her son's wife had died in an automobile accident, and Beth would often visit him and his young daughter. "I miss my studio when I visit them," she added.

"Your studio?"

"Yes, I have a studio upstairs, where I make jewelry."

"Apart from cooking, jewelry making, and acting as a surrogate mother, what other hobbies do you have?" I asked her.

"I read a lot—books—and I subscribe to Forbes and Cosmopolitan."

"That last one is one of the sexiest women magazines that I know of, and it doesn't fit the conservative image projected by the other material you read," I said.

"How do you know it is one of the sexiest? Do you read it yourself, or"—mischievously—"do you take peeks at women's magazines while waiting at the supermarket checkout?"

I laughed. "When I was promoting my first book with its provocative title, one of my promotional personas was the Honeymoon Expert. I went to the public library and took out four years of back issues of Cosmopolitan, Redbook, Elle, and Good Housekeeping to develop data to become the expert I was supposed to be. I remember the experience vividly. I could sense women and men passing by my seat in the library, mouthing the word 'pervert' as they saw me scanning such titles as 'Ways to Please Your Man in Bed' and 'Thirty-Five Positions You Should Try.'"

Beth giggled.

"Most of these sexy articles came from Cosmopolitan. The one important statistic I discovered from that magazine was that thirty-two percent of newlywed couples do not have sex on their wedding night."

"Really? Why is that?" Beth asked.

"As I recall, the reasons given were the couple was inebriated or waiting at the airport for a delayed plane or the lack of novelty of sex."

"Well, count me in the sixty-eight percent," said Beth.

"Myself also," I added. "Still, that gets back to my original question about your hobbies and your interests."

Beth mentioned her interest in yoga and that she was a regular gym member. Also, she had made one of the three bedrooms in her condominium into her jewelry studio. "I exhibit at local shows, and sometimes I get a commission for a special piece. I'm working on one now."

"Very interesting," I remarked. "I'd like to see your studio sometime. Do you work with gold or silver or any special gemstones?"

"I work in silver because it's so much cheaper. I had to work hard when I started so the Internal Revenue Service wouldn't deem it a hobby. As a hobby, I wouldn't be able to deduct some of my house expenses off the jewelry sales."

"As long as you enjoy it, then. That's what matters. It sounds a little like my writing. I enjoy writing, and my short stories pleased me immensely even though they made me no money. I felt wonderfully liberated by writing about emotions and people. It contrasted enormously to my writing technical reports."

We finished our wine and ordered coffee and dessert. I had New York cheesecake with strawberry sauce and whipped cream. Beth had an enormous chocolate éclair.

"Decadent," she said, biting it so vigorously that its cream contents squirted onto the table.

"Fattening too," I said with a smile.

We finished our meal and conversed pleasantly while listening to a classical music program as I drove her home. Connie and Harry had retired to bed when we arrived back at Beth's home. We smooched on the couch for a while, and I put my hands on her breasts, but Beth gently pushed my hands away. They're not bad for a sixty-one-year old. We hugged a little longer, but I could see further sexual advances would be unproductive; thus, I kissed her firmly and asked when we could get together again. My heart leapt when she said I could stay over next Friday and Saturday since Connie had to go to a two-day training seminar. I readily agreed and said I would make some repairs at her condominium on the Saturday.

Next Tuesday morning found me, still in pajamas and bathrobe, sipping orange juice while waiting for the WBUV phone call that rang promptly at 6:00 a.m. Peters asked if I was ready, and I asked if he had received the copies of my book. He affirmed. "Your interviewer is Axel Chaufberg, host of WBUV's morning hour. I expect him to call you about twenty minutes after the show begins. I will keep the microphone open at our end so you can hear Axel. Remember also we have a studio audience of retirees, so please don't say anything to offend them."

Axel had a slight accent; French, I thought, despite his Germanic-sounding name. Axel covered the local news of Harrison, attempting, I thought, to mimic Garrison Keillor in A Prairie Home Companion. "Minnie Pearl asks if you have seen the receipt for her hat." A pause. "Charlie Schwartz asks if anyone's seen his missing pig, Charlotte, last observed at the greased pig contest of Saturday. Charlotte escaped from the pen and was chased by Tom Spoon, now known here as greasy spoon." Axel paused for laughs, but I could hear only a slight titter. "Mr. and Mrs. Harold Wilkes are having a dinner party next Saturday evening sponsored for Republican State Senator Hartford. Attendees who voted for Kerry in the last election are requested to leave their guns at home and bring their checkbooks." A pause. No laughter. Axel had better come up with something funnier.

It came. "I need to tell you about Bert Hobbs, our homeless man about town. He was hit by an automobile and suffered injuries that landed him in Saint Jude's Hospital here in Harrison. When Bert opened his eyes, a nurse, who was a nun, stood by his bedside. 'Young man, do you have any money to pay for your hospitalization?' she demanded. Bert, who at seventy-one years old quite liked being called a young man, replied he had none, a fact that would have been clearly discovered when he was stripped of his clothes. 'Then, do you have any insurance?' the nun persisted. Bert told her no. 'Do you have an employer?' she then asked. Bert, who has not worked in thirty years, laughed heartily at the thought of work and an employer, accustomed as he is to vagrancy as a way of life. 'Do you have any relatives who could pay for your treatment here?' Bert replied that his only relative was a spinster sister who had no money because she was a nun like his questioner. The nun drew herself upwards and told Bert, 'Nuns are not spinsters. We are married to God. Don't you forget it.' Bert replied, 'Well, in that case, would you mind sending the hospital bill to my brother-in-law?'"

The audience laughed, as did I. Axel continued with a few more remarks about actual or fictional locals, tales of exploits, weddings, births, and good tidings. And then, finally, he listed his guests of the day: "Pat Muir, who has written a book about quick meals for single men, Betty Johnson, a senior social worker at Datonni's retirement home, who will discuss the needs of seniors entering into a retirement community, Andy Cloak, who will discuss auto repair scams, and Drew Wyeth, who has written a book on herbs characteristic of Virginia." Then Axel introduced me and clicked the station microphone on. I turned on my recording system.

"Tell me, Pat, is your book the first one you have written?"

"No, Axel. I wrote an earlier book of fiction called Stories to Entertain You...If You Get Bored on Your Wedding Night." I emphasized the pause in the title, enjoying the laughs that came from the audience and Axel.

"So, how was it you made the leap from fiction to nonfiction?" asked my host.

"I made the mistake of using friends and members of my family as source material in my stories, and they didn't like the portrayal. So, I thought I would try my hand at writing something else."

"Really, what did you say about your family or friends to upset them?"

"I exaggerated some of their characteristic behaviors or attitudes into my fiction characters."

"Did any of them sue you?"

"Oh no, it wasn't that serious. But I did finish up getting a divorce and thus started out life again as a single man after thirty years of marriage."

A titter came from the audience.

"I would have thought being divorced after such a long marriage was serious."

"I don't treat the matter lightly," I replied. "However, you can see it led to my making my own meals. I thought if one valued one's time, there should be a guide on how to make meals quickly. I searched the literature, but found only guides hung up on recipes. So, my book has just a few recipes and lots of advice to single men."

"What kind of advice?" asked Axel.

"Make life easy for yourself. Use packaged frozen foods that can be microwaved and be smart with leftovers. Cook less, have fewer dishes to wash, and find a woman who likes to cook."

"If you found such a woman, do you think she would want to cook for you all the time?"

"Oh no. I think we would share cooking and other household chores unless the woman liked that role. Of course, she could still be working; then I would do more of the work."

"Would you then just heat packaged foods or go to the delicatessen for your lady?"

"Axel, if we were in a hurry, packaged foods, a delicatessen, or eating out would be perfectly suitable. But I can grill pork chops or steaks, I can boil potatoes or turnip, I can make a nice salad, and it's easy to microwave frozen vegetables. I think I can make most ladies happy except the very fastidious."

"Don't you think she would want control of the stove if your cooking is typically Scottish or British?"

"Your prejudices against British cooking are showing, Axel."

"I'm from Belgium originally, and we Belgians thought British food awful."

"Thought?"

"Still do. I'll never forget going into a London restaurant and being recommended tripe. For our listeners, that means eating stomach. And I had no stomach for it."

"Axel, when meat was in short supply in Britain, both during the war and its aftermath, people ate many parts of animals that would be ground up for pet food these days. That includes sweetbreads—the thymus glands of calves and lambs—brains, stomachs, livers, kidneys, and so on. Even today, lamb's brains are considered a delicacy in some high-class Italian restaurants."

"The entree I ordered in that London restaurant was not tripe, but I would have called it tripe."

Not a bad play on words. The statement demands a response. "Sixty years ago, British food was poor. Resources were limited as we recovered from a devastating war; indeed, food rationing continued until 1951. Since then, the country's economy has improved dramatically, and people from all over the world have immigrated to the UK and set up great ethnic restaurants. The premier guide, Michelin, has given five stars to several British restaurants." I paused. "I do appreciate good food, but I ate low-quality food in my early years and when I was a student. I don't turn up my nose at such food when I'm hungry. I feel good about eating leftovers rather than throwing them away. I am appalled that in the USA, we waste fourteen percent of all our food, from having excessive portions, from spoilage, and from not utilizing leftovers. Many homeless people in this country live on food thrown out in the trash."

Axel pulled me off my pedestal. "What do you do with three-day-old pizza that is dried up?"

"You would certainly have been better to eat it sooner before it dried up in the refrigerator. The rule is: eat leftovers quickly. You can keep them longer if you wrap them in plastic or bag them to avoid evaporative losses. What I would do with old pizza is to lightly brush both sides with water to restore lost moisture, add some additional cheese, and heat it, in the oven preferably but in the microwave if you're in a hurry."

"Let's see what the audience thinks of this." A technician apparently gave a microphone to a questioner.

"My name is Mary Simmons," came a voice, "and I want to know why Mr. Muir picked such a ridiculous title for his first book."

"My objective was to give the book a title that would command attention, and I believe I succeeded." I judged the questioner to be in her mid-fifties.

Axel interjected: "I don't have copies of Pat's first book to give out to the audience, so Mary, I won't be able to give you one."

Mary Simmons did not give up. "Do you regret writing that book, which led to your divorce?"

"Well, I think the book played only a minor factor in my divorce. I enjoyed writing it; the effort was stimulating. Some authors write just for themselves. Their desire is to express themselves, and fiction is a way of displaying their imagination and intellect as well as entertaining themselves. I believe an author hopes his work will entertain or inform the reader and thus sell."

"Do you really think that a book about food for single men will be entertaining?"

"Well, I certainly hope so. That's why I'm promoting it."

"Can you think of one thing in your book that would grasp my attention?"

How I wanted Axel to interrupt! He did not. I went through the book in my mind to see if I could dig up a revelation for a fiftyish woman. I desperately needed some revelation or witticism or a profundity about men and food.

"Men always like their food hot, and women sometimes serve it cold" was the best I could do. While I knew I had written that in my book, it was based on anecdotal experience. I thought it trivial and certainly controversial. I was right.

"If I could drag my husband away from watching the ballgame on TV when I put the food on the table, it would be hot when he came to eat."

Wonders, she took the bait instead of denying my premise. I pressed my advantage. "Well, did you consider heating the dinner plates in the oven"—an old trick my mother used in cold, damp Scotland—"and do you use covered serving dishes to keep the food warm?"

After a pause, Mary Simmons replied, "Well, no, I don't. It seems rather pointless for just two people. It would make more dishes to wash when I don't have a dishwasher."

Axel took over. "Thank you, Mary. I'll give you a copy of Pat's current book after the show."

Another member of the audience spoke up.

"Mr. Muir, I think your claim about women serving food cold is utter nonsense. How on earth could you make such a claim?" came the aggressive voice of a younger woman. Axel asked for her name.

"My name is Helga Roedel, and I live with my boyfriend. He does most of the cooking because he likes to cook."

I ignored her original question. "Ms. Roedel, you make one of the points in my book, namely, one of the ways to get a quick meal is to find a partner who likes to cook."

The audience murmured with approval. I went on. "Women are brought up expecting to raise a family and cook meals. That is why I advocate men finding a female partner as one way of getting a quick meal."

"But you don't advocate marrying them?" queried Axel.

"It would be truly sexist to marry a woman just to get her to cook for you, as it would be just to marry her merely for sex."

"But aren't many relationships based on elements as primal as those?" asked my host.

"I'm not qualified to answer that," I replied, grateful that Axel then called for a station break. He phoned me during the break to say he wanted me to stand by for possible further interview, but the call never came.

After breakfast, I returned to the apartment complex, where I began to sand the holes in the walls of the vacated apartment I had patched earlier. I took a break after a couple of hours and sat in the office drinking a soft drink to wash down dust from sanding. In came the tenant from apartment 25, a handsome young man who, according to Bill, frequently had different women staying over at his unit. I looked at his strapping body and envied his youth and virility.

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

"Just wondering when Bill was coming back."

You really want to know when Ruby is coming back but don't want to ask that.

"He'll be in the office on Wednesday. Is there some problem with your apartment that I can help you with?"

"Not really. I wanted to discuss a personal problem with him."

Really! Wonder what, if that's true. Perhaps it's because his downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Soames, is complaining about hearing noisy lovemaking.

Charlie Soames fortuitously arrived next, just as his upstairs neighbor left. "My wife wanted me to complain about him," he said, waving his hand at the retreating Brown. "She says he's awfully noisy when he has gals over. It doesn't bother me, though."

What a coincidence!

"Martha wakes me up when she hears them. I think she wants me to emulate him. I'm eighty, and he's not even thirty."

I took advantage of the pause. "What can I do for you, Charlie?"

"I wondered when Ruby was going to be back."

"She and Bill will be back late tonight. Why do you ask?"

"I like talking to her."

"Martha says it's because you like looking at her boobs."

"That too."

"I told her to get you a subscription to Playboy."

"There's nothing like the real thing to look at, to say nothing of the rest of her."

"Well, you'd better pay more attention to Martha."

We chatted a little longer. Then I excused myself to spray texture coating on the sanded holes.

I went to the apartment office on the Wednesday morning to make sure my manager and his new wife had returned. Both were in the office when I arrived, and Bill was explaining to Ruby how to post rents and funds received to the ledger sheets. Ruby gave me tight embrace—much more than perfunctory. "I had such a good time in Las Vegas," she gushed. "We were treated so well at the MGM Grand Hotel. I hated to come back to work."

"Getting married is a big event, Ruby. Honeymoons don't last forever."

I looked at Bill, who grinned and pulled out empty pockets from his pants. I told him about the work I had already done in apartment 19 and said, "The walls are ready for painting." Bill replied he would get to it right away. "The tenant in apartment 25 came asking for you, Bill," I added.

Bill looked puzzled, and Ruby interjected: "Mr. Soames complained about the noise upstairs, and I asked Mr. Brown if he could be quieter. I'm sure that's what he wanted to discuss."

Jonathan Peters called later that day to say Axel liked how his show had gone and he would like me back ten days later. I thanked him for the opportunity.

I waited at my telephone for the scheduled call from Howard Messner. It did not arrive at six a.m. as agreed to, so I made myself breakfast and began to read the local newspaper. At seven forty, the phone rang, and Howard came onto the line with a very raspy voice. "We are having a political morning," he said, coughing. The interviewees before you kept talking politics. Consequently, many people called in, which is good for business. So, you didn't interview me first, as you said you would. I hope you don't mind if the interviewer—his name is Rod Battle—steers you into talking about your political views."

"You're not hosting the show this morning?"

"No. I've a bad cold, and my voice isn't up to it. You'll like Rod. He's young and energetic."

With that, Howard activated my phone so I could hear Rod ending his conversation with the previous interviewee, a lady member of Greenpeace who had written a book about its activities and accomplishments. I heard the end of her summary of that organization's positions: "We advocate eighty percent of electrical production in the USA from renewable sources, and this will cut the US global warming pollution by nearly seventy-five percent."

Two telephone calls came into the studio congratulating the lady for her advocacy and expressing their appreciation of Greenpeace's efforts to curb global warming. Rod thanked the lady, mentioned the name of her book and its availability, and then announced me: "Our next guest is Pat Muir, who has written a book called The Single Man's Guide to a Quick Meal. Pat used to work in science, and before we get to his book, I would like to ask his thoughts on nuclear power, since our previous guest dismissed it as dangerous and expensive. So, Pat, please give us your opinion about it."

"Thank you, Rod, for the introduction, and I appreciate the opportunity to present my view on the subject. Calling nuclear power dangerous is based on the three accidents to nuclear-power-generating stations, one at Chernobyl in Ukraine, one at Three Mile Island in the USA, and the several at Fukushima in Japan. There were no deaths at the accidents in the USA and Japan. The one at Chernobyl was tragic and caused thousands of deaths. It reflected inadequate safety protection mechanisms and incompetent operation. The case for nuclear power lies in its extremely low operating costs and in providing reliable, continuous electricity. Wind and solar energy cannot be reliable sources since wind does not always blow and the sun does not always shine."

"In that case, why haven't nuclear plants been built in this country?" asked Rod.

"Power plants using natural gas are now cheaper than nuclear and renewables by far. Natural gas has become abundant by a process called fracking and is steadily displacing coal in the USA as an energy source."

"But doesn't natural gas release carbon dioxide and increase global warning?"

"But much less so than coal, Rod. As a scientist, I question that carbon dioxide produced by man contributes significantly to the global warming of the atmosphere since 1980."

"Really, why is that? Mr. Gore won a Nobel Prize on manmade global warming."

"He shared the prize with twelve members of the committee that prepared the climate warming report for the United Nations. One of those members declined his award because he felt the conclusion was political and did not include the skepticism some scientists had about the man-made link."

"Skepticism?"

"Yes. Skepticism."

"But haven't global temperatures and carbon dioxide levels been rising?"

"Actually, average global temperatures have plateaued for the past twenty years. They actually dipped between 1945 and 1970, and news magazines at the time reported the prospect of a new ice age."

"Really. Then you think we should continue to use power sources that generate carbon dioxide?"

"I don't think we can afford not to use them. However, we need to be more efficient with such sources. Nothing could be healthier than weaning us off high-consumption motor vehicles. In that regard, a higher fuel tax would accord with Greenpeace objectives."

"Thank you, Pat. We have some callers who want to comment or question you on what you just said." The callers were a mixed bag. Some were delighted to hear my criticism of global warming being man-made. Others thought I was a nut. However, the rural community served by KDIN in Denton, Ohio, intensely disliked my suggestion of a fuel tax.

Eventually, Rod got back to my book with the following: "You heard our guest saying we need to be more efficient in our use of energy. In his book, Pat shows how to put a meal on the table more efficiently. Isn't that right?"

"Absolutely, Rod. As a single man, I wanted to write about getting food on the table quickly with minimum energy and with less wastage—the essentials of efficiency. I encouraged the use of leftovers and wrote about ways to make them tastier. It is not that I am against formal cooking, but cooking for several people is more efficient from both an energy and time point of view. That itself is a justification for purchasing packaged meals from stores for the single man...or woman."

Several callers questioned me, saying that eating food was a source of pleasure just as much as driving a comfortable powerful car. I agreed with them. Efficiency may be reduced ad absurdum, and if they enjoyed cooking, I would not wish to discourage them. "I hope to meet a lady on the internet who likes to cook," I added. That remark resulted in several phone calls that took several minutes to answer. Finally, Rod got around to promoting my book and thanking me for being interviewed. Howard Messner called me later to say it was a good interview with excellent listener interest and participation. He did not mention calling me back.

CHAPTER 5

Later that day, I picked up materials from Home Depot and drove through dense traffic on Highway 405 to Beth's home. I called her on my cell phone to make sure she was home and had the garage and associated house doors open for my arrival. This time, I parked my van, now loaded with planks, tools, screws, and brackets, in the garage space normally occupied by Connie's car. I entered the condominium through the garage door to find, as I expected, a very cold home and no host in sight. I called out.

"I'm up here in my studio," responded Beth.

Upstairs, I found her mounting a tiger-eye cabochon into an elaborate broach. I admired the intricate embellishment on the broach and complimented her on her work.

"I've been working on this most of the week," she said. "It's a commissioned work I promised to deliver by tomorrow. I've been so preoccupied that I haven't started dinner yet."

I offered to take her out for dinner instead, and she readily agreed. "Make yourself at home while I clean up."

I went downstairs, switched on the television, and turned to a news station to listen to an interview with a Federal Reserve Board member discussing subprime mortgages and their impact on commercial credit. The next thing I knew was Beth poking my shoulder. I looked at my watch; I had slept fifty minutes.

"Why didn't you wake me earlier?" I asked

"I just came downstairs," she replied. "You're not too tired to go out for dinner?"

I said I wasn't, but I was certainly disappointed that Beth had been so unready for me, one of further disappointments that I became inured to. We drove to the Blue Café, where I enjoyed the meal, my appetite enhanced by the drive to the eatery, the aperitifs, and the lengthy time for Beth to decide what to eat. Nevertheless, the easy conversing with Beth and the assuaging of my hunger improved my mood. After our return to the condominium, we spent a pleasant evening together watching a rerun of an old Alec Guinness movie called The Card, the tale of a Staffordshire rascal in nineteenth-century England. His primary impudence lay in ending his sentences with "would you?" or "are you?" or "have you?" thus disconcerting his listener. I wondered if I could ever utilize that conceit in the radiotelephone interviews.

I hoped there could be an opportunity for intimacy, but Beth took me upstairs and made it clear I was to sleep in her bedroom, which contained a mere single bed. She would sleep in the master suite. I put my arm around her to see if she was flexible on the matter, but she pushed me off to indicate the negative. Resignedly, I unpacked my overnight bag, pulled out my toiletries, and laid out my medications. In the open guest bathroom, I found Beth brushing her teeth in her underwear, with no hint of self-consciousness as I gazed at her. She smiled, spat into the sink, and said, "This is only because I keep my toothbrush and toothpaste in this guest bathroom."

I admired her body. Was this a hint of something possible later? Beth looked at me as though to say, "Whoa now." I decided time was on my side.

"Could you see why my bath is clogged?" she asked, opening the tub's glass doors. "I've tried plunging it, but I can't get it cleared. It's so expensive to call a plumber these days, and I'm tired of stepping into cold water when I take a shower."

"How long has it been like this?" I asked.

Beth did not respond to my question, and I had to repeat it before she replied sheepishly, "About three weeks."

Gad. I looked sadly at the tub, half-filled with opaque water, a plunger at the deep end, and said I would look at it the next day.

Next morning, I dressed directly in work clothes to install the garage shelves. One side was easy because I could identify the stud locations from the previously installed shelf row. Thus, I had installed all the support brackets there within an hour. Beth put her head in the garage and asked what I wanted for breakfast. I took a break at that point and drank coffee while she prepared an English breakfast—bacon, eggs, hash browns (from a frozen package), and toast and marmalade. Beth put a couple of strawberries on my plate to give the meal a presentation. It tasted good. An appetite from hard labor gives food an uplift.

I located the studs on the other side of the garage and screwed in the support brackets there for the two separate rows, cutting the shelving—actually white melamine over particle board—to fit. By noon, I had finished, and I called in Beth to inspect my work. Her mouth opened wide when she saw the completed rows of shelves. She expressed her delight and surprise. "I don't see how you did it so quickly when the other man took a day to do just one row," she exclaimed.

"Perhaps it's because I have a powered drill and screwdriver as well as a good electric rotary saw. I haven't cleaned up the mess yet," I said, pointing to sawdust on the floor that extended into the driveway.

"I'll clean the mess up and make a lunch for us while you take a shower."

A sensible suggestion. I was sweaty and covered in sawdust. I asked her to join me, but she smiled, thanked me for the offer, and said, "Now I have the task of going through all these storage boxes"—pointing to the many on the garage floor—"and sorting them out before I put them on the shelves."

I went upstairs and shaved; only then did I remember the clogged bathtub. Pushing the plunger changed nothing. I unscrewed the push-type stopper and yanked on the matted hair in the drain mouth, but without success. I bent a coat hanger into a small hook; it proved suitable for extracting the entire mass of hair in the drain, a dark, soapy clump whose removal made the tub water gurgle a happy release. I cleaned the scum around the tub before I took a well-deserved hot shower. Refreshed and satisfied with myself, I dressed and went downstairs, ready to eat the salad Beth had made for lunch.

"I've done enough sorting of storage boxes today," she said. "I'd rather go shopping. I would like you to come so I can buy you a new shirt to thank you."

I demurred; I had plenty of shirts back at my condo, but I recognized Beth wanted to reward my morning's effort. Off we drove in my minivan to the mall, that local discount mall where women visit most weekends to buy shirts, underwear, and socks for their children and husbands whether or not the latter know they are needed. I have learned that when a woman says you need a new shirt, it is pointless to dissuade her. Accept the fact that you need a new shirt. It doesn't matter that your perfectly good work shirt has a small paint stain on its side or a small hole that none see. It doesn't matter that you like the color of your shirt if your woman doesn't. What matters is your woman has determined you need a shirt.

At the mall, Beth first wanted to visit a cosmetics store. I entered with her. She carelessly sprayed a sample of cologne on the back of her right hand and sniffed it. Then she sprayed the back of her left hand with a different sample and sniffed it. She asked me to sniff both hands, and I did so.

"What do you think of them?" she asked.

"They smell nice," I said weakly.

Beth discerned I was not a connoisseur of women's colognes or perfumes, and she entered into a conversation with the sole store clerk, who proceeded to spray the front of her hands with other samples. Beth sniffed but did not ask me to sniff also. That suited me fine. She conversed further with the clerk, who then sprayed the front of Beth's wrists with other samples. More sniffing. More conversation. Further spraying, the back of the wrists this time. Beth sniffed these further samples and engaged the clerk in a lengthy conversation. Finally, Beth bade goodbye, thus allowing the clerk to service three additional customers who had arrived within the past fifteen minutes.

"Didn't you find anything in the store you liked, Beth?" I asked.

"Nothing special," she replied. "I'm okay for colognes and perfumes at the moment, but I like to keep up with the trends of fragrances. The gal there was very helpful."

"Doesn't it bother you to tie up the clerk for nearly twenty minutes when you don't intend to buy anything?" I asked, a question to hint to Beth that she had kept me waiting for the same period.

"Not at all," she replied blithely. "The store clerks are there to give service to customers irrespective of whether a purchase is made. They do that on the expectation that customers, well serviced, will return later to make a purchase."

I did not agree, but felt it was pointless to argue, especially since Beth seemed oblivious to keeping me and the other customers waiting. Beth then marched me to the Old Navy store, looked at the men's shirts briefly, and said, "See if there is anything you like there while I look at the lady's tops." I looked at the men's shirts, though without enthusiasm, and wandered towards her.

Beth inspected women's tops and pulled three off the rack. "Hold my purse," she commanded, "while I try these on." She came out from the ladies dressing room with one of the three on and asked my opinion.

"It looks nice," I responded in a neutral tone.

Beth tried on the other two and solicited my opinion each time. I did not value my opinion on either of these tops but decided an opinion was necessary and stated I preferred the middle of the three.

"Why is that?" asked Beth?

I was caught. I had to justify an opinion I held lightly if at all. I told her I liked the color, a pale gold, and liked how the material clung, emphasizing her trim figure, an answer that pleased Beth. She asked me if I had found a shirt. I replied I had not.

Beth changed and then casually put the three tops on the top of a rack and led me to another store. The same thing happened. I looked at shirts—it did not take me long—while she looked at women's blouses and asked my opinion on the two she tried on. She bought none there either.

I grew weary of this hanging around and suggested we stop for coffee. Beth agreed, and we retired to Starbucks, my old favorite, for two cappuccinos and a pastry. While we conversed, I noticed Number 34 and a younger woman, likely her daughter. Fortunately, they did not look in my direction and left with their purchases towards the parking lot. It doesn't bother me to meet an internet lady noted in my dead files, but I prefer it to happen when I'm not with another lady. Beth asked me teasingly if I fancied the younger woman. I didn't realize my staring had been so obvious.

"I met the older lady, her mother, on the internet."

"She looked attractive," said Beth. "What happened?"

I wanted to duck the question since I didn't want to say anything negative about the lady or recount something negative she had said about me. Neither do me credit. Beth persisted in getting a specific response.

"We went to a concert in the park after the Starbucks meeting," I told her, "but our conversation there was wooden, without sparkle. Somehow, I seemed unable to make a good impression on her. The concert tickets she had were freebies obtained in her employment as a marketing representative. Perhaps she expected me to buy food from the concessionaires there, but I had thought their food overpriced and limited. So, I brought sandwiches and cold soft drinks in a portable container. She did not enjoy what I'd prepared. She also picked me up from my condo, and I think she expected me to live in a more upscale place. I asked if she wanted to go on a further date, and she declined. Her personality did not impress me enough to motivate me to change her mind."

"So, personality is important to you?"

"Oh yes."

"Most men I dated after my divorce made it clear they wanted to get me into bed as soon as possible. They all seemed to have sex on their mind exclusively."

"Beth, you're a good-looking woman. It's a turn-on for men."

"Are you claiming to be different from them?"

"Not really. Sex and good looks are the gravy to the Yorkshire pudding of a relationship. However, it is the Yorkshire pudding that sustains life. That's how I view personality."

"So, where do I fit in," she said mischievously, "gravy or pudding?"

I looked her and grinned. "I haven't sampled properly yet."

She grinned back. We then visited HC, a fashionable men's store. This time, Beth went over each shirt in the rack, questioning my feelings about the make, fabric type, quality, and color. We lined up three shirts I expressed a mild interest in. "I will buy this one for you," said Beth, "and you must buy these other two."

How to respond? I was happy to let Beth buy me a shirt, but its cost included my buying two more shirts I didn't need. I wanted to argue, but Beth forestalled me. "I will help you get rid of your old shirts to make room for these nice new ones." That means she will be at my apartment. Hmm.

I gave in, and we left for Beth's condominium. Beth checked her telephone answering machine for messages and then relayed that Connie was coming home that evening instead. Damn. I was really hoping that I might get to first base tonight, and now I'll have to clear out. I drank the soda Beth offered me. She then asked me to stay for dinner, but I declined. I felt tired from both the shelving work and waiting around during the laborious shopping. With the daughter at home, there would be no opportunity for sex. Beth invited me for lunch next Wednesday. While leaving, I noticed her garage was exceptionally dark in this late afternoon. The single thirteen-watt fluorescent fixture gave inadequate light. I pointed out to Beth she would be unable to use her new shelving storage at night unless she had more light in the garage. She expressed warm gratitude when I offered to install a larger-wattage fixture.

On Monday, I went to the apartment complex to assess how Bill and his new wife were managing. Ruby sat at the office desk playing a game on the computer, a computer normally used for checking the credit of tenant applicants and for preparing notices to tenants. Ruby, dressed in a short black skirt and a revealing white low-cut top, came around from the desk and hugged me tightly. I sense animal attraction towards this woman, but I must not get interested in her. She's committed to Bill—at least I trust so. I asked where Bill was.

"He's showing an apartment," replied Ruby.

"Did you talk to the applicant, or did Bill?" I asked.

"I was talking to him and was ready to show him apartment 19, but Bill came into the office saying he would show the unit." Hmm.

I put my head out the office to see Bill returning with the tenant applicant, a well-dressed young man in his early thirties. Bill brought the applicant into the office and gave him a tenant application form. The man thanked Bill, said he would mail in the application, and smiled effusively at Ruby, who grinned back broadly.

"How are you doing in posting rents and receipts to the accounts?" I asked Ruby.

She looked at Bill, who interjected: "She's learning still, and I think she'll have it down by the end of the month. Tenants like her, and she is good with them and applicants. When she is in the office, I have more time to do maintenance in the units and work on the landscaping and the pool."

Ruby added, "I still don't understand why tenant deposits and rents are credits on the ledger sheets. Could you explain it to me?" Uh-uh! I need to avoid sitting down with this sexy woman.

"I'm sure Bill will teach you."

I said I would be back on Monday, the last day of the month, for closure of the accounts for March. I mentioned to Bill that the wrought iron fence needed painting. Bill said he would get to it next week.

Ruby spoke up: "My ex is a painter and could do it for you."

Bill and I stared at Ruby in surprise at this inappropriate suggestion. Bill said to her, "No, that's my job."

Beth called to thank me for fixing her bath drain. "How did you do it?" she asked. I explained and suggested she put a rubber strainer over the drain. "Could you pick one up and come for lunch?" she asked. "I've lots more things needing repairs." At her condominium, Beth greeted me with a kiss and a hug. She pointed out further items to be fixed. "My stove control is broken. The exhaust hose from the dryer keeps coming off its outlet flange, and my desk drawer won't open."

The list had grown. "I'll come early Saturday morning to make the repairs."

Beth hugged me. "Then I'll cook you a nice dinner to thank you."

I looked at her stove and its battered push control, a multiple touchpad whose plastic shell had broken at the edges. I could rebuild the shell backing with wood and epoxy, but I would need to get behind the stove to do that work. Unfortunately, the stove, closely positioned between two cabinets, could not be pulled out from the wall far enough due to the short length of the connecting gas hose. I told Beth I would need to get a longer one in order to get behind and make the repair. She asked me to get the materials for my next visit; also, could I look at the antique desk in her living room. I did so and concluded that age and dampness had warped the wood and sanding would be necessary to release the stuck drawer. "You'd better not look for more things to fix here," said Beth. "I don't want to scare you off."

Lovely! She doesn't want to scare me off. I do like Beth, but she does have quirks—persistent tardiness and failure to be decisive. But I love her warm smile, the glow in her eyes, and her holding my arm when we walk. I enjoy hugging her. She has a comfortable, sexy body that arouses me. Maybe there will be more.

At lunch, Beth attempted to light candles on the table with a gas lighter that refused to flame. Eventually, she gave up and searched for matches. She already knew I didn't smoke and had no lighter or matches. She returned from her search and lighted the scented candles. She said grace, shortened, I think, by a thought enunciated as she raised her head. "I forgot to put out napkins." She rose, brought some to the table, and sat down. Then she noticed the absence of knives and forks. She smiled at me and went to a kitchen drawer and brought out some, including serving utensils for the salad. I thanked her and then asked if she had salt and pepper. She arose again and returned with the condiments.

The salad was excellent, especially if I put the rosemary to one side. I had to laugh internally. Between the grace, lighting the candles, and getting the napkins, the utensils, and the condiments, the food would have been cold had it been a hot meal. I decided I would put out these missing table items next time. And I hoped for another meal since Beth was warm and charming, just the type for me.

After the meal, I rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. I asked Beth if she wanted to go dancing at the dance studio where I had once taken lessons to be prepared for a woman who enjoyed that activity. The close proximity of my condo to the studio would facilitate bringing Beth to my home afterwards. She agreed. I suggested we go to the movies in the afternoon, then dinner and then dancing. Beth liked the suggestion, and we picked the comedy Little Miss Sunshine. I had seen it earlier and knew it was good for laughs. At dinner, Beth as usual, took her time to order food. I decided to keep a log of the ordering time, defining it as the time from the first server approach to when the order was complete.

Only five persons were in the dance studio when we arrived after dinner, and a young nubile teacher, with a physique to be envied, gesticulated as she gave directions for a complicated move in the tango. I begged off, happy that Beth agreed. After twenty minutes of open instruction, the teacher left us to ourselves while she put on a compact disk with dances of various kinds, though emphasizing the tango. On the dance floor, I discovered I knew more about dancing than Beth, not to say much, though. I held her firmly in my arms and trundled her around, maintaining the teacher's edict that the man must lead so the woman can follow. Beth followed well and appeared to be enjoying herself. I then noticed that a foursome had joined the dance group, one of whom I had met via the internet. Beth saw me looking at the woman and asked in a piqued voice, "Why are you staring at that woman?"

I explained and added I was wondering if I should say hello as a matter of courtesy or pretend not recognize her.

"Did you go out with her long?" asked Beth.

"No. I just met her at Starbucks. I didn't find her very attractive." That's not entirely true, Pat. She told me she was comparing me to another man. Evidently, she preferred the other. In this light, she looks quite nice.

"She's not bad looking." An opportunity.

"Not as good looking as you."

Beth beamed. "How long ago did you meet her?"

"I don't remember exactly, but she's Number 33."

At this point, Number 33 disengaged herself from her group, came over, and greeted me. "Hi, Pat. How's it going?"

"Hi. It's nice to see you again." Wish I could remember your name. "Let me introduce you to my date, Beth."

The two women shook hands warily. "Do you come here often?" asked Number 33.

Beth shook her head.

"It's a good place to learn to dance and meet people." Emphasis on meet.

"I see that," said Beth. "Did you meet Pat here?"

"No. We met at Starbucks. I think he loves their coffee." Good grief, these women are beginning to talk about me. "I don't think he remembers my name. He probably has me filed away as a number."

Beth laughed. "You're right. He has a number for me also." She turned to me, but I said nothing and spread my hands.

Number 33 smiled. "Glad to know you remember me, Pat."

Fortunately, Beth decided to cut off this conversation. With a "nice meeting you," she grabbed my arm and led me onto the dance floor and a slow waltz. "She wants to see you again," said Beth. "That's the most brazen attempt I've ever seen by a woman to make a pass at a man with a date. You'd better not call her."

"Of course not. As I told you, you're much nicer than she." You know, Pat, you merely downgraded Number 33's attractiveness because she declined to go out with you after the Starbucks meeting. Looking at her again and her admirable boldness, I wish she had chosen otherwise. I hope you wrote down her phone number in the file. Always useful to have a backup.

After an hour of dancing with modest adequacy, I suggested we go to my condo for a nightcap. Of course, I had other things in mind. Beth said it would be okay as long as it didn't take too long, since she wanted to make an early start the next day in her studio. The ditty by Ogden Nash ran through my head: "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker."

"When did you last clean your home?" asked Beth as she walked around my living room, wiping her finger on the back of chairs and blowing off the dust.

"Not long ago. I keep the bathroom and kitchen clean. I'm not very good at dusting."

"I can see that." She went into the bedroom, opened the closets, and examined the shirts hanging there. "You don't iron your shirts or take them to a cleaner."

"No. It doesn't bother me to have a few wrinkled shirts. I wear them when I make repairs at my apartment complex. Besides, I mostly buy shirts that don't need ironing." I think she's making sure there are no women's clothes. Doesn't want to get hooked up with a crossdresser or a womanizer.

Beth marched into my office room and wiped her finger on the top of the computer. She blew off the dust and smiled at me. I waved my hands to acknowledge the abundance of dust. Then to the bathroom, which I clean regularly each weekend. She looked around, ordered me out, closed the door, and used the facility. In the kitchen, I poured out two good measures of Cherry Heering liqueur and gave one to Beth when she entered. She put it down and looked over the narrow kitchen with its limited counter space covered in pink and gray and its slightly chipped tile. She sniffed. She opened the cabinet doors and drawers and looked at my plates, saucers, cups, mugs, pots, pans, cutlery, and the types of foods stored. "You don't cook much." I acknowledged the truth of that statement. I sipped my drink and motioned to her to do likewise. She took a sip and promptly spat it out in the sink. "What's this stuff?"

I explained it was an expensive liqueur imported from Denmark. "The Danes can keep it, then."

I offered Beth the choice of any other liquor or wine I had, but she declined and asked me to take her home. I put my arms around her and asked her to stay, but she disengaged herself and picked up her purse. Pat, she wanted to check out your home, while you wanted to bed her. She knew what you wanted and let you believe it might happen. Send the message to Johnson. Disappointed, I drove Beth home and walked her to her door from the guest parking. We smooched, and I think Beth French kissed me to make up for my and Johnson's disappointment. Maybe you should have pressed harder, Pat.

An awaiting e-mail reminded me my son from Houston and his family would be in town for three days, staying at my ex-wife's home. I had forgotten this. He would be attending a conference at the Anaheim Convention Center for three days and suggested he and his wife go to dinner with me on Friday evening. Furthermore, he proposed I take his two children for entertainment the next day while his wife and my ex went shopping. I see my son and grandchildren no more than twice a year, so I was delighted to have the opportunity. I e-mailed my son that I looked forward to seeing him and would pick him up for dinner at seven p.m. at his mother's house. I called Beth to tell her I could not make the repairs on Saturday as planned. I explained I had forgotten about the visit and that I saw my son and his family infrequently.

Beth was clearly miffed. "Why don't you introduce me to your son, his family, and your ex?" My mind boggled at the latter since my ex remains unhappy about the divorce and will not invite me to visit my children at her home. I tried to explain this to Beth without success. I've only known her five weeks and haven't had sex with her. I'm not just not ready to introduce her to my son and his wife. To avoid appearing reticent, I offered to take her to a nice place for dinner the following Friday.

Jonathan Peters phoned me a day before the second radiotelephone interview and said a lady chef from an affiliate television station would be asking me questions about my book on the show. "You generated controversy at the previous interview and made many listeners call in. We will be promoting the interview on other day shows to get publicity for our programming, your book and hers."

"Please tell me about this lady chef," I asked Jonathan.

"I don't know much myself except that her name is Joyce...let me see...Minsky, and she does some cooking shows occasionally on television station WTBH in Norfolk. We won't have a studio audience. We plan to record the interview and edit out anything offensive and any mention of proprietary products so we may rebroadcast it later."

I thanked Jonathan and expressed the wish that she not be too hard about my modest cooking tips. "Don't worry about it," he replied. "It will be more fun for the listeners and will offer more potential for book sales."

Sonia called me later in the day to tell me producers from radio stations in Spokane, Wichita, and Lawton would be calling me for interviews. I told Sonia how the interview at KDIN of Denton had veered into the subject of nuclear power and global warming and how I had expressed a contrarian position on the latter subject.

"Pat, the subject matter in the interviews is less important than the way you project yourself. If you come across as an interesting person, then people will more likely believe you have written an interesting book and are more likely buy it. Incidentally, how are your sales going?"

"Sales are slow. Sometimes I sell one or two a week, and sometimes none. I think it's too early to assess the impact of the interviews. I have been able to put my book on amazon.com, but it would help if the book had accompanying favorable reviews." I paused. "Would you care to write one for me, Sonia?"

She snorted. "No, I don't want to get into the book review business. I skim through author's books to pick out the highlights for promotion purposes. I don't have time to read yours thoroughly enough to write a review. Get your girlfriend to write one for you."

"She didn't really like either of my books, Sonia."

"Does that matter?"

"Well, I don't want her to write a negative review."

"Pat, there are businesses that will write a good review of your book or your movie script or whatever for a fee. Be nice to your girlfriend and get her to write a review to your liking. If necessary, write the review yourself and have her sign it."

"But that's dishonest."

Sonia chuckled. "You're a novice in the advertising business, Pat. It's the job of the advertising person to promote the product. What that person believes about the product personally is irrelevant. His or her job is to find those features that appeal best to potential buyers and to leave out the adverse attributes."

This reminds me of a joke about a sheik who owned an oil field and lived in a palace in a vast, sandy desert. He visited the USA, and when he returned to his desert palace, a journalist asked him what impressed him most in his visit. The sheik waived off his servants and motioned the journalist to a locked closet. He opened it; inside sat a large outboard motor. "The salesmen," whispered the sheik.

"So, you don't have any opinion about either of my books?"

"Pat, I like to cook, so I have no interest in your second book. I read a few stories in your first book, more to find out how to promote you than for my own interest. No, you'd better get a friend to write you a favorable review."

I sighed. "You like to cook, Sonia. Has this helped you in your internet dating?"

After a silence, evidencing a thought on whether to answer in full, came: "Not exactly, Pat. I met a man interested in my cooking. After our initial meeting, I invited him for dinner at my place. All the time I was in the kitchen cooking a gourmet meal, he could only look over my shoulder and question or suggest how to do it differently. I didn't need that. I'll be looking for a man who prefers to eat than cook." She paused. "And how are you getting on with Beth?"

I replied it was going well except she was miffed because I had spent time with my son and family last weekend instead of her and I had not introduced her to them.

"Better take Beth some flowers when you see her next," came Sonia's parting remark.

CHAPTER 6

Peters telephoned as scheduled. "Axel will introduce you and Joyce Minsky, who is a regular food guru on WTXB in Richmond. We sent her a copy of your book a week ago, and I believe she's prepared to ask you some hard questions. I hope you're ready." I hoped so also. I activated my telephone so I could hear Axel do his routine of minor jokes followed by his joke of the day. "A man sent to jail found that prisoners laughed at numbers being called out. One prisoner told him the inmates had one hundred good jokes and had assigned each one a number. Thus, one would call out the number of the joke instead of the joke itself to get a laugh. The new man learnt all the jokes and was allowed one day to tell one. He called out, 'Seventy-four,' and nobody laughed. 'What did I do wrong?' he asked. 'It's not the joke itself,' came the reply, 'it's the way you say it that counts.'"

I chuckled and heard another person's laughter in the background, perhaps a studio technician. Thinking about what Peters had said, I concluded the manner of my response to Joyce Minsky's questions would be more important than the responses themselves. I should take nothing personally and try to maintain a sense of humor throughout. Easier said than done. With my telephone on microphone, Axel introduced us. He described how Joyce had a graduated in nutrition from Forsyth University in 1972, had worked as a hospital nutritionist for many years, and had written a book on simplified cooking. She currently taught in college, spoke on radio WTXB, and had television cooking shows on WTBH. From her graduation date, she would be in her late fifties. Evidently well qualified about food. Yeah, but my book is not so much about food as about obtaining meals. Axel described my background, mentioning my book's title and that he had copies of both guests' books available for the first few callers. He then asked me to make an opening statement.

I thanked Axel, acknowledged Joyce, and sallied forth. "After my divorce five years ago, I fixed meals for myself. I valued my time and decided there were ways in which a single man could minimize his time in getting food on the table. My book published two months ago explores these ways." A fairly innocuous statement. Axel called for Joyce to respond.

"I've read your book, Mr. Muir, and it seems you're saying a man can get a meal quickly by one of the following means: A, he eats leftovers; I notice you particularly espouse pizza. B, he eats TV packaged meals, and you recommend several brands. C, he buys food ready to go from a neighborhood delicatessen. D, he finds a woman who likes to cook, and he takes advantage of her."

She paused before asking loudly in a clearly unfriendly voice, "Isn't this a fair summary of your book, Mr. Muir?"

I had to change this tone. "Please call me Pat, and may I call you Joyce?"

"You may," she replied in a still-unfriendly voice.

"Joyce, I think you have made an excellent summary of my book. However, it's the details that count, somewhat like Axel's joke about how the prisoner tells the joke. For example, in my book, do I ever suggest immediately upon meeting a woman asking if she's a good cook?"

"I don't think so, but you do seem to think a woman is more suited to cooking than a man and enjoys doing so."

"That's part of our culture, Joyce. Women do more cooking than men, and men are more likely to eat meals prepared by a woman unless, perhaps, at a restaurant. This has nothing to do with whether men or women are better cooks. I'm sure, for instance, you're a better cook than I."

Joyce snorted. "Having read your book, I've no doubt of it. However, I concede you address the issue of eating leftovers well. It's a subject not addressed in cookbooks."

She had left me an opening, and I took advantage of it. "Restaurants have, over the years, been giving larger and larger portions. Consequently, diners now take home doggy boxes or bags clearly not intended for dogs. In addition, there are other leftovers such as pizza or yesterday's roast chicken. I hate to waste food. I think of that every time I get a solicitation for a poor, starving child in the middle of some devastated city, jungle, or refugee camp."

Joyce and Axel interrupted to concur.

I went on: "The advantage of leftovers is they're already cooked. All one has to do is to heat them up in a way that does not dry them out, and add flavorings if they have lost some taste from their staying in the refrigerator."

"What do you use to spice up leftovers that have become slightly stale?" asked Joyce.

"I use chutney mostly, and sometimes mustard or curry powder," I replied

"Chutney?"

"Yes, chutney, preferably what I make myself."

"I thought you didn't like to cook," said Joyce.

Axel interrupted. "Pat, could you tell our listeners what is chutney?"

"Surely. Chutney is a spicy, sweet relish, generally served on cold meat, bland cheese, and stale leftovers. It's very popular with Indian food, Axel. I try to avoid cooking, but chutney making is an art, and I enjoy making a variety of fruits and spices into a tasty relish."

"Why do you think it's an art when you don't seem to appreciate art in all other forms of cooking?"

"Axel, it's not true I don't appreciate art in cooking. It's a matter of choice, or rather of interest. It's why some artists like to paint with acrylics and others like to use watercolors."

"And what is the art form in chutney that appeals to you, Pat?"

"Fruits vary considerably in sugar content and acidity. Since I invariably make chutney with donated fruit, the quantity of vinegar and sugar to be added and the amount of boiling to reduce liquidity is a matter of judgment and my particular taste."

Joyce joined in. "Is there anything else you like to cook?"

"Yes, I like to make black bun. It's a Scottish pastry dish usually served on Hogmanay."

"Hogmanay?"

"Sorry," I said, "that's New Year's Eve."

"Then you agree that good cooking is an art to be cherished. Your book seems to suggest otherwise," said Joyce.

"Of course good cooking is an art. But do all single men, or women for that matter, want to be artists? We want our bellies filled so we can do something else with our lives other than cooking. That's the whole point of my book."

"Mr. Muir, you say in your book that a single man should find a woman who likes to cook. That way, he can get his meal without lifting a finger. That's chauvinistic."

"Joyce, those are your words about not lifting a finger, not mine. A man finding a woman who likes to cook is no different from a woman looking for a man to escort her to places of entertainment, to do gardening, or to repair things around her house or apartment."

"Women don't explicitly look for those attributes in a man. They are more concerned with how he treats her, how he converses with her, how he makes her feel needed and desired."

"I can't answer for women, Joyce, and I don't want to answer for all men. For myself, I enjoy a woman being nice to me. If she does, then I take her to movies and the mall. I fix her smoke detectors, replace her burnt-out light bulbs, and solve her plumbing problems. I do that for women I care for."

"Nice is merely a substitute word for sex, Mr. Muir."

"Not necessarily the case, Joyce, and not true for me in particular."

There was a long pause broken by Axel: "I think the ball is in your court, Joyce."

She continued: "You mention in your book, Mr. Muir, on how to use the internet to look for a new girlfriend. Do you regard yourself as an expert in that field?"

"I don't know what makes an expert in that field, Joyce. I have met fifty-seven women on the internet; it's an excellent way to meet ladies."

"And do you have a steady girlfriend yet?"

I don't think I can count Beth as a steady yet. "No, not at the moment."

"Then wouldn't it be fair to say you view women not from seeking marriage or a committed relationship, but from taking advantage of what they have to offer?"

The attack had started. "I hope not, Joyce. I want a committed relationship. But based upon my marriage experience, I plan to be selective."

"Well, I would say fifty-seven suggests you are overcritical or you are not seriously interested in a permanent partner."

"It's a numbers game. You need to meet many prospects. At fifty-seven, statistics indicate the probability of my not having met the right one is fourteen percent."

Axel interrupted: "We are getting away from the subject of Pat's book. Joyce, could you focus your questions more on his book?"

Joyce ignored him. "You recommend in your book that a single man should find a partner who likes to cook, and you specifically recommend the internet as the means for doing so. It sounds crass. Surely, you can learn to cook for yourself rather than seek some poor woman to do what you should be prepared to do for yourself?"

"I never said I couldn't cook. It is just that if I am going with a woman who likes to cook, why not take advantage of her culinary skills and motivation rather than do so myself? What on earth do you see wrong with that?" My voice had edged upwards.

Joyce's voice also became sharper. "It sounds like unadulterated laziness to me. Do you put into your profile on the internet that you're looking for a woman to cook for you?"

My voice edged up further. "No, I don't. I am looking for a relationship, but if cooking comes along in the meanwhile, should I tell the lady I don't want her to prepare a meal for the two of us?" Time to return the attack. "Joyce, do you do the cooking in your household?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes...that is, when I'm home. I eat out a lot because I'm frequently invited to give talks on cooking."

"And what does your husband do for meals when you're away?"

"I don't have a husband, so your question is irrelevant."

"But if you had a husband, would you leave prepared meals for him to eat while you were gone?"

Joyce's voice took a note of anger. "Your question is totally irrelevant. I think you are recommending men to take advantage of women."

"Joyce, it sounds as though men have taken advantage of you."

"My former husband did. That's why I think your recommendation of finding a woman to cook for you stinks."

There was a silence. Axel took advantage of it.

"Joyce, do you have any comments about Pat's recommendations for TV meals as a quick meal?"

After a pause. "Well, if you want a diet of excess fat, salt, and cholesterol, then his recommendations would be on target."

"Are you saying, Joyce, that you never eat TV meals?" I asked.

"Rarely, and if I do, they are the SlimFast meals, not the Hungry Man dinners you recommend."

"Joyce, don't you know that SlimFast meals are designed for women? Men don't have to work so hard at slimming because they have more muscle, which burns calories faster, and because they aren't as concerned about their appearance as women. I don't think it's right to judge what I like to eat by your own standards. Besides, I have a body mass index of 27.5, which is not particularly overweight."

Axel interjected: "Joyce, would you explain to our listeners about body mass index."

There was a short pause, and Joyce complied. Then, to my surprise, Axel asked, "Joyce, now that Pat has told our audience what his BMI is, are you willing to tell us what is yours?"

In a very annoyed voice, Joyce replied, "I have never been asked about my weight on any radio or TV show, and I don't intend to start now."

I snickered. That was a mistake, as Joyce went on: "I expected to ask the questions here to Mr. Muir, since I am an expert in food preparation. Let me continue with his list of recommended foods: Jimmy Dean Croissants, Hungry Man Salisbury Steak. Mr. Muir, do you really know the dietary content of these foods?"

"No," I replied, "because I don't care as long as they taste good. I don't eat them more than twice a week as a rule, and I'm not particularly overweight. I don't think that's any different from you having a dessert when you eat out, or do you mean to tell me that you never eat desserts?"

"Whether I eat deserts has nothing to do with the issue of your promoting unhealthy foods. My book, Easy-to-Prepare Meals for the Busy Person, is the antithesis of yours... Axel, I thought you had sent a copy of it to Pat so he could ask me questions about it."

Axel spoke up: "I'm sorry, Joyce, I thought it had been sent. I'll find out what happened during the station break that we'll take now."

Commercial advertisements began, and my phone microphone was switched off. I put my handset down, expecting Axel or the producer to call me. The phone rang within twenty seconds. It was Peters. "I'm sorry I didn't brief you on Joyce Minsky's book. You were supposed to ask her questions about her book. I truly apologize for not telling you about it beforehand and not sending you a copy. The truth is, we thought you were more controversial." He paused as though waiting for me to comment, which I did not. "To keep things on an even keel, do you think you could ask Joyce some questions about her book now you know its title?"

I said I could. Two minutes later, we were back on the air. I began. "Joyce, could you tell us about your favorite easy-to-prepare lunch?"

"You can make a very nice lunch by chopping up bacon or ham and boiling it together with chopped up chives and onions and then dropping egg into it. I call it my omelet soup."

"Doesn't it take time to chop up the bacon, the chives, and the onions?" I asked.

"Not more than ten minutes."

"But I can have a can of soup cooked within three minutes. I think that's easier and faster."

Joyce voiced her annoyance: "I don't think ten minutes is too long for a freshly prepared dish like this, which will taste much better than a can of soup."

"Is that not perhaps because you're a woman and like cooking?"

"That I'm a woman has nothing to do with it," replied Joyce with a tinge of anger. "A can of soup tells me whoever eats it doesn't care about food."

"Come on now. You can buy canned soups of gourmet quality."

"Nonsense. The process of canning and sterilization removes taste and texture; it can never match the quality of well-prepared fresh food."

"The question boils down to what you mean by an easy-to-prepare meal and what I mean by a quick meal. You are prepared to sacrifice time for perceived quality, and I advocate saving time to obtain adequate quality."

"Perceived quality?" And louder: "Perceived quality! My recipes, followed explicitly, will give you actual quality, not the junk you get from a can."

Axel interrupted—time to lower the heat level. "What other questions do you have for Joyce?"

I had to stop for a moment. I enjoyed lighting a fire under Joyce. Where next should I strike the match? "Joyce, do you never use any food from a can?"

There was a pause. "Yes," she then replied. "I use mushroom and cauliflower soup from cans to make quick sauces, and I use canned beef or chicken stock for certain braised meat dishes. But I never use canned vegetables or canned meats."

"You could make these sauces or stock from scratch if you had to?"

"Of course, but they take time, and in the television shows I do, I don't have time to make those from basics."

"Well, if you were at home, cooking these meals for me say, would you be making these sauces or stock from scratch?"

"For you, certainly not scratch. You wouldn't be able to appreciate the difference."

"And for somebody other than me?"

There was a pause. "Probably not," replied Joyce, "unless I happened to have some of my own stock left over from a prior grand meal."

"And that is because it would take too long. Are you not telling us that you value your time when cooking?"

"Of course I value my time, but not to the extent you advocate in your book."

"But you enjoy cooking, and I don't except for odd food items I can't readily find in the USA." I paused. "Joyce, how long on average do you take to prepare a meal for yourself?"

"Maybe half an hour."

"Mine takes no longer than ten minutes. So, I have saved twenty minutes every day more than you to do something I like."

"Twenty minutes every day means nothing if you don't do something worthwhile with it. From what I read in your book, you probably spend it surfing profiles of women on internet dating services."

"You disapprove of that?"

"You come across to me as a dilettante, interested only in what women offer you, and that you take full advantage of women's vulnerability," she said in a voice of noticeable hostility.

"Ooh!" I said. "That hurt. Doesn't sound like you would ever invite me for dinner."

"Based on what you say in your book, you will never be my guest."

Axel interrupted again. "Come on, you two. Surely, you can find something to agree on."

I ignored Axel. "Joyce, I do indeed value women. I don't believe I take advantage of them. I think you have taken the jocular aspect of my book and interpreted it literally. No woman will cook for a man in a beginning relationship unless she wants to. I have to ask you if you ever cook for a man now?"

"That's none of your business; it's not pertinent to my book."

"It's pertinent to the theme of my book, Joyce. I am suggesting that your own personal feelings are coloring your criticism of my work."

Joyce responded to this by a loud: "Mr. Chaufberg, thank you for the opportunity to answer questions about my book, but the tone of this conversation is unacceptable. Therefore, I am hanging up."

I heard the phone click, and Axel called for a station break. I hung up my own phone to be ready for a call. The phone rang an hour later. "I'm sorry the interview ended that way," Jonathan said. "We at the station found the conversation very stimulating, and so did our listeners. We have had more than one hundred calls asking for copies of your books and asking if we could repeat the interview. We expect to play the edited recording of the double interview early next week. You certainly stirred up Joyce Minsky."

"I didn't mean to get her so riled up that she'd hang up on you."

"That's alright. We will make it up to her. But we would like to explore the possibility of you two getting together on a show again."

"I think she is quite fed up with me. I don't see how you can do it."

"Easy," said Jonathan. "Money and publicity."

I laughed. Jonathan said he would ship me a copy of Joyce's book for me to review and so that I could be ready for any subsequent interview.

Bill Hancock called me the next day. "After I wire brushed the upper level railing, I discovered the base was rusted through at several points. It's not safe, so we should either replace it or get it repaired." Bill always checks with me when significant funds are to be expended, so I agreed to inspect the railing that day.

I arrived at the office to be hugged tightly by Ruby, who was dressed in a short white skirt and a low-cut blue top. Her hand brushed my neck as she released me. Bill is staring at us. I'm not surprised. Does she do this to other men? I can't ask Bill. We examined the railing, and I agreed with Bill's assessment and had him call local wrought iron works for repair estimates.

Connie opened the door to Beth's condominium. She stared at the bouquet of flowers I carried. "Make yourself at home," she said. "Mother will be down shortly." I went to the kitchen cupboards to find a vase, trimmed the stems of the flowers, and put them with water in the vase. I positioned the vase on the coffee table in front of the couch, on which I sat down with a Time magazine I had conveniently brought. Connie conversed with her mother upstairs and then came down to be picked up by Harry. I continued reading. An hour passed, and I had by then finished the magazine. I went upstairs and looked in Beth's studio. She lay asleep on a loveseat adjacent to her workbench. I wondered whether I should leave a note and depart or wake her up for dinner. I decided on the latter.

Beth woke with a start at my touch. She rose up slowly, saying said she had not expected to doze off after taking a break from her jewelry work, which had occupied her all day. I said it was late to go out for a meal that Friday and suggested we eat in. Downstairs, Beth gave me a long hug and a big kiss on seeing the flowers. I ordered Chinese food to be delivered, and Beth poured us each a glass of white Zinfandel. We chatted until the deliveryman arrived. I paid him off, and we both ate with gusto while listening to the recordings of my last two interviews. "You come across as severe in the first one. I didn't know you had such strong opinions on nuclear power and global warming." I shrugged. Both of us chuckled at the interplay between myself and Joyce.

"You certainly made her angry," Beth said with a giggle. "How do you feel about it?"

"I can only speculate she has had an unsatisfactory experience with a man or men and my lighthearted approach to rely or persuade a girlfriend to cook for you offends her. I ought to be happy since there were more requests for my books on the show than hers. Furthermore, I had three requests for books on my website today, one of them for my earlier book of stories. I've no reason to take what she says personally."

"Do you think they will invite you back again?"

"I suspect there's a good chance. If people are interested in reading my books after a show like this, then we must have stimulated the audience. Stimulated audiences are good for advertising, the revenue lifeblood of a radio station. I just hope I don't get the reputation as a womanizer."

Beth grinned. "You haven't done anything with me to deserve a reputation like that."

An opportunity. I bent my head and kissed her firmly on willing lips. We necked on the couch for a while, and I put my hands on her breasts—little resistance this time, and I could better gauge their round fullness. Size 34C, I would say. Beth pushed me away after I had adequately assessed that part of her anatomy but before I had the opportunity to explore other parts. "Connie is not going to be late this evening, so there is to be no more fooling around." Beth's eyes twinkled as she said this.

I accepted the statement with reluctance. More opportunities will come. I then asked Beth if she would write a review of my second book. She begged off, saying she was too busy to do so. I tried whining. "I need it to promote my book and get it on amazon.com."

"I've read some more of your first book and wasn't overly impressed," she replied. "Are you sure you want me to do it?"

I persisted, and eventually, Beth agreed to do so.

The last day of March saw me at the apartment complex where Bill, seated at the office desk, had just completed closing the accounts for the month and had a deposit to be taken to the bank. "Where's Ruby?" I asked.

"She's inside my apartment doing somebody's hair," Bill said grumpily. After a pause, he looked up and added, "She made too many mistakes for me to let her close the books."

I looked steadily at my manager. "Bill, you've had six weeks to train Ruby. Is she making enough progress that she will eventually be able to keep the books?"

Bill sighed. "I wish I could say yes, Pat, but I don't think Ruby is interested enough to make the necessary effort to learn."

Pat, you had better make your point now rather than accept the status. "Bill, I reckon I'm paying Ruby for the work and if she doesn't do it, then I'll have to reduce her pay. You might tell her that to motivate her." Bill nodded.

As I left the office carrying the deposit bag, I looked through Bill's apartment window to see Ruby—hairdressing a man. I stopped and looked closer, recognizing her customer, a tenant, the one in apartment 25. I was tempted to look even closer, but Ruby saw me, grinned, and waved. I waved back and moved on.

FedEx delivered Joyce Minsky's book that day. It had some good tips in it, but the general flavor of the book was how to make a meal with minimal effort, a meal that emphasized gourmet over nutrition. The contrast with my book on how to get chow quickly was clear. Her book was also gender neutral, unlike mine. I made notes as I read and wrote down possible questions to ask her.

Beth phoned me on the following Wednesday to say Connie would be going away with Harry over the weekend; thus, I could stay over both Friday and Saturday night at her condominium. You'll be able to fix my stove while you're here," she added.

Later in the day, Sonia phoned. "Peters from WBUV called me this morning. Their listeners enjoyed the interaction you had on the show with an affiliate's food guru—let's see..." She paused as if looking at notes. "A Joyce Minsky. Peters said a producer from WTBH, the television affiliate where Minsky sometimes appears, was interested in seeing if you and she could be together again on Peter's show, her promoting her book and you promoting yours. Minsky is to question you as vigorously as before, but this time, you will have read her book and be better prepared to grill her. He sees the program as a possible prelude or test run to a television show. Apparently, Minsky has been on the affiliate's television cooking program, and your presence or comments may spice the show up to rake in more viewers. First, you have to show you can interact together in a consistent way to get the listeners interest. In other words, the affiliate TV producer wants to find out if listener interest in your radio interview was a fluke. Peters wants you to be prepared for a radiotelephone interview on Friday, April 11."

"Wow. That's sounds great. I have her book already, so I should be ready to ask questions about it by the following Friday," I responded.

"Right," said Sonia. "I also have inquiries from WXUN in Springfield, Ohio, and from WHMN in Muncie, Indiana. I have given their producers your phone number, and you should be hearing from them shortly. I hope you do as well with them as you did with WBUV."

"A great deal depends on the questions and the way they're asked. I think Joyce got the worst of it last time and will give me a hard time at the next interview now she's prepared."

Friday evening at six found me at Beth's door, having stopped earlier at Home Depot to pick up a sixty-watt fluorescent-light fixture for her garage. When nobody answered the doorbell after persistent ringing, I took the flowerpot key, went inside, and called for my hostess. No reply. I did not find her upstairs in her studio. I meandered into the kitchen and found a note on the table from Beth. "Make yourself at home, Pat. I might be late. I am visiting Phoebe."

The remark from the Gilbert and Sullivan opera Yeomen of the Guard flashed through my head: "Why 'tis little Phoebe, and who the deuce may she be?" Forty minutes and half a Time magazine later, Beth came home to explain that Phoebe was her neighbor's miniature beagle she occasionally looked after. Bemused, I asked her where she wanted to go for dinner, and she opted again for the Blue Café. This well suited me since I had made no reservation this weekend evening, knowing Beth's habitual tardiness, and since the café had a modestly priced menu. I don't remember much of our conversation that evening, because I was thinking of the opportunity for nooky with Beth. To be ready, I slipped a Viagra pill into my mouth as we ate. That meal took Beth only eleven minutes to order.

We returned home and listened to another radiotelephone interview I had participated in during the week. We watched television for an hour, my arm around Beth, before I realized how cold the condominium was. I looked at the thermostat; it read sixty-three. Beth said it was adequate and perhaps we should retire for the night. I thought it a great idea until she directed me to the guest bedroom. Viagra pills are eight dollars each and are only good for eight hours. After fifteen minutes in bed and still cold, I arose, went to the master bedroom, and climbed into the queen-sized bed, where a soft and warm Beth lay. I put my arms around her, and she put her arms around me. We kissed long and passionately.

"You're a wonderful woman," I whispered to her as I pushed up her nightgown and fondled her breasts, massaging their nipples to erection.

"You say that to all your internet ladies," she responded, groping for Johnson.

"No, I don't," I whispered back. "I never get this far."

"Joyce thinks you do."

By this time, Johnson and his counterpart, ready and willing, engaged in wonderful, orgasmic sex.

Next morning, dressed in work clothes, I began to install the light fixture in the garage while Beth went out for donuts and coffee. "Get me a blueberry jelly donut and a chocolate bar as well as a newspaper," I said, giving her money. I had finished the installation by the time she returned. I washed up, and we sat reading the paper, commenting on it as we ate the donuts and drank coffee.

"That was very nice last night," I ventured.

Beth looked up from the newspaper and smiled. Maybe women don't want to reveal their emotions to men. Did she enjoy it as much as I did?

"What do you want to do today, Beth?" I asked after shaving, showering, and dressing.

"Let's go to Home Depot and get what you need to repair the stove," she replied. "Also, could you look at the paint on the stairway walls?"

"I know they're scratched, Beth... Looks like it happened when furniture was taken upstairs... How long has it been like this?"

She gave me a sheepish look. "Four years...when we moved here."

I made the mistake of not bringing the old gas hose connection when we went to Home Depot. Thus, I was unsure of the size and type of connections at each end. Beth said I should make my best guess and come back if it did not fit, but I preferred to get the original hose. She suggested I fetch it while she shopped at the mall. I did so and returned to purchase the hose, epoxy, and wood needed for the stove repair. Beth had said she would meet me at the Borders bookstore, but she was not there at the agreed-to time. I picked up a book and began to read it. Half an hour passed, and still no Beth. She had to be at either a clothes store in the mall or a cosmetics store. I had discovered she liked to patronize higher-class stores. I trotted over to the nearest, Nordstrom. Not there, so over to Macys. Not there either. I walked back towards Borders and saw her talking to a clerk in the cosmetics store. I stood so she could see me, but she did not acknowledge me. Instead, she continued talking to the clerk and testing cologne and perfume sprays for a further five minutes.

"Where have you been?" she asked afterwards. "You weren't at Borders, so I came here."

I thought about replying caustically, but decided a harsh word would not cure her habitual tardiness. What price nooky? When we got back to Beth's condominium, I asked her to give me an opinion of Joyce Minsky's book, which I had brought with me. She began to read the book with interest, an interest intense enough to make me say, "Let me look at your smoke detectors while you read. Please detail your comments since I face Joyce next Friday."

Beth nodded. I examined the smoke detectors—hardwired units with a backup battery. There were four of them strategically placed throughout the condominium. I suspected that they made noise simply because the backup battery had expired. It was very simple to bypass the battery connection. An hour later, they all tested well and made no untoward sound. By then, I found Beth had completed her quick read of Joyce's book.

"What do you think of it?" I asked her cheerfully.

"She doesn't say much about presentation of the food," responded Beth.

Odd reply. Surely, presentation of the food is more than just how the food is arranged on the plate. Presentation includes making sure that all cutlery, napkins, and condiments are on the table. Presentation includes having a complimentary wine and necessary glasses on the same table. Beth was singularly forgetful in these respects. In addition, my own book had absolutely no concern about presentation; indeed, I sometimes advocated eating out of cooking pots to save washing up. Thus, lack of presentation, if any, in the Minsky book would not be a point of discussion on Friday.

"Any good recipes or tips?" I asked.

"I think I can do as well or better than anything she writes about so far," replied Beth. Beth wants to put the book's author down. Wonder why. Is this because she wants to be supportive, or does she have an exaggerated view of her own cooking capability? Still, it might be useful if she can give me something negative to say about a recipe or two in the book or even some general negative comment. But do I want to be negative about Joyce's book? Not really. I just want to be prepared in case she gores me next time.

"Anything else?"

"It's a little dry," said Beth. "Too much on technique. I don't think it would interest a man unless he's a chef...or gay," she added mischievously.

"Why is that?" I asked.

"There are lots of recipe books out there. She concentrates on making nice meals relatively quickly, but relies on prepared basics like sliced mushrooms, grated cheese, dried spices rather than fresh-picked ones, packaged dough, chicken breasts as opposed to whole chicken, and so on."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, really. But I would say she is taking advantage of prepared stuff to make her meal faster than it would be if she started completely from scratch."

"I don't see anything wrong with that."

"Well, if you didn't take advantage of the prepared basics, you would have recipes for a meal right out of Rombauer's The Joy of Cooking. I think she designed her book for a woman coming home from work and cooking quickly for her family. I like cooking slowly, talking to my guest as I cook, and perhaps drinking a glass of wine at the same time. In other words, the fun of the meal for me is preparing it as well as eating it. Far better to get the guest or guests involved with its preparation. Everybody will enjoy it more."

I pondered over this last sentence. The notion of many guests in the kitchen struck me as inappropriate unless all were family or close friends. You're thinking of your own narrow kitchen here, Pat.

"You should ask Joyce if she cooks these types of meals for herself alone or whether they are mere demonstrations for her cooking show," said Beth. It struck me as good advice.

Beth sent me to get groceries for dinner, one of my choosing. I bought a small lamb roast, a bag of select russet potatoes, fresh green peas, and carrots. Beth started the roast while I podded the peas and scraped the carrots and cut them up. Beth had no mint jelly, so I pulled some mint sprigs from her herb garden. Beth watched me as I stripped the mint leaves off the stalks and finely chopped them. "Looks like you have done that before," she remarked.

"I used to do it under my mother's tutelage, or should I say command."

"Command?" queried Beth.

"I frequently arrived home first and cooked dinner for the family while my mother worked. Naturally, she liked to train and advise me."

"You're a man of hidden talents."

Reminds me of when I was fourteen and my physics teacher wanted to explain the property of latent heat to the class, the heat needed, for instance, to change ice to water at the same temperature. "Stand up, Muir," he commanded in a loud voice. What have I done wrong, I thought? "Muir has latent intellectual capabilities," he announced to the class, which burst into laughter thinking I had been insulted or was talentless. Only much later did I realize he had complimented me. Better not to tell this to Beth, though. It sounds immodest, though that reminds me of Churchill's comment about Prime Minister Atlee: "He is a modest man, but then he has much to be modest about." That night, I undressed in the master bedroom. Clearly understood was I would sleep with Beth whenever I stayed over.

I didn't have the heart to turn down Beth's request to help paint the stairway walls in her condominium. I had enjoyed sex with her two nights in a row and felt I should do something in return. On Sunday, we went to Home Depot to buy matching paint. I did not let Beth out of my sight while we were in the store, since I knew the painting would take most of the day and I could ill afford time for her shopping wanderlust. Beth insisted the walls be wiped initially with trisodium phosphate, a difficult task since it required a padded ladder be mounted on the steps in order to reach the upper ceiling. It turned out to be a one-person task since Beth did not have the skills to paint the wood coving without messing up the carpet. Beth inspected my work, said it was well done, and gave me a warm hug.

Connie arrived home in a bad temper shortly after I had finished the task. Part of her temper came from my van being in her stall in the garage. Beth hinted she wanted to be alone with her daughter to find out what else was wrong. Thus, I decided to leave after I had washed my paint-splattered hands. Before I left, I asked Beth to stay over at my home on Wednesday. This would avoid the issue of Connie occupying the master suite.

"I really don't like driving on freeways," said Beth.

"Then come before the business traffic rush that starts at three p.m."

"Hmm"

"I'll cook your favorite dinner. What would you like to eat?" I asked.

Beth looked at me steadily for ten seconds before she replied, "Okay. Cook me a grilled filet mignon with asparagus and sautéed mushrooms. I'll bring the mushrooms. You could also make a small salad."

CHAPTER 7

I sipped orange juice in my bathrobe the next day while waiting for the telephone call that would initiate Pete's radio show and another round with Joyce Minsky. Axel did his usual local announcements and then finished up with his big joke: "I was flying across the country the other day when we heard a big bang. The stewardess came in and told us one engine had failed but we shouldn't worry; the plane was safe with the remaining three engines, but we would fly slower at a lower altitude and arrive half an hour late at our destination. There was another bang later in the flight. The stewardess told us another engine had failed but that the plane could fly with just two engines, thus delaying our arrival by an hour. Then, would you believe it, a third engine failed, and the stewardess said we could still fly on one engine, but our arrival would be delayed by two hours. My wife was quite annoyed and said to me, 'If another engine fails, we'll be up here all day.'"

A background guffaw made Axel laugh at his own joke. He went on: "We had two guests three weeks ago; both have written books on cooking. I have since asked them to review each other's book and discuss their different approaches to preparing a meal quickly. First, let me welcome Joyce Minsky, whose book is entitled Easy-to-Prepare Meals for the Busy Person. Joyce has been on the radio with us before; you may remember her telling us about making lemon chicken salad. We have copies of her book to give to the first four callers after we have finished the interviews. Say hello to our radio listeners, Joyce."

"Thank you, Axel. It's nice to be on your show, and I welcome the opportunity to tell about my book. It is a complete contrast to the book written by your other guest, and I hope your listeners will be discerning enough to buy mine."

Axel laughed and then introduced me and enunciated the title of my book, adding, "We have four copies of his book also to give to callers. I'm sure we will be interested to discover whose book is preferred. Say hello to Joyce and the radio audience, Pat."

My microphone connection was activated. "Thank you, Axel, for the introduction. I like Joyce's comment about a discerning audience. It reminds me of the rivalry between two famous British conductors, Sir Thomas Beecham and Sir Malcolm Sargent. The story goes that during a tour in Palestine just prior to Israel being formed, a stray shot passed near Sargent's car. When Beecham heard about this, he remarked, 'I had no idea the Palestinians were such discerning music lovers.'"

I heard Axel laugh; Joyce joined in, albeit politely. "It all depends on who is doing the discerning," I added.

Axel coughed and announced, "Joyce is to offer a summary of her book, followed by Pat summarizing his book. Then I will have Joyce critique Pat's book, followed by Pat reviewing hers. Let's start with Joyce, then."

She began. "This is the third book I have written on cooking. My first, called Polish Family Recipes, written twenty years ago, was a collection of recipes I learned from my parents, grandparents, relatives, and friends. My second book, called Modern American-Polish Family Cooking, written five years ago, updated that collection of recipes to reflect cooking appliances like microwaves, convection ovens, power blenders, and vegetable choppers. In addition, it incorporated some newer recipes and eliminated some old ones to reflect changing tastes of the boomer population. My latest book, Easy-to-Prepare Meals for the Busy Person, written this year, reflects the need of the active single woman—I should have said person, since it's gender neutral—who comes home from work and wants to eat a wholesome meal that is nutritionally balanced."

I had to admire how Joyce diligently promoted her books; it motivated me to do likewise. After Joyce finished her exposition, Axel invited me to speak.

"I wrote my second book partly because my first book, a collection of short fiction entitled Stories to Entertain You...If You Get Bored on Your Wedding Night, sold poorly. I discovered I enjoyed writing, quite different in character from reports I used to write as a geophysicist. Writing-course instructors told me to start writing about something I knew personally. After my divorce, I found myself alone, eating meals I had prepared. I like to do things efficiently, so I decided to put my ideas about getting tasty meals quickly into my book entitled The Single Man's Guide to a Quick Meal." I paused before adding in an apologetic tone, "I guess I should have used the word person instead of man in the title."

"Didn't you publish both books yourself?" demanded Joyce.

"Yes. Is there anything wrong with that?"

"Anybody can publish their own book these days. Such books are not subject to the screening and editing process of a reputable publisher. All my books went through such vetting."

"I don't agree entirely with you, Joyce. One self-published book, called Rich Dad, Poor Dad, was eventually picked up by a major publisher and remained on the New York Times bestseller list for four years," I replied.

"One contrary example doesn't change the general rule," responded Joyce. "How many books have you sold?"

I ducked. "I've just begun to market my book, so the question isn't pertinent. Our books are directed to a different set of readers, Joyce. I'm pitching my book primarily to single men who are not particularly interested in cooking and merely want to find food fast. I think it unreasonable to imply my book is inferior to yours just because it's self-published."

Joyce snorted. "I wouldn't compare my book with yours."

"I agree. I don't think the books are comparable." I paused for effect. "I must say, though, I wouldn't expect my book to sell if it talked solely about wholesome meals that are nutritionally balanced."

"Can you say the meals in your book are wholesome and nutritious when you advocate frozen sausage-and-egg sandwiches and high-calorie TV dinners?"

"I like to eat things that taste good. The words wholesome and nutritious are turnoffs. You don't find restaurants advertising their menus that way. Those words are much better suited to the working mother than a single person with a busy social and work schedule."

"Well, you wouldn't expect the working mother to feed her children those prepared breakfasts and TV dinners favored in your book?"

"No, Joyce, I wouldn't. In many cases, it's a matter of cost. One can make a meal for a family from scratch materials at a lower cost than packaged food. A working mother on a tight budget is obliged to cook from scratch. Still, you can bet your bottom dollar her kids love a trip to McDonalds or Burger King."

"Mr. Muir, the recipes in my book are delicious as well as wholesome and nutritious. They are long tested and are far superior to anything you could find at McDonalds or Burger King or those packaged meals you advocate."

"Joyce, I would disagree with you that all packaged foods are unwholesome and lacking in nutrition. Many manufacturers advertise their foods as well balanced and ideal for losing weight... And please call me Pat."

"Okay." This was said reluctantly. "Pat, the exceptions do not make the rule. The TV dinners you mention in your book are especially high in fat."

"I enjoy eating them, Joyce. I doubt if they constitute more than twenty percent of my diet."

"Pat, the point I am making is you shouldn't be promoting foods that are not good for you even if they constitute only twenty percent of what you eat. My recipes make fundamentally better-quality food."

"And my book is a lighthearted approach intended for men living alone; it contains only a few recipes. Yours is a compilation of recipes intended for any person willing to spend half an hour to cook a meal."

"That's not true. Many of my recipes may be prepared in less than half an hour."

"Yes, but many of them take longer. I plan on having food on the table in less than ten minutes when I'm alone."

"You would never have a meal within ten minutes as tasty—your word—as any in my cookbook."

"Probably not, Joyce. However, I don't want to put that kind of effort into preparing such a meal for myself. You do. Now, why is that?"

A pause, and Joyce's voice softened. "I enjoy cooking. That and writing are my profession. I like to practice my art."

"Wouldn't you agree I have twenty more lunch minutes to practice my art of writing?"

"I don't believe that twenty minutes a day would make any significant difference to your writing output. You're not exactly a prolific author."

"That hurts," I said. "I have other things to do. Since you raise the issue, have you written anything other than cookbooks?"

There was a long pause before Joyce replied in a neutral manner, "Well, I tried to write a novel after my husband divorced me. It was too personal and kept the wounds open... Pat, my objections to your book are as I have stated before. Your recipes are terrible, your promoting prepared foods is contrary to good nutrition, you eat leftovers when they should be discarded, and you encourage men to take advantage of women. I find the latter particularly objectionable."

"Is that because some man or men have taken advantage of you?"

"That's an extremely rude question. My personal life has nothing to do with my book."

"But it does factor in the criticism of my book. I have no problem explaining the motivation for my book. Why won't you discuss any personal reasons you have for militating against mine?"

There was a pause. Axel broke in to say that he had received two telephone calls and each had asked for different books. Thank God. Why did it take so long for the host to break into this conversation? "The score is one all, folks." The pause continued, so he added, "Joyce, I think you should answer Pat's question."

She responded, "I don't have to go into my personal life to say Pat encourages men to take advantage of women by getting them to do the cooking."

Axel interrupted. "Joyce, is there any one sentence or phrase in Pat's book that you find particularly offensive?"

Her voice hardened. "I can't think of any at the moment. It's just that the whole tone of the book is frivolous and makes women look like sex slaves who cook."

My own voice took a firmer tone. "Joyce, I mention nothing about sex in my book."

"It's clearly implied when you talk about women needing companionship. That's a pseudonym for sex in my opinion. Do you mean to deny that?"

"Companionship is a lot more than sex, Joyce. Sex reflects the intimacy of two persons in a relationship. But the best relationships depend on the concern, esteem, and affection each has for the other."

Axel interrupted. "We are getting away from the cooking, you two. Why don't you tell me what you would have for lunch if you were to invite the other over? Start with you, Joyce."

"I don't want to invite Pat for lunch. He would probably try to proposition me. However, if you were to come to lunch, Axel, I would prepare a nice salad for you. I would make you an orange chicken salad... Let's see...it's on page thirty-nine of my book. It has chicken strips, cucumber, bean sprouts, onions, radishes, celery, and my own orange-flavored dressing."

"And you, Pat?"

"Well, since Joyce hasn't invited me for lunch, I would go into my refrigerator, and I would pull out a slice of Monday's pizza, add some of the shrimps from yesterday's left over Chinese food, sprinkle on some grated cheese, and heat it in the microwave for a minute and a half. My meal would be ready in two minutes from the start. I bet Joyce's salad would take her nearly half an hour."

"That's not true. It would be less than half an hour, though I don't have enough chicken in my refrigerator to make a meal for two."

"So, you would have to run out to the store to buy more chicken strips, and that would add another hour to the meal," I interjected with a note of triumph.

Joyce's voice displayed annoyance. "If I were expecting somebody for lunch, I would be prepared to feed them. Why would I want to cook lunch for you when you wouldn't appreciate the meal?"

"Why would I not appreciate your cooking, Joyce? I'm sure you're a good cook. I don't expect women who like cooking to make a poor meal."

"I'd more likely poison you to stop your cooking anarchy," replied Joyce.

I then told a joke, speaking slowly to get maximum effect: "That reminds me of the joke about Winston Churchill and Lady Astor. 'If you were my husband, I would give you poison,' said Lady Astor. 'Madam, if I were your husband, I would drink it,' replied Churchill.'"

We all laughed. Hope this makes Joyce less hostile.

"Pat," Axel asked, "do you have anything in your house you could feed Joyce if she ever came to lunch?"

"Axel, I would take Joyce out for lunch. I would much rather persuade her to invite me for a home-cooked meal."

"And then you would proposition me?" snickered Joyce.

Axel interceded: "Which would you prefer, Pat, your leftovers or Joyce's salad?"

"The point I make in my book, Axel, is how to get food fast for oneself, not for others. If you have company to dine with, you want to please that company, and leftovers would be discourteous, unless for family. Company makes the difference. If Joyce were more sympathetic to my point of view, then I would be happy to eat orange chicken salad with her."

Axel then asked, "Joyce, is there anything in Pat's book you could recommend?"

After a pause, she responded, "I think some of his advice about using leftovers may be useful. His point about not wasting food is well taken. I'm not sure how it tastes, but you may feel good about it, just like buying a hybrid car and saving on gas. I object to a book advocating men to seek a woman to cook for them."

"Joyce, why do you take this so personally?" I asked.

After a long pause, Joyce finally responded, "Men are physically stronger than women and historically take advantage of them. In Arab and African lands, women are denied education, they are not free to travel, they are married off when they are youngsters they are sexually mutilated and abused, and they are often cast off like chattel."

Axel spoke up for me: "I don't think you've answered Pat's question."

Joyce ignored him. "Even in America, men take advantage of women. Male-controlled state legislatures have failed to ratify the Equal Rights Amendment to the constitution. Women are not proportionally represented in Congress. Men simply want to keep women subjugated. Mr. Muir's book, no matter that it's moderate, keeps up the chant for taking advantage of women's frailties."

"And those frailties are?" asked Axel.

"Women's desire to have children and social relationships. It prevents them from competing vigorously with men."

My turn to speak, I thought. "Joyce, I appreciate your saying my book is moderate in this alleged chant, but what words in my book do you feel make me blatant?"

"I can't think of any specific ones. It's just the tone of it."

Axel weighed in: "Joyce, you are doing a great job in selling Pat's book. I'm told we've received five calls for his book and none for yours. The score is six to one. Maybe Pat will have to say something negative or controversial about your book to help promote it."

"Axel," I said, jumping in, "I don't want to be negative about Joyce's book. It's a well-compiled, well-edited, and diverse collection of recipes. I would much prefer Joyce cook these recipes for me than downplay her book or have her criticize my book...and me."

"Perhaps we can arrange that sometime," said Axel. He then thanked us, reiterated the names of our books, and asked us each to say goodbye, which we did. My speakerphone was deactivated, and I could hear only advertising commercials. Peters telephoned twenty minutes later to thank me in this double interview and to say he had found it stimulating. He would get back to me if he planned a further interview. I played back my recording. Joyce is a firebrand, I thought, so mad at men. Whatever did her husband do to make her so furious? I was to find out.

Beth drove to my home later that day, arriving at six forty-five p.m. "I ran into traffic," she said, "and forgot where I needed to turn off. I became preoccupied working in my studio. I've a commissioned piece to do by the middle of next week. Sorry, I didn't have time to pick up the mushrooms." Better not to mention I had told her about the heavy traffic. I suspected she would forget the mushrooms, so I had already bought some. I poured a glass of wine for each of us, and we sipped and chatted.

"Connie was upset with Harry because he wanted to have a small wedding and she wanted a big one with all her friends from college and work as well as her relatives. Together, they counted there would be about 180 people, and he said it would cost at least ten thousand dollars just for catering. He thought it unfair to ask me, an unmarried woman on a limited income, to pay for such a big wedding, and he strongly preferred they save their money for a deposit on a house."

"That's nice of Harry to consider the cost to you."

"Well, I could afford it, though it would deplete my savings."

"Does Connie know you could afford it?"

"Yes, and that's why she disagreed with him."

Funny, these women wanting to spend so much on looks and less on functionality.

I grilled the filet mignons, sautéed the mushrooms, steamed the asparagus, and made the salad while Beth watched the seven p.m. news on television. I set the table and had everything ready to eat forty minutes later, quite proud of my efficiency. I hoped my guest would compliment me on this, but she seemed to take it for granted. She asked me why I had chopped up the ingredients in the salad and tossed it with a blue cheese dressing. "It looks so much better with the tomatoes cut into quarters lying next to whole leaves of lettuce," she added.

"I'll do it that way for you next time," I replied.

After dinner, we watched a documentary on the television and then retired to bed, where we enjoyed sexual intimacy. I asked Beth if she had written my book review. She had not but said she would try to do it over the weekend. When she departed next morning , I gave her a spare key to my condo.

I had called various bookstores around town for the past two months to arrange a book signing, not easy since they were not stocking my book and most managers thought poorly of self-published authors. I left my name at bookstores that might consider it. One store manager called me to say he had an opening on the afternoon of Saturday, April 12. He would display both of my books on a consignment basis inside the store where he had control. For any sold, I would receive their respective wholesale prices. He would provide me with a card table and chair.

I needed a draw outside the store to direct potential buyers to my table and asked Beth if she would help me. "Love to," she replied.

"It might help if you wore a costume to attract attention," I said.

"What did you have in mind?" she replied cautiously.

"I could rent you a gorilla costume," I said without thinking. Why on earth did you suggest that, Pat? You know it's far out.

"Absolutely not." Beth almost spat out the words, and I decided not to pursue the matter further, since I wanted her assistance. Mind you, it would have drawn attention.

I advertised the book signing in the local paper and had a small billboard prepared for Beth to wave. I told Beth that the event would start at two p.m. and would go on for only two hours unless—you can always hope, Pat—the demand for books was good. I also told friends in the area about the book signing—They may be the only ones to show up and will surely buy a book—and asked Bill and Ruby if they would like to come. That's not fair, Pat, to ask your employees to come, since it pressures them to buy a book. Yes, but I want to see what Beth thinks of Ruby and her animal sexuality.

I set up my table early that Saturday afternoon. I left a box containing fifty books with the store manager and considered I would be very lucky if half of them sold that afternoon. I hoped Beth would be on time, since I had stressed to her the importance of this event. But my entreaties were not met; she did not show until twenty minutes after two o'clock. Connie accompanied her. I greeted them both, and Connie promptly disappeared, telling her mother she was going to the Nordstrom department store.

I gave Beth the placard mounted on a stick so it could be waved above any potential crowd, and I asked Beth to walk up and down outside the store where the motion of the placard might draw attention to me at the table. After fifteen minutes, Beth answered a call to her cell phone. "Connie wants me at Nordstrom," she said, putting the placard next to my table. "I'll see you later," she added and headed off without any acknowledgment or response from me. Bummer. I thought you were going to help me.

A few friends showed up and graciously purchased a book, which I signed. Ruby showed up with Bill ten minutes later, Ruby in a tight-fitting, low-cut, strapless yellow dress that emphasized her voluptuous figure. How can you stay warm when it's only sixty degrees Fahrenheit?

"What's with the placard?" asked Ruby. I explained. "Would you like me to wave it around outside?" she asked. I stared briefly at Bill, who nodded. I said I would be grateful if she did so. Out of Bill's sight, Ruby winked at me as she picked up the placard. Geez, what form does she expect my gratitude to take?

Bill selected a book and browsed through it at my table. We both watched people staring at Ruby as she walked up and down outside the store, gradually extending her range so she passed in front about every two minutes. I saw people, mostly men, stopping her to ask questions. One man came in and asked me if the woman with the placard was my daughter. Bill jumped in: "She's my wife." The man stared at Bill before moving away. He's thinking, How could an overweight older fellow like Bill attract a beauty like Ruby?

"Your wife is a very good-looking woman who clearly gets attention," I remarked to Bill.

"Yeah, that's my problem," he grunted. Finally, he left the store when one young man started walking to and fro while conversing with Ruby. I watched the interaction with interest. Bill put his arm around Ruby's waist and bussed her on the cheek. I could see him say something like: "How's it going, babe?" The young man promptly disappeared. Bill brought Ruby inside, where I thanked her for her efforts. "I loved doing it," she gushed and kissed me on the cheek.

Just then, Beth returned with Connie. I introduced them to Bill and Ruby. All shook hands, and the women eyed each other as they conversed about shopping at the mall. Finally, my two employees left. I asked Beth if she would like to go for dinner with me—I said I would take her home afterwards, hoping she would stay over instead. Beth agreed, and Connie left.

Back at my condo, Beth asked me firmly, "Why did you let Ruby kiss you?

I brushed my hand to my cheek—the lipstick must be showing. "I couldn't stop her."

"Why did you ask her to help?"

I should have replied that Ruby had volunteered, but I spoke without thinking: "Because she's young and pretty." Shit, Pat. You've opened yourself up.

"And I'm not pretty?"

Pat, you'd better be smooth here. "Beth, you went off with Connie, and I appreciated any help I could get. But you're beautiful in my eyes; you have character, grace, and style that Ruby will never have." Still, Ruby drew more attention than you would have in a gorilla suit.

Beth smiled her satisfaction at my response. She cooked dinner laced with rosemary she had conveniently brought with her. We slept warmly together in my big bed that night.

Over the next week, I had three radiotelephone interviews, none having the spark of the two in which Joyce Minsky had participated. Wish I could get a shill like Joyce on each telephone interview. Must mention that to each producer who calls me. Beth drove to my place on Wednesday, and we took in a movie and dinner. A memorable evening, it took her twenty-nine and a half minutes to order her food and drink. To be fair to Beth, the waiter ignored her after she requested more time to decide after twice asking questions about items on the menu. Subsequently, she became abrupt with him. Nevertheless, I gave him a good tip when I paid the bill. Everybody has quirks. Beth complained about the waiter as we drove back to my condo. I did not disagree with her, since I wanted to bed her.

On Friday, I inspected the repaired railing at the apartment complex. Ruby stood up from the computer and embraced me tightly as usual.

"Where's Bill?" I asked after she released me.

"He went to Home Depot to get supplies," she replied. "Don't worry, I'm in charge while he's gone." She patted my hand. She insisted on escorting me to the repaired railing, and when we arrived at the fence, she slid her hand down my arm onto my hand. A pass if I ever saw one, and she sure has sex appeal.

"Excellent repair," I said.

"I'll have Bill paint it when he returns." Bill knows better than to paint the railing in the middle of a hot, sunny day,

I had two more radiotelephone interviews in the last week of April, neither noteworthy. By this time, I had begun to see Beth twice a week. Most of the time, I would pick her up at her home and take her to my condo, but if Connie was away, I would sleep at Beth's home. Because she did not like driving on freeways, only infrequently would Beth drive to my home and enter with the door key I had given her. Despite her quirks, Beth was cheerful, warm, and interesting. Our love life was good except for occasional withholding, usually caused by my saying something she considered criticism or my refusal to do as bid. She decided to redo my wardrobe and gave to the Salvation Army many of my favorite shirts and pants, saying they were too worn, despite my protests that I needed them for work. Then she took me to the shopping mall and had me buy many new clothes. She displayed such pleasure in selecting my new wardrobe I did not have the heart to cry uncle. To thank her for her efforts, I bought her perfume smelling strongly of jasmine; she used it whenever we were together.

"Connie was upset and asked me if I had changed the sheets," said Beth over the telephone.

"How did she know I was sleeping with you?"

"Because she found the toilet seat up."

The end of each month nearly always finds me at the apartment complex, where I count the coin-laundry money and make sure the accounts are balanced. From these data, I make a monthly report for myself and my ex-wife, as required by our divorce settlement. I found Ruby sitting at the office desk, the ledger sheets in front of her. She stood up to give me her squishy, buxomly embrace and gushed, "I'm so glad you're here. I just can't make head or tail of these numbers; Bill has hurt his back and is lying down."

"How did he hurt it?" I asked, thinking I might have to initiate a workman's compensation insurance claim.

"We don't know. It just started hurting." Too much humping, I bet.

I told Ruby I would take care of things and she should go look after Bill. I felt better that she left the office promptly—I didn't want her hovering around me, and I didn't want to take on the task of training her. A few tenants came in to pay the May rent early. Those rents, I put in the safe for later deposit. I smiled at the label Bill had put on the extremely heavy floor safe: "If you steal this safe, I hope you get a hernia as well as a prison sentence." When I had completed the paperwork, I knocked on the door leading to the manager's adjacent apartment. Bill, in a bathrobe, eventually opened the door, his face grimacing in pain.

"I'm sorry your back is giving you trouble," I said. "How did it happen?"

"Don't know," Bill mumbled. "I'm seeing my chiropractor. Ruby said you were doing the books. Thanks. I'm just not up to sitting in the office chair right now." He paused and looked over my shoulder into the office area. "Ruby's not with you?"

"No, she went into your apartment just after I arrived."

"That's funny. She's not here now, and I thought she wanted to be with you so she could learn about closing the books. I thought you might teach her better than me."

I shrugged my shoulders and told Bill to get some rest. Then I collected the laundry money, counted it, and made an end-of-month deposit at the bank.

In May, I went for a routine check-up to Donald, my dentist, a man familiar with my teeth for over twenty-five years and a good friend. Aware I had been meeting women on the internet, he inquired on my progress. I told him I had met a very nice lady and had been dating her for three months.

"I wish I could get my sister onto the internet," he remarked. "She's forty-six and very fussy—wouldn't consider any man more than ten years older or younger than she. That's why I didn't introduce you to her. She doesn't want to advertise that she's available—says it would impact her professionally. She expects a white knight to ride up on a horse and sweep her off her feet." He paused. "I think she reads too many romance novels. I like to tell her about your progress to induce her to change her mind."

I wished him and her luck. Donald did not ask if I had sex with Beth, but he remarked that the incidence of sexually transmitted diseases (STDs) among seniors was climbing faster than in younger age groups. Seniors, he said, generally don't use protection because there is no pregnancy risk. He added that if I was serious about my new lady, I should ask her to be checked. I realized I had taken Beth at face value and decided to discuss the subject with her. Not easy, as it turns out. It isn't good form to discuss or ask about each other's sexual encounters in the early stage of a relationship. Besides, it might be too late for the matter to be significant.

CHAPTER 8

I had two more radio interviews in this first half of May. Neither of the producers of the pertinent radio shows had been receptive to the notion of a shill. "That's the role of the interviewer," they said.

I went to the apartment complex in mid-May to collect the coin laundry money. As usual, a tight embrace from Ruby, dressed this time in a revealing white blouse and a short green skirt. She had painted her toenails green. Ruby saw me looking down, patted her bosom, and said, "Nice, aren't they?" How am I supposed to respond to that? Best to make a compliment. Let me think.

"You're well endowed, Ruby... Now, is Bill around?"

"He's replacing the screen in apartment 31."

I escaped by saying I needed to see Bill, and I climbed to the second-floor unit. There, I queried my manager on the status of a recently vacated unit. Then I discussed plans to upgrade the units with built-in microwave ovens. I finished this guy-type conversation on a personal note: "How's married life?"

Bill looked at me and took his time before replying slowly, "It's sometimes difficult for people to adjust from being single to being married."

"How so?"

"Pat, it's personal." Clearly, I should not have asked the question.

I unloaded the laundry-machine coin boxes and returned to the office to find Bill in the office and no Ruby. That suited me fine; I could count the coins undisturbed.

Seated at the Blue Café again, our menu orders taken—fourteen minutes this time—and sipping a glass of wine, I approached the matter head on. "Beth, my dentist was telling me about STDs in our age bracket."

"Why would he, a dentist, raise the subject?"

"Because he's a friend, knows I'm dating somebody, and because the incidence of STDs is increasing faster in our age bracket."

Beth frowned. "Why on earth would you tell him you're having sex with me?"

"I didn't. He either inferred it or was cautioning me."

"Well, I don't have any."

"How do you know? I understand many of them are symptom free."

"I feel fine. Why are you asking? Do you have any problem in that area?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Well, the last sex I had was five years ago with my wife before we divorced."

Beth raised her eyebrows. "That doesn't prove anything. Your wife could have had an affair on the side."

My mind boggled at the notion. My ex had a low interest in sex, especially after all our children were born. "That's so unlikely as to be impossible. Have you had sex with anybody after you were divorced?"

Beth's voice hardened slightly. "Don't you think it's a little late to be asking the question?"

"Probably, but I thought it good advice—for you and for me."

Beth lowered her eyebrows. "Maybe." She paused. "I felt sure you were not promiscuous right from the start. That's why I let you, but not right away, as you recall. To answer the question of prior sex, yes, I lived with another man for a year some five years ago."

"You didn't tell me about that."

"No, I didn't." She paused. "The experience made me cautious about men."

"Why did the relationship end?"

"I became convinced he was seeing another woman. I was wrong, though. He was actually seeing another man. I was appalled to find I had been living with a closet bisexual and saw my gynecologist right away. I was greatly relieved to find that I didn't have AIDS, syphilis, or other such diseases."

"Did he live with you and Connie?"

"No, this occurred before my uncle died. Connie and I lived in a rented apartment, and I simply moved into Ronnie's house. Connie kept the apartment, and I moved back in after I split with Ronnie."

"What was he like?"

Beth stared at me. "Are you asking about his ability in bed?" she said, resentment in her voice.

"No. I was wondering about his personality and interests, how they appealed to you and how my traits compared to him."

"I still think this is a sly way to find out what I thought of him sexually."

"Not really, Beth. I don't want to be compared there with anybody, but I would like to know what made him attractive to you."

The waiter came with our orders at this point. Beth started eating without answering the question. I repeated it.

"I don't want to discuss it. Let's eat our food."

So, we talked about other things—her jewelry work, my telephone interviews, and election politics. I then asked if the declining economy could impact Connie and Harry, a question designed more to probe into Beth's finances. I wondered what she had left from her uncle's inheritance after she had purchased her condominium. She had never offered to buy a meal for me or share in its cost. Was this due to being tight with money or an old-fashioned attitude that men must always pay on a date? I had been pleased when internet women had offered to pay for their coffee at Starbucks. While I had always declined, I had appreciated those women being prepared to share expenses from the start.

"Connie and Harry have been in their jobs for several years, and their seniority and experience would enable them to weather any downturn in the economy," responded Beth.

"What would you do if Connie lost her job?"

"She won't lose it, but even if she did, she could easily get a job since she's pretty and has done waitressing in the past. She made good money at it too."

I sighed. I recalled how, in the downturn of the early nineties, many eateries had gone out of business. "You wouldn't go back to work, then?"

"No, I don't have to."

Next morning after a sleepover, I installed a shelf in Beth's guest bedroom, on which my hostess planned to display her collection of gaily painted ceramic vases. She asked me to paint the shelf, which I did with leftover paint. However, the existing paint on the wall had aged, and Beth decided the whole room needed painting. This meant another visit to Home Depot to obtain matching paint. Between that, lunch, and painting the room, the entire day passed. I asked Beth if she had reviewed my book, but she had not done so. With Connie returning that Saturday evening, I went home.

I received an e-mail from matesearch.com informing me there were six women in my neighborhood who might interest me. I hadn't canceled the service nor browsed it since meeting Beth. I promptly deleted the e-mail. I enjoyed having a regular girlfriend and did not want to complicate our relationship by searching for other women. I do not envy those Lotharios who can handle several at a time. If I tried that, I would probably confuse one woman's name—or number—with another. I'm fully capable of such a memory lapse, which could wreck a relationship.

At the apartment complex on the last day of May, I found Bill had closed the books and prepared the end-of-the-month deposit.

"How's your back now?" I asked.

"It's okay," he grunted

"Where's Ruby?" I asked in a tone indicating mild displeasure, since Ruby was supposed to take care of the office completely.

Bill sensed my tone. "I'm sorry I can't get Ruby to understand these ledger sheets. She knows she can't do it and wanted me to tell you she's sorry. She went off to visit her sister in LA." He paused. "Perhaps she could handle a rental software program."

"Good try, Bill."

Sonia called me, saying four more prospective radio show producers were interested in interviewing me about my book. Then she added, "Pat, WBUV's television affiliate in Norfolk, Virginia, is interested in your being a guest on a television cooking show that features Joyce Minsky. One of the program managers heard the audio recording of you and Joyce and thought it might be interesting to see how you interacted together on camera. You will have an opportunity to promote your book on the show, but they want you to come there at your expense. It's cheap, I know, but images of you and your book are far better than words. What do you think?"

I recalled the tip from matesearch.com that a picture on one's profile brings five to seven times more inquiries. I quickly acknowledged this was a step up in the marketing of my book and agreed. "When is the show, and what does Joyce think about it?"

"The date and time haven't been decided. I don't know about Minsky's reaction to it. From what you tell me, she's quite acerbic."

"That's an understatement," I replied. "You should listen to the tape of the last radio interview."

"If you made a copy of it, I'd like to listen to it. But I can't use it to promote you due to copyright restrictions."

"I'll send you a copy. By the way, your photograph on your matesearch.com profile is much better than the old one, Sonia."

"Thanks, Pat. I took your suggestion and had a professional take it."

"Has it improved things?"

"Well, I decided to call guys instead of waiting for them to call me. Maybe the new photo helped, because I've been able to meet somebody every two weeks."

"And?"

"I don't seem able to get past an initial meeting. Half the time, I'm not interested in him, and half the time, he's not interested in me," she said sadly.

"My experience also," I responded. "Don't give up, though. Persistence has its rewards." This reminds me of a quotation attributed to Calvin Coolidge: "Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent."

On Friday that week, I took Beth to Red Lobster. "What will you have to drink?" asked the waitress, looking at Beth, who replied she wanted to look at the drink menu first. The restaurant featured a few exotic drinks, which were shown in bright colors on the menu. Beth studied the drink menu for five minutes until the waitress returned. "What will you have to drink, sir?" she asked, looking at me this time. I told her a strawberry daiquiri. "And you, ma'am?" she asked, turning to Beth.

"What kind of gin do you use in your special dry martini?" asked Beth.

"We have Tanqueray, Gordon's, Fleischmann's, and Beefeater," replied the waitress.

"Which is the best?"

"I don't think it makes much difference which is used, because it's diluted by the dry vermouth added." This waitress knows her drinks.

"I think it does make a difference," replied Beth, "and you haven't told me which is the best gin."

"I'll ask the bartender," replied the waitress and left. When she returned, she brought a strawberry daiquiri to the table and set it down with a noticeable deliberateness not lost on Beth. "The bartender's choice is Tanqueray gin for a dry martini. Would you like one?" asked the waitress.

"No. I think I'll just have a glass of your house white Zinfandel." The waitress nodded and left. When she returned with the drink, she asked if we were ready to order food. Beth said she was not. I was. Beth asked what I was having, and I told her the Fisherman's Platter. She looked at the menu again. I sipped my drink in silence; conversation would merely increase the delay in getting food. The waitress returned, and Beth asked a question about the menu. The waitress said she would have to ask the cook. When the waitress returned with the answer, Beth then ordered an item on the menu that had nothing to do with her earlier question. The waitress wrote down our orders and disappeared. Thirteen minutes to order the food tonight, to say nothing of the drink order time. Only then did I engage in conversation with Beth. I offered her a sip of my drink. She accepted—actually a few good swallows. "I don't like that waitress," she said. "I bet we have a long wait to get our food."

She was right. When the meal finished nearly two hours later, I took a credit card out of my wallet to pay the bill. "I'll pay the tip," said Beth.

"That would be nice," I replied. This is the first time that Beth has ever volunteered to pay for anything. I signed the credit slip, which showed a fifty-eight-dollar charge, and got up to leave. Beth took two dollars from her purse and put them on the table.

"That's not enough," I said.

"That's all she's going to get," replied Beth. "She was rude." Not as rude as you, lady. This is awkward. If I put more money down, it will offend you. If I don't, I will feel guilty about shortchanging the waitress. Pat, you're a chicken.

We returned to Beth's cold condominium and into Connie's queen-size bed. I put my arms around Beth, kissed her, and began to stroke her breasts. "There's something I need to tell you," she said, pushing me away. "My son's widowed mother-in-law lives with Robert, so he always has somebody to look after Annie and the house. Marjorie has to have back surgery and won't be able to help while she recuperates. So, Robert wants me to stay with him and Annie until Marjorie recovers. I'll be away for six to eight weeks in Boston beginning on Tuesday."

My heart sank. I enjoyed being with Beth and sex with her. I stroked her breasts again and told her I would miss her. This pleased her, and she turned to me; however, there is nothing like a woman saying she is leaving to discourage Johnson. His performance was less than memorable. I asked Beth if she wanted me to take her to the airport, but she said Connie would do that. We agreed to spend the Sunday together since Beth said it would take all day Monday to pack. She agreed to review my second book in Boston.

I spent most of the next day sanding out scratches in Beth's furniture and the warped drawer. Beth expressed her delight when she found the drawer slid in and out easily and asked me to paint or varnish the entire desk. She asked what I would like for dinner and sent me out to buy the requested pork chops, applesauce, corn, and frozen, cheesy, sliced potatoes. She cooked an excellent dinner that night, albeit with rosemary. It was a happy night with a warm and responsive woman to sleep with.

The day after, Sunday, I finished the sanding and gave the furniture their first coat of paint or varnish. In the evening, I took Beth to her favorite restaurant. The waiter, a stalwart character, had served us before and remained polite throughout Beth's lengthy food-ordering ritual—a time of fourteen minutes entered into my log. I tipped him well. We kissed passionately as we bade goodbye that evening—Connie would be home—and I told Beth sincerely that I would miss her and hoped she would return soon. "It all depends on how Marjorie does," she replied, hugging me tightly.

The telephone rang on the day Beth flew to Boston, the caller introducing himself as Bert Williams, a program manager at WTBH of Norfolk. "I'm Jonathan Peters's brother-in-law," he added. "It was he who sent me the recorded telephone interview of you and Joyce Minsky. I thought the conversation scintillating."

I thanked him.

"RTIR tells me you would be willing to be a guest on the next television cooking show we have with Minsky."

"That's right."

"We are part of a small family group of radio stations in the East with one television station in Norfolk. We are not your big-budget TV broadcaster affiliated with CBS, NBC, or ABC, so all house-produced programs are cost constrained. That's why you will have to pay your own way here to be on the show, but your books—you have two, I understand—will be promoted on the show as an offset. However, if we are able to sell the show to other stations, we will then repay your travel and hotel expenses. Is that agreeable to you?"

"I think so. Is there any preparatory work before the show requiring me to be in Norfolk beforehand?"

"Yes. We want you to meet Minsky a day before we do the show and discuss how you would interface with her as she cooks. We don't have funds for a rehearsal. We will video record the show in front of an audience—it will probably take four to five hours. Then we will edit it for viewing and promotional purposes. You should plan to be in Norfolk for two days beginning on July seventh."

"I can handle that. What does Joyce say about having a guest, specifically me, on her cooking show?"

Williams laughed. "At first, she was unhappy about it. But we pointed out that the radio interview stirred considerable interest in our listeners and it would certainly help sell her book. I also told her that we would make a bigger effort to syndicate her show if the audience reaction was favorable. She agreed...not readily, I would say."

"I'm glad to hear that. I thought she strongly disliked me."

"That doesn't matter. Joyce is quite a character. Fortunately, she knows which side her bread is buttered on. You might want to call her beforehand and smooth things out. If you agree to these terms, I will send you a contract to sign and return. I will also send you a videotape of a past Minsky show."

I gave my assent to Williams, and we ended the phone call.

I phoned Beth at her son's house to confirm she had arrived safely and told her about the TV show. "Wow," she said. I said I'd let her know when it would take place, but it would not be on national television. Her disappointment was assuaged when I said I would get a videotape of the show. She asked if I would visit her when I came to the East Coast for the show, but I demurred. Her son, I discovered from the conversation, was sufficiently well off; he could have afforded to hire a live-in housekeeper. Thus, I felt miffed at her priorities. It bothered me that she didn't seem to care about being away from me for an extended period. "How's Marjorie doing?" I asked. This launched Beth into telling at length the details of her mother-in-law's health, her operation, and the deficiencies in Marjorie's management of the house. She then described how Marjorie had selected an inferior house cleaner with constant boyfriend problems, causing Beth to pick up the slack. Geez. How do I stop her from talking so long about people whom I have never met and who are responsible for her being there rather than with me? To escape, I told her somebody was knocking at my door and she should hold the news for our next telephone conversation. With a quick goodbye, I hung up.

Joyce Minsky phoned me on Thursday of that week: "Mr. Muir, I understand that Mr. Williams of WTBH wants you to be a guest on my cooking television show. Is that right?"

"Yes. Please call me Pat."

"Mr. Muir...er, Pat, you would be doing me a great favor if you declined Mr. Williams's request."

Let me think how to reply politely. "Bert Williams said he thought there would be a lively interaction between us given how the interview on the radio went."

"Mr. Muir, I did not enjoy that interaction, and I'm not looking forward to repeating it in front of a live television audience. I'm a private person and don't wish to appear foolish in public. I think Williams's intent is for you to cause a ruckus on my show, while I want a genteel cooking demonstration."

"Joyce—may I call you that? I have no desire to make you appear foolish. I don't believe you are the kind of person who would let herself appear foolish in public. I think you are too smart for that. In the interaction we had on radio, I thought you dealt with me fairly and handled my responses very well. I'm very interested in promoting both my books, and your television show is an excellent opportunity for me. Thus, I would like to be there under your good graces rather than in any confrontational manner."

After a long pause, probably from deciding whether to accept or continue to challenge my presence on the TV show, Joyce responded, "Mr. Muir, you are evidently an educated man, and I appreciate your desire to avoid conflict. That is my objective also. I need to promote my book as well, and I believe it will do better if I can avoid arguing with a guest on my show. You will agree that you are argumentative?"

I smiled to myself. "Joyce, I don't think I'm any more argumentative than you. If you want to criticize my books on the show, I have no problem. I am certainly willing to defend them. However, it seems to me that arguing in public sells books, both yours and mine. I hope you could see it this way also."

Another pause. "Mr. Muir, I don't have control on the show, so I cannot veto your appearance. Thus, I can only request that you do not say anything critical of me on camera."

"Joyce, I am quite happy to agree to that...provided you reciprocate."

Joyce said she was okay with this. I asked if she had read my book of short stories. She said no, and I promised to send her one. We swapped e-mail addresses and phone numbers and agreed to communicate.

A package from WTBH arrived by FedEx on the Wednesday. It contained the contract to appear on the Minsky show on the terms outlined by Bert Williams. It specified the date and time of the show and required all participants to meet with the producer a day earlier. There were a few unexpected items in the contract. The discussion of either of my books or Minsky's books was to be incidental to the cooking show. An announcer would promote our books during a commercial break, and I was to send ten copies to them gratis for such promotional purposes. The contract admonished me not to say obscenities and to refrain from mentioning commercial products on the show. I signed the contract, kept a copy, and returned it in the enclosed prepaid FedEx envelope. I also packaged ten copies of both books and sent them off to WTBH as well. Then I remembered I hadn't sent Joyce my first book. I took care of that also.

Two days later, I found a message on my answering machine from Joyce Minsky. Her voice sounded coolly professional, or even coldly correct; I thought I detected disdain in her voice, but it may have been my prejudice. "Mr. Muir, Mr. Williams told me the date of my show in which you are to be my guest. Would you be so kind as to call me to discuss the matter? In that regard, Mr. Williams told me he had sent you a videotape of one of my previous cooking shows. I hope you will have viewed that tape when you reply, since you will then understand the format of the show." I had not received the tape, so I phoned Williams and reminded him. He appeared surprised I had not received it, but called me later to say his request had gotten stuck in the shipping department and the tape would be sent by express mail. I phoned Joyce only to get her answering machine. That suited me fine. I left her a message that I would get the videotape shortly and would call her after viewing it.

While my relationship with Beth had progressed steadily, I was uncertain if it would become permanent. I enjoyed her company but remained uneasy about her many quirks. After two weeks of missing female company, I decided to explore alternatives by browsing matesearch.com. I remembered my lessons there, the first being to understand the preference hierarchy: widowed, divorced, single, separated, and married, in that order. Yes, even married men or women can look for romance on the internet. The chance of a response to my inquiry leapt from one in seven to one in three when my status changed from separated to divorced. I remembered the importance of a photograph; it gave a response improvement of six according to that dating service. I had also learned the best dating prospects are the most recently posted ones. Just like a bargains store, the best bargains sell quickly, while other goods stay until their price is reduced.

In the internet-dating arena, those women whose profiles have been posted for weeks should be more amenable to solicitations from men who only partly fulfill their selection criteria and specified interests. I passed over labels like "seeking Jewish man," "active sportsman desired," "born-again Christian," or "enthusiastic traveler wanted." I scanned the current files, saw three reasonable fresh prospects, and e-mailed an inquiry to all of them. With my response average of one in three, I could expect to meet at least one. The probability of all three replying favorably would be one in twenty-seven. To my surprise, the one-in-twenty-seven chance came through. All three women expressed an interest in a meeting. I arranged to meet them at a Starbucks near their homes or otherwise convenient to them on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday respectively and ascertained their names: Doris, Dorothy, and Donna. Wow, the odds of all three having the same starting letter in their first name is one in twenty-six to the cube power—twenty-six letters in the alphabet—or around six thousandths of one percent, or somewhat larger since so few names begin with X and Q. There's a thought. What names can I think of beginning with those letters?

The videotape from Williams duly arrived, and I played it with great curiosity. The tape showed Joyce Minsky as a robust woman, late fifties, with blonde, curly hair and thick eyeglasses that gave her a serious air. Joyce was clearly much more relaxed on her own show. Her demeanor was serious but professional, animated only when showing the importance of a particular cooking technique. The show had been taped in front of a live audience and then edited down to a forty-minute format. That allowed commercials to extend it to one hour, thus skipping many details in the cooking process. Water boiled instantaneously. Sauce came to the boil and thickened without constant stirring. Beef cooked at the rate of six minutes per pound. Vegetables miraculously steamed in minutes instead of the usual fifteen. This particular episode addressed cooking a roast with potatoes roasted in the pan and making Yorkshire pudding with steamed vegetables on the side. I have to say my mouth watered at the finished product. During the cooking process, Joyce gave tips to the audience on ways of preparing the meal faster by setting the table, cutting flowers for a table decoration, polishing glasses, selecting the wine, and so on. The television camera occasionally cut to the audience, which displayed only modest interest and asked no questions. I understood why WTBH wanted me on the show—to liven things up—and wondered if Joyce suspected Williams's motivation. It occurred to me that if I made the show lively enough, I might be asked again. How then was I to accomplish this given Joyce's serious demeanor and lack of warmth and humor? Better consult with the show producer.

Next day, I called Bert Williams and told him I had watched the Minsky tape.

"She's a good cook," he remarked, "but not a great host, say, like Julia Childs, but then we would never have had the money to pay for Childs or her ilk."

I had not expected Williams to poor mouth Joyce. Williams must have sensed my thoughts, for he went on: "We've used Joyce on and off for two years, and she has a limited following. She has a relative at Brankhoff Frozen Foods, a firm that advertises extensively on the show." Odd that Joyce deplores frozen foods given how it helps sponsor her show. "The rule is quite simple. Does the show bring in enough revenue to justify its continuance? Joyce's show is on the edge. Mind you, we run a few shows with negative revenue. Sometimes, they grow into reasonable producers, and sometimes, they are just fillers between good revenue programs. I want you to wake up the show. Joyce is far more interesting when she is aroused, and you are capable of doing it. Joyce knows her program is on the edge, so she's aware of my attempts to shake it up."

"Is there anything you want me to do as her guest?" I asked.

"Use your judgment. I think Joyce will try to minimize your role on the show, and you will have to resist it. Call her and explore whether you are to answer questions from her or she from you, or whether you are to do some of the cooking chores. Play it by ear. We will edit the playing time, and it could conceivably show very little of the cooking and more of the interaction between you and Joyce. Better not tell Joyce what I just said, though."

CHAPTER 9

Doris, a sturdily built women woman in grandmotherly clothes, her voice livened by an Irish accent, had immigrated to the USA from Northern Ireland twenty years earlier. A former computer programmer, she had become tired and scared of the violence between Catholics and Protestants there. Never married, she had retired on a company pension and social security. I could sense her loneliness. I asked her if she had thought about returning to her native land. She said she had no close relatives there and had become accustomed to American culture. Doris had gray hair, a gray personality, and no sex appeal, things I could not say to her directly. I conveyed my lack of interest in her by saying I had to meet two other internet ladies who had fortuitously replied at the same time, a truth that avoided the typical ending falsehood of "I'll call you." I left her with a signed copy of my book as a souvenir. Thus did I depart from Number 58.

I pondered over Williams's remarks about Joyce Minsky before I phoned her. I told her I had viewed her videotape on cooking roast beef and thought she had made a mouthwatering dish. Joyce replied in a manner less cool than earlier: "That's kind of you to say so, Pat." First time you ever called me Pat without being asked to. "I also have read several stories in your first book," she added. "They are diverse, quite interesting. I was not expecting that kind of fiction writing from a scientist. I urge you to continue writing fiction. Your second book contains fiction-like content and does not command my interest." Ooh! What sarcasm!

I thanked her for her kind remarks and asked her, "Have you given much thought to what you would like me to do on your show?"

"Quite frankly, Pat, I am at loss, since my preference is for no guest."

"Joyce, let me suggest a list of things, as follows: first, I ask you questions directed mostly about your cooking or your book. Second, you ask me questions mostly about my book. And third, you have me participate in the show, peel potatoes, wash pans, boil water, etc."

Half a minute passed before Joyce replied, "Pat, I prefer the first choice. Perhaps you could send me a list of questions beforehand."

"Joyce, I need to know what you are going to cook in order to ask appropriate questions."

"I'm going to cook salmon stuffed with crabmeat, garlic mashed potatoes, baby peas, and carrots."

"Sounds delicious. Do I get to eat any of it?"

"Usually, the station crew eats it. The perks of the job include the compliments I get from them; that's why I usually make enough for eight persons. Sometimes, selected members of the audience, if there is one, eat the meal."

"Will you be making a dessert?"

Joyce snorted. "I don't plan to make one, because the format of the show will be different from what I'm used to and I expect the show with you present will take longer to shoot." She paused and added in an irritated tone, "Why do you men always think of desserts? Most are loaded with sugar, fat, and carbohydrates."

"Because they taste good."

"But look at the unnecessary calories."

"Well, I don't have to worry yet about unnecessary calories." Unlike you. Did I emphasize the "I"?

I could sense Joyce stiffen as though she had heard my unspoken thought.

"I do have to worry about them; there will be no dessert."

I told her I would to think of questions to ask her about the meal and e-mail them to her within the next three days.

Beth called me from Boston the next day to say how happy she was to be there, how well Annie was doing in school, and that Marjorie had had her operation and was still in the hospital. She went on at length, and my ear became fatigued after forty minutes of the one-sided conversation. Grandmas can certainly talk at length about their grandchildren. I asked if she had time to write a review of my book. She had not. However, she begged me to visit her in Boston when I went to the East Coast. I missed her—and sex—and thus agreed.

A crowd had gathered the next day at the appointed Starbucks, and seating proved hard to find. I wondered if Dorothy had already arrived. I had described myself fairly well, height, age, hair—or lack thereof—and glasses, and felt sure she would be able to recognize me. But nobody stepped forward to ask if I was Pat Muir. I bought a medium coffee and a shortbread cookie and sat down in a just-vacated chair. I kept looking at women approaching the coffee shop, but none matched the description of Dorothy. I pulled out my book of short stories and started reading it and occasionally peering upwards. I still enjoy reading what I'd written five years earlier. I understand some writers are so glad to finish their book they never return to read it. Even at the expense of blowing my own horn, the stories retained originality and freshness. I did a final pass among the coffee sippers to find my date, but no Dorothy did I find. I had been stood up.

I started to speculate why. I felt sure, on one prior occasion, I had been looked over and not approached. Such thoughts are not good for one's ego. I had put a positive spin on things in that instance by proposing the lady's nerve had slipped at the last minute and she had concluded from looking at me that she really didn't want the complications arising from taking up a relationship. Same thing this time, maybe? However, at home, my telephone answering machine had a message. An annoyed Dorothy asked why I had not shown up and expressed her disapproval of my behavior. I called her and discovered there had been a miscommunication at which Starbucks to meet. I apologized—though I thought it her fault—and suggested we meet on Monday at the particular Starbucks of her choice. She agreed.

Meeting Donna on Saturday found me at Starbucks, the same one where I'd met Doris five days earlier. I sincerely hoped the latter would not be there, a probability I estimated to be much less than one percent. Donna had already arrived and purchased a cappuccino. When she stood up, my heart skipped a beat, the type of skip I had experienced when, as a nerdy student with unprepossessing features and poor social skills, I found myself at a mixer about to dance with the best babe in the university, the kind of babe who could choose from any of the brilliant men there, the kind of babe I would never have dared ask out, the kind of babe who had no reason to take a second look at me. And now here was such a babe, at least a former one, willing to consider me. How could I tell she had been a babe in her youth? The smooth skin on her face and arms, the oval face with its finely molded features, the ready smile, the steady gaze, and her figure told the story. She shook my hand, a slim woman—Thirty-four by twenty-four by thirty-four, all fours this time; how about that—in her late fifties according to matesearch.com, some three inches taller than I in her two-inch heels, smartly dressed in a fashionable gray linen suit, with a white blouse opened to near cleavage. Her light-brown hair with blonde highlights was pinned up, neatly framing her beautiful face. Even better than her picture on matesearch.com. I noticed her jewelry, an elaborate gold broach featuring a large green stone—Emerald or tourmaline?—a similar ring on her middle finger, and matching earrings. Her wardrobe, demeanor, and jewelry denoted class. I was impressed; indeed, my prejudice against dating taller women had suddenly vanished. I knew my clothes—jeans, short-sleeved polyester shirt, blue cardigan, and blue suede shoes—would not impress her. Now, my shoes are very comfortable; I am tickled when passersby remark on them and mention the Elvis Presley song "Blue Suede Shoes." However, I hoped smartly dressed Donna would pay no attention to them.

"You're wearing blue suede shoes," she said, smiling. "Are you a fan of Elvis?"

I cringed and went into the explanation of how I had acquired the shoes.

"You have two more pairs?" she said, clearly amused.

I nodded.

"Have you any other quirks I should know about?"

"Well, I wrote a book of short stories. Let me give you a copy to read while I get myself coffee."

I lined up at the lengthy Starbucks queue and returned to Donna ten minutes later. She looked at me mischievously. "I love the title of your book, but I don't see how I could get bored on my wedding night."

I explained it to be a statistical fact, that it did not necessarily apply to her, and that if I had been her spouse, I could guarantee she would not have been bored. We both laughed.

"Have you sold many books?" she asked.

"No, I had a thousand printed. Between sales, promotional giveaways, and others sent for review, I have 534 left. I give each lady I meet on the internet a souvenir copy."

Donna's eyes twinkled. "Does that mean you plan to meet 534 women on the internet?"

"Good heavens, no. It's possible to meet about thirty ladies per year, and at that rate, it would take me eighteen years to get rid of all the books. I expect, indeed plan, to find a permanent partner long before then."

"You are looking for a permanent partner?"

"I want a lasting relationship."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I've also written another book."

Donna asked about it, and I gave her details, including my current contract with RTIR, the guest appearance on Joyce Minsky's television show, and my going to Norfolk next week. Donna congratulated me and then asked me to relate my professional and personal background.

After I had finished, she said, "You must be a Democrat."

"Sort of, and you?"

"I'm an attorney. What do you think?" Her eyes sparkled.

"Well, if you are a trial or litigation attorney, then a Democrat also. Otherwise, a Republican."

"Your analysis is clichéd, so you will just have to guess."

"And which kind of attorney are you?" I asked.

"I do wills, trusts, and civil contracts. I don't like the messiness and meanness of disputes."

We conversed further. She had married an attorney in the first law firm she had joined after passing her bar exam. She had one child, now grown, also an attorney. She asked if I had met many women on the internet; I gave her the statistics.

"So, I'm Number 59."

"Well, I hope you'll be more than a number to me."

"Are you as smooth as this with all the women you meet on the internet?"

I laughed. "It's women like you who are smart and funny that bring out the best in me."

"Have you dated anybody for very long since your divorce?"

This was getting to be awkward. I hadn't given up on Beth. I was exploring options, but no woman wants to be regarded as a mere option. Fudging would be necessary.

"I've dated one lady for four months."

"And how did it end?"

"She moved out of town. How about you?" Time to change the subject.

"I've not tried to meet men since my divorce many years ago. I became preoccupied with my career. I want to retire in a couple of years and need a partner to travel with and replace the business and social contacts I have in my profession. I've been contacted by several men since I put my profile on matesearch.com and met two of them before you, both totally unsuitable. A few years back, I dated another attorney in the current law firm I work for. It didn't work out."

"How so?"

"I found out he was seeing another woman. I want constancy in a man."

"I agree with you. If I were dating a woman with whom I became intimate, I would not want sex with another."

She stared at me. "You may be a rare example among men."

"Look," I said, "I'm sixty-three years old. My testosterone levels are not what they were thirty years ago, and I'm more interested in a partnership, not mere sex."

"Have you been intimate with anybody you met on the internet...or elsewhere?"

"Just one." I could be truthful about that.

"And when did that end?"

"When she moved out of town." True, but you're skating around it, Pat.

"Did she move out of town because of you?"

"No, she moved in with her widowed son and his small daughter. I guess she felt they needed her more than she needed me."

Donna drew a deep breath. "I appreciate your honesty. My former husband thought it perfectly okay to have serial mistresses. I would find out about one and tell him I would leave if he didn't stop. He said he would, only to start up with another. So, I divorced him even though I still loved him. He still works at the same law firm, and I run into him not infrequently. His lack of fidelity is a wound that hurts to this day." This is making me feel guilty.

We conversed about our interests and found the following in common: travel, dining out, movies, classical music, and the board game Boggle. Boggle is a game in which sixteen dice, each die face having a different alphabetic letter on it, are shaken up into a tray, forming a close-packed four by four array. The game is to see how many words of three or more letters one can see in this array from immediately adjacent dice within a given time of three minutes. Donna said she played a lot of that at lunch with the office staff.

I then popped the question: "When may I see you again?" holding my breath for her reply, concerned that she might regard me as beneath her class. I know I fully don't live up to my income, a legacy of thrifty Scottish parents.

Donna smiled. "Yes. I would like to, but it will be easier for me on weekends since I'm still working." Wonders, I've passed a test. "I already have plans for the Independence Day weekend, so how about the following Saturday?"

"That suits me fine," I replied, "since I will be on the East Coast earlier that week. Let's play Boggle at Starbucks and then go to dinner."

Donna agreed and left to go shopping at the mall. I watched her disappear into the Nordstrom department store, thus preventing me from finding out what vehicle she drove. I walked to my minivan wondering if Donna was observing me and my vehicle. Pat, a minivan may be a good work vehicle, but it is not a car for dating women, especially classy women like Donna. You may have to do something about it.

On the following Monday, I had an unsatisfactory radio interview. The host of the show had read my book, and his pointed questions did nothing to promote my book or boost my ego. I wanted to talk about it to get empathy when I met Dorothy later in the day. I recognized her immediately since she wore the same outfit displayed in her internet photograph, namely a mauve skirt and white top. Five foot three, say thirty-five, twenty-eight, thirty-five, clear complexion, no glasses. On the whole, a good-looking woman for her age. I greeted her, and she started talking about herself, her health, her former husband, her children, her children's health, her grandchildren, their winning ways and academic prowess, her hobbies, her religious activities, her neighbors, and her neighbor's quirks. The one-sided conversation continued as we stood together in the Starbucks queue—she did not want to stay seated at a table—and as we returned to our chairs. My role in the conversation consisted of few words such as "Really," "Is that so?" "How nice," "How awful," "I'm sorry to hear that," and "Too bad."

I wondered how to end the conversation and concluded that it would be best to let it continue until she had run out of things to say. Nearly an hour later, she began to ask questions about me, but by then, I knew that she should be seeking somebody who appreciated her loquacity. It would not be me. How then could I end the conversation gracefully when she so clearly wished it to continue? The direct and perhaps cruel approach was called for.

"Dorothy, I hate to interrupt our conversation, but I'm scheduled to meet another lady from the internet at a Seal Beach Starbucks (thirty miles away) at four thirty today. It will take me forty-five minutes to get there, so I'm afraid I have to leave." To my astonishment, this announcement did not faze her. She continued talking, and I had to rise to my feet a few minutes later and repeat my departure sentence to make her realize the conversation had ended. I gave her a copy of my book, which she asked me to autograph, and escaped. I guess all women have their faults, but it's unfortunate a nice-looking woman like her could be so burdened by verbosity. Number 60 would be filed in the never again column

Many were traveling for the Independence Day weekend that Wednesday, July 2, resulting in a full flight and delayed baggage return. I arrived at four p.m. quite tired after a seven a.m. starting flight. I had been up since four thirty a.m. to dress, drive to the airport, check in, and go through the security line, longer than usual due to the holiday crowd. My sweaty clothes clung to me by the time I rented a car at Boston's Logan airport that hot summer day. I thoroughly enjoyed the car's air conditioning as I drove to Braintree utilizing its built-in GPS unit. Beth could not pick me up since she had to be home for her granddaughter's return from school.

Her son's house, a modern two-story structure with neatly trimmed lawn and flowerbeds, lay in an exclusive area. Probably thirty-four hundred square feet. Her son either earns plenty or has a huge mortgage. I rang the doorbell—no reply. A few more rings brought no response. I rapped on the door vigorously to no avail. I called Beth on my cell phone but did not connect. I decided to eat a meal to kill time. I bought a newspaper to read before entering a Denny's in a shopping mall a mile away. Near the end of the meal, Beth called me on my cell phone and asked me where I was. I told her and that I had eaten. "I forgot Annie had swimming lessons after school today, so I had to pick her up later," she said. "I couldn't remember what time you were coming in, but I reckoned you'd figure something out."

You could have made time to be at home if you'd remembered, or at least call me on my cell phone? I put my annoyance behind and told her cordially I would be at the house in half an hour. "Could you make it an hour later?" she asked. "I have to feed Annie and Robert."

I said okay and ordered another cup of coffee. I read the newspaper further, including the obituaries. I compared house prices with those of my hometown, looked at the car ads, and made some small talk with the waitress who brought me the coffee. Somewhat disgruntled, I drove to Robert's house, hoping that my annoyance would be cured by some good sex. Robert, a tall man in his mid-thirties with a thick crop of curly black hair, wearing rimless glasses that gave him an owlish look, answered the door.

"Nice to meet you, Pat," he greeted me. "Mom has told me a lot about you. I haven't read any of your books yet. My business keeps me too occupied for light reading." He took my bag and escorted me in, where Beth welcomed me with a warm hug and introduced me to Annie, a pretty girl of seven years with dark hair and a pert demeanor.

"Have you known Grandma long?" she asked.

"I met Pat four months ago, sweetie," said Beth before I could reply.

"You must like her to come all the way from Los Angeles," said the little girl.

"I do indeed," I replied, smiling, noting the parallel smile on Beth's face. I chatted with Robert for a while. He developed specialized web software for the management and leasing of multistory office buildings. "It's a competitive business," he said, "but I have been successful enough to afford a comfortable lifestyle. I have a small office here in Braintree, where I have a staff of four, not too much management, fortunately, but large enough to keep customers happy when I am away selling the software at real estate conferences or servicing customers."

"I understand that your mother-in-law looks after Annie when you are at work and that she had to have back surgery. How is she doing?" I asked. Actually, I know the answer because Beth has briefed me, but it's polite to ask and express concern.

"Marjorie's quite elderly and has had back problems for years. The doctors fused two of her vertebrae, and we hope this will solve the problem. We won't know if the operation was successful until she completes therapy. She'll be in a nursing home for about three more weeks. I'm very happy that Mom could substitute for Marjorie while she's recuperating. I realize it puts a damper on her relationship with you, but I am grateful. I have a woman who comes in twice a week to clean the house and sometimes stays to help Marjorie cook the evening meal." Robert sighed. "It would be a lot easier if my wife were here." He went on to tell me about his wife, who had died in a car accident.

I expressed my sympathy and asked if he had thought about looking for a partner.

"Like you and Mom?" he said, laughing. "I really don't have time to date. Looking after my business and my little girl keeps me very busy. Maybe when I get to your age, I'll think about it." He asked me about my experiences on the internet, and I told him. I also told him about my radiotelephone interviews and the upcoming television show with Joyce Minsky. He expressed an interest in seeing a tape of the show. We chatted on until Beth finished helping Annie with her homework, followed by bathing the little girl and putting her to bed. Robert left to say goodnight to his daughter as Beth reentered the living room. We embraced and kissed passionately.

"I'm sorry about the screw up today," she said. "I'll make it up to you."

"I'll look forward to that," I replied.

Beth smiled. "I mean I'll show you around the Boston area. I haven't told Robert we've been intimate, so you'll be sleeping on your own tonight. You actually have my bedroom. I will be sleeping in the same room as Annie since Robert uses the fourth bedroom as a home office." My heart sank. Beth sensed my disappointment and hugged me tighter.

I woke early next morning and dozed lightly until I heard noise from the other residents. I walked into the kitchen in my bathrobe, where Beth, in her bathrobe, was making breakfast for already-dressed Robert and Annie. Beth asked me to join them at the table. I bid a general good morning and sat down while Beth poured me coffee. Robert busied himself in the morning newspaper, and Beth prattled with Annie about school activities of the day. I felt left out. Eventually, Robert said it was time to go. Beth prepared Annie for school; father and daughter then left.

I put my arms around Beth and gave her a warm kiss, to which she responded. I could feel her pliable body through her bathrobe, and I suggested we retire to bed. She seemed reluctant, and I asked why.

"The cleaning lady will come soon," she said.

"But Robert said she normally comes in the afternoon."

"Not always."

I didn't believe this and, with my arms around Beth, began gently easing her towards the bed. She put up only modest resistance, and soon we were in bed, cuddling. The rest took its natural course. I had to think that Beth was a withholder, one who withheld or granted sex as a means of control. I wondered if she would ever change.

Beth proved a good guide—a trip around Boston harbor, a visit to the Gardener and science museums, visits to Harvard University, MIT, and Lafayette Square, including the famous restaurant, Durgin Park, where Beth took a mere five minutes to order her steak. Interesting sights, I enjoyed them, as did Beth. She left me with the impression she had not seen most of them despite frequent trips to Boston. She clearly appreciated having a paying escort to visit these places of interest. I was able to bed her one additional morning, again after the usual initial reluctance. She promised to review my book when I pressed her.

I flew to Norfolk on Sunday after Independence Day, staying at the Holiday Express Hotel since it lay within walking distance of the WTBH studio. Next day, I presented myself at nine a.m. at the studio, where Bert Williams had arranged for me to meet Joyce Minsky. A receptionist took me to Bert's office, where I found him talking to a curly headed woman. They both arose from their seats as I introduced myself. I took stock of Joyce Minsky, and she took stock of me. Forty, thirty, forty, 180 pounds—nice round numbers, literally and figuratively. She has a large, well-shaped bust. Why does this grab my attention from the rest of her? Joyce, a woman of about fifty-five, her womanly body probably reflecting her own good cooking, had curly blonde hair—must be dyed, though women call it colored—and a smooth-skinned face with very thick eyeglasses. She wore a pink top, a tan skirt, and matching tan pumps with two-inch heels. In her shoes, her eyes were higher than mine. I felt she was looking down on me, literally and figuratively.

"You're not quite what I expected, Mr. Muir," she said coolly.

"Please call me Pat, Joyce. May I ask what you expected?"

"I was expecting a somewhat more dandified person based on my reading of your second book."

"Dandified?"

"Your book conveys a sense of self-aggrandizement, which I do not see in your dress or your demeanor." Gee, how do I reply to this? Her attitude and appearance make me think of the Ogden Nash rhyme: "A girl who is bespectacled seldom has her neck tickled."

I grinned. "Joyce, I'd like to take that as a compliment, but it doesn't sound like one. I don't have a comparable comment or compliment for you." Actually, I do. I could say, "I look forward to enjoying your cooking as much as you do."

Williams intervened. "Pat, I told you Joyce was direct... I want the two of you to get to know each other before the show so you have a feel of what the other will say. The director, Andy, is going to show you the studio room where we film the show. After you have gone over the facilities, had all your questions about lighting, props, and cooking equipment answered, then I want you to sit down together and establish some kind of modus operandi."

"I want it to be clearly understood, Bert, by you and Pat, that I am the host and Pat is the guest," said Joyce assertively.

"Of course, Joyce," replied Williams, looking at Joyce. He turned to me, and his left eye twitched. I nodded. Bert called for Andy to escort us to the particular screen room, and Joyce took the lead with him. As I followed the pair, I had to admit that Joyce was a decent-looking woman, not a babe, but she evoked sex appeal. She walked with a slight sway to her hips, both graceful and womanly, surprising me. I had expected a gorgon. The facility tour, detailed and professional, took an hour. Joyce had far more questions to ask than I did, questions displaying her familiarity with filming a TV show. Afterwards, we were taken to a conference room containing an oval table with chairs, a sofa, and several lounge chairs. Joyce pulled out a notebook from a briefcase and sat down at the table.

"Joyce," I said, "I would prefer we talk under less formal conditions. I saw a Starbucks near the studio. Would you care to go there for coffee with me?"

"We can get coffee here if coffee is what you want," she responded in a tone of repressed impatience.

Actually, what I wanted was a change of environment from one in which Joyce had familiarity to one where I would feel equal. "I like decent coffee," I replied

Joyce voiced her assent reluctantly, and we walked to a nearby Starbucks. There, I tried to buy Joyce an iced latte, but she insisted on buying her own drink. I bought myself a regular coffee and a cherry turnover.

"There are 380 calories in that turnover," Joyce said, looking at the wrapper.

"So?"

"Those calories come mostly from fat, sugar, and carbohydrates. They are not nutritious."

"But I like cherry turnovers." I put a slight whine in my voice.

Joyce cocked her head. "You can't just eat everything you like, especially at our age when our metabolic rate has slowed down."

"Are you sure you are not talking about yourself?"

She stiffened, and her voice matched her posture change. "If you are suggesting I am overweight, then I resent your saying it. It's something we women struggle with, and it's rude to imply that our struggles are in vain."

"You did start this, Joyce, by criticizing what I'm eating. The proof of the pudding is whether I'm fat. And I'm not."

"You said your body mass index was 27.5, when normal is 25. That says you could afford to lose a few pounds."

"Well, look who's talking." That reply came without thinking. It's almost as if Joyce set me up.

Joyce stiffened, and her voice turned icy. "Unfortunately, you're right on that score. As for criticizing what you ate, it is part of my makeup as a professional nutritionist. That's what bothers me about your cookery book. You seem indifferent to the quality of the food you eat. You appear to be concerned entirely with getting food fast."

"Is that such a bad thing, Joyce? There are many guys in exactly my situation who don't want to waste time preparing food when they're hungry."

"Pat, I believe they should wait longer to prepare something that will better fuel their bodies."

"Joyce, I think there is a bigger problem in overeating than in eating the wrong foods. Vitamin supplements can make up for eating poor-quality food."

"Your body is better served when it is delivered food that is well balanced. I think vitamins are a fraud when pitched as making a poor diet into a reasonable one."

Need to end this dialogue. "We should save some of this conversation for the show."

Joyce looked at me quizzically and finally said, "You're right. Let's keep this stuff for the show and talk about other things. Tell me about yourself."

I told her I had grown up in Scotland, gone to boarding school there, graduated in physics, and then gone to Canada, where I had worked for Husky Oil before going to the University of Houston for a master's degree in geophysics. I told her I had been married, was now divorced, and was looking for a replacement partner. Joyce asked a few questions about this background, especially about cooking for persons other than myself. On that score, I mentioned family and roommates.

I encountered substantial reluctance from Joyce to reveal personal information, perhaps due to a lingering animosity toward me. After persistent probing, I ascertained that she had been born in Chicago of Polish Jewish parents who had come to the USA after World War II. She had learned ethnic cooking from her parents and relatives and had a degree in nutrition—her professional field. She had entered cooking competitions and won prizes that motivated her to write cookbooks and resulted in her appearing on television and radio. She added that it helped that her cousin owned Brankhoff Frozen Foods and advertised on her show.

Then we got down to business. "You're still planning to cook crabmeat-stuffed salmon with garlic mashed potatoes and baby peas with carrots?"

"I'm glad you remembered it." You don't look too glad about it. I think you wish I'd forgotten so you could rebuke me. Just as well I had reviewed my notes beforehand.

"Are you preparing the peas and carrots from scratch, and if not, would it be of help for me to pod the peas and scrape the carrots?"

Joyce responded, "I have to use frozen peas and carrots from Brankhoff, our principal sponsor. If I did not have to and knew a guest like you were to appear on my show, I would have taken your offer. But I think I'll have you peel potatoes and cut them up for me... It will show the proper role of a man in my kitchen," she added with a faint grin. I noticed the emphasis on "my."

I grinned back. There would be time enough to pay back for that remark.

"Where do you get the materials for cooking on the show?"

"All provisions are supplied by Brankhoff Frozen Foods, but utensils, cooking pots, and dishes are supplied by the studio."

"Is there anything else you want me to do while you are preparing the food?"

"Ask me questions as I go from one step to another. Pretend to be an ignoramus as far as cooking is concerned. That shouldn't be hard for you." Another slight grin. Ouch! I owe you another one.

I grinned back. What else can I do? "Okay, but remember that we are trying to promote our respective books. Wouldn't it be fun to extract comments on each other's books as your cooking proceeds?"

"You will have to play it by ear. Remember, it's my cooking show. The camera will be mostly on me, but I will give you due acknowledgment, and you may make your remarks when the camera is on you."

I think you're not going to be so lucky, lady. I expect the camera is going to be on the both of us. Joyce clearly expected to be dominant on the cooking show, not an equal partner. Thus, it behooved me to accept or appear to accept her directions and stipulations with minimal comment except for clarification. Our coffee break now over, I asked Joyce what attractions could I see in Norfolk that afternoon. She suggested the Chrysler Museum of Art and the battleship Wisconsin. When I opted for the latter, Joyce volunteered to drop me off there since it lay on her route home. I appreciated the courtesy. We walked back to the studio, where she had parked her car, a green Toyota Corolla that needed a paint job and showed wear on the seats and floor carpets, not unlike my minivan.

"Toyotas are very reliable vehicles," I remarked,

Joyce grunted: "You're right, but I don't like this car. If it broke down, I would buy a new one, which I can ill afford. So, I'm grateful it runs well on one hand and sorry it doesn't break down to force me buy a nicer new vehicle on the other hand."

"What would you buy?"

"A larger car with a brighter color than this dull green. I only have this car because the dealer gave me a huge discount to get rid of it at the end of the model year."

Frugality, an admirable quality. I mentioned my own vehicle as being similar—older, reliable, and practical, but not glamorous. I thanked Joyce for the lift; she responded with a neutral "You're welcome."

CHAPTER 10

I arrived the next day at the WTBH studio half an hour before the requested time and was directed to the small auditorium with cooking facilities. It had a capacity of about fifty. Joyce, already there, busied herself placing pans, cooking, and serving dishes, utensils, oven pads, materials, and her notepad on a large countertop slightly offset from the center of the stage. A large stainless-steel stove and refrigerator stood four feet behind the countertop. An audience of six had gathered, all female. I asked Joyce if there was anything she wanted me to do, and she replied no offhandedly. Since I am a chatty person—though nowhere nearly as chatty as Number 60—I walked along the nearly empty rows and introduced myself to those seated. I explained I was a guest on Joyce Minsky's show and asked if they were regular attendees.

An elderly, well-dressed woman spoke up. "I'm Mrs. Brankhoff, Joyce's aunt. My late husband founded Brankhoff Foods, the principal sponsor of this show, and my son, Paul, now runs the company. I live in a retirement home in Norfolk, and these are my friends there." She waved at the five elderly ladies. I shook her hand and acknowledged her friends.

Mrs. Brankhoff went on: "We get to eat what Joyce cooks, and it makes a lovely change from our dining room. My son also likes me to report on how the show is going. He's been disappointed that it has not been syndicated. I think Joyce does a marvelous job. Maybe that's because she's my niece." She paused as her friends expressed concurrence in Joyce's prowess. "Joyce didn't mention she was to have a guest on the show. She's never had one before."

This begged me to answer. "I think the producers of the show want to broaden the format of the show in an attempt to make it more interesting and perhaps sell it to the Food Network."

Mrs. Brankhoff let this notion sink in for a moment. "Are you a chef, then?"

"No, I wrote a book about how a single man should get a quick meal."

"You're single?"

"Yes." Where is this leading?

Mrs. Brankhoff motioned me to come closer and then whispered into my ear, "Then you and Joyce ought to do well together; she's a great cook, and she needs a man."

"Why do you say she needs a man, Mrs. Brankhoff?" I whispered back. "She doesn't act like it."

"Young man, call me Aunt Jo. She doesn't know she needs a man. If we get together later, I will tell you all about Joyce."

Nice to be called "young man." And as for Joyce—NEVER! I've an ongoing relationship with Beth—whenever she's in town, that is—and a new relationship developing with Donna. Why would I ever want to socialize with overweight, acerbic Joyce who lives in another town?

"Joyce has said some sharp things to me, Mrs. Brankhoff. I suspect she will say more on the show."

Aunt Jo drew back. "That's just her way, Pat. Don't worry about it. I do hope you have an interesting show."

Andy motioned me to the stage, where a technician had me take my jacket off and then clipped a concealed microphone to my shirt. He clipped a similar microphone to Joyce's blouse and conferred with another technician about sound levels. Andy shouted he was ready to start and walked to a podium on one side of the stage, behind which was a monitor. Joyce moved behind the countertop, and I followed. Immediately, Joyce told me to move off stage. "I will announce you to come on when the director gives me the cue," she said imperiously.

I looked at Andy for guidance, but he paid no attention to me. I did as bid. I studied the cameras, one pointed toward the audience, one focused on the stage, and a third unit pointed at the countertop, apparently to focus on food handling and preparation. Andy checked his monitor and shouted for a few adjustments to his camera crew. Then he yelled, "Start!" and, ten seconds later, began to announce the WTBH cooking show and its list of sponsors. "The cooking expert we have today is a frequent chef on our program. She has written three cookbooks, has taught nutrition at Wiggin State College for many years, and offers cooking and food tips on our radio affiliate, WTXB in Richmond. Her latest book is called Easy-to-Prepare Meals for the Busy Person, and we have copies for sale at $14.95 each plus shipping and handling. Please call our station at 1-555-232-1104 if you wish to purchase a copy. Let's give a round of applause to Joyce Minsky." Geez, nobody offered me the opportunity to sell my book directly on TV. Sounds like Joyce was on the ball there.

Modest clapping came from the small audience. The camera focused on Joyce—I could glimpse the director's monitor from where I stood. Joyce smiled into the camera and thanked Andy for the introduction. She then announced what she was going to cook that day and began to show the food bases to camera. I could see Andy cueing her, but she ignored him.

"Cut," yelled Andy. "Joyce, I want Pat to come into camera as soon as you have been introduced. You are going to announce him saying he has a book on cooking that you disagree with and you want to show him how good cooking is supposed to be done."

Joyce's face clearly expressed surprise. "Andy, that's not what I understood from Bert. He told me that Pat would be a mere onlooker guest."

The director had a determined and fierce look on his face. "That's not the way I want it, Joyce. He is to be an active participant on the show."

"Nobody told me that. It's not fair to spring this on me just as my show begins."

"Joyce, this is no longer your exclusive show. You want me to have Pat do the cooking instead?"

We all watched for a full minute as Joyce's mouth opened and her face turned red and then white. Her face showed, in turn, astonishment, fury, and, finally, after some biting of her lip, acceptance. Not resignation, though. Andy called for the cameras to roll and cued Joyce to begin again. Joyce, a forced smile on her face, picked up her notepad—Good recovery, woman—and read my introduction. "A few weeks ago, I was asked on a radio program to critique a book written by another guest, who is to appear on my show. The book, entitled The Single Man's Guide to a Quick Meal, appalled me. It is contrary to good nutrition and to quality food; it advocates mere speed in preparing a meal, and has absolutely no concern for presentation. I strongly recommend against buying this book even though I understand it's available on amazon.com. The writer of this terrible book is called Pat Muir, and for some perverse reason, the producer wants him on my show. Still hung up on "my" show. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Pat Muir."

Scattered applause arose as I walked onto the center of the stage, shook hands with Joyce, and held my book high to let the camera focus on its title.

"Thank you for the introduction, Joyce," I said. "It's nice to know my work is appreciated ...or should I say acknowledged?" I faced the camera. Joyce's book was also on the cooking table. I lifted it up to display its title and said it was a good book, well designed for its targeted readers, busy working women. "You'll notice I said women because most men are not interested in lengthy food preparation..."

"My menus are not lengthy," interrupted Joyce. "In any event, the extra time taken over anything Pat proposes is more than repaid with a quality meal."

"Joyce, then you won't mind if I time how long it takes you to cook this meal today?"

"Yes, I do mind. It takes time to illustrate details of the preparation, time that wouldn't be spent if I were not on camera."

"Well, let me at least give you a hand. I am quite willing to learn. You might offer a few tips I can use in my next book."

"As long as your next book isn't about cooking...and yes, you may peel the potatoes in the bucket there. Put the peelings in this basin and the peeled potatoes in that pot."

I asked Joyce for a potato peeler, but she did not have one and looked at the camera. I could see Andy about to signal a turn off to the cameras, but I found a sharp knife on the counter and waved that I would use it to peel potatoes. I moved over to the sink and started peeling them under running tap water. Joyce then announced that she would be demonstrating how to cook a meal of crab-stuffed salmon with garlic mashed potatoes, a recipe to be found on page fifty-eight of her latest book. She then took two bell peppers and one large onion from the refrigerator, displaying them while talking to the camera. She cut the stalk connections from the peppers, sliced them, and scraped the insides to remove the seeds, talking to the camera as she did so. She cut the ends off the onion and removed its outer skin. She nudged me over so that she could wash these vegetables under the running tap. She began to slice and dice the onion. I stopped peeling to watch her eyes watering as she processed the onions.

"Chopping onions bothers your eyes?" I asked mildly.

Joyce took her glasses off and put them on the counter while she wiped her eyes with a tissue. "Yes, they do. I meant to bring my onion dicer, but I forgot."

"Would you like me to chop them for you?"

Joyce struggled with an answer. "No thank you," she said finally and then turned to address the camera. "When chopping onions makes your eyes water, take a break and work on something else, in this case the peppers." She fiddled on the countertop to find her glasses and put them on. I realized then the extent of her shortsightedness. She covered up the pile of onion slices with plastic wrap, pushed them aside, and began to chop the peppers while I returned to peeling potatoes.

"The recipe calls for sautéing the peppers and onions," announced Joyce, and she turned to the refrigerator to remove a stick of butter from the refrigerator. She cut off half, saying two ounces should be enough. "Mind you," she added, "Julia Childs said you can never have too much butter." She put the butter in a small cooking pot on the range and turned the electric burner plate onto a medium setting. She returned to the onions and finished dicing them. With eyes watering still, she placed all the vegetables into the pot and put a lid on it. Joyce continued talking to the camera about the rest of the recipe. She whipped an egg, some breadcrumbs, Worcester sauce, Dijon mustard, and salt and pepper in a small dish while stopping occasionally to stir the cooking pot. "It takes about twelve minutes to sauté the onions and peppers, so we have a little break here. So, how are you doing with the potatoes, Pat?"

"I'm just finishing," I replied. "I could do with a break also."

Joyce inspected my pile of peeled potatoes. "That was quick," she said. "Would you mind cutting them in half, please?" she asked. "I want to cook them quickly."

I began to comply. "I could have done the onions for you also, Joyce."

Joyce stared at me. "How would you have learned to dice onions? You never mention doing that in your book."

"Just because I never mentioned it in my book doesn't mean I don't know how to do it. It's like not mentioning in your book that you sometimes eat frozen packaged meals."

Joyce glared at me but did not reply. She then took salmon from the refrigerator and started to unwrap its packaging. "First, you need to wash your salmon. If it is frozen, you should thaw it out in cold water," she said.

"Why cold water?" I interjected.

Joyce turned to me, her smile a little forced. "Because it says so on the package. In general, I find it pays to follow its directions."

"But that's not really a good reason. There must be a technical reason for it."

"I believe it's because the salmon should not be thawed quickly; it affects the taste and texture. Fortunately, today, I have already defrosted the salmon," she said as she put the fish into a Pyrex dish.

"Defrosting the salmon would make it longer to prepare a meal if you had to come home to do it then," I said, just to keep the subject going.

"Sensible people would put the fish to defrost in their refrigerator in the morning. Defrosting is not the issue here," replied Joyce. "Not everybody wants to get their food fast like you do."

"Well, most hosts would offer me a drink and some hors d'oeuvres if I was to be kept waiting. Girlfriends might ask me to peel potatoes."

"Well, I'm not your girlfriend and never will be. Please don't think my asking you to peel potatoes promotes you to that status. I certainly wish I had hors d'oeuvres and cocktails here to keep you from bothering me while I cook."

"I didn't think I was bothering you. I thought you would multitask. I'm quite interested in watching you cook."

"Then let me get on with it."

"Joyce, why didn't we have these potatoes peeled before we went on camera? You have the carrots and peas prepared already."

Joyce smirked. "It keeps you out of the kitchen, or at least that portion of the kitchen necessary for my cooking. I was asked to have you help me on the show, and it was the only thing I could think of where I felt you might have appropriate skills. I thought it would take you longer." Laughter from the audience followed this remark.

"You may start boiling the potatoes now," she added.

I added water to cover the potatoes, put that pot on the stove, and turned it on high. "Don't forget to add salt, but not more than a tablespoonful," commanded Joyce.

She took the first pot off the hot burner plate and set it aside to cool. Then she went to the refrigerator and pulled out a package of crabmeat, talking to the camera as she did so and saying the package had been thawed earlier. She mixed the crabmeat into to the dish of whipped egg and condiments. "Now preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit," she said to the camera as she did so. She took the sauté pot off the stove, inspected it, and then added its contents to the dish of crabmeat mixture, maintaining a running commentary throughout.

I watched Joyce slice open pockets in the two salmon filets and stuff the crabmeat mixture into them. Neatly done. "Are the potatoes on boil yet?" she asked.

I told her they were as I turned the plate down to simmer level and put a lid on the pot.

"Now we are ready to cook the salmon," Joyce announced. We have nearly three pounds of salmon and crabmeat, so it will take thirty minutes to cook the fish. Remember, it is important for items of the meal be ready at the same time. You have to look at what takes the longest time, in this case peeling potatoes and boiling them and, for today's menu, mashing them. We are lucky today to have as our guest both a peeler and a masher."

I heard the audience titter. I requested a potato masher from Joyce, and she handed me a wooden club-like device. "You don't have a masher?" I asked.

"That is one and you are it," she replied.

"I mean a proper one. A device that holds potatoes in a crushable chamber that you squeeze, and mashed potatoes are pressed out of the chamber holes."

Joyce looked puzzled. "I don't know what you are talking about."

I sighed. "I'll bring mine along next time."

"Why would you have one" asked Joyce, "if you always buy prepared foods?"

"Joyce, my book is about a single man trying to get a quick meal for himself. It has nothing to do with whether he could or could not prepare a meal for a group. Can't our single man have friends?"

"Other than the compliant girlfriend?" riposted Joyce.

"Why would a man want a girlfriend who is not compliant?"

"Because men like you wouldn't know how to handle one who wasn't."

I couldn't think of a good reply to this. Joyce took advantage of the pause to put the Pyrex dish into the oven and set the timer. During the cooking interval, she talked about the virtues of fresh fish and mentioned how, in days of yore, fish could not be kept fresh so it truly was a penance to eat fish on Fridays. Salt, used to preserve fish and other perishable products, led to a diet with excess salt, which we know these days to be bad for health. I interrupted her talk, sometimes with substantive questions and sometimes with trivial ones. The substantive ones she answered politely and informatively. The trivial ones she answered in a sneering manner that allowed me to respond with a repartee, many times to her disadvantage, evoking laughter from the audience. Clearly, Joyce was unused to this verbal interplay, and it showed in her tone of voice.

After twenty-two minutes, Joyce pulled the dish from the oven and pronounced it on track to be ready in eight minutes.

It smelled good. "Joyce, some of the ladies in the audience said they get to eat what you cook on the show while you had told me the studio staff got the food."

"Usually, the staff gets the meal. I arranged for guests on this occasion, and they will get to consume the food."

"Well, would you allow me to partake?"

"Can you think of any good reason why I should?"

"Your aunt in the audience said to get with her later."

I saw the monitor show the camera turning toward the audience and focusing with an accompanying spotlight on Mrs. Brankhoff, who smiled and waved her hand. Joyce saw the wave and said it would be her pleasure for me to join the meal in a voice that indicated no pleasure whatsoever. She turned to the refrigerator and brought out a large packet of frozen peas and carrots while talking to the camera and displaying distinctly that the packet came from Brankhoff Frozen Foods.

"Steaming is the best way to cook these vegetables, but I don't have a steamer with me today. The package tells you how to heat its contents with water in a cooking pot, but you lose flavor and vitamins that way. Therefore, I will cook them in the microwave—this will take just five minutes. I will start them in two minutes, so they will be ready when I take the salmon out of the oven." She then opened the package, placed its contents in a plastic microwaveable dish, added a little water and a pat of butter, and put it in the microwave. "There will be times when one is waiting for the cooking to be completed. This is the time to set the table, or if you have done that earlier or had a companion to do so..." She looked at me. "Then, by all means, have a small glass of wine."

"Joyce, I will be happy to set the table for you, but I don't know where the table or cutlery are," I said, thinking she had cued me.

"My aunt and her friends have brought paper plates and plastic cutlery. We will move the food to an interview room and eat there."

"Joyce, if I had wine here for you to drink, what kind would you like?"

"I would probably prefer at this point in time to drink what I would have with the meal, namely a nice dry white wine. And you?"

"I don't like dry wines. I call them pucker wines because their dry taste makes my lips pucker. I would prefer a Liebfraumilch or a Riesling."

"But sweet wines are not good with fish, Pat."

"Joyce, I know what I like, and I know what I don't like."

"Your choice merely confirms what may be read from your book. You do not appreciate good food...and the wine that should accompany it."

"Joyce, you are talking like a wine snob."

"I am not."

"The only thing that counts is one's personal enjoyment of the food and accompanying drink, whether it be water, an alcoholic beverage, or a soda."

"I would never drink a soda with a meal."

"You never eat pizza?"

"Well, that hardly counts as a meal."

"Tell that to most of America."

Joyce turned on the microwave. She then went to the pot of potatoes, forked them, and announced they were ready. "Please drain the pot for me, Pat, and don't spill the contents in the sink."

I did so. I had just started mashing the potatoes in the pot, but Joyce eased me aside to add garlic-seasoned salt, pepper, and a pat of butter. The steam from the potatoes condensed on her glasses, and she took them off.

"I see you have a problem with your glasses. Wouldn't it be easier if you had contact lenses?"

Joyce snapped back, "Of course it would be easier. I've tried them but just couldn't get used to putting them into my eyes."

I handed her a tissue. "Have you thought about Lasik surgery?"

Joyce wiped her glasses. "I don't want to try it when there is a chance of complications." I pounded away with the wooden masher under Joyce's close gaze. Unfortunately, I mashed too hard, because some hot potato squished up, hitting Joyce on her face and glasses. She yelled in pain and whipped off her glasses while I grabbed tissues for her. "You idiot," she exclaimed. "You're supposed to mash slowly so nothing spills."

I apologized for my lack of care, picked up her glasses, and began to wipe them with a fresh tissue. As I held them up to the light to see if I had cleaned them properly, I heard laughter from the audience and turned to see Joyce feeling along the counter for her glasses. Andy waved a signal to keep the laughter going.

"Where are my glasses?" cried Joyce in frustration.

I took my time to let the laughter continue and to savor Joyce's embarrassment. "Here they are; I was just cleaning them."

Joyce took them from me, put them on, and glared angrily. I felt I should say something to ease her discomfiture, but could think of nothing and so returned to complete the mashing. Fortunately, the oven chimed. Joyce grabbed oven gloves and removed the cooked salmon from the oven while I put the potatoes into a serving dish I found under the counter. Joyce then pulled the cooked peas and carrots from the microwave and put them in another serving dish. "Dinner's ready," she announced to the camera.

"Don't you ever cook desserts?" I asked her, the camera still rolling.

"Sometimes I do. It depends on how long the director wants to spend shooting the show. I wasn't told how much time Andy had allotted here, so I decided to eliminate dessert."

I looked at her steadily. "I think that's a cop out, Joyce. You know these shows are edited so you had time to make a three-course meal if you wanted. That would be more typical if you were having guests."

"Pat, my book, if you remember, is about a busy person preparing a good meal, not about preparing a formal dinner for guests."

"And what would your busy person have for dessert?"

"The entrée I just prepared is large enough for a family of eight. If the family was still hungry, then fresh fruit or ice cream would be a simple dessert... Now, let's not discuss it further. Please help me take this food to the interview room."

Joyce seemed not to notice the cameras were still rolling as we carried the food on trays outside the studio room. We escorted Aunt Jo and five other ladies into the conference room to sit at the large table. From a capacious shopping bag, Aunt Jo extracted paper plates, utensils, and three large serving spoons. Joyce cut slices of the stuffed salmon and put them on the plates, while each person ladled on peas, carrots and mashed potatoes.

"Very nice. Perfectly cooked," I said to Joyce between mouthfuls. The other ladies joined in.

"Better than a frozen salmon dinner?" she asked me.

"Of course. Meals properly cooked from scratch materials will be fresher and taste better than packaged foods."

"Then why not eat good food instead of advocating packaged products?"

"My book only advocates packaged meals for men who want to get food fast. What I don't understand is why you always want to cook from scratch."

"I cook from scratch largely to practice for TV or radio shows. Your book advocates getting women to cook from scratch for you—She emphasized "you"—rather than doing it yourself. It's very chauvinistic."

"Joyce," Aunt Jo chimed in, "Pat likes your food. Why don't you have him over for dinner?"

"Given how I feel about Pat after reading his book and suffering through his remarks on the show, I don't want to cook dinner for him. Moreover, I look forward to my next show being in the old format, one without a guest."

"You must give me a copy of your book, Pat," said Mrs. Brankhoff. "I need to find out why Joyce dislikes it so much."

The other ladies at the table asked if they too could have a copy of my book. I said yes and asked if they would also like a copy of my first book, giving them its title and receiving the usual laughter.

"I did not like how the show went," Joyce remarked with a heavy emphasis on not. I raised my eyebrows, and the other ladies stopped talking. "You were supposed to provide minimal help with the cooking, but all you did was to interject, ask irrelevant questions, spill hot potatoes, and make fun of my glasses."

"I did help with the cooking. I peeled the potatoes, mashed them, and put them in this dish. Andy was the one who had me hold off returning your glasses. The audience seemed to think it funny."

He didn't make fun of your glasses," said Mrs. Brankhoff. "He noted as I did that your fiddling on the counter to find them was funny."

"Funny! Misplacing my glasses, funny! Aunt Jo, it was embarrassing."

"That's show business, Joyce," said her aunt. "Embarrassing things on a TV show make it livelier and more interesting. I thought Pat handled the quips about being an incompetent very well and gave some back to you. Isn't that right, Louise?" she said, addressing one of the other ladies.

"Absolutely," said Louise. "I loved it when Joyce told Pat he wouldn't know how to handle a noncompliant girlfriend."

"We aren't clear what compliant or noncompliant means here, ladies," I said. "I think Joyce means by compliant one who is docile and obedient. I've never sought such a woman for my partner."

"You want women to cook for you. You say so in your book," said Joyce loudly.

"Joyce, women don't cook for you just because you ask them."

"That's because men try to charm women into doing so and to get sex."

"If a woman wants to cook for a man, or anybody else, it is her choice to do so, whatever her motivation."

"Yes, but your book makes it sound crass."

"Really! Why don't you point out where you find it crass?"

"I can't do it now. I want to finish this meal and talk to my aunt and her friends. It would be easier if you left."

"Oh no, Joyce," said Aunt Jo. "This conversation is too lively for us to let you push Pat out... I'd like him to tell us a little about himself."

The ladies looked at me, so I recounted my background, technical, social, and economic. I mentioned I had written two books and hoped to write more. "Why did you start writing?" asked Louise.

"At one point in my life, I operated a motel, sometimes acting as desk clerk on the swing shift—three p.m. to eleven p.m.—the easy shift since all rooms have been cleaned and stay-over guests have paid. Eight hours to handle perhaps twenty new guests leaves spare time that I would use to read novels and short stories. I thought I could write as well as some authors, so I began writing short stories, an excellent way to learn the craft of writing, though I took courses as well."

"Did you win any awards in those competitions?" asked Mrs. Brankhoff.

"A couple of minor ones."

"And how well did your first book sell?"

"Poorly. I decided a non-fiction book would be easier to write and market; that's how I came to write the second one being promoted on the TV show."

After the meal, Joyce left to talk to Andy and Bert Williams. I stayed, and Aunt Jo leaned forward in a conspiratorial stance.

"The show was much more interesting than usual, Pat. You're a good foil to Joyce."

"She was busy stabbing me throughout, Aunt Jo."

"That's just her way, Pat. Joyce had a bad marriage twenty-five years ago. Her husband treated her miserably. She tends to think all men are like that, so she fends them off savagely. I hope by interacting with you on the show, she will be less aggressive toward men and maybe think about finding a partner and a decent relationship."

"I appreciate the notion, Aunt Jo, but I doubt anything I say will improve her attitude toward men. I should add that I have a very nice girlfriend in Los Angeles and I find Joyce quite unappealing." Better to use "quite" than "very."

Aunt Jo smiled.

I called Beth upon my return home, and Beth talked at length about her son and her daughter's activities. Annie was into ballet, into swimming lessons, into sleepover parties, was becoming fashion conscious, doing fabulously at school, and so on. Grandma loves her grandchild. When Beth appeared to have finished family news half an hour and a sore ear later, I asked if she had reviewed my book. She replied she had been too busy to do so. No point asking again, Pat. To my surprise, she did not ask how the TV show had gone. I didn't want to extend the already-lengthy conversation by mentioning it and finished by saying I looked forward to our next telephone call.

Next day, I found a message on my answering machine from Sonia Riley. She had lined up five more producers interested in interviewing me. I called to get details and to discuss our respective love lives.

Donna had already laid out the Boggle set at Starbucks when I arrived that Saturday. Her dress was more casual this time—gray jeans, burgundy sweater, black loafers, and a string of pearls around her neck. I wore my usual Starbucks attire, including my blue suede shoes. Donna looked me over—critically, I thought—but did not say anything about my attire.

"I'm fairly good at Boggle," I announced, "and I play competitively."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," replied Donna, smiling. "But first tell me how the TV show went."

I recounted the details to Donna, who expressed a keen interest, especially in Joyce, her appearance, her age, how she dressed, her jewelry, and her demeanor. I related Joyce's shock at being told it was no longer her exclusive show and how Joyce continued to refer to it as hers.

"I can see why she would be ticked off with you, especially since she perceived you as muscling into her show," said Donna

"Yes, but since the audience laughed frequently, I would say the show was successful. Of course, Joyce never expected to be on a show with laughter, a lot of which arose from her embarrassment."

Then I told Donna that Mrs. Brankhoff had said Joyce needed a man and I had firmly declined, saying I already had a nice girlfriend. Fancy that. Donna's face didn't flicker at her being referred to as a girlfriend.

"Mrs. Brankhoff also told me that Joyce had had a bad experience with one man and it had prejudiced her against all men."

"Does Joyce have sex appeal?"

"I suppose a shrew can have sex appeal."

"And Mrs. Brankhoff wants someone, perhaps you, to tame the shrew?"

"And I have said absolutely not."

We chuckled. Then I shook the tray of dice to mix the Boggle tiles up and leveled the set. I turned the hourglass over, and we both started scribbling words. I had compiled a list of twenty-eight words, enough to fill one column of the lined paper. Donna, I could see, had half a column additional to mine. We went over our words, crossing out ones we had together, and then counted out our points, one for a three or four-letter word, two for a five-letter word, and four for a five-or-more-letter word. My score was seven. Donna had fifteen. I grunted my surprise.

"I told you I played this at lunch for over ten years," she said, grinning. I hope you don't mind being beaten?" This badly, I do, but I'm certainly not going to show it.

Perhaps Donna had first-time luck, I thought. We played half a dozen more sets with similar results. I had to acknowledge Donna outclassed me.

"I'll give you a handicap next time we play," she said, as if embarrassed at winning.

"My pride is a little wounded," I told her. "I'd prefer to find another game in which I have a chance of winning."

"What game might that be?" replied Donna, raising her eyebrows. I like this gal's humor. We drove our own vehicles to a Charter House restaurant for dinner. Donna has a newish Lexus. She's more affluent than I. Could be a problem if she seeks financial equivalence. The contrast between her and Beth in ordering from the menu was marked. It took less than two minutes for Donna to decide. I felt a little guilty comparing these two women when I hadn't been honest enough to tell this one I hadn't given up on the other. I asked Donna what she thought of my book of stories; she replied she had been too busy to look at it. A prenuptial agreement she had written ten years earlier was being challenged. She had written it to protect the assets of a woman marrying a man apparently without any. Since then, the man had developed a software empire, and the couple was now divorcing. The woman wanted a share of the business her husband had developed. He claimed that the prenuptial agreement protected him as well as the wife. Furthermore, he had not commingled his business accounts with his personal accounts or any of his wife's. "I didn't write the agreement anticipating the situation might be reversed," said Donna, sighing.

"California is a community property state, so wouldn't the assets the man developed be community property?" I asked.

"I wrote that the wife's assets and their growth were to be kept separate from the husband's. He claims reciprocity demands his assets—capabilities as an independent software engineer—also should be considered separate from his wife's. I am afraid the matter may go to court, and I hate to litigate."

"Why is that?" I asked. "You have poise, confidence, good communication skills, and you clearly know the law."

"It's always the unexpected. I wrote the prenuptial agreement to protect one party, not expecting it to be used by the other party. The woman is quite affluent in her own right, but now wants more. If we lose in court, she might claim I inadequately protected her interests."

I empathized with her. "Isn't a shame people get greedy?"

"That's what the judge said about Beetle McCarthy's wife. In Britain, prenuptial agreements are not recognized. You ought to know that since you grew up there."

"That was a long time ago."

We discussed my background, when I had come to the USA, and my subsequent career.

"So, you're now retired?" Donna asked.

"Semi-retired, actually. I make some of the repairs and maintenance on the property I own with my ex."

"I get a handyman to do the repairs around my house," said Donna. "I don't like to get behind on those matters, since it affects property value."

Won't need to offer my services. Probably not a good idea in view of all the work remaining at Beth's condominium. We finished our dinner after a pleasant talk about politics and the movies. Donna impressed me immensely—style, class, wit, humor, charm, and elegance. I asked her for a date in the middle of the week, but she demurred, saying weekends were easier for her, and agreed to meet me next Saturday at Starbucks and to go to dinner afterwards. "You can pick a different game to play if you like," she added.

CHAPTER 11

I went to the apartment complex to get the laundry money in the middle of the month. The coin boxes sometimes filled up if left unattended for more than three weeks; hence, I unloaded them every half-month. At the office, Ruby sat in her usual revealing attire at the desk, playing a game on the computer. She stood up and greeted me with her usual hug, this time with her arms around me for longer than usual.

"Where's Bill?" I asked.

"He went to get a part for a stove. He won't be back for fifty minutes." She smiled at me. I swear she's mouthing, "If you have the time." I have the time but not the inclination. Too many complications. Flattering nevertheless.

I told her the purpose of my visit and that I would be back to count the coins on the electric counter in the office. When I returned with the coins, I asked Ruby to let me have the office chair and desk while I counted them. She obliged and went outside to smoke. I was engrossed in counting and wrapping the coins when I felt a hand on my back.

"You look so tensed up bent over those coins that I thought you needed a massage," said Ruby, who continued to rub my back. She massaged closely, so I could feel her breath on my neck and smell her perfume.

I straightened up and turned to her. "It's nice of you, Ruby, but it's disconcerting."

Fortunately, she stopped without my having to insist she do so. Whew! This woman is on the make. I can't be the only one. What was Bill thinking of when he married her?

"I was just trying to help since I can't seem to do the records here," she said.

I actually felt sorry for Ruby at that moment.

Beth phoned the next day to complain: "You've only called me twice since I've been here, while I've called you more than three times each week." Ignore the rebuke. I inquired about Marjorie. Beth's voice turned serious. An infection had caused Marjorie to be returned to hospital. "Robert is very worried about her," said Beth, adding, "I am too, not only because she's a nice person who is very dear to my son and granddaughter, but also because Robert might ask me to stay here permanently if she doesn't recover." This is a setback. I miss being with this woman. Or is it that I miss sex with this woman? I expressed sympathy and the hope for a speedy recovery. She then went into the litany of Annie at school, Robert at a convention and sales trip, the housecleaner and her love life, the weather in Boston. My ear listened to a good half-hour of such news. I asked if she had found time to look at my book. She had not.

Donna looked beautiful in yellow capris with a white top and a gold necklace of faceted garnets. I liked that she wore low-heeled sandals to minimize our height difference. I told her how smart she looked; she smiled her acknowledgment as she laid out the Scrabble board. I wore my usual Starbucks attire, clearly outdressed, but Donna said nothing. I fetched coffee for us before we picked the play tiles. I picked a Y with four points, and she picked an N with one point. "You go first," she said.

We each picked seven tiles from the black bag; I had only vowels. I decided to forgo my turn and swap all my tiles except an E. Donna immediately laid down the word "lawyer" for a point score of twenty-four, an excellent score.

"What an appropriate word for you," I said as I looked at my new tiles. "You won't like what I am going to do." I chuckled as I added an S to her word, followed by U, C, and K.

Donna laughed heartily. "Lawyers suck, Pat. How could you come up with something so inappropriate?"

Still chuckling, I replied, "I've been told that I often do or say the wrong thing at the wrong time, and I feel the need to keep in practice." My score of twenty-four exactly matched Donna's. A good start. We continued to laugh as we played together, drawing attention from other Starbucks customers. Donna had a bigger vocabulary than I, not that the Scrabble dictionary is very large, only 110,000 words. I could puzzle her on some words like "quare"—the Irish pronunciation for "queer"—but she could score on words I'd never heard of, like "zaftig." I asked where she had learned the word. She smiled, saying a Jewish student at university had so described her. "It's Yiddish for succulent, or having a good shape," she added, thus confirming she had been a college babe.

"Better not make too much of 'quare,' then," I responded. Donna pulled away from me steadily for the rest of the game, finishing with a score of 333 to my 299. "Best out of three," she offered.

I bought more coffee for us and settled down to play two more games. While I won the second by a narrow margin, I lost the last by over eighty points. "You're a good player, Donna," I told her. "I don't think I'll ever match your skills."

"You'll have to continue trying or find another game in which you feel competitive," she replied.

"I think I'll take up your offer of a handicap. It recognizes you play much better than I."

"Hmm," she said. "How about golf?"

I sighed. "Donna, the first time I ever went to play golf—some forty years ago—my score was 111."

"That's not bad for the very first time. With practice, you would get better."

"Donna, that was with eleven holes, and I couldn't continue because I had lost all six balls I started with."

She laughed. "So, you never played again."

"Well, I have played a few times with well-meaning friends and my sons, who are all fully aware of my limitations. I am, however, reluctant to play with anybody I'm trying to impress or be friends with."

"So, you wouldn't want to play golf with me?" A little edge appeared in her voice.

"I would be happy to play golf with you as long as you know how unskillful I am—and have many spare balls."

"You have golf clubs?"

"I have golf clubs in case I met a gal who wants to play golf. I have a tennis racket in case I met someone who wants to play that game. I have swimming trunks for gals who want to swim and hiking boots for those who want to walk up hills. I do refuse to climb high or snowy mountains."

"Does your lack of golf-playing skills extend to these other activities?"

"I've never been keenly interested in any of them. But I am willing to become more interested in them or others if they are important to my future partner."

We drove separately to the Cheesecake Factory, which was busy that Saturday evening.

"You don't like to lose?" said Donna as we sipped cocktails.

"No, do you?" I replied.

"No. But it seems to me it bothers you more."

"I don't think I'm especially more or less competitive than most other people, men or women. You are exceptionally good at the two board games we've tried. I bet you play very good golf. What, for instance, is your average?"

"You really want to know?" she asked.

"Why not?"

"My average is twelve over par at the Trump National Golf Club course."

"So, Donna, you appear to be especially skillful at any activity that you undertake."

"As a man, do you find that threatening?"

"Not threatening, but disconcerting. As a man, I want to be complementary to a woman in a relationship, meaning there will usually be either things I can do better than she or things I can do that she doesn't like or want to do."

Donna smiled. "There's hope for you yet, then. I certainly don't know how to make repairs around my house."

"Yes, but you can afford to pay for somebody to fix things. There is no element of necessity."

"And you think that's important?"

"Donna, I think the best relationships are formed when each partner can supply the other with things that the other needs or wants. I don't think relationships should be based solely on sexual needs. Companionship is more important, and it's enhanced when one partner can do things the other can't."

"My experience with men is they just want to get into my pants."

That's a consequence, Donna, of your being a very good-looking woman with substantial sex appeal."

Donna beamed. "So, you want to get into them also."

Not expecting this directness, I took time to respond. "Sex, by itself, has little appeal for me. Sex would be truly satisfying when both of us desire to be intimate. We first have to like each other."

"And you like me."

"Of course, but we've only met twice. We haven't even kissed."

"And you want to?"

"Yes, but when you're ready." This conversation is making me nervous.

Donna smiled. "Just testing you, Pat. Some men might be interested in just my money."

I breathed a little sigh of relief. Then Donna questioned me about Joyce Minsky. I told her about the two radiotelephone interviews and how, on both occasions, Joyce had vigorously attacked my cookbook and its inherent philosophy. "Joyce may be rude and aggressive, but she's no dummy. She's very knowledgeable about food and nutrition and has written three cookbooks."

"Why do you think Joyce is so hostile to you?"

"She doesn't like the content of my second book—thinks I advocate taking advantage of women."

"But you will be interacting with her more?"

"Only if our TV show is successful and there are repeats. Even then, I think the forte of the show will be our fights or disagreements on it. That's easier to do when you don't like the other person. That was true, for instance, of Abbott and Costello."

"Pat, I think you'll have a problem there because you'll never be able to stop being polite."

Ruby called the following Thursday to say Bill was having more problems with his back and had been unable to finish painting one apartment that tenants were to occupy five days later. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

I decided it would be best for me to finish the work. I first went to the office to let Ruby know I had arrived, a Ruby in yellow shorts, yellow halter, and yellow sandals and with excessive makeup on her face. She hugged me tightly, this time her arms around my neck. I did my best to be undemonstrative. Not easy, actually. "Bill is really feeling the pain," she said. "He really appreciates your doing his job. I do too in more ways than one. We've no other vacancies left at the moment, so I don't need to worry about showing apartments."

"I'm sorry to hear about Bill. Tell him to rest and let me know if he needs more help."

"I will," said Ruby, squeezing my arm.

Bill had already patched, sanded, and textured the walls to be painted, leaving me a simple task to complete. Before I finished, Ruby entered with a soda for me, a kind notion that would have been discourteous to refuse. I stopped painting while she scrooched down by an unpainted wall. "Bill isn't able to do much with his bad back," she said. "He has a lot of trouble with it... It does disable him," she added with a smirk. She stared at me until I fully grasped what she meant. A pause ensued. "You do like me, don't you?" she added.

"You're a very beautiful," I replied. "Of course I like you." How do I get out of this? Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned.

"Give me a call on my cell phone when you feel like it," she said and gave me a Post-it with a number on it. Then she got up and left.

I finished the painting, returned the gear, and speculated all the way home. Do I want sex with a voluptuous and willing woman? No. Not because she isn't desirable. Think of all the complications that could ensue. Bill would find out and leave. She could have STDs, not unlikely given her behavior, and she could later accuse me, her employer, of sexual harassment. Might be a good idea to relate this incident to lawyer Donna.

Donna picked me up at my condo and drove to the Del Amo Fashion Center, a large shopping mall, there to shop and then see a movie. Did she want to find out if I liked or objected to shopping for clothes with her? Frankly, I was curious to see how her shopping approach differed from Beth's. Donna headed straight to an upscale store, one Beth had referred to as needless markups. While Donna took her time to select the skirt or top she wanted to try on, she made her choices much faster than Beth and always bought one of her selections. She asked my opinion on each item she tried on, a request more of courtesy than substance. When she had finished, she marched me over to Nordstrom, another upscale department store. "I want to buy you a pair of shoes," she announced.

I said it was very kind of her, but not necessary since I had about six pairs of shoes. She looked at me and remarked, "Yes, but three of those pairs are Elvis blue seconds. I don't want to see them again when I go out with you."

What could I say? I resisted firmly her desire to buy me elevator shoes with two-inch heels. Finally, she bought me a sensible leather pair of Florsheim shoes, which I wore, carrying my Hush Puppies in a Nordstrom bag. I thanked her and said I would respect her wish of no more Elvis blue. We had a quick dinner at the food court there, and I took the opportunity to discuss Ruby and her nigh-explicit sexual offer.

"How do I get her to stop? Should I fire her? If I do, then I will lose Bill, who has been with me for six years and would be hard to replace."

Donna smiled. "You need a lawyer."

I looked at her. "Any suggestions?"

"Are you asking me in a social or professional context?"

"I haven't thought this thing through. I was hoping you might give me some advice."

"Pat, I'm a professional, and I don't care to give legal advice outside my field. I can give you the name of an attorney at my firm who specializes in employment law."

I said I'd be happy to take the name. Donna pulled a business card from her purse, wrote a name on its back, and gave it to me, asking, "Give me a full description of Ruby."

I did so—the shapely body, the smiling face, the short skirts, the low-cut tops, to say nothing of her constant flirting. "As a friend, I would tell you to get rid of her even if it means getting rid of her husband."

"But what reason should I use to get rid of her if she accuses me of sexual harassment?"

Discuss that with your attorney," replied Donna. So much for free advice.

In the movie theater, I put my arm around my date's shoulders, only to have it gently pushed off. Patience, Pat. This woman is a keeper. But you said that about Beth. Donna declined to enter my condo when she dropped me off. "I'll call you Sunday since I'm out of town on Saturday," she said, giving me a polite hug.

I arrived at the apartment complex on the last day of August to find Bill's bad back had not prevented him from closing the books for the month. Ruby sat at the office desk, playing a game on the computer and taking rent from early paying tenants. I avoided her by going directly to the laundry room to unload the coin boxes. I grabbed the electric coin counter at the office, telling Ruby I would count the coins at home. I needed to avoid a back massage...or any other type of massage. I had not called the employment attorney Donna referred me to. I decided to handle the Ruby problem by inserting a dated note in her personnel file detailing her behavior and her explicit offer and including the original Post-it with the phone number in her handwriting. Hopefully, my failure to call her and respond to her advances would send the message implicitly. As I walked back to my minivan, I noticed the landscaping looked unkempt. The lawns had not been mowed for two weeks, and the miniature flowerbeds were weedy. I would need to speak to Bill about this.

I had three more radiotelephone interviews during that week, with good results. My website received some hits including a few orders for both books. Nevertheless, I had given away more free books to radio stations than orders received. Just part of the business.

Donna called me late Sunday afternoon, pleased at completing a continuing education course given by the California Bar Association. "I want to celebrate by going to my favorite Italian restaurant, Puccini's in Redondo Beach," she said. "You pick me up at my house, this time, say, six o'clock. I'll make the reservation." Sounds good to me. She gave me her address in Palos Verdes Estates, a very affluent community. Wow! A move forward—an opportunity to assess her lifestyle.

Her house stood on a hill, allowing a magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean and the downtown city. I stopped the car in the street to examine the house before entering the driveway, and looked on a two-story, Spanish-style residence, stucco and frame construction with trim paint and in good shape, about thirty-six hundred square feet, and worth at least two million dollars in the overheated real estate market of Southern California. I parked my minivan in front of Donna's three-car garage. I climbed out of the car to admire the blooming roses in beds on each side of the entryway, the well-maintained lawn, the flowerbeds in front of the house and the elaborately paneled front door. I could see an orange tree and a lemon tree on one side of the house. I had dressed myself more formally this time—black woolen slacks, blue dress shirt, tie, and blue summer sports jacket. As I pressed the doorbell, I felt reasonably presentable and, hopefully, not outclassed.

Donna opened the door and smiled. "I see you dressed up. Your clothes do you well."

"And you look lovely," came my response, one straight from the heart. A tight-fitting blue dress emphasized her good figure, dress material that looked plush and expensive, heightened by a diamond necklace and diamond earrings, and topped off by her bright smile. I wonder if those diamonds are fake. I doubt it. There's nothing fake about Donna. She wore blue shoes with three-inch heels, making her taller than me. Funny thing about that. I feel uncomfortable dating women taller than me. Is it that, as a male, I like to feel the power and strength of height? I stepped forward to hug her, but she pressed me away; only then did I notice the man standing a few feet behind her.

"Pat, I would like you to meet my son, John, and his partner, Albert," she said as another man appeared in the entry hall.

"Pleased to meet you," I said to each one in turn, shaking their hands. A small dog ran into the hallway, its tail a wagging, and its tongue a licking. Albert shooed the dog into another room and closed the door.

Donna ushered us all from the marble-floored hallway into the large living room and had us sit down. "Mother tells me you're a geophysicist?" asked John, a tall, well-dressed man in his mid-thirties, with a well-groomed, short beard.

"I was at one point in my career," I replied, "but now I'm semi-retired and keep busy managing property I own with my ex and trying to sell two books I've written."

The two men then grilled me about the books: their subject matter, how I had come to write them, who had published them, how successful they were, and what marketing methods had been employed. It was a professional grilling, intended, as far as I could see, to assess my character, veracity, and professionalism. I felt I had passed their test as Donna returned with a tray of drinks. She handed each man a glass of red wine, kept one for herself, and gave me a glass of pink wine. "White Zin for you," she said, smiling.

"This is an excellent Pinot Noir, Mrs. Ambigot," said Albert, "and you're not offering it to your guest?"

I jumped in before my host could reply. "Donna knows I don't care for dry wines. I have my doubts that many people drinking wine really know how to tell the difference between a good wine and a poor one. To tell the difference takes great sommelier skill developed after years of practice, skill the average person doesn't have. I have never been interested in drinking many different wines to develop that skill. My taste buds tell me to avoid dry wines—pucker wines, I call them—and I'm grateful to Donna for giving me a slightly sweet wine she knows I enjoy."

"And I bought it especially for you," Donna said with a chuckle.

I offered my thanks and added, "I hope you didn't pay much for the bottle." I turned to Albert, who appeared taken aback by my spiel. "I didn't mean to deride your particular knowledge of wines. I was just trying to justify my own stance when I am surrounded by people drinking pucker wines." They all laughed at this remark.

"Mother says you often say outrageous and inflammatory things," said John.

"In that case, we'd better not talk politics," I replied.

"Some other time." John smiled. "We're here tonight not to pick up a fight with Mother's date, but instead to babysit her little pug and watch a TV show on PBS in high definition that we have yet to install at our home." I don't believe that, buddy. Donna goes to work, so the pug is regularly left at home. You came to check me out. Only question is whether that was your idea or Donna's.

"We'll go in my car," said Donna, though I protested that mine was ready at her door. However, she insisted and eased me into her garage, where stood not only her Lexus but a gleaming Jaguar convertible. It had to have been hers, since the BMW sports utility in the driveway presumably belonged to her son or his partner. Easy way to find out. "Are we going in this or that one?" I asked, pointing to each vehicle in turn. Donna smiled and motioned me to the Lexus. I also noticed a treadmill and portable gym in the last bay of the three-car garage, and I asked Donna if she used them regularly.

"One or the other, five times a week. And what do you do for exercise?" she asked.

I told Donna I walked on the treadmill for twenty-five minutes three or four times each week. She asked me how fast I walked, and this led to a discussion about our health, age-related ailments, and medicines taken to maintain health. She had no problems except mild hypertension kept under control with a diuretic.

Donna drove assertively and expertly—This woman is good at anything she turns her mind to. We arrived at Puccini's, where a uniformed parking attendant opened her car door and smiled at her with familiarity. She tipped him, and I told Donna I would tip the valet when we left. She took my arm, and we entered her favorite restaurant, to be greeted by a young woman dressed in a black cocktail dress that displayed lovely skin, lovely figure, and breasts that drew my attention like iron filings to a magnet.

"Good evening, Mrs. Ambigot," she said cheerfully. "Mr. Holland will be right with you."

"Good evening, Molly," replied Donna and nudged me from my reverie as a tuxedoed maître d' greeted her in turn. Donna grinned as we sat down.

"Molly is very good looking, wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course. I guess I shouldn't have been looking at her so much."

"Not at all. It shows you appreciate physical charms. Just don't do it to excess in my company."

I said I would not and then related a long-past similar event when a married college friend of mind ogled one of the college secretaries and, when questioned, replied, "Just because one has a Rubens doesn't mean one cannot admire a Renoir."

Donna smiled and asked what I thought of the restaurant. The widely spaced tables, covered with damask tablecloths, gave a distinct air of seclusion. An orchid in a Chinese ceramic vase graced the table, and pots containing brightly colored flowers hung from the ceiling. The waiters were dressed in tuxedos. The plush floor carpet contained a colored motif, which I didn't understand. The restaurant shouted, "Money! Money!" and I told Donna so. She smiled and picked up the menu, which spelled out "money" in even clearer terms, more than twice the price of the Charter House and no wine served by the glass. I gulped. This meal would cost a pretty penny, not one I could afford regularly.

Donna sensed my unease. "This meal is my treat since I wanted to show you my favorite dining place and I'm celebrating completion of that education course." I protested, and when she insisted, I graciously acceded. We agreed I would leave the tip and pay the parking valet. An issue had arisen that needed to be tackled.

"Donna, you appear to have a lot more income than I, and I don't have enough to keep up to your standard of living."

"Does it bother you?" she asked.

"It does somewhat. It really depends on what you expect from me. I'm quite comfortable with my lifestyle, as you are with yours. But they are different. I didn't realize until tonight how much more affluent you are. It could be a problem if we hooked up together and you expected me to live at your standards with my paying half of the living, entertainment, and travel costs."

Donna put her hand on my wrist. "Pat, I understand. I appreciate your addressing the matter in a forthright matter. If that were to happen, I would expect to pay more. I don't want to get into a situation where I am taken for granted, money or otherwise. My chances of meeting a man seeking a woman in my age range and earning what I do are remote. Well-off men are looking for younger women—trophy brides—so they can start another family—the universal desire to propagate."

I put my other hand on hers and thanked her for being so understanding. We talked about her son and his partner. "I was amused by your telling him what you thought about pucker wines. You know he's one of the judges at the annual Napa Valley wine competition. You were talking heresy to him."

"I wasn't speaking entirely from my own prejudices," I replied. The Journal of Wine Economics reported a study showing non-experts will choose cheap wine over pricey stuff."

We ordered cocktails and entrees from an affable waiter with a heavy East European accent. I asked Donna how the software-engineer-related prenup matter was going. She said she had been able to negotiate an agreement between the parties; it had relieved her immensely. "It is a lawyer's nightmare when a wealthy client threatens to sue you for inadequate representation. The client may have the resources to get a judgment in excess of that covered by errors and omission insurance. This could wipe out all assets you have accumulated over the years as well as your reputation. That's why we practice as partners in large firms: so the firm shares the hit."

Our entrees arrived: a large filet mignon wrapped in bacon with sautéed mushrooms for me, and broiled mahi-mahi with an array of steamed vegetables in a beautifully presented display for Donna. I commented on them.

"They have a prize-winning chef here," said Donna, "and they charge for it. I don't think you will find a better restaurant in the county."

I asked her if she came here frequently, and she said several times a year, often with clients and for special occasions.

"And is this a special occasion?" I asked her.

"We're both smart enough to know we're testing each other. I wanted to find how you would handle yourself in an environment you're not used to."

I ate my steak happily. I didn't want to ask how she had assessed me. Find out later, Pat, when you go back to her house. We had a great dinner, great food, great conversation, and great empathy. I hoped Donna was as impressed with me as I was with her. As Donna drove home, she asked if I had contacted the employment attorney she had referred me to. I told her what I'd done instead and expressed the hope the problem would disappear. I also expressed the opinion that if I ignored Ruby's advances, she would stop making them. Donna merely remarked she hoped I was right. She drove into her garage, and its door closed behind us. Great, I see you're going to invite me in. "Come on in, Pat," she said. "Would you like coffee or a nightcap?"

We settled on a Cointreau and a cappuccino for both of us. She took me into the kitchen, a palatial and wonderfully equipped facility: a rack for hanging wine glasses, an array of hanging stainless-steel pots—the expensive ones with copper bottoms—a central island with washbasin, built-in large convective oven and microwave, open gas-fired grill with a hood, granite countertops, dishwasher, and large, heavy-duty, triple-basin stainless- steel sink with polished stainless-steel faucets. As she turned around after starting the cappuccino machine, I put my arms around her and drew her to me. However, the kiss, clearly unexpected by Donna, evoked no genuine response.

I released her. "Shall we try again?"

Donna smiled. "Another time."

We sat on her soft golden leather couch, sipped our drinks, and chatted. We heard her little dog snuffling at the door, and Donna rose to let him in, where he smelled me enthusiastically, licked my hands thoroughly, and jumped up and down on my trouser legs vigorously. "Dogs are a good judge of character," commented Donna.

I received a videotape of the TV show of Minsky and myself the next day with a note from Williams to call him immediately after I had viewed it. The three hours of the show had been edited down to forty-seven minutes. I watched it several times and made notes. I thought it funny. I came off quite well, polite, amiable, and willing, not so Joyce. Canned laughter had been added, especially where Joyce had made cracks about me. The same was true about my retorts. I thought the show rather elementary, but it could be spiced up if Joyce could appear less openly hostile to me and I could riposte her put-downs with more wit. A few more pratfalls would also help.

Next day, I went over my notes with Bert Williams. "You're more critical of the show than the food network production manager I submitted it to," he said. "In fact, he quite liked it. He said he wanted to see another show and suggested some changes. He would consider carrying it and further episodes if the second show fully met their standards."

"Really! What changes did he suggest?"

"His name is Roger Banning, and he is very knowledgeable in the business. He liked the concept of the show. He would like the interaction between the two chefs to be funnier, and he wants the show more structured. The best way to do this is with a script."

"A script! I'm not an actor. I couldn't read a script like a professional."

"We know that. The same is true of Joyce. The script we have in mind is more like an outline. You just have to go over it beforehand and remember things to bring up and incidents or pratfalls to stage while you are cooking a proper meal. Furthermore, you and Joyce are to prepare this script outline, as I will term it, and send it to us before the next show."

"Wow." I'm quite flabbergasted by this turn of events.

Bert went on. "Pat, before you go off half-cocked and get an agent and start asking for money, let me tell you what the financial score is. WTBH has to invest money into another show, director, camera technicians, editing, overhead charges for use of the studio, and so on without an assured return on our investment. On this second show, we will advertise your book and Joyce's and arrange for dropship sales." Dropship, he explained, meant Joyce's publisher and I would receive orders for books and payment directly from the TV station. He went on. "We will recompense you only for travel and hotel expenses for the effort you put into the script outline and then only if the cable network picks the show up. If they do, then they or we will enter into an agreement with you and Joyce reflecting typical rates for newbie scriptwriters and amateur actors. I hope you will accept this arrangement. I should add that you will get more publicity for your book, so you should get some indirect compensation from increased sales."

I thought about this offer—perhaps for a microsecond—and told Bert that it sounded fine. Great opportunity even though I think his money talk is hogwash. He said he had to get a similar agreement with Joyce and he would send me a contract formalizing this arrangement and specifying the date of the show.

Joyce telephoned me next day, her voice showing distress. "I saw the tape and was horrified how it turned out. It made me appear like a sarcastic queen. You were, lady. I was so annoyed by your book that I wanted to discredit you. But instead, I put you down so much I disgraced myself. I'm truly sorry, Pat." That's a sweet apology, lady.

"Joyce," I replied, "don't apologize further. I knew what you were doing, and it didn't bother me, because Bert Williams expected us to behave that way. He wanted to liven up your show." Good work, Pat, to use "your" instead of "the." "I should apologize to you for mashing potatoes onto your glasses and for holding onto them while you were trying to find them."

There was a pause before Joyce replied, her voice now more positive. "That's kind of you, Pat. You make me feel better. Bert has talked to me about the possible syndication of my cooking show, but it seems he wants me to repeat my behavior toward you on camera. I don't feel comfortable about doing so. How do you feel about it?"

"Joyce, the possibility has opened up for changing the format of the show. In its simplest sense, it is to be a haranguing match between rival chefs with different points of view on cooking. I'm not a cook, but I know enough to make funny comments on what you're cooking. Furthermore, we should be able to dream up some laughable incidents to make the show successful. I'm game if you are since it will greatly promote our books."

Joyce said Williams had told her Banning was in a hurry and wanted to see the script outline within the next two weeks. I suggested we write our ideas down and swap them by e-mail on Sunday. Furthermore, we should talk about these ideas over the phone and then one of us put the whole thing together to meet the deadline. Joyce agreed on my taking the lead role since I had some familiarity with scriptwriting.

CHAPTER 12

Sonia called me to say two other radio stations, KMAC of Muscatine, Iowa, and KBGD of Duncan, Oklahoma, would be calling me to set up radio interviews. "If producers follow through, you'll have had nineteen telephone interviews to promote your book," said Sonia. "How are the sales going, by the way?"

"Before my TV appearance, the score was twelve hundred hits on my website, but orders for only fifty-five books. Not exactly a success story. Over the last week, I've had more than three thousand visits to my website and orders for 140 books—a big improvement, though still nowhere near profitability."

"How many books would you have to sell to make the book profitable?"

I thought about my printing cost of around three thousand dollars for a thousand books, my contract with RTIR of three thousand dollars, and my travel costs to Norfolk, still unreimbursed, of eight hundred dollars. I factored in my gross profit margin of about eight dollars per book. "My break-even point is about 850 books."

"So, if one TV show gives you 140 book orders, how many more TV shows do you need to reach your break-even point?"

"About five more such shows."

"And that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't contracted with RTIR in the first place?"

I conceded her logic. I told Sonia about the TV show and the interaction with Joyce Minsky. She laughed, wished me well, and expressed hope that the show would be accepted on cable television.

"How's it going on matesearch.com?" I asked.

"Well, I've met someone who's asked me out again. I am surprised since he's so different from me. I'm a strong Catholic, and he's an occasional Protestant. He likes to watch sports, and I like to watch television reality shows. He likes to fix cars, and I like to garden. I have children and grandchildren I see regularly. He has no children...he knows of... That's his joke. He likes to play weekly poker with his army buddies, while I like to go shopping with girls from the office and my daughters."

"And his personality?"

"He's open and friendly. I liked the way he asked me about myself. So many men I've met just want to talk about themselves. He is refreshing...also pudgy."

"He sounds perfect." We both chuckled.

"And you?" asked Sonia.

I told her how I had started up with Donna while Beth was out of town and was wondering what to do when the latter returned home. I described Donna at length.

"Wow! She certainly impressed you. How is she in bed?"

"I haven't been able to study that...yet."

I phoned Beth to find out when she was coming back—I missed having sex. Beth held me on the phone with a long one-sided conversation about herself, shopping for clothes—so much more stylish than in California—Annie doing so well in ballet class, almost top of the class in school, son Robert back in town and hiring new employees after winning a big contract from a large real estate investment trust, the love life of the cleaning lady, and, finally, Marjorie's health—her condition had stabilized, but her infection had not been eliminated.

Donna said she would pick me up at my condo on Saturday and go to the Seaside Palace in Torrance, an upscale restaurant, one I go to infrequently. I suggested she have a cocktail at my home before dinner, and she agreed. Wow! Possibilities! Oh no, Pat. She wants to check out your quarters. Do you have women's clothes in the closet? What are your book and magazine selections, your DVD and CD choices? No different from Beth. I spent much of Friday sprucing up my home, dusting, vacuuming the carpet—a lot can accumulate in two months—cleaning the oven and range top, removing all accumulated scum from the bathtub and vanity, and washing clothes from my completely filled laundry basket.

Donna arrived dressed in a navy business suit with a pearl broach and pearl earrings. "You look very smart again, "I said.

"I noticed you changed your clothes also," she replied.

I had indeed: dress slacks, cleaning-store-ironed long-sleeve blue shirt—I refuse to iron—and black Florsheim dress shoes plus a woolen sports jacket.

"Show me around your condo," she commanded, as I had expected.

I showed her my bedroom with its king-size bed. "You've planned for another occupant there?" she teased.

"Of course. You know I like to be prepared."

I opened up the closets and showed her the bathroom, living room, kitchen, and my office in the spare bedroom. She wiped her finger over the computer keyboard and blew the dust off her digit. "You forgot to clean here," said with a twinkle.

"I do get a cleaning lady in once per fortnight," I lied, "but had to do it myself yesterday." May need to get a cleaning lady regularly.

"I can tell when a man cleans house. He tends to clean only the things that can be seen, while women clean areas that are less visible." She opened the doors below the kitchen counter and out tumbled a stuffed assortment of cleaning powders, brushes, clothes, plastic containers, and polishes.

"You need organization," she said coolly, without regret and without making any attempt to help me stuff the mélange back.

"Are you proposing to organize me?"

"I don't think so. I have enough to do on my own."

There was a pause, and I asked her to sit down while I made a drink for both of us. We agreed that a glass of wine would be best rather than a cocktail since we still had to drive to dinner.

"What wines do you have?" she asked.

I don't like dry wines, so I had only sweet sherry, a Manischewitz blackberry wine, and white Zinfandel. I told her the choices and offered to make her a cocktail if she didn't like my stock. "White Zin will do," she said resignedly. We sipped our wines, and I told Donna that my condo had been converted from a forty-year-old apartment building with distinct limitations. The unit had only a seventy-amp circuit breaker, capacity insufficient for an electric kitchen, back-fitted dishwasher, portable microwave, televisions, computer gear, and hi-fi equipment. In addition, there was only one on-site parking space per car. Donna said these conversions had problems. "The conversion developer is considered to have remanufactured the apartments and is thus obligated under California law to warrant them for ten years, the same length of time required when originally constructed. Furthermore, activist groups here want such converted apartments to have the same building standards required for new condominiums."

"This complex wouldn't have made it if those activists had succeeded. There isn't enough parking—that's why you had to park off site," I replied.

I offered to drive Donna to the restaurant, but she declined. "Mine's on the street, and I'll be able to drop you off when I return." Tough! More difficult to get you into my condo after dinner. I climbed into the plush golden leather seats of her Lexus and enjoyed its luxurious ride.

The maître d' at the restaurant greeted Donna with familiarity. "You eat here often?" I asked.

"I used to eat here frequently with my husband before we divorced thirty years ago. It's convenient to my office. Hmm. So, you work. in Torrance. "I have also lunched here with clients, so I know the maître d' and many of the waiters and waitresses."

I then told Donna about the offer from WTBH to appear again on television with Joyce Minsky and the script outline required.

"Aren't you and Joyce going to get a contract for this?" she asked.

"Yes, though I haven't received it yet."

"You should have it reviewed by an attorney before signing it."

"Are you offering your services, Donna?"

She smiled. "I'm not your attorney. I'm your friend...your girlfriend?"

Her answer stymied me, so I moved the conversation to politics, where she looked forward to voting for Obama in the general election. I told her I was sitting on the fence due to concerns about protectionism, the restrictions on new oil well drilling, the excessive concern about global warming, and increased income taxes. Donna said she was concerned about the latter also—Lady, anybody driving a $70,000 Lexus should be concerned—but felt her candidate would be restrained by Congress. The conversation turned personal. Donna asked me about my ex-wife and the reasons for our breakup and divorce. She asked if I ever wanted to go back to her or if my ex had asked me to return. I told her the answer was no to both questions.

Donna asked about my children and their families. "So, you have five grandchildren, then?"

"That's right, and you?"

"None, I'm afraid, and not likely to have any since my son is gay."

"He can still father children, though."

"His partner has children, who live with their mother of course, and doesn't want more."

We finished our dinner and conversation in great spirits. Donna took the bill and put her charge card on it. I pulled fifty dollars from my wallet and gave it to her, which she accepted without reluctance. I asked her if she would like to come back to my home for a nightcap. She smiled. "Good try, Pat. Not tonight, though." Hmm. "Not tonight" suggests the possibility another night. She drove me home, and as the car came to a halt, I leaned over and kissed her—lips more responsive this time. Donna asked me to a fundraiser lunch party at her house a week from Sunday. "My son and his partner are raising money to fight the passage of Proposition 8, which forbids gay marriage in California," said Donna. "Nobody will hit you up for money," she promised.

Producers from the two radio stations Sonia mentioned called me to set up interview times for the following week. Both asked for copies of my book, which I duly sent. I noted I had sent more copies of my second book for giveaways and reviews than I had sold, the same plight as my first book. Similarly, amazon.com showed used copies of that second book offered for sale in juxtaposition to the new one. Bummer—same as before.

The contract from Bert Williams arrived by FedEx on Tuesday. The document, only four pages long, contained the terms he had outlined, specifying the delivery date of the script outline as August 28 and the TV rehearsal date as September 4. Wow! That quick. I called Joyce about it; she had not considered bringing in an attorney. I thought of Donna for a moment before remembering she would merely refer us to another in her law firm. We discussed the issue; were the monies large enough to warrant a lawyer, would a lawyer slow down acceptance, leading to the offer being withdrawn, and were there any aspects of the contract to which we ourselves could write exceptions? We discussed these questions for half an hour before deciding to go ahead and sign our respective contracts.

I went to the apartment complex in mid-August to collect half the month's coin laundry monies. No work had been done on the landscaping since I had noticed its unkempt state two weeks earlier. I had spoken on the phone at the time to Bill, and he had apologized, saying his bad back had prevented him from doing the work. "If your back isn't better when I return," I told him, "then I will do the backlog of work myself, and if you can't maintain it thereafter, it will be subbed out. I will then reduce your pay by the cost of the landscaper."

Bill accepted the rebuke but made no promise to perform the task. Thus, after counting the laundry money, I went to the maintenance room and set to work. I had the lawns mowed in about an hour before I tackled weeding the flowerbeds, work I did not enjoy, especially in the heat of a summer day. I had worked an hour at the task when Ruby showed up with a cold soda for me. Dressed in a short, white, backless summer dress, she looked more like Marilyn Monroe than ever. Never had I been so close to a woman so physically desirable.

"Thanks for the soda, Ruby," I said warily.

"Why don't you like me? Aren't I pretty?" she asked

I took a swig from the can of soda. "What makes you think I don't like you?"

"All men make passes at me, but you try to avoid me. And I know you like women... Bill told me about your searching on the internet."

I paused before speaking. "Ruby. you're a very beautiful woman. First of all, you're married...and you are married to my employee...

She interrupted: "Bill wouldn't mind. He wants to see me happy."

My jaw dropped. I couldn't believe my ears and hardly knew what to say. Eventually, I came up with "Ruby, I'm old fashioned. I do not want to fool around with a married woman. Period!"

Ruby turned and walked away, her hips swaying, her breasts bobbling, the epitome of sex. I'm thirty years older. She would wear me out. Never have I had such an explicit offer. I finished the drink and returned to weeding, but the heat tired me out. I came back next morning to complete the task.

I arrived late at Donna's fundraiser. Why did I want to be late? Did I think men might solicit me? Did I want to avoid hearing gay rights speeches? Did I think Donna would be too busy to spend time with me? Mercedes Benzes, BMWs, and Cadillacs completely filled Donna's driveway and lined the adjacent streets. I parked my Nissan minivan in a side street and walked to the house, passing by and examining a gleaming black Ferrari. Donna greeted me, saying, "I've asked John not to ask you for money since you don't have income comparable to that of other guests—mostly attorneys from law firms," and introduced me to a couple, both women, before disappearing. I had to admire Donna, immaculately dressed as usual, coolly handling the guests, but treating me in a less familiar manner than the others. I conversed with several guests about the cause of the disastrous financial straits of California, the state of politics in Washington, and tort reform—odd man out there evidently. I concluded Donna wanted to see how I interacted with people of her class. I thought I passed, since my host invited me for dinner next Saturday.

Beth called to tell me Marjorie appeared to be on the mend, but had to undergo physical therapy and hoped to be released from hospital in about two weeks. I told Beth I missed her, and she reciprocated. She then told me about Annie, the continuing saga of the cleaning lady's illegal immigrant boyfriend, how well her son was doing with his new contract, the cute dog they had acquired from the pound, the garden and how it had been impacted by recent heavy rains, and that Connie and Harry had become formally engaged and she couldn't wait to see their engagement ring. Only interrupting her would have allowed me to tell about my latest radiotelephone interviews and the possible cooking show syndication. I'll tell Beth another time.

Blake Georgino of KGBD of Duncan, Oklahoma, interviewed me the following day at nine a.m. studio time, only seven a.m. in Los Angeles. Better than some of the six a.m. starts I had with East Coast cities. I had googled Duncan earlier to find it a town of just over twenty thousand. I was made to appreciate the point.

"Mr. Muir, you said you meet women on the internet?" asked one female caller.

"Yes."

"And you live in Los Angeles?"

"Lomita, actually. It's a city within Los Angeles County."

"And what is the population of Los Angeles County?"

"I would say about ten million people."

"And how many people were listed on the internet who live in Los Angeles County?"

"In the age range I was looking for, fifty-five to sixty-five, there were a thousand women on matesearch.com."

"So, if we doubled that to allow for the other dating services, there would be about two thousand women meeting your age criteria for ten million people. How would that translate for Stephens County here, which has a population of about fifty thousand?"

I made the calculation. "That would mean just ten women."

"Or just ten men if you were a woman of the same age as you looking for a man."

"You're right," I said. The chances of meeting somebody suitable are diminished in communities of low population."

"So, your advice on internet dating would be useless to a man or woman in your age bracket living here."

I paused before replying. "Well, I would hope that a single man or woman living there would find some aspects of my book helpful."

"Well, I'm a single woman in good health and in my retirement years. I've given up looking for a man."

"You could always move to a big town," I said, "like Oklahoma City, which has a population of half a million."

"That's 150 miles away," persisted my questioner, "and it might just as well be a thousand miles for all the good it would do me. Furthermore, I don't like eating leftovers, and there isn't a delicatessen in this town I care for."

"Then, it all depends on how important living in Duncan is to you."

The host took the opportunity then to take a station break for commercial advertising, and my phone was cut off. I put it on the hook and poured myself a coffee. The producer of the show called me back thirty minutes later. "You stirred up a hornet's nest with that last remark, Mr. Muir. The folks around here took it as a putdown of the town and were not pleased. The studio phone has been ringing like crazy for the last fifteen minutes with people raising objections. We are a small, close-knit community, and criticism by outsiders is unwelcome."

"I didn't think I criticized Duncan," I replied.

"Your remark wasn't explicitly critical, but it could be interpreted that way. I'm calling you to let you know a reporter for the local paper wants to talk to you and also to thank you for bringing more listeners to the station."

Not a successful interview. I wrote a note thanking the producer for the opportunity. Fortunately, no reporter from Duncan called.

I had worked on ideas on the TV show for over a week, incorporating several from Joyce, but remained less than satisfied with the result. I called Joyce about it.

"Pat, I'm not crazy about what I've sent you. I hope you've done better."

"I am not too happy with mine, "I replied. "I feel inhibited about intentionally insulting you in front of an audience."

Joyce laughed. "Put your inhibitions aside. I think we can do better if you or I insult each other more vigorously. I have been reluctant to do so given how I treated you before."

With that understanding, we agreed to generate further ideas and swap them by e-mail. The resulting stronger material made the script outline more robust and more comedic. I prepared a final draft and sent it to Joyce, who telephoned her approval except for two minor changes. I suggested we practice together before the rehearsal day, and she agreed to do so. Thus, I was able to express mail the finished product two days before the deadline.

I had two more radio interviews that week, but neither had impact on my website and request for book purchases. I had trouble with the interview from WHMN of Muncie, Indiana, again a station serving a rural audience, on a question about the second amendment to the constitution—the right to bear arms. Being originally from Britain, where gun control is strict and the murder rate is low, I lean to more restriction on firearms in the USA. To support that view, I quoted from a book written by a professor who had studied wills, bequeathments, and the sales of guns prior to the Revolution. He claimed gun ownership was rare at the time of the Declaration of Independence. Little did I know his claims had been debunked. One sharp listener caught the error and made me appear foolish.

I was glad when Saturday came and I could recount my interview blunders with Donna, hoping for empathy. She ushered me to her living room, a huge room with a thick fawn-colored carpet, two light-brown leather sofas in an L-shaped formation, and a matching easy chair. These surrounded a large glass-oak coffee table. A grand piano stood at one end of the room. A nearby curio cabinet appeared filled with glass and porcelain figurines—Lladrós and Hummels, I discovered later. I commented on the spectacular view through the large sliding-glass window of the bay and the ocean. Donna replied how much she enjoyed it and how fortunate she had been to buy the house at a reasonable price in the early nineties. I asked about the colorful seven paintings on the walls. "I love color," Donna replied. "I regard it like the truth—clear, open, and true."

At a side bar, Donna expertly mixed two margaritas. "I know you like sweet drinks, so you should enjoy this," she said, and she handed me one. I looked at her and said, "Cheers," noticing the cut-glass tumbler was Waterford Lisbon, one of the very best of that well-known company. She motioned me to sit in the easy chair and ensconced herself on one of the couches.

"You're very efficient," I told her.

"Yes. I appreciate efficiency...honesty and directness also," she replied.

"Those are good virtues. There's also intelligence, kindness, generosity, and warmth, and you have all these in abundance." I'm not really sure if Donna possesses the latter virtue but better to give her credit for it.

Donna smiled her thank you. As we drank cocktails, I made Donna laugh with details in the script outline for the forthcoming TV cooking show; she asked when it was scheduled. "The show is scheduled for September 5. I have to be in Norfolk for two days beforehand, since Joyce and I have to practice together and also go over our planned interaction with either or both the director and the producer."

"And how has your interaction with shrew Joyce been in preparing this outline?"

I told Donna I had been pleasantly surprised by Joyce's cooperation and willingness to give and take insults and miscues on the show. Then she asked, "Have you received your contract for the television show?"

"Yes. It was very simple, only four pages long. Since the time scale was short, Joyce and I decided to go ahead and sign it," I replied.

"You should have had it reviewed by an attorney."

"Well, the monies were small, mostly reimbursement of expenses; we didn't think an attorney would be necessary."

Donna frowned. "An attorney would have looked at the fine print. The contract might have restricted you in some manner."

I could see I had disappointed Donna by not taking her advice, so I asked, "Do you want to look at it?"

Donna declined and did not press me further. We chatted about Ruby and Bill, politics, then one of her interesting law cases—no names, of course. She directed me to her dining room, where I admired her oriental cherrywood table with a damask Irish linen tablecloth and place settings of patterned Royal Worcester china and cut-glass crystal wine and drinking glasses. It contrasted strongly to Beth's bare antique pine table set only by a pattern of forgetfulness. Donna served an elegant dinner of halibut, broccoli in hollandaise sauce, and boiled new potatoes. This gal can do anything well she turns her hand to.

After dinner, we watched the taped TV show of Minsky and me, laughing at the dialogue and the interaction. At the end of it, Donna offered a critique that closely matched that of Williams, adding, "Joyce is not bad looking. She could make more of herself. It's just as well for you she doesn't."

How odd to say that. "She'll never have your looks," I said.

Donna beamed at me, giving me the opportunity to pull her close and kiss her. Yet her response had a deliberateness about it; her lips opened little, and I felt she was doing it more to please me. I tried again with a similar result. Is Donna always this reserved, or is the perceived lack of warmth due to my feeling guilty about Beth?

"We may have to practice this more" was the best I could say.

Donna smiled. "Pat, you're a very nice man, and I enjoy your company. Our relationship could possibly turn intimate, though not tonight. You'll need to be tested for STDs before we go there."

I acknowledged her concern and agreed to be tested. Sounds awfully clinical, though. She's a lovely woman, and I should be ecstatic that she's interested in going further. Just wish I could understand my feelings here.

I went to a clinic, where a physician questioned me and drew my blood in the test for STDs. The doctor asked me if I had consorted with a prostitute or another man. It felt odd to address an act of romance so clinically, though it made sense, of course. I wondered why Beth had been so reluctant to talk about the subject. Maybe because the horse was out of the barn. Two further radio interviews that week brought the total number of interviews to twenty-one.

On the last day in August, a Sunday, I entered the office of the apartment complex to find the ledger sheets fully completed for the month lying on the desk. I went to the door in the office that accesses the manager's apartment, intending to ask Bill to brief me on apartment vacancies. I was about to knock on the hollow-core door when I heard shouting behind it.

"Your sister called to ask if you got home safely three days before you came. Where were you?"

I couldn't hear Ruby's softer reply.

"Las Vegas. Why didn't you tell me? Who did you go with?"

Ruby's voice came a little louder but still unintelligible.

"I don't believe you. And you've maxed out the charge card."

I could hear Ruby this time. "I wanted to have some fun. I haven't had any since our honeymoon, and I'm entitled to it. I married you to have fun, and I don't like being stuck in an office. So, don't yell at me."

I couldn't hear Bill's quieter response, and beginning to feel guilty about overhearing this very personal conversation, I knocked on the door. After half a minute later, a flushed-faced Bill opened it. To forestall his asking if I had overheard him and his wife, I asked about the deposit and the rental status of two apartments. Bill's flush began to dissipate as he replied and came into the office to get me the end-of-the-month deposit.

"How's Ruby?" I asked politely

"She's okay," grunted Bill

"And your back?"

"As well as can be expected."

The landscaping evidenced proper maintenance and hence improvement of Bill's back.

Donna and I went later that day to see a German movie called Mostly Martha about a lady chef in Hamburg. The chief character dedicated herself to work and was cool to men, especially to the new Italian chef, an unstuffy and cheerful romantic. I compared the movie characters to ourselves, to Donna, whose devotion to work often meant going to the office on Saturday to catch up on paperwork and study case law, to Joyce, also a chef, who made her negative feelings of men acutely obvious, and, lastly, to myself as the romantic.

Beth phoned me the next day, enthusiasm and warmth in her voice.

"Good news," she bubbled. "Marjorie is coming back home, so I've arranged to fly back on Friday, September 12. Can you pick me up at the airport? Connie can't do it since she's going out of town with Harry."

I agreed, and Beth gave me the flight details. What are you going to do about Donna, Pat?

My travel to Norfolk the day after Labor Day meant a full flight, a crowded security check line, a baggage delay, and sweaty discomfort. I arrived at the Holiday Express at nine p.m. and promptly showered. I then called Joyce to ask what time we should get together to practice and memorize our script together.

"Early," she said

"What time shall we meet at the studio, then?"

"No, I'd rather we work without studio staff looking on," Joyce replied. "I will be more comfortable if we do it at my apartment, where I have all my gear and recipe books... Did you rent a car?"

"No."

"I live nearby, in Franklin, so I can pick you up at eight a.m. Just to show you how good cooking is done and to make up for any inconvenience, I'll make you a lunch of Polish gnocchi."

I said she didn't need to trouble and would be happy to take her out for lunch.

"Let's see how we practice for the show," she replied.

Eight o'clock the next day found me in the hotel lobby, pleased to see Joyce arriving on time. She began the conversation as we drove. "I've had a few more ideas for the show I wanted to discuss with you."

"I'd certainly like to hear them, but they may have to be saved or substituted since I think we have more than enough material for the first show."

"I still feel bad about that first show and how I insulted you unnecessarily. I was mortified by how I appeared on tape."

"Joyce, that's what Bert Williams and Andy wanted. You were expected to be hostile with somebody you didn't want on the show, whose cooking you despised and whose advocacy of getting a girlfriend to cook for him sounded sexist to you. I thought the show quite funny, and it has led to a few orders for my book, both on my website and on amazon.com. Did you find an increase in your book sales? "

"I don't know. My publisher handles all that kind of thing. If there were an increase, I would see it later in the royalty checks I receive. Still, now I know you a little better, I may have a hard time being as nasty to you on the show as I was before."

"Joyce, I'll make it easy for you. I will offer you so many insults and opportunities for missteps and pratfalls that you may hate me at the end of the show as well as having cooked something inedible."

Joyce chuckled. "I know you won't mean it, though."

"True, but the audience had better not think that."

We conversed about other things on the drive to her apartment. She taught nutrition at Wiggin State College as her primary job, consulted on food at the Norfolk Naval Hospital, gave a half-hour cooking talk on the radio every other Sunday morning, and had a monthly television cooking demonstration. Furthermore, she wrote and critiqued cooking books. "Sounds like a lot of work...but not a lot of lucre," I remarked.

"That's quite a turn of phrase," she said, "though unfortunately true. Still, I enjoy my work. I hope what we're doing will improve my fortune." Our conversation turned personal. She asked me about my ex-wife and whether I was on good terms with her. I replied yes and asked about hers. After some reluctance, she responded, "My husband inherited a large amount of money from his aunt when he was twenty-five, just after we were married. We lived high on the hog for five years, and then the money ran out. I told him we needed to work to support ourselves, and I started out as an assistant chef at a restaurant. He simply could not face the prospect of living at a lower standard, so he tried to hook up with a rich woman. The bastard, a good-looking man and a charmer, succeeded. He divorced me, married her, and continued to live high on the hog. I might have been able to get over it easier if photographs of him and his rich wife didn't regularly appear in the society pages."

"He didn't honor his marriage vows to be with you through thick and thin."

"No, he didn't. Nor did he deserve his subsequent good fortune."

"But how long ago was that?"

"Thirty years, and I still haven't come to terms with being dropped so summarily."

I changed the subject. "Let's hope we have both fun and success in this TV endeavor."

Her car came to a halt in the parking lot of a modest apartment building, well landscaped, with a swimming pool in the rear. Her apartment had two large bedrooms, one used as her office that also contained an exercise machine. I asked Joyce if she used it regularly—thinking it unlikely.

"I prefer to walk. I can't get motivated to get on it, though I bought it for a song from a neighbor who also rarely used it. The most exercise this machine has had was its move from the neighbor's apartment to mine."

I laughed. "What a shame!" I paused. "How many times per week do you walk and how far?"

Joyce looked at me with her original fire. "That's not really your affair, is it?"

"It's source material for our show."

Her frown lessened. "Maybe once or twice per week."

Only maybe, lady. "We'd better not mention that on the show."

Joyce went over her additional ideas, and I suggested we table them and a couple more of mine until we had practiced what we had already agreed upon. We went over our copies of the script outline. The structure we had set up was for Joyce, being the prime cook, to issue instructions to me, which I would frequently misunderstand or mishear. We would then have pithy comment followed by pithy reply. These mishandled instructions were to be spread out in the overall cooking episode to make it easy for us non-professionals to remember the starting line or incident and the related response.

The practice took us nearly five hours. Only at 2:00 p.m. did Joyce remember she had promised me Polish gnocchi for lunch. She was most apologetic. I suggested we have a cup of coffee and she could invite me to dinner for gnocchi.

"Gnocchi," I said, "not nooky." Joyce giggled at my joke.

Two cookies and a coffee refueled us for a full afternoon of work. At six p.m., she asked if I wanted to watch television while she cooked dinner. I declined, saying I wanted to work on my novel. That led to a discussion of the novel, its genre, its characters, their ages, and possible relationships to actual people. I told Joyce that all the characters were fictional, though I had incorporated some traits here and there of actual people.

"Well, just don't incorporate my traits," she said.

I looked at her slyly. "That could never happen since I only incorporate traits from women willing to be compromised."

Joyce laughed at this remark, one that two months earlier might have infuriated her. I sat at the computer while she retired to the kitchen. How funny that she was going to cook for me when she had sworn it would never happen! I caught glimpses of her cutting vegetables and cutting onions. Occasionally, she burst into song. When Joyce is happy, she's quite charming. Time passed as I focused on writing. Joyce called to say it was almost seven o'clock and suggested we have a drink and watch the ABC news together.

We moved from her office to her living room cum dining area, into which she had squeezed a small Yamaha upright piano. I asked if she played it; she nodded. Soon, we were seated on the couch, she with a glass of Merlot and me with a glass of white Zinfandel. Wonderful, she actually has a non-pucker wine. Charlie Gibson, the ABC announcer, started off with a story about the medicine, Zetia, stating it reduced cholesterol but appeared to have no benefit to the heart, unlike other medicines, called statins, which do both. I told Joyce I had been taking Zetia and a statin called Lipitor. She said she had tried Lipitor also, but had had some muscle pains and had since switched to Zocor. We then discussed the medicines we had been taking. I concluded with "Joyce, I thought only old people talked about their health and their medications."

"So, how old are you, Pat?"

"I'm sixty-three?"

"And you?"

"I don't normally state my age to men, but since you've been open with me, I'll reciprocate. I'm sixty-one." That's a surprise—thought you were still in your fifties.

"Really! I thought you much younger."

Joyce beamed. "Other people tell me I look younger than I am. It's nice of you to say so too."

"It must be all that home cooking keeping you so healthy."

"All that home cooking is going to my hips and thighs," she said with a sigh. Bosom too—better not mention that.

I grinned. "Good source material for our TV show." Joyce made a face at me, stood up, and said dinner was ready. I pulled my stuff off the table and laid out the plates, cutlery, napkins, and condiments my host had brought. What a dinner! Beetroot soup followed by an entree of stuffed chicken, gnocchi, and sauerkraut. On being asked, Joyce said the stuffing was comprised of liver, rye bread, egg, butter, and spices including parsley sprigs. Then she brought out dessert. "These are Polish apple cakes called szarlotka," she said proudly and beamed as I gobbled them up.

"The dinner was superb and a lot of work for you," I commented.

"Thanks. I really enjoyed cooking it."

"And I enjoyed eating it. I think you epitomize what I was saying in my book."

"Don't let's go down that road here," she replied. "Let's leave that to the show. It won't be the same dinner I'll be cooking at rehearsal."

CHAPTER 13

The rehearsal went off the next day quite tamely, with only one camera in operation and no audience. Andy directed us to repeat and modify elements of the show, helpful changes but interruptions that made continuous cooking difficult. Nevertheless, Joyce accomplished it, the replica of a meal she would cook the next day. The studio staff subsequently tucked into the food with fervor. Andy then told us the show the next day would have an audience since they had advertised the program. Joyce and I looked at each other. The notion must have crossed through both our heads that the friendly audience headed by her aunt would not be present. Joyce asked Andy about that, and he referred her to Bert Williams, the producer. I hung around, asking Andy some technical questions about the filming, while Joyce set off to button Bert. "Roger Banning will be here as well," said Andy, reminding me about the producer from the Food Network.

Joyce returned. "Aunt Jo is going to be here tomorrow." She paused. "Pat, I still owe you for being rude before. Let me make it up to you by taking you to the Chrysler Museum—I haven't gone there in years." I thought her offer gracious and accepted. Joyce drove a little out of the way to the museum to show me the area, surrounded and interspersed with waterways. I appreciated this mini-tour as well as the conversation, polite and devoid of sarcasm. By then, mid-afternoon, I suggested we go for a late lunch. The museum cafeteria proved suitable. Joyce insisted on paying for her own meal—half a BLT and black coffee—and later her entry ticket to the museum. The contrast to Beth on this score was noticeable, although the money involved was trivial.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the Chrysler Museum, famous for its glass artwork, marveling at the array of forms and colors displayed. I asked Joyce if she would join me for dinner at my hotel, but she declined. I persisted. "Joyce, I don't like eating alone. Why go home to cook dinner?" She eventually gave in but only if she could pay her share of the meal. This woman sure treasures her independence. The hotel dinner did not compare to the one Joyce had cooked for me the previous evening. I told her so and enjoyed her smile at the compliment. We had a lively conversation; we covered the world of politics, the State of Israel—she being Jewish—the national election, and our chances for this show being a success. She then asked how many women I had dated back in Los Angeles.

"Why do you want to know that?"

"Just curious."

I looked at Joyce steadily; her face told me she wanted an answer. "Okay. I've met sixty women, but I don't consider a conversation at Starbucks to be a date. If a date is where I met one of them later, then I had perhaps ten dates."

"Really! You follow through in only one out of six."

"Follow through! That's funny wording." I paused before continuing. "Of the fifty women I never dated, perhaps twenty mutually agreed we were incompatible. Of the remaining thirty, some fifteen of them did not want to meet me again, and I had no interest in the remaining fifteen. It's a numbers and probability business. That's why I have to meet so many."

Joyce laughed. "So how many have been serious?"

I did not want to answer this question, but Joyce continued to probe. Eventually, I revealed everything—Beth and her many quirks, Donna, tall, elegant, and classy, and sexy Ruby and her multiple passes at me.

Joyce thought my situation hilarious. "When I first read your second book, I would have said you would have had no scruples about hopping into bed with Ruby."

"Even though she never offered to do any cooking for me?" I countered.

"I never believed at that time the author of your book merely had cooking on his mind."

"And now?"

"I've changed my mind about you."

"I'm glad you did." Actually, I've changed my mind about you. You turned out to be a pleasant, plumpish woman. Why is it that at times like this, a joke runs through my mind? It's the story of a man who has no social skills and can never get a date. He is told it is essential to compliment a woman no matter how difficult it may be. He goes to a bar and sees an ugly, obese woman with a pockmarked face, stringy, greasy hair, wearing a dirty black mumu. He sidles up to her and wonders what compliment can he think of before he asks if she would like a drink. Finally, he tells her, "For a fat broad, you don't sweat much."

"I see you're thinking."

"I feel guilty about not telling Donna about Beth."

"And not Beth about Donna?"

"Well, Beth came first. I would never have looked for anybody else if Beth had been gone for just a short time."

"Are you intimate with Beth?"

I paused. I did not like telling one woman that I was intimate with another, so my yes came out uncomfortably.

"And how important is sex to you?"

"Reasonably so. I've said to others it's the gravy on the Yorkshire pudding of a relationship."

"Do you really think you will have a long-term relationship with Beth?"

"I was hoping one would develop, but her quirks put me off."

"So, why don't you move forward with Donna?"

"I wish it were that simple. I always feel that I have to prove myself to Donna. It's an unsettling feeling I don't want for the long term. I want to be at ease with my long-term partner, and she keeps me at a distance. I am also concerned that she may expect me to live at a lifestyle beyond my means."

"My advice to you, Pat, is to dump Beth and go with Donna. Take the risk that it may not work out."

"Then I won't be able to go back to Beth."

"So, then you get back onto the internet and start all over again."

"I'll make a decision soon, Joyce." I paused. "Tell me why you don't get onto the internet."

"I don't want a man."

"Joyce, you don't have children, so what's wrong with a good relationship, a live-in partner—a woman if you prefer."

Joyce blanched. "How could you think that?"

"I only threw it out so you might clarify your sexual orientation."

Joyce stared at me sternly for half a minute before replying, "If I were lesbian, we would not be sharing these confidences."

"Joyce, we are becoming de facto business partners, and I certainly want to be good friends with my business partner." I paused before continuing. "You had a bad relationship with your husband, and it seems to have turned you against all men. Now here we are, walking around town and talking comfortably like friends even though we didn't start this way. There is nothing like having a good friend."

"I think you're different from most men I meet."

"Joyce, I am no different from most men you meet. You just don't bother to investigate their potential."

"The effort's not worth it."

"That's your problem, Joyce. I didn't have a good relationship with my wife. She's a decent woman, but we hadn't grown together, and I wanted something more. I had to take the risk that I would find someone better, and I already know Beth or Donna would make me happier than she."

"So, you got the reward from taking the risk."

"And that, Joyce, is as true of you as of me." Joyce then expressed a curiosity about the hitting antics Ruby employed, and I described the incidents.

Joyce laughed heartily. "So, Ruby is gorgeous and willing, and you are not... What are you going to do about it?"

"I hope the problem is going to go away. Sometimes, Joyce, I think one can make problems worse by taking action. I just hope Ruby will get discouraged and stop."

"Another suggestion, Pat, is to accept her offer and make such a mess of it she never asks you again."

I stared at Joyce now, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat. "What a terrible idea!" I responded, laughing heartily.

I called Beth that evening and told her how the rehearsal had gone. I told her I missed her, and she reciprocated. She spent a further twenty minutes on the phone talking to me about local and family news and business prospects. I had to beg off, saying I needed to go to bed early in order to be ready for the next day. I then called Donna. Must keep her warm too. She asked me various questions about the rehearsal, wanted some examples of our repartee, and questioned how my interaction with Joyce had gone. Good technical questions. I told her I missed her, though I felt guilty that I had said the same thing to another woman just fifteen minutes earlier. She said she looked forward to my coming home and seeing her.

Friday, the day of the show, saw me arrive an hour early at the studio. Joyce, already there, laid out food and cooking utensils with professional aplomb. She looked neat in a white top and black skirt, with a black onyx brooch and matching earrings. I asked her if I could help, and she shook her head, so I sat in the auditorium to watch her. Aunt Jo approached me. "Joyce has been telling me about your getting together to write this script outline. She tells me she enjoyed working with you on it."

"That's nice of her to say so and for you to tell me," I replied.

Aunt Jo continued. "My son, the president of Brankhoff Foods, has a keen interest in the success of the show since he will have product placement rights if the show is adopted by the Food Network. That's something he negotiated with Bert Williams for being the principal sponsor of this show." Smart move.

We continued to chat, and I cautioned her not to take personally the pithy remarks Joyce and I would exchange. "Should be good for you both," commented Aunt Jo.

By this time, the auditorium had filled. Andy called the players to be at the ready, Joyce and I on the kitchen platform, the three TV camera operators to their positions, the audio crew affixing hidden wireless microphones to the principals, and the lighting technicians to their controls. Tests for audio ability and lighting levels were conducted, eventually satisfying Andy. Joyce and I drew to the side of the stage, waiting to be announced. A man strolled onto the stage and started talking to the director. I realized from the accent it was Axel, very self-confident and very dapper. As the cameras had not started, I edged forward and greeted him, telling him how much I appreciated being interviewed by him on the radio and for the opportunity to sell my book. He thanked me and glanced at Joyce, who merely waved to him. Andy called for the cameras to start, and we watched the side monitor as Axel began his spiel.

"Welcome to the cooking show of WTBH and our cooking guru, Joyce Minsky." He went on to detail Joyce's three books and their availability, and then described Joyce's background and qualifications. Then came my introduction. "Also appearing on the show is Pat Muir, who is a contrarian. Pat was divorced after thirty years of marriage and had to learn how to make his own meals. So, he wrote a book about it." Axel gave the title of my book and detailed where it could be purchased. He added, "Pat's book starts off with a joke in the foreword as follows: 'Only in America does a man order double cheeseburgers, large fries, and a Diet Coke.'" He paused, and the audience obliged with a faint titter. "I have to tell you that Pat grew up in Britain where the food is considered by most Europeans, me included, to be terrible. I have to congratulate Pat at his attempt to foist this terrible food on a discerning American public." The audience tittered again. "On the show today, Joyce will demonstrate how to cook a certain dish. Pat will question her as she cooks and interject since, as a man, he believes food should be brought to the table quickly."

Axel turned around, faced us, and beckoned us on. "So, let's give a big hand to Joyce Minsky and Pat Muir." The audience clapped politely, and Axel walked offstage.

Joyce began by telling the audience what she was going to cook. "My forbears were from Poland, so I specialize in Polish food. Today, I am going to cook cabbage rollups called Polish golabki."

"Do you have any Polish jokes to go with golabki?" I asked in my best British accent.

"Yes. A Brit in the kitchen to help with cooking is a Polish joke," replied Joyce. The audience laughed, and Joyce and I smiled to acknowledge our comedic success.

"That Brits can't cook is a cliché," I said

"What British dishes are famous, then?" asked Joyce, cocking her head.

"How about jugged hare, shepherd's pie, toad in the hole, bubble and squeak?"

"Would you please explain to the audience what those are?"

I did so while Joyce brought provisions from the refrigerator.

When I had finished explaining, I asked Joyce, "As a Polish cook, I bet you don't know any famous British dishes?"

"Oh, yes I do," she replied. "How about spam, spam, and spam?"

Those in the audience familiar with the famous Monte Python gag laughed heartily.

"Would you mind filling a cook pot with water and putting it on the stove?" Joyce requested. "You know at least how to do that, don't you?" The audience chuckled. I complied.

"Would you like me to turn the burner on?" I asked.

"Of course. We have to boil the cabbage to make it tender," replied Joyce. She went on: "Now, golabki will take about three hours to prepare overall, so you also have time to make dessert and an appetizer, or you may drink a glass of wine and converse with your guests."

"Tell me, Joyce, why would anybody want to take so long to prepare a meal?"

"Because they want to please their guests or their families with a meal to be remembered." She picked up the cabbage on the counter and began to wash and trim it under the running sink faucet.

"Yes, but if one of your family members complained he was hungry, what would you do to hurry up the meal?" I asked.

"I might suggest he read your book. He would be so revolted by your recipes that he would be delighted to wait for good food." Joyce waited until the audience laughter had died and went on: "You can always nibble on what we are cooking. Here, try this." She put a leaf of cabbage in my hand. The audience chuckled as I began to chew on the raw cabbage initially with an exaggerated enjoyment. Joyce then removed a large onion from a cupboard and peeled it. I kept chewing on the cabbage leaf and began to display a lack of enjoyment. Not totally feigned either. The audience laughed modestly at this until I put the cabbage leaf down in purported disgust.

Joyce spent a few minutes explaining to the audience some of the historical and cultural background on golabki, which means "little pigeons" in Polish. Joyce started to cut the onions into slices, and as before, tears welled in her eyes. She took off her glasses and put them on the counter while I handed her a tissue. "You really ought to cry after giving me that raw cabbage to eat, but let me help you," I said, moving her glasses a couple of feet away. I picked up the chopping knife and began to chop the onions. I'm quite good at this and don't have Joyce's sensitivity. Joyce, as planned, began to make an exaggerated search along the counter for her glasses, but her sweeping hand caught the glasses and knocked them onto the floor. There, to our joint horror, the frame broke in two, and one plastic lens rolled under the counter. Joyce heard the breakage, but could not see the damage. She looked aghast; this wasn't in our script outline.

"Gee, I'm sorry, Joyce. Do you have a spare pair?" I said, picking up the broken frame, banging my head on the counter lip and uttering, "Ouch," as I retrieved the wayward lens. Joyce just looked at Andy as though asking him for help, and he yelled, "Cut!" He questioned the cameraman monitoring the side view: "Did you get that?" to which the cameraman replied he hadn't gotten me picking up the broken glasses.

"I don't have a spare pair with me, Andy," said Joyce tremulously.

"Then you'll just have to cope without them," he replied. "Make use of Pat as you see fit. I can't afford to reschedule this performance."

I put my arm around Joyce's shoulder to compose her and told her I was perfectly capable of following her directions. In a few minutes, Joyce said she was ready to continue. Andy then gave Joyce and me instructions on how this accident was to be repeated. The broken spectacles were put on the floor and the cameras restarted.

"Gee, I'm sorry, Joyce. Do you have a spare pair?" I said again as I picked up the damaged frames, banging my head on the counter lip with a louder "ouch" as, once again, I retrieved the lens.

Joyce scrutinized her glasses, holding them just six inches from her eyes, a look of profound dismay on her face. "Oh my! I don't have a spare pair. What shall I do?"

"Let me see," I said, and I took up a roll of duct tape that a technician had by then conveniently placed on the countertop and turned my back to the camera, with Joyce in front of me. I put the one half-frame with lens on her face and taped the bridge stub to her nose. I stepped back so the audience could see, resulting in genuine and lengthy laughter. Indeed, I had to laugh as well. A smile appeared on Joyce's face.

Eventually, she stopped smiling and said, "How could you do that? Why did you move my glasses?"

"I was only trying to help, Joyce," I whined. "See, I'll soon have finished cutting up the onions."

At this point, the pot of water fortuitously boiled over, and Joyce stepped over to pull it off the burner. "Give me the cabbage," she commanded imperiously. I did so, and she placed it in the pot, her one lens steaming up as she did so. I stepped over to her and seized her arm to steady her while I wiped the condensate off her lens.

"Now you should be able to see better," I said. "I didn't want to see you steamed up."

"I'm already steamed up," she replied vehemently. "Do you think you can make things worse?" The audience laughed.

"Of course I can. Screwing things up in the kitchen comes naturally to me. That's why I'm on your show." The audience giggled. "I appreciate the practice you give me." Another audience titter. "That's why I advocate simplicity for cooking by men like me who can so readily mess things up in the kitchen."

Joyce gave me a look of disgust and put the cabbage pot on the hot burner. "I need to sauté the onions now," she said, grabbing a pot from underneath the counter and scooping the chopped onions into it. She put a pat of butter into the pot and put it on the stove to cook.

"Don't you add salt to cook the cabbage, Joyce?" I asked.

"Why should I?"

"Because it raises the temperature of the boiling water so the cabbage cooks faster, and because the cabbage absorbs some salt so you don't have to salt the finished product."

"Who told you that tale?"

"It is a mere recounting of scientific principles," I said in a deliberately pompous manner."

"So, you thought it out for yourself?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn't you think before you moved my glasses?"

"I didn't realize you were so shortsighted." (Not true, but part of our revised script outline). "We need to look at the onion pot. There's a smell coming from it." Joyce moved quickly to pull that pot off the burner, shake it, and stir its contents vigorously before returning it at a lower burner setting.

Joyce pulled a large mixing bowl from the refrigerator, which she showed to the cameras, and told the audience it contained a two-pound mixture of ground, uncooked beef."

"Why didn't you grind up the meat on camera like we did the onions?" I asked

"Because I like the onions freshly cut and it's a lot easier to buy the ground meat from the supermarket," she replied. "Now, I know you are itching to tell a Polish joke, so go ahead while the onions sauté, but if you do, I will tell a Jewish joke afterwards."

"A challenge," I said and thanked her for the opportunity and faced the cameras. "Right after World War II, a journalist had to write a story on the lack of meat in Poland. He went to Poland and asked the people, 'Excuse me, what do you think of the lack of meat in Poland?' All the Poles replied, 'Meat? What is meat?' Seeing he could not get an answer in Poland, he went to the USSR and asked the Soviets, 'Excuse me, what do you think of the lack of meat in Poland?' All the Soviets replied, 'Think? What is think?' Since he could not get an answer in the USSR, he went to the USA and asked the Americans, 'Excuse me, what do you think of the lack of meat in Poland?' All the Americans replied, 'Lack? What is lack?'"

The audience laughed. People have been so hounded about obesity that the punchline is currently humorous and pertinent. Joyce and I had debated about reciting the last portion of the joke, but I had deferred to Joyce, who said to leave it in. I continued: "So, the journalist went to Israel and said, 'Excuse me, what do think of the lack of meat in Poland?' And all the Israelis replied, 'Excuse me? What is excuse me?'"

The audience guffawed. Joyce and I chuckled too, the pleasure in making the audience laugh.

"That's a dated joke and very ethnic," said Joyce. "I can do better. A Jew from rural Poland in the nineteenth century met another Jew on the train and told him about his village. 'We are all Jewish in our village except for a few Gentiles who are gardeners and such. What about your town, Krakow?' 'My town has about two hundred thousand people, and half of them are Jewish,' came the reply. 'Really,' said the first man. 'Why do you need so many Gentiles?'"

The audience laughed heartily, stimulating Joyce and me to join them. I turned to poke the cabbage with a fork and pronounced it softened enough to rip the leaves apart as the recipe called for. Joyce told me to cool the pot by pouring cold water into it continuously. Meanwhile, she poured the now-sautéed onions into the bowl of ground meat. Then she took a one-pint measuring cup from the refrigerator, displaying its contents of finely chopped salt pork to the cameras.

"I'm going to brown this first," she said, putting it into the sauté pot. "Pat, will you please stir this with a wooden spoon while I tell what else this recipe contains?"

I know how to brown this stuff, but the script outline calls for me to be dumb. "What do you mean stir?" I asked. "This stuff isn't liquid."

Joyce put an exasperated look on her face. "Men in the kitchen just don't know what to do. Just turn it over as you stir it."

"Is that how we do it in the bedroom," I quipped. The audience tittered.

"If we women didn't know how to operate in the kitchen, there wouldn't be any goings on in the bedroom," growled Joyce.

"I always thought the converse was true." I made an oafish grin to the cameras, and the audience laughed again. Joyce then gathered the dry ingredients, describing their role in the recipe to the audience. They included sugar, salt, pepper, celery salt, basil, nutmeg, Worcester sauce and a half-stick of butter. She pronounced the sauce in its phonetic form. I corrected her: "It's called "Wooster" sauce."

"Why don't you Brits pronounce the words the way they're spelled or spelt as you would say, Pat?" Joyce responded. "And keep stirring that pork. I don't want it burnt."

"What particular words are you thinking of, apart from Worcester?"

"How about 'tomato'? You don't pronounce it the same way as potato."

"True. Why do you call a beautiful woman a ripe tomato or a ten?"

"Because it also allows us to call an idiot in the kitchen like you a zero."

The audience tittered.

After a pause, I asked Joyce how long I should stir the pot.

"When I schedule it...or do you Brits not know the difference between a schedule and a schedule," she replied, pronouncing the last as in "show." The audience tittered. Joyce then went to the refrigerator and poked around for well over a minute. Then she raised her head, and asked plaintively, "Where is the cooked rice?" This wasn't in the script outline. Joyce planned to use instant rice for the meal, and the packet could not be located.

I had previously noticed a package of regular rice in the cupboard and pulled it out before Andy decided to stop the cameras. I waved it to Joyce, saying, "We can cook this, can't we?"

Joyce thought for a moment and, in an exasperated tone, said, "Yes, I guess we'll have to, but it will take an extra half-hour."

"I thought you weren't concerned about how long it took to prepare a meal?"

Joyce stared at me with a withering expression. I'm sure she wanted Andy to yell cut, but he did not do so. She took rice from me, put it in a cook pot with water and salt, and placed it on the stove. I went back to stirring the pot. "Joyce, wouldn't it have been simpler to buy the Polish golabki from a delicatessen than prepare it on the show? You could always talk about its ingredients instead of showing the audience the laborious steps to prepare it."

"Afflicted as I am with your help, a delicatessen might be easier, but there would be no fun in that, nor an opportunity to demonstrate to the audience."

"That's one of the points I make in my book. If one wants a meal quick and has no fun cooking...."

"Then find somebody who does," interrupted Joyce.

"You took the words out of my mouth." The audience laughed.

I pointed out to Joyce that the pork had nicely browned. She took the pot and emptied its contents into the mixing bowl. Then she stood as though wondering what to do next. "I need a cup of ketchup. Would you mind filling this measuring cup from that bottle?"

"Of course," I replied while Joyce took two cans of tomato soup and emptied them into the mixing bowl. She then poured one and a half cans of water into the bowl. She turned to look at me. The ketchup bottle cap was on very tight, and I couldn't get it off. She reached for it, but I turned away and rapped the bottle top firmly against the counter edge. I tried again, but the cap still would not release.

"Here, give it to me," demanded Joyce. I did. She proceeded to run the top of the bottle under hot water. "Strength is not the only answer to a stuck jar or bottle cap," she remarked in a professorial tone."

This had been in our script outline; the top had been especially tightened to achieve the results thus far. I was worried it had been put on too tightly and the effect of Joyce showing the top could be loosened with heat might not be achieved. After a minute under the tap, Joyce took the bottle and attempted to move the cap. She could not budge it. The audience tittered. "You try again, "Joyce said and handed me the bottle. The heat apparently had eased the friction of the cap, and after a few grunting tries, I pried it off.

"You couldn't have done that without my finesse," she said.

"It wouldn't have happened without my strength," I replied. "Men can be useful for something after all." I took the ketchup bottle and turned it upside down over the measuring cup, which I held over the mixing bowl in case I spilled anything. Nothing poured. I shook it up and down, but the sticky ketchup declined to exit the bottle.

"Let me have it," said Joyce, picking up a thin knife and coming toward me. However, the vigorously shaken bottle then released its contents, some into the measuring cup and some into the mixing bowl, whose red contents heavily splashed Joyce's beige top. The audience howled—this had not been planned. I looked at Joyce, both of us milking the audience's laughter. An old gag this, Joyce kept her look of chagrin on her face and raised the knife in mock fury, which extended the audience's laughter.

When it had died down, I ventured: "I'm so sorry, Joyce. It was an accident."

"I know. What I don't know is why so many accidents happen when you are in the kitchen. If you were my husband, I would keep you out of it."

"And if you were my wife, I would never enter it..." I paused. "Until you asked me to clean up the dishes." The audience chuckled.

"Excuse me, I have to clean myself up," said Joyce, and she turned to leave the stage.

"Let me help you," I said and picked up a heavily dampened cloth and grabbed her arm. She pushed me off, but I persisted, trying to wipe her top. However, with her mild struggling, my efforts smeared the ketchup-water-soup mixture into a pink stain over a large portion of her top. Her big beige bra could be seen through her now-semitransparent top. Joyce looked down at herself and then at me, her annoyance tempered by the audience howling with laughter. "You wanted to feel me up," she said. "Now you've done it." She walked off.

I looked at the damp cloth and then the cameras. "Feel you up? Geez. It was an accident."

"You're accident prone!" yelled a voice from the audience.

While I waited for Andy to stop the cameras, I said to the audience, "The situation reminds me of a well-known poem as follows:

Shake, shake

ketchup bottle.

None comes out

then a lot'll."

The audience groaned. I paused. Andy, however, had not stopped the cameras, so I picked up from where Joyce had left off. I took the parboiled cabbage and cut the thick membrane off the back of each leaf—I had been paying attention during the rehearsal. I greased the pan with the remaining butter and turned the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. I added the now half- filled cup of ketchup to the bowl and began to mix its contents thoroughly with the ground meat, explaining to the audience what I was doing. I waved my greasy mix-covered hands as I told them I was waiting for the rice to be cooked, which would take a few more minutes. Joyce now walked onto the stage wearing a white smock. The audience clapped, and she waved to them. I stepped forward to her to shake her hand in apology, which she took automatically, thus smearing her right hand in the sticky meat mix. She looked at her hand and then at me, the look on her face expressing, "How could you do this to me?" The audience laughed.

Joyce wiped her hand on another damp cloth and asked how far along on the recipe I was. "Just waiting for the rice to be cooked," I told her. Joyce inspected the pot of rice, sampled it, and pronounced it ready. She expertly drained the water from the pot and dumped its contents into the mixing bowl. The she turned toward the audience.

"Mix that up," she said to me. "You should be good at mixing things up by now."

The audience tittered. I mixed until Joyce expressed satisfaction with its consistency. She then took two to three tablespoons of the mixture, put them on each cabbage leaf, and then neatly rolled up the leaf over the meat mixture and placed it in the roasting pan. She turned towards the audience. "We had a rehearsal here yesterday, and Pat has followed the recipe while I went off stage. In addition, he has turned the oven on to the correct temperature so it's hot enough for us to put the roasting pan in the oven." She did so. "Timing is an excellent requisite of a good cook, and I want you to know that Pat has either learned well from yesterday's rehearsal or knows more about cooking than he has let on." How sweet to say that, Joyce.

The audience clapped at this accolade. I smiled and waved to the audience. This had not been in the script outline, and Joyce's unexpected praise pleased me enormously. Andy called the cameras to stop, thus allowing a substantial time break to let the cabbage rollups cook. I took the opportunity to thank Joyce for the on-stage compliment. "You look awfully cute in that smock with a half-pair of spectacles taped onto you," I added.

Joyce blushed. "I just hope they don't fall off before I get home."

CHAPTER 14

We descended into the audience during this break. Some members shook our hands and asked Joyce to autograph their just-purchased book. Aunt Jo came up to us and said she was enjoying the show very much. "A little different from your usual performance, Joyce," she remarked.

"Well, I've never been felt up by a man on camera," replied Joyce, smiling at my consternation. "It's all right, Pat. I know you were trying to help. I just said that for the benefit of the audience."

I felt relieved. I thought her remark might have been genuine annoyance. "The show was supposed to be funny. Did we achieve that, Aunt Jo?" asked Joyce. That's nice. She used the word "we."

"You both did very well," replied her aunt. "The proof of the pudding is what Mr. Banning thinks of it."

We nodded and chatted about other things until Andy called us onto the stage. "Time now to make the dessert," announced Joyce to the audience with the cameras now rolling. "Today, we will make chruscik, a Polish pastry also known as angel wings."

She paused. "Pat, please fetch me six eggs from the fridge"

I did so. Joyce used a spoon to separate the yolks from the whites into two separate mixing bowls. She then called me to fetch her rum, vanilla essence, baking powder, salt, and sour cream from cupboards and the refrigerator. I had been well briefed on the location of these items. She added half a cup of the sour cream to the yolks, a tablespoon of rum, a teaspoon of the essence, and a pinch of the salt. She then began to beat these ingredients with an electric eggbeater.

"What are you going to do with the whites?" I asked. This wasn't in the script outline.

"They may be discarded," replied Joyce.

"What! Discard useful protein? That would be a no-no in my book." I exaggerated shock in my voice."

"Then what would you do with it?"

"I could make angel food cake with them."

Joyce looked at me curiously. "Why would you—She emphasized "you"—make an angel food cake when you can buy one at the supermarket?"

"I just hate to waste food. I think it's a sin when there are so many people starving in this world." Clapping came from the audience.

"But with your mode of finding a quick meal, you would never have egg whites around."

"Not usually. But then, there is no reason why our single man cannot cook for a gathering of friends and family."

"Surely, the single man in your book would hire a caterer instead?"

"The single man in my book wants to get his food quick. The book does not address whether our single man can cook or if he likes cooking for others. He may or may not have those abilities."

"Well, I'm surprised," said Joyce in a tone expressing genuine surprise, and she paused. "Would you get me the flour, please?"

I did so. Joyce then gradually added three cups of flour to the bowl and began to knead the dough, maintaining a commentary to the audience as she did so.

"Here's a lady who needs dough," I cracked to the audience. "Are there any other ladies here who need dough?" The audience tittered, and Joyce looked at me in feigned annoyance.

"Pat, you say the most irritating things, especially when I'm busy, like now when I am kneading dough. I swear you do it to keep me on edge."

"I'm sorry, Joyce. Would you like me to knead the dough for you?" I asked. "Come here," demanded Joyce. I went over to her, and she patted me on the cheek with one doughy hand. You've got all the dough you need." She chuckled as the audience laughed at my floured face.

I grinned at the audience as I wiped the flour off my face. We bantered further for fifteen minutes, and then Joyce announced the dough was ready and asked me to fetch a dough roller and board for her. She then floured the dough board and set the lump of dough on it. "Are you planning to roll the dough on that floured board?" I asked her.

"Of course."

"Why don't you roll the dough between two layers of wax paper? It's a lot easier since the dough doesn't stick to the roller or to the board."

Joyce looked at me in genuine surprise. "Who told you that?"

"I think one of the ladies I met on the internet told me. I would have thought you knew about it."

Joyce turned to the audience and remarked that cooks, like artists, are always learning. Here was a tip that would be useful to all bakers, and it had come from a most unexpected source. Joyce rolled out the dough thinly and cut it into strips about one and half inches wide by three inches long. Then she cut a slit in the center of the slice and drew one end of the pastry through the slit. Meanwhile, I had melted lard into a deep pot and heated it briskly on the stove.

"Is the hot lard ready? Joyce asked.

I signaled it was. She then dropped the pastry wings into the boiling fat until they were deep brown, approximately ten minutes, talking to the audience as she did so. She withdrew them from the pot using a grated spatula, shaking the hot lard off each piece and placing it on a double layer of paper towels. "Would you mind coating the chruscik with sugar?" she asked me.

"The shrewsick?"

"The pastry pieces. Don't give me any trouble. I've a potent weapon here." Joyce waggled the pot of hot fat. The audience tittered. I sprinkled confectioner's sugar over the pastry while Joyce announced that the golabki had been cooking for two hours and fifteen minutes and should be ready by now. She opened the oven door, took out the roast pan, and cut open one of the rollups. "Needs a little more cooking," she announced and put the pan back in the oven.

"That golabki smells good," I said. Indeed, it does. "I have a song for you about it." On cue, a karaoke player started playing the music to the song "All I Do Is Dream of You."

Wonder if the audience remembers it being sung by young Debbie Reynolds just after stepping out of a cake in the movie, Singing in the Rain. I then pranced on the stage, warbling as follows:

"All I do is dream of lovely cabbage rolls;

With my bites, I always leave these empty bowls.

Its every thought, its everything,

Each lovely bite gives me a zing

Summer, Winter, Autumn, and Spring.

And were there more than twenty-four hours a day,

They'd be spent in sweet content, eating away.

When hunger calls and empty bowls,

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner calls.

All I do is dream of lovely cabbage rolls.

Joyce and I were unsure the audience would react to this song, but as I did my best to cross my knees as twenty-year-old Debby Reynolds did over sixty years ago, the audience began laughing, which grew to heavy clapping at the end. Wonderful. Joyce and I smiled at each other and the audience before we turned back to cooking.

I pulled the dish of egg whites from the refrigerator, added some sugar, and started beating them with the electric beater I had cleaned right after the break.

"What are you doing?" asked Joyce.

"I'm beating the whites." I slurred my words deliberately.

"You're beating the wives?"

"Yes."

"Why are you beating the wives?"

"Because I want to make a sauce for the shrewsick."

"The chruscik."

"Sauce from beat wives is good for the shrew." The audience tittered at this patter. Joyce threw up her hands in mock exasperation. She pulled the pan from the oven and announced the golabki to be ready. I picked up a chruscik pastry and dipped it into the now-stiff egg white sauce. Joyce had taken one of the cabbage rollups in a fork and was blowing on it. We looked at each other for a minute. The audience started clapping, sensing the end. Then we both took a bite and pronounced simultaneously, "Not too bad."

Andy called cut and met us on the stage. "Well done," he said. "We'll see how it edits." We joined Aunt Jo, who beamed, saying her niece had done a terrific job. The director, producer, cameramen, and stage crew then moved the cooked food into the conference room for a well-deserved lunch. I suggested we go to Starbucks for coffee, but Aunt Jo declined. Joyce asked me if I was returning to Los Angeles that evening. When I told her my flight was the next day, she asked, "Then would you mind driving me home in my car? I am not at all comfortable driving with this one eyeglass on. I'll drive you back to your hotel once I have on my spare pair of glasses." I agreed to do so.

Our conversation in the car was quite different from when we had first met. Joyce epitomized congeniality. It was pleasant to discuss the pratfalls on the show, those planned and those accidental. Joyce asked me if I would like to stay for dinner, but agreed to dine at my hotel when we returned. Joyce, still wearing the white smock and half-spectacles, offered me a glass of wine before she went to her bedroom. I watched the television while she showered and changed clothes. Forty minutes later, she returned in a pale-yellow dress, fashionable yellow sandals, and wearing an amethyst necklace with matching earrings. She had scrubbed the duct tape adhesive off her nose and put on fashionable glasses. I had to admit that for a heavy woman, she had made herself quite attractive. I complimented her, to which she smiled. She took my arm as we went to the elevator and from the elevator to her car. I appreciated this arm contact, an acknowledgment we had collaborated well on the TV show and she had set aside her prejudices against me.

As we drove back, Joyce asked me about music, and I told her my interests were mostly classical. She had a broader taste than mine and asked me if I liked dance music. I said I liked to dance but preferred tunes of the fifties to the seventies. "Good," she said and turned on a radio channel playing golden oldies. One of them seized her, and she began to sing along with it: "Don't know much about geography, don't know much about biology..." This gal has a nice voice, so unexpected. She's in a good mood too. A side of Joyce I've never seen. Quite remarkable too that a woman who had been so cold to me could now let her heart out by singing such a sweet melody. I believe when people sing, they are sharing their happiness. So nice to see a happy Joyce; I encouraged her to sing more songs.

"Andy said it would be a couple of weeks before he could send us the edited videotape of the show," Joyce told me as she sipped a cocktail at the hotel. "He suggested we think of new ideas for a next show, though he couldn't guarantee there would be one. He just wanted us to be prepared." I replied that we would have to do it by phone and e-mail since I would be returning to Lomita next day. The alcohol loosened Joyce's tongue, and she told me more about her ex-husband, how her rage at his conduct had consumed her and she had found cooking and teaching nutrition to be therapy. We talked about classical music, my taste ranging from baroque to Copeland. She asked about my plans when I returned home, and I told her I might have to work more at the rental property I co-owned due to my manager's persistent back problem. I also mentioned I would have to fight off his wife's passes. Joyce asked several questions about Ruby, but offered no advice. I walked her to the hotel parking lot and gave her a hug, one she returned. I had made a friend. One can never have enough friends.

After Joyce drove home, I called Beth and Donna. Beth enthused about coming home after being away for three months and how she was looking forward to seeing me. I reciprocated.

"I can't wait to get back to my studio," she said. "Connie told me I have an order from a previous customer, so I'll be busy when I get back."

"Happy to hear it. Hope you'll have time for me."

"Well, I hope you didn't look at other women while I was away."

Time to fudge. "I certainly felt like it since I missed you."

I then described the TV show to Donna, who chortled heartily at the notion of half a pair of spectacles being duct-taped to a lady's nose on television. I told her about spilling the ketchup on Joyce's top and exaggerated: "She accused me on camera of feeling her up." I said this partly to assure Donna I had no romantic designs on Joyce.

After a short pause, Donna commented, "Nice of you to drive her home. Where does she live?"

"A small town called Franklin. It's about twenty-five miles from Norfolk."

"What's her apartment like?"

"A modest two-bedroom unit. It's not particularly plush. Joyce clearly doesn't have a great income. Indeed, she appears grateful for the possibilities raised by these TV shows with me."

Donna asked a few more questions about Joyce and finished by wishing me a safe trip home.

Donna asked me to meet her at the Seaside Palace restaurant. I arrived two minutes late to find her already seated at a corner table, dressed in a blue-gray business suit with gold chain and earrings, the epitome of class. She looked gorgeous. I had put on my best sports jacket with just-cleaned black slacks, blue shirt, and gold alumni tie pin. I bent forward to kiss her on the lips, gratified at the response. I then noticed Number 33 sitting at a nearby table with friends. She saw the kiss and winked. I nodded my head in acknowledgment and had to explain to Donna. She turned around and smiled at Number 33, who waved back.

Donna scrutinized me carefully and grinned. "You clean up good." I laughed. I hadn't heard that English expression for years. Donna confirmed she had heard it from a British client. We ordered cocktails, and I asked her how her week had gone. She gave me a few general details and then asked me more about the television performance. I told her I thought it had gone well and described what had happened.

"Your difficulties with Joyce have gone, then?"

"Joyce is much more congenial, less argumentative, and is proving to be a good partner on the cooking show."

"Is she good looking?"

"Not especially... She's on the heavy side, but she doesn't look bad when she dresses herself well."

"Are you teaching her anything there?"

I stared at Donna. "You must be joking... Oh, I see. A little light sarcasm."

Donna laughed heartily. "I'm glad to see you're wearing more formal clothes when you take me out to dinner."

"Well, I don't like to be casually dressed when you are not," I replied.

"You're making the point that dress makes the man...or woman."

"True. There is the old saw that one has only one chance to make a first impression. Wouldn't you agree the point is to dress for the occasion, not for the person you are meeting? For instance, if I were meeting a plumber at my rental property, I would be wearing work jeans and a flannel shirt that I wouldn't mind getting dirty if I had to get onto the floor to show what needed to be done."

"Point made." Donna paused. "I take it that Joyce doesn't generally dress well enough to show herself to best advantage."

I'd never thought about this before. Dress was hardly the issue for a chef on a television show, or was I wrong? Joyce wore clothes on the set that she wore to the studio, sensible, elementary, and capable of sustaining gravy or juice stains. Such clothes did not make her look as good as when she had gone with me to dinner.

Donna was staring at me... She needed a reply. "Now I think of it, I think you're right. She could dress better for the show as well."

"You don't think you could be interested in her?" Good Lord. Is rich, beautiful Donna worried about plump, frumpy Joyce?

"Good heavens, no. She lives three thousand miles away, and we would never get together enough to be more than friendly coworkers. I'm grateful she no longer regards me as an adversary or a food charlatan, even though she dislikes my book."

Donna apparently accepted this reply, because she changed the conversation to another subject.

Bill Hancock left a message on my answering machine saying his back was giving him great trouble and he couldn't repair a minor leak in one of the apartments. He wanted to know if he should call a plumber or if I would do it. Nobody was in the apartment office when I arrived early the next day. Where's Ruby. I knocked on the door of Bill's apartment next to the office and waited since I could hear movement inside. Eventually, Bill opened the door and stood at the opening in his bathrobe, unshaven and haggard, his body bent, his hand on the small of his back, his face in pain.

"Sorry to see you in this shape," I said.

"You're not seeing all the shape I'm in," replied Bill in a voice both sad and grim.

"What do you mean? Where's Ruby? There's no one in the office."

"That's right. There's nobody there because Ruby's gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes. She left me." I stared at Bill, waiting for him to say more, but his eyes welled up with tears. A half-minute passed before he spoke: "I'm sorry about this, Pat. You know Ruby liked men...and I couldn't satisfy her. I thought you were interested in her the way she made passes at you, but I was wrong. She's been screwing the tenant in apartment 25 for the past four weeks and has finally gone off with him."

I took in the news, thinking how best to respond. "How do you know?"

"Her stuff has gone, and his next-door neighbor saw him moving his stuff into a rental van in the wee hours this morning with Ruby helping him."

"I'm very sorry, Bill." I really am sorry, but I'm also relieved that Ruby won't be hitting on me again.

"I miss her already. I loved her despite all her faults. I'm so disappointed I couldn't be the man she wanted," moaned my manager.

"Go rest in bed," I told him. "You need to rest your back as well as your heart from its wounds."

He nodded and closed the door. I picked up the tools from the maintenance room and went to apartment 33, where I repaired a leak under the kitchen sink. Two problems resolved in one day—Ruby gone, a leak repaired. At least I could rest assured Bill would no longer be diverted from being maintenance man and manager.

Sonia called me on Wednesday to say three more producers were interested in interviewing me. We tallied up how many interviews I had to date. The total came to twenty-five. Five producers had not called me yet. "You should reach the contract amount of thirty by the end of September. Please continue to let me know by e-mail on which radio stations you are interviewed so I can call producers back if you haven't heard from them," said Sonia.

"I'll be sorry when it's over," I replied. "I like talking to you and swapping stories about our love lives. How's it going with the pudgy fellow?"

"It's nice to be with a good man. He's a gentleman. He's polite. He's tolerant. He's easygoing, and best of all, he likes me. I realize the differences in what we like to do are not as important as how our personalities mesh. I'm enjoying myself and am grateful to you, Pat, for telling me not to lose heart or prejudge people." She paused and asked me how it was going with Beth and Donna. I told her things were warming up with Donna, but Beth would be returning soon. "You'll have to make a choice soon," she said.

I met Beth at the airport baggage claim—a flight arrival of nine p.m. She broke into a wide smile when she saw me and gave me a warm hug and a passionate kiss. Lovely. Beth told me about her trip at some length before asking about my activities while she was gone. "Did you look for a new girlfriend while I was away?"

Tricky question. The best lie is a half-truth. "Of course I did, but I could never find anybody like you. I won't need to look anymore now you're back." Donna wouldn't let me get away with that answer.

My answer either satisfied Beth or the start of the luggage conveyer system diverted her. She pointed out her two bags—large and heavy. I grunted as I heaved them off the conveyer. They felt well in excess of the allowed weight of fifty pounds, and I said so to Beth. She acknowledged they were and complained about being charged twenty-five dollars each.

"What did you expect?" I said. "Couldn't you have left some clothes there? You will surely be back to visit your son and granddaughter."

"I had to pay in cash. What with buying a snack and a drink on the plane, I only have four dollars left in my purse, and I know I will need to buy gas for my car before I go grocery shopping." I pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my pocket and gave it to her, telling her to return it after she got to an ATM machine. The time was equivalent to midnight on the East Coast, and I expected Beth to be tired. I asked if she would like to buy groceries before I took her home, but she surprised me. "Pat, would you take me to my special Italian restaurant in Culver City? I'm feeling hungry and would like a nice welcoming meal."

Beth was indeed hungry. She ordered in less than two minutes. The waiter in the crowded restaurant said her request for duck and pasta would take forty minutes to cook. In the interim, we had cocktails and chatted, she, in her old, charming way, reminding me how good her company was. She had another cocktail to pass the time before our food arrived. Beth ate her meal slowly as she talked about Connie and Harry, her son and granddaughter, and between bites, she let me tell her about the script outline. Thus, it was nearly midnight when we reached Beth's condominium. I hauled the luggage upstairs, and Beth began to unpack. I put my arms around her, pulled her without much resistance onto Connie's queen-size bed, and pulled her skirt and panties off, then my pants and briefs. While mildly juiced Beth was willing, Johnson refused to perform. You're embarrassing me, you stupid bugger. Pat, I think you're feeling guilty about lying to this woman. We necked at length, and then I diddled her in the hope that Johnson would rise to the occasion, but he declined. My nervousness and anxiety from this long absence from sex was compounded by Beth saying, "Don't dig so hard." Eventually, we took off the rest of our clothes and went to sleep.

I woke to Beth's snoring. I wondered if I should wake her and see if Johnson might do better this morning, but decided she needed the rest. The day before had been very long for her. I shaved and showered, and then drove to get coffee, donuts, and a newspaper. With Beth still sleeping when I returned, I sat down to eat, drink, and read. Beth, showered and dressed in shorts, a top, and sandals, came downstairs an hour later to kiss and hug me. I reheated the coffee I had bought her and asked what she wanted to do that day. She bit into the donut, raspberry jelly smearing her lips, and said she wanted to go grocery shopping first and asked if I would help. "Glad to." I said. After eating breakfast, she went upstairs to prepare to go out. How could you ever think, Pat, that being dressed for breakfast was the same thing as being dressed to go out.

Forty-five minutes later, Beth came down, saying apologetically that she had spent time looking over accumulated mail. "I've got a further commission," she told me, a pleased smile on her face. I congratulated her as we climbed into my minivan parked in the condominium garage. At the supermarket, Beth picked up an item, often to replace it with a similar item, a different brand, flavor, or size. Thus, what would have taken me twenty minutes to shop took Beth three quarters of an hour. Beth said she had left her credit card purse in her travel bag and asked me to pay for her groceries, which I did. As we left the supermarket, she told me Connie would be coming home that evening so I should not plan to stay over. I asked her if she wanted to come to my place. "Thank you, sweetie," Beth replied, "but I'll be busy for the next few days catching up on things and working on these jewelry orders." Okay. Then I won't have to make excuses about tomorrow when I expect to see Donna. We arranged to go out for dinner the following Friday.

Donna and I went to dinner at the Charter House on Sunday. We conversed about her interests: how successful her son's fundraiser had been, the ineptness of one of the local judges, the death of one of the senior partners at her law firm, and recently issued state and federal regulations. I then told Donna about Ruby leaving Bill. "I'm lucky I won't have that woman making advances to me anymore, and I'll be able to retain Bill's services."

Donna smiled. "You saved yourself the cost of an attorney on the matter."

"Lucky for me and unlucky for Bill," I said.

We then discussed other things significant to me, including Bill's bad back, the chances of success of the TV show, and my views on global warming and nuclear power. Finally, Donna asked if I had called my physician to get the results of the STD test. I told her that due to being preoccupied with the TV script outline, I had asked the results to be mailed to me and had not yet received them. Donna said she had not received hers either. At least this confirms she's interested in going further with me.

The phone rang on Monday, and I recognized the telephone number as that of WTBH, a Bert Williams call. I picked up the receiver with anticipation. Bert and I went through a few pleasantries before he got to the meat. "Roger Banning liked the last show you and Joyce made and is going to pick it up."

"That's wonderful."

"But there's a catch." He paused. "It's a major one."

"And?" I waited for Bert to continue.

"He likes the concept of the show, a good cook and a rookie arguing or fighting on an actual demonstration of genuine cooking. However, he says the two of you are not actors and are not competent to take leads in any show he wants on his network. He wants to have the show produced in his cable network studios with his staff and his selected actors. I hate to tell you—I've already phoned Joyce about it this morning— there's no room for either of you on the show, and there will be no mention of your books." He paused as though expecting an unhappy response from me. I pondered over this turn of events during the silence. Actually, I wasn't upset. I thought Banning's criticism objective and likely correct, though very disappointing.

"Where does WTBH fit into this?" I finally asked.

"He will buy the concept from us for an upfront fee—enough to pay our costs in producing those first two shows—plus a license fee and royalties on each show sold."

"And Joyce and I?"

"As we agreed, we will reimburse you for all your travel and hotel expenses for the two shows we produced."

"Do we have any intellectual property rights in Banning's productions?"

"No. Your contract says you get your travel and lodging expenses reimbursed."

It took a minute to digest this stunning news before I responded lamely, "That we don't share in your license fee isn't fair."

Bert's voice took a firm tone. "Pat, you have to look at who took on risk here. We invested considerable funds in two TV shows and are only being reimbursed, just as are you. We only get royalties if Banning sells the series. Any royalties are based upon a complex formula that depends on how many cable operators pick up Banning's productions and the number of viewers the shows reach. In other words, it depends on many advertisers can be carried." He paused. "I've been saving the good news. You and Joyce are not out of the picture. Roger liked your effort. He wants you and Joyce to write six draft scripts—his staff will edit or work them up since you have no professional experience in scriptwriting—and he will pay you twelve thousand dollars for each draft, which includes your services as consultants to the show. Sorry. You won't get screen credits for your drafts. He will also pay your expenses in going to his studio for any consulting effort. How does that sound to you?"

"Wow! This takes some digesting. What does Joyce think of this?"

"You should talk to her about it, but she told me she couldn't do it without you." How nice of her to say that!

"That twelve thousand dollars is the total or for each of us?"

"It's the total figure. You have to agree with Joyce on how to split it. Personally, I think you made the show funnier, but you should know our contract with Banning's company precludes us from having you or Joyce on any future cooking show we might produce."

"In other words, Joyce will no longer have the opportunity to earn income from your former TV cooking show?

"Right. But I have a good contact at a TV station in Lynchburg, and it would be within the terms of the contract with Banning if Joyce alone did cooking demonstrations there."

A lot to think about. I told Bert I would consult with Joyce. I asked him if there was any room for negotiation with Banning, but Bert cautioned me about upsetting the applecart. "I had a hard time negotiating this deal."

I don't believe you, Bert. Joyce and I are the key players and creators of this Mutt and Jeff cooking show. I think Bert doesn't want to be squeezed on his upfront fee or royalties. I wonder if Joyce and I should now consult with a lawyer. I decided to look again at the contract with WTBH Bert had originally sent to me. I had been so excited at appearing on a television show that I had read it only cursorily before signing it. Now I read the document carefully. Only then did I notice Joyce and I had no rights in any future productions. We would have to accept whatever terms were offered us or be out of the picture. I could see no wiggle room. A competent attorney had written the contract. Pointless to challenge it given that the terms offered for our participation were substantial. Better not mention this to Donna.

I called Joyce and left a message for her. She returned the call that evening, and we discussed Bert Williams's offer. "Pat, I think you're the funny man on this deal. It can't be done without you, so you should have a larger share of the money for the scripts."

"Joyce, that's sweet of you to say so—I really do enjoy you're confirming what Bert said—but I won't consider your taking less than an equal split of both the script fees and the royalties. The show would not be possible without you, your character and your cooking skills."

There was a silence at the end of the phone. I thought I heard Joyce crying quietly, so I waited patiently until she was ready to talk. I heard her swallow. "That's very decent of you, Pat. I look forward to working with you. Let's discuss this after we get the contracts."

"I'll call Bert Williams to instruct Roger Banning to write into our contracts that all monies are to be split evenly."

"Don't forget to send in your expenses for visiting WTBH. Now that Bert has sold the show, he should pay us for them per the contract. You did keep your receipts, didn't you?"

"I did, thank you, and I will... Why don't you start thinking of recipes and other ideas for our first-draft script?"

Later that day came a letter from the clinic giving me a full medical clearance. I called Donna that evening to let her know I had received it, but only after telling her about the call from Williams. I did not wish to appear excessively anxious.

CHAPTER 15

I had learned by now that Beth would never be ready to go out at the appointed time. Best to work around it. Connie opened the door to the condominium that Tuesday evening and said her mother would be down shortly. Too bad. Connie home. No nooky here tonight. Twenty-five minutes later, Beth came downstairs wearing a black skirt and a white top, her hair cut and colored to a darker auburn. She also had a wide smile on her face, and she swept me into her arms, saying she had missed me. I complimented her new hairdo, and we kissed quite passionately. Glad Connie went upstairs when her mother came down, aren't you? I noted the difference between Beth and Donna, the unrestrained warmth of the former. I told her about the forthcoming contract to prepare scripts for the cooking show. Beth was impressed.

"I'm taking you to The Bazaar restaurant in West Hollywood tonight," I told her. West Hollywood is thirty miles north of Torrance, so I could be sure of not running into Donna. I wanted a restaurant that served cocktails and had a better ambiance and menu than the Blue Café.

"What have you been doing since I saw you last?" I asked Beth.

"I've been working on the commissioned order I discovered upon my return. I've talked to the client, had the specifications detailed, and received a deposit of eight hundred dollars already."

"What will you charge for the finished piece?" I asked.

"Twenty-six hundred dollars."

"And what's the cost of the materials?"

"I'm using some gold in this work, though it's mostly silver. Then there are garnet and citrine stones—I buy them completely faceted—I would say about seven hundred."

"And how long will it take you to make this?"

Beth cocked her head and thought for a minute. "I don't work at it constantly. It is an elaborate work, and I told the customer I would have it for her in three weeks. Why do you ask me these questions?"

"Beth, I am curious if you value your time." You certainly don't value mine. "How many actual working hours will this jewelry take you to make?"

Beth wrinkled her eyebrows, took a pen and a notebook from her purse, and wrote some things down. "I reckon I'll put in about four hours a day for two weeks except perhaps Sunday, when I go to church and join in the after-church activities."

I did the calculations. "You will make a profit of nineteen hundred dollars for forty-eight hours of work. Thus, you value your artisan skill at about forty dollars per hour."

Beth looked at me quizzically. "Is that too much or too little?"

I told her I thought it low for artistic work of that character, but she could make a living at it if she had more orders and worked more hours each day.

Beth laughed at me. "Pat, making jewelry is still a labor of love. I don't depend on it for my income. That profit is only half of what I get each month from my investment income and alimony." That's the first time I can actually figure out your income, lady. You're making at least four thousand dollars per month. You've told me you own your condominium outright, and maybe Connie pays you rent. You could well afford to pay your share of meals and repair items I've bought. Is the money important, Pat, when you are getting nooky? No, it's just an attitude that militates against a long-term relationship. When you were young, women expected men to pay for the pleasure of their company. In those days, men brought in the income while women looked after the house and children. It's different at our age; women usually have income and their children have long since left home.

At the restaurant, Beth behaved as usual. She scanned the menu for five minutes—I was timing her—until the waiter came and we ordered drinks. She scanned the menu for a further five minutes and then asked if I had made a choice. I nodded, and she asked what it was. I told her. The waiter then came with the drinks and asked if we were ready to order. Beth shook her head and looked at the menu for a further four minutes when the waiter returned. "Is your Kobe beef steak really from Japan?" she asked him. The waiter said it was and asked if that was what she wanted. Beth said she wasn't sure and continued to scan the menu. I sipped my drink. The waiter returned six minutes later and asked for the orders. I gave mine. Beth spoke up: "I'll have the roast beef, and I'd like it with roast turnips instead of potatoes, and string beans instead of carrots." The waiter said he would see if the substitutions could be made. He returned three minutes later to say they had no turnips.

"Okay, then I will have the roast beef with potatoes and carrots," replied Beth.

"How would you like your roast beef, madam?" asked the waiter.

"What are the choices?"

"Anything from rare to well done," replied the waiter.

"I didn't know you could have such a range in one cooked roast," said Beth to the waiter, now fidgeting with his order pad.

"We have more than one cooked roast from which to cut, madam."

Beth decided then to have her beef medium rare, and the waiter smiled with gratitude at satisfying a difficult customer. I looked at my watch. It had taken Beth twenty-four minutes to decide what to order, nearly a record.

"I told you Connie and Harry got engaged," she said. "He's bought her a lovely engagement ring, yellow gold with a lovely marquee-cut diamond surrounded on either side with a sapphire."

"Very nice. When do they plan to get married?"

"Sometime next year."

"And where will they live when they get married?" Connie moving out?

"I was thinking of renting my condominium to them with an option to buy at what I paid for it four years ago."

"That's very generous of you... And where will you live?"

Beth took a deep breath. "That depends a little bit on how you and I get along. I need to tell you that I don't like your home, so I'm telling you in advance you should think about an improvement...and no, I'm not moving into that condo of yours." Geez. I don't think we've gotten to a point in our relationship where I would want you to move in with me. Besides, I think the prospects with Donna are better. Better not to argue with Beth so I can get her to stay at my place tonight.

"What's wrong with my place?" I made a point of saying this mildly rather than defensively.

"It's dirty—"

"I can get a cleaning lady in more regularly," I said, interrupting.

"The carpets are old. It needs painting. It only has parking for one car. It doesn't have room for my studio. The kitchen is pokey. There aren't enough storage cabinets. The closet doors are mere painted particle board..."

"Okay. I get the point. So, if we were to live together, we would have to get a better place to stay."

"You can afford it," said Beth. I don't like this emphasis on "you." I have bought this woman meals, groceries, maintenance supplies, and movie tickets for the past several months, and she has never offered to pay or share except for that one time where she gave a paltry tip to the waitress. Is she expecting me to pay for her next year's housing as well? Hmm.

I temporized. "You're right. I can afford a better place. I'm quite satisfied with my condo, but you're right about its deficiencies. They just never bothered me."

"While, I'm at it, I don't like your minivan."

"Really?"

"It's a soccer-mom car. Moreover, you don't always remove your tools when you pick me up, so the van rattles. It's not the kind of vehicle to take a lady out to dinner or a social event. It makes you look cheap." Cheap! Look who's talking! Geez. I'd no idea you felt this way. My minivan is such a great work vehicle. Still, you're mouthing what Donna had hinted at by driving me in her Lexus. Maybe I should get another car.

"I didn't know you didn't like it. After all, you drive a six-year-old Sentra with a damaged fender."

"Pat, you're missing the point. What I drive has nothing to do with what you drive. I simply don't care to be driven around in your work van."

"We could take your car when we go out next time."

Beth gave me an exasperated look. I picked up my cocktail and took a slow mouthful, hoping the alcohol might lessen my disgruntlement. I decided not to tell her about the forthcoming TV contract and changed the subject to politics. Beth rambled on about the virtues of her preferred presidential candidate, while I limited myself to a few queries on aspects of his economic programs and his view on the war in Iraq. Fortunately, our dinners were brought, and continuous conversation then ended. Our dinner finished with personal conversation—Beth's son and granddaughter, the raising of homeowners' fees at her condominium, and so on. Beth said she would be busy all weekend in her studio; that suited me fine. I could see Donna the next day without conflict. Beth is not a suitable partner for me. I'm glad she helped me make a decision. She doesn't know it's over, but she may get the idea from a much-less-than-passionate kiss when I take her home tonight.

Donna picked me up on Saturday for an early dinner at a sushi restaurant, timing the meal to make a seven thirty p.m. chamber music concert. I reimbursed Donna for my concert ticket, and we split the cost of the meal. After the concert, she invited me to her home for a nightcap, an offer I accepted with alacrity, wondering if a sexual opportunity would present itself. I did not want to hasten the issue, so I let our chatter cover the evening's concert, the quality of the performers, and then politics before I broached the subject of STD clearance. Donna stared at me as though reluctant to speak. Finally, she said, "I do not have any STDs, and here is the test document that says so." She pulled it from her purse for me to examine. "But it also says I have a vaginal bacterial infection." My eyes stared at her in question. "It's not a serious infection, being treated with antibiotics and other medication. If I were in a sexual relationship, my partner would also have to take the medication and refrain from intimacy until the infection is cured."

"I'm very sorry to hear about the infection. Does it take long to clear up?"

"Another ten days."

"Are there any side or residual effects from the medication or the infection?"

"No. But you can see we can't go there until later."

"Donna, I appreciate your being so honest and forthright about the matter... Here's my clearance also," I said, and I handed it to her. She looked it over carefully, returned it, and smiled. I kissed her passionately and was gratified at her response. I put my hand on her bosom, but she said we had better not start that until we were ready to follow through. I was aroused. Her perfume, her nearness, her warm lips, her soft arms, her thighs, inviting under the silk skirt, turned me on. Pat/Johnson, control yourself. There will be a time.

I had an early morning interview with a radio station based in Great Bead, Kansas. The interview was notable because questions gravitated to subsidies for farmers and the use of corn for alcohol. I modestly expressed my opinion that mandating the use of alcohol brewed from corn as a fuel for vehicles had pushed up corn prices and, hence, food prices. In a farming state like Kansas, arguing with the natives about their industry earns neither friends nor book sales. The interview finished early.

The contract from Banning arrived by FedEx later that day. In order for it to arrive so quickly, Williams must have had it drafted before he called me, indicating a high interest in this cooking comedy. I perused the contract carefully. It contained in full the terms Bert had described to me. However, the contract could be cancelled if the first-draft script, required within three weeks, did not meet Banning's approval. We had to deliver the remaining five draft scripts at two-week intervals thereafter. The contract was subject to a parallel contract being signed by Joyce Minsky. I did think about taking Donna's advice to have the contract reviewed by an attorney, but I knew the contract was important financially to Joyce and, if the attorney demanded renegotiation on some points, the offer might be withdrawn.

I promptly telephoned Joyce to ask if she had read the contract and what she thought of the terms. "They're the same as Bert Williams outlined to me... Are you thinking of asking for changes?"

I thought I detected a quaver in her voice. "This is a big break for you, isn't it?" I replied.

"Yes, it gives me a big financial boost, but I'm disappointed we won't get any screen credit. That credit would have been invaluable for other cooking demonstrations I do as well as for my sponsor, Brankhoff Frozen Foods... I'll go along with whatever you decide." That's sweet of you.

I took the initiative offered me. "Let's sign the contract, but I will attach a cover letter saying we would be very grateful if they would mention our names somehow in the credits, even if it's just as consultants."

I could sense the relief in Joyce's voice. "Sounds good! I'll put mine in the mail today... I've written down a few pages of ideas for menus and funnies already. How are you doing there?"

"I've written some fifteen pages. We may have enough ideas to start drafting the script already... I think we might do that better in person."

"I agree. Could you come out here? I'm available to work on it anytime during the following week," she added. A very positive response.

I told Joyce I would find out the flight times and call her back. I did so and booked the hotel and flights for Sunday with a Thursday return. I liked the notion of flying on Sunday because Donna would still not be clear of her infection. Furthermore, I wanted to avoid Beth so she might get the message I had lost interest in her. When I called Joyce back about these travel plans, she said, "It would be more efficient if we worked at my apartment rather than your hotel room since my material and computer are here and it would save me having to travel back and forth to Norfolk. If you are interested, you could sleep in my office room—I have a foldaway bed that's quite comfortable... And no, this is not an invitation to sleep with me. It's just a way of saving time and money. With your upbringing, you should welcome that." I did. A sensible and pragmatic idea. Nevertheless, I'm not going to tell Donna about it. Joyce said she would pick me up at the airport. I cancelled my hotel reservations.

I received my expenses from WTBH in Saturday's mail; they would nicely offset the costs for my visit to Norfolk. Beth telephoned, and instead of checking caller ID, I answered it. Big mistake. "Where have you been? You haven't answered my telephone calls," she complained. Chicken! Chicken! Pat, you really ought to tell this woman the relationship is over. But if you do, she will likely become angry... Sorry. I just don't have the courage at this moment. Better think of some good excuses, then. I told her I'd been very busy on the first script, especially now I had a contract in hand. Furthermore, I had to fly to Norfolk the next day to work on it with Joyce Minsky.

There was a pause. "Do you want a ride to the airport?"

"No thanks. It's a very early flight, so I'll drive and park my van at the airport."

Beth persisted. An opportunity to put the knife in. "I don't want to miss the plane."

There was long silence before Beth asked, "When will you be coming back?"

I wanted to avoid Beth, so I waffled. "Not quite sure yet. I've left the return flight open, but I anticipate around the end of the week."

"Give me a call. I've missed you."

I could have said I missed her too, but since that would be untrue, I merely responded, "I'll talk to you later."

Lovely Donna picked me up at my condo Saturday afternoon, and we saw another art movie called The Frozen Road, a painful tale about a woman smuggling illegal immigrants across the frozen St Lawrence River. "You do pick grim stories, don't you?" she remarked as we ate at the Charter House afterwards.

"At least my novel, when it's finished, will be lighthearted," I replied.

"You've told me very little about your novel. I thought you'd just begun it."

"I've made quite a bit of progress on it since I first met you. I find sometimes one gets in the mood to write, and when you are on a roll, it's a good idea to continue."

"So where are you now on it?"

"I've written an outline that encompasses the overall plot. I've also introduced the main characters in the first chapter and am busy showing who they are by what they do and say."

"What's it about?"

I grinned. "It's about a man trying to find a new partner...a female one."

"Sounds autobiographical. Am I to be in the story?"

"Maybe somebody a little like you."

"Then better not use my name, profession, or where I live."

"I won't be using your name, because the character in my book isn't you. She will have attributes that are a mix of people I've met. She won't be as good looking as you either." Nicely done to slide in that compliment.

Donna beamed. I told her about my trip to Norfolk to prepare the first script outline. "Where will you be staying?" she asked.

I had to fudge. "The same hotel as before, the Holiday Express."

"I'll call you on Wednesday to see how you're doing."

"Call me on my cell phone, then, since Joyce and I sometimes work late."

Donna looked at me oddly. "You work late at the studio?"

Maybe this isn't such a good idea to stay with Joyce. Why were you so stupid? You didn't have to add that sentence about working late with Joyce. Not that Donna has anything to worry about, though. But she's a lawyer. Details that don't hang together command her attention. Better come up with a good story since I don't want Donna to call the studio and find I'm not there. "No. Joyce's aunt, Mrs. Brankhoff, has a large, fully equipped kitchen, and Joyce does her cooking there. Mrs. Brankhoff and the housekeeper watch us and comment. It's helpful to have them as a trial audience. Joyce said the kitchen at her apartment is too small for both rehearsing our script and cooking." Hope this slides through.

"I think if you worked late at her home, you would have trouble with her."

I think it slid through. "Trouble?"

"Pat, you're an attractive man. Men in your age bracket who are in good health, interesting, financially self-sufficient, and unmarried are hard to find. Joyce would be crazy not to make a pass at you. It would be easier for her if she had you trapped in her home."

I laughed. "Donna, you've no need to worry. I won't have any problem resisting her, and the notion of being trapped in her apartment is hilarious."

"Well, I'm not so sure about that."

"What makes you say that? I don't find her particularly attractive. She lives far from me. How could I possibly be interested in her?" Actually, it isn't outside the realm of possibility. Joyce is a lot less quirky and self-centered than Beth.

"Pat, you already have a professional relationship with her. It's very easy to slide from that into a personal one. I did that with my first husband and the last man I dated."

I put my arm around her. "Donna. You're the only woman in my life. I want to keep it that way." She turned and kissed me.

Joyce picked me up at the airport. I sensed something different about her. Was it her pleasure in seeing me, evidenced by the very warm shaking of my hand and taking my arm as we wheeled the luggage to her car? Was it the warmth in her voice where I had first seen frost? Was it her clothes? No, they were sensible rather than fashionable, probably from Sears or J.C. Penney. She refused to let me pay for the airport parking, and I felt guilty about it. "Let me stock up your refrigerator, Joyce," I begged. "I simply don't want to cost you money."

"Pat," she replied, "you've opened up a window of opportunities for me. Why wouldn't I want to repay you?"

Eventually, she relented, and we stopped at a supermarket just off the freeway. Only then did I see the difference in Joyce's appearance. She had lost a little weight. I told her so, and she acknowledged it with a nod and a broad smile. I asked her how much, and she confessed to five pounds. "It's just a start, Pat. I was embarrassed about the questioning on the radio show about my BMI. Also, though I won't be on a cooking show with WTBH, Bert Williams has promised to use his connections for a show at another station, and I want to look better on TV. I had no idea how fat I looked on camera in comparison to you." She squeezed my shoulder. "I'm sorry you won't be with me on it since our contract precludes us from competing in any way with Banning's productions. You understand, don't you?"

I found Joyce's effusiveness charming and told her how glad I was that her fortunes were turning. Joyce turned on the radio in the car to the oldie channel and sang along with the music. "I'm delighted how we've developed such a good relationship after a most inauspicious beginning," I told her sincerely.

Joyce turned and looked at me, her eyes twinkling. "That's very British. You could just have said you're glad to be my friend."

I laughed. "I am indeed."

The groceries and luggage unloaded, Joyce ushered me into her office, where she had set up a foldaway bed. Its mattress, a good-quality one, had the remains of packing with a SKU number on it. I felt sure Joyce had just bought it and was touched by her desire to make me comfortable. Joyce cooked me a marvelous dinner of fish cooked in spices, a Jewish dish called dag ha sfarim, which she told me was especially popular at Rosh Hashanah, the start of the civil year in the Hebrew calendar.

"Joyce, you had better be careful," I said. "My book advocates a man getting a woman to cook for him, and you are fulfilling that role when you said it was sexist."

She giggled. "I didn't appreciate all the offsetting benefits."

We watched a little television before I excused myself to go to bed, tired from the airplane trip.

The foldout bed was quite comfortable, and I slept to what seemed early but, due to the three-hour difference between Los Angeles and Norfolk, turned out to be eight a.m. Shaved, showered, and dressed, I entered the living room to find Joyce pumping away on her exercise machine. "I need to do this before we start work," she said in a strained voice. Her kitchen's unfamiliarity caused me to poke around to find items for a simple breakfast of toast and coffee. With Joyce still exercising, I began breakfast and watched my host, a sturdy woman in running shorts and sports bra with sweat on her arms and legs, not fat exactly, but certainly not the slim, elegant figure of Donna—a peasant's body, Joyce remarked to me much later. I admired the effort Joyce put into her exercise, and when she finished, I told her so. She sat down at the dining table, breathing very heavily, and thanked me for the compliment and for making breakfast.

"It wasn't easy finding the ground coffee," I told her. "It was in a side pocket of the freezer. Do you really think it keeps better there?"

She nodded.

"And you keep the coffee maker in a cupboard with pots and pans in front of it." She smiled and nodded her head again.

"And I couldn't find filter paper, so I used a paper towel. You don't use the coffee maker very much, do you?"

Joyce breathed a heavy "No."

"You don't have any marmalade, do you?"

Another heavy "No."

"You weren't geared up for my stay, were you?"

"I haven't had anybody stay over with me for years."

"Not even Aunt Jo?"

"No, she likes the amenities of her retirement home. She frequently visits her son, who has a swanky home in Virginia Beach. In fact, Aunt Jo and her son, Paul, have asked us to come over for dinner on Wednesday evening when, hopefully, we've finished our work."

"What did Aunt Jo say when you told her I was staying at your apartment?"

Joyce squirmed in her chair and poured coffee into her cup before replying. "I didn't tell her... And did you tell Donna or Beth?" You change the subject when you don't want to be further questioned, just like me.

My turn to squirm. "No."

"And why not?"

"I thought they would misunderstand. Besides, I've given up on Beth."

"And did you tell her that?"

I squirmed again. "No. Joyce, I don't know what's better, to tell a woman the relationship is over and be asked why or simply not to call her."

"And has Beth called you since you decided to drop her?"

"Unfortunately, she has."

"Then I think you should tell her very shortly, or you'll be in trouble with Donna." Better change the subject. Mind you, you didn't tell me whether it was Aunt Jo or Paul or both who might be offended by my staying at your apartment.

I put strawberry preserves on my toast and took a bite. "I saw you had instant tea."

"Yes, I find it more convenient than loose tea or tea bags."

"I thought you might have instant coffee, but I couldn't find it."

"It's behind the instant tea."

A pause ensued, during which we sipped our coffee and took bites of toast. "I hate to say it, but your pantry looks a lot like mine. It's geared to convenience foods."

"So?"

"It's inconsistent with the persona you projected on the radio interviews and the television shows."

"Well, Pat. You aren't exactly the persona one would infer from reading your book about a quick meal."

"Well, I like your actual persona better than the projected one."

Joyce smiled, finished her toast, took the now-empty plates and cups to the kitchen counter, and began washing them. I turned on my laptop computer and loaded a script software program into it. Joyce started singing a Gershwin song whose words she couldn't fully remember. It suggested repeating what we did in the last TV show, namely singing a song connected to what was being cooked, either directly or indirectly or to the cook or a play on the name of the recipe. We tossed ideas around and selected one tentatively for the script. I finished keying our words into the script while maintaining a dialogue with Joyce on possible sketches of dialogue and action. Time flew, and lunchtime arrived before we knew it. Lunch—a cup of coffee and two cookies—proved sufficient. The afternoon went by quickly also, and we did not stop until my stomach rumbled for food at nearly seven p.m. While I reviewed our work, Joyce cooked a dinner of sweet and sour tongue, apparently a favorite Ashkenazi entrée.

"Delicious," I told her.

We completed over half the script in one day. True, we had a compilation of ideas to work from, but by any standard, we had made good progress. After dinner, we sat on the couch, rather primly, watching a nature show on PBS, both of us commenting on the animal scenes.

We finished the script or script outline by midday on Wednesday. We spent the early afternoon reading and acting out the two parts and laughing at ourselves as we did so. After a few more changes and some editing, we finished our work. I thought the scriptwriters at Banning's group would have little to do—the viewpoint of an amateur. I put the final draft, some forty pages long, in a FedEx drop-off box. Satisfied with ourselves, we drove to the retirement home in Norfolk, where Aunt Jo greeted us warmly. Throughout our drive to Paul Brankhoff's house, Joyce and her aunt held a lively conversation about the TV show and our scriptwriting, with a few jocular remarks about me thrown in. I sat in the back of the car, speaking only when a pertinent remark came my way. I could learn more by listening to these two women.

The Brankhoff house turned out to be truly palatial, a four-acre estate with an immaculately kept 8,000 square foot two-storey residence. A maid answered the door and greeted Aunt Jo with a friendly: "Good evening, Mrs. Brankhoff. So nice to see you...you too, Miss Minsky."

Aunt Joe replied, "Lovely to see you too, Edith," and gave her my name. Edith led us into a large living room on whose walls were several modern art paintings. I saw the name Klee on one of them and wondered if it was a print or an original. A four-foot tall bronze statue of Pan stood in one corner. Two plush couches were interspersed with four matching easy chairs. Two large Turkish rugs covered much of the oak floor. Paul's wife, Rachael, entered the room and hugged Joyce and Aunt Jo, who introduced me. We exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather, the problems of the towns in which we lived, and national politics—Rachael was clearly right wing—before Paul Brankhoff entered the room.

Brankhoff, a large man—about six foot three inches and 260 pounds—carried himself with purposeful authority as he strode over to greet us. After brief hugs with his mother and cousin, he turned to me. "Mr. Muir, you've certainly stirred up the show I was sponsoring. My mother has been keeping me informed of the progress, and I've seen the tape of the first show with you and Joyce. I haven't seen the tape of the second show, which you structured more. I'm very pleased how this worked out. The advertising on the Food Network should well repay the losses we had sponsoring Joyce's show on WTBH."

"Losses?" Joyce and I said this together.

"Well, yes," boomed Paul, looking at Joyce. "The advertising we did on your show did not bring sufficient sales to cover its cost. I sponsored your show to please my mother, who is very fond of you, and in the hope it would pick up more audience. But I had to regard those sponsorship costs as a net loss."

Joyce looked crestfallen. Aunt Jo spoke up: "Paul, you've no need to speak to Joyce this way. You should regard those costs as an investment, now being paid off thanks to Pat here."

Paul saw the forceful look on his mother's face and decided not to pursue the matter further. Joyce looked so crestfallen that I longed to put my arm around her to comfort her. Paul talked about Brankhoff Foods, which he had taken over from his father twenty-five years before and had increased sales tenfold. In part curiosity and in part to draw the man out, I asked him if this increase in sales was entirely self-funded.

"Oh no," he said loudly. "I had to borrow money after five years to finance a new plant and equipment when credit was tight. I finished getting expensive funds from a community bank whose majority owner was a socialite that Joyce's ex-husband had just married. I think he put in a good word for me, but it's a sore point between me, my mother, and Joyce."

Joyce said nothing. The silence that followed was palpable. Fortunately, Edith came in to say that dinner was ready and ushered us into a huge dining room, as exquisitely furnished as the living room. The appetizer served was herring salad with beetroot and sour cream that Rachael Brankhoff extolled as a divine kosher dish. The conversation then somehow turned to religion.

"Rachael and I are Jewish, and we are devout," announced Paul. "We do not look down on those who are not of our faith. We think that our God is God for all people and heaven is there to be shared by all who live a good life. It bothers us that my cousin, Joyce, born a Jew, does not believe in a creator."

This sounded like a challenge, and I spoke. "Well, I hope it won't bother you to know you will be seeing a couple of nonbelievers on the cooking show."

Paul stared at me. I can see you don't like being challenged. Joyce winked at me. "Really. You too. You won't be allowed into heaven if you think like that."

"I wasn't planning on going to heaven."

"People don't plan on going to heaven. That's their good fortune if they live a good life."

"And you don't think Joyce or I live a good life?"

Paul could not answer this without being rude to guests in his house. He harrumphed a little before saying, "I have no opinions or knowledge about the lives you lead."

I rubbed it in a little. "Well, I hope you'll come to know me better and develop a good opinion of both of us."

Strangely enough, Paul smiled. "I'm sure my opinion of you both will rise if you make the cooking network show successful."

Aunt Jo apologized to both of us for her son's rudeness as we drove her back to her retirement home. We said nothing. After we had dropped her off and gotten into the car, Joyce leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. "It was very sweet of you to defend me and stand up to Paul. He's a bully, and you let him know it."

"My pleasure," I said and squeezed her arm. There was silence in the car for several minutes.

"I didn't know you were an atheist," said Joyce.

"And I thought you were Jewish."

"Only culturally. My reading of the Bible and the Torah told me God was unfair, malicious, and vengeful. I had to conclude such a God was not one I wanted to believe in. I simply could not find a substitute all-knowing God given the misery that exists in the world. So, I lapsed into being a nonbeliever."

"We'll have to talk about this later."

To lessen the tension in the car, I told her a famous joke about a man in a poor area of Belfast being asked by a local tough if he was Catholic or Protestant. The nervous man replied he was an atheist. "What I want to know," said the tough, "is whether you are a Catholic atheist or a Protestant atheist."

Joyce laughed, and we eased into friendly conversation. After we returned to Joyce's apartment, I went outside, claiming a need for fresh air, but actually to call Donna on my cell phone. Donna answered, apologizing for not calling me—the press of business plus the three-hour difference between Palos Verdes and Norfolk. I told her Joyce and I had finished our work and had gone to dinner with the show's corporate sponsor. Donna asked details of the sponsor and our work, expressing a keen interest in my replies. I told her I would be home the next day, and she said she would pick me up at my home the day after, a Saturday, to go out for dinner. My phone contained a voice message from Beth. I debated whether to reply to her as Joyce had advised, but I chickened out.

CHAPTER 16

I beheld a very beautiful woman when I climbed into Donna's golden Lexus on Saturday. She was indeed dressed to go out—smooth, long beige skirt and green short-sleeved top with pearl necklace and earrings. A coffee-colored jacket and beige leather shoes completed her attire—an ever-elegant woman. She leaned over and bussed me on the cheek. The Cheesecake Factory was busy that night; it took thirty-five minutes before we were seated and Donna could ask me about my week's efforts.

"Joyce was very open, and together, we made a competent script outline." I explained we were obligated only to an outline, with the details and nuances of the steps to be enhanced or modified by formal scriptwriters. "That's why we're not paid as much."

"Which is more important, then, the cooking or the incidents along the way?"

"I think the incidents and gags make the normally staid cooking show much more interesting, and I think my contribution there is more than Joyce's. But it couldn't proceed without Joyce's knowledge of stimulating cooking dishes."

"So, you like working with Joyce?" I think I detect a jealous or accusatory note here. Better give a neutral reply.

"It's nice working with people who are professional and like to succeed."

"That didn't really answer my question." Okay, I'd better unload.

"Joyce has turned out to be much easier to work with than I would have anticipated from our early interactions. She has gotten into the spirit of what we are doing. Consequently, I now enjoy working with her."

"Do you think this will extend beyond the scheduled six shows in the series?"

"It's nice to dream of it, but we haven't seen the edited tape of the show or heard if it's been aired anywhere. Even if it does succeed commercially, I think professional scriptwriters will take over and our services will no longer be needed."

"And then you won't be seeing Joyce anymore."

"I suspect it will turn out that way."

"Good." This calls for a question.

I looked at Donna carefully before speaking. "Why do you say, 'Good'?"

"Because you will be out of town each time you prepare the script, in close quarters with a woman whom you now admire. You are likely to be hit on by this woman, and most men, when so approached, do not resist much."

"Donna, why do you think that? I have, for instance, resisted Ruby very well."

"That's because she wasn't in your class and all she offered was sex. Besides, complications would arise, she being married and your employee."

I couldn't think of any reply to this, so I changed the subject and told her how lovely she looked that evening. Donna thanked me and handed me a document from her physician indicating the results of her blood tests, negative for gonorrhea, syphilis, genital herpes, hepatitis, and HIV.

"I'm fully cleared now," she said, smiling.

"Wonderful," I said. "When can we test this news?"

"When, we're both in the mood." This is promising.

"Is it possible you could be in the mood when you drop me off at my condo?"

Donna smiled again. "We'll see."

The rest of the meal went by slowly due to my anticipating forthcoming sex with beautiful Donna. I declined having dessert, hoping that Donna would do so as well, but no, she ordered a crème brûlée and coffee and consumed them slowly. I felt she knew what I was thinking and enjoyed teasing me, enhancing my expectation. Eventually, Donna finished dinner and, this time, did not offer to pay for half the meal. Maybe she feels it's time for the man to pay for play.

I left a good tip on the bill using my credit card. I felt expansive. A lovely woman might soon have sex with me. Halfway home, I asked Donna if she would like to have a nightcap with me, and she nodded a smiling yes. The expectation of what would follow swam in my head, making light conversation with Donna difficult. Even Johnson heard the call as she drove; consequently, I had to extract myself from the car gingerly after Donna had parked the Lexus expertly on the street outside my condo.

The key to my front door turned more easily in the lock than usual, and I made a mental note to look at it later. I ushered Donna into the recently cleaned living room, the faint scent from jasmine bushes below my living room window enhancing the romance. I took off my jacket and put it in the hall closet, together with Donna's jacket. She stood waiting behind me. I turned and embraced her tightly. Her lips were warm, wet, and willing. She felt my erection against her body and put her hand against it, saying laughingly, "You're all together there, aren't you." I took her hand and gently pulled her into the bedroom.

"Oh shit" were the words that sprang from my lips, accompanied by a small shriek from Donna.

Beth sat on the bed—fully clothed, thank God—a magazine she had been reading by her side. That jasmine scent wasn't from the bushes. She looked at me coldly. "I saw your car in the parking lot and knew you'd returned from Norfolk. So, I waited for you."

I stood dumbfounded. Swear words went silently though my head as I tried to make sense of the situation. I had completely forgotten I'd given Beth a key.

Donna broke the silence. "And you are?"

"Beth"

"And you?"

"Donna." There was a long pause as the two women stared at each other. "And did he give you a number?"

"Yes," replied Beth. "I'm Number 57. And you?"

"My number is later," replied Donna. "And I think I now have Pat's number." She turned and went to the hall closet.

I followed her, wondering how I could explain. Certainly, this wasn't the time or place. "Let me call you tomorrow and discuss this."

"Absolutely not," replied Donna, slipping on her jacket.

Beth followed us to the living room.

"Nice meeting you, Beth," said Donna, and she opened the front door.

I stepped out onto the walkway and begged, "Please." But Donna shook her head and walked away briskly. My consternation over events was paralleled by Johnson's decline. It seemed odd afterwards that I should think of this decline rather than the decline in my fortunes. I stepped back inside to find Beth also putting on her jacket. I did not intend to ask her to stay and would have been surprised if she had wanted to, given her discovery that she was not the only woman in my life. Her slipping on her coat told me clearly our relationship was over.

"You really are a shit, Pat," she said.

"It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been out of town so long."

"I don't believe that. You just couldn't keep your dick buttoned up."

There was nothing more to say except to ask for my house key back. I offered to walk her to her car, but she declined. Thusly did two women walk out of my life simultaneously. I took a nightcap to soothe my nerves and went to bed.

The nightcap worked, and I slept soundly. In fact, I awoke quite refreshed, surprised I had done so after an evening of such drama. As usually happens after a catastrophe, I began to rationalize the results. Beth was too quirky for me—cheap too, and self-centered. I had intended to drop her. Donna was too classy for me, smarter, had more money, and had expectations of transforming me. I was probably better off without her. Nevertheless, the thought of being intimate with her and the lost opportunity hung over my head. I just wished I could discuss what had happened with somebody. I don't know why I thought of Joyce, but somehow, it seemed appropriate to do so. Aware of the situation prior, she would enjoy my dénouement. I called her.

Joyce howled with laughter as I told her the events of the previous evening. Her mirth grew louder as I told her of the conversation of the two women. "Donna actually asked Beth what her number was?" She gasped. Her laughter was contagious, and the humor of it hit me also.

"Yep. It really was rather funny now that I think of it."

"Aren't you going to try to get Donna back? She did go along to your home expecting to be laid. She might return if you could reassure her Beth was a thing of the past."

"I doubt it, but it's worth a try. I'll e-mail her to see if I can get a response."

"Keep me in the loop. You are beginning to appear like the womanizer I was anticipating when I first read your book."

"Yes. But you know I am not a womanizer, at least not an intentional one."

"Tell that to Donna and Beth."

"You should know that Donna asked a lot of questions about you. She seemed to think you might be a rival to her. She actually thought you and I might try to fool around."

"Really! She does sound like a suspicious witch. You're probably better off without her." That's harsh and off-key language. I ignored the comment and asked Joyce if she had heard anything from Banning. She replied in the negative. The conversation ended with her saying cheerily to me, "Don't forget to keep your pecker zipped up."

I tried calling Donna over the next few days, but could only reach her voice mail. I sent e-mails, but received no replies. Calls from Beth ceased. On a whim, I decided to call Number 33 since she had indicated a further interest in me. However, her phone number had been disconnected. My heart wasn't in it to track her down from ancillary information in her file or go to the dance studio in the hope of seeing her. The loss of Donna weighed heavily upon me.

I had a radiotelephone interview with a station in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. The interviewer questioned me about my second book, the one being promoted, and then asked how I had come to write it. I gave him my spiel, which led to questions about my first book and myself.

"Have you any advice to our listeners on finding a partner?" asked the interviewer.

"Yes. Check out as many potential partners as possible. Expect to find many women who find you uninteresting or unsuitable. Be persistent in the face of rejection since that's an essential of the dating game. It takes character and determination to play it. One should be as diligent in finding a partner as in making an important business decision. Don't let your need for companionship or intimacy cloud you into settling for second best. Too many people settle for second best in a lifetime partner, a factor in our high divorce rate. Setbacks and rejection are normal events in life; move on and recognize them as life experiences."

Sonia called to say her records showed I had received the agreed-to thirty interviews. I had lost tally and was happy to concur given the television opportunity. We discussed my book sales, which had changed from minuscule to anemic over the six-month interview advertising duration. "Too bad," she said.

"I can't complain. I've enjoyed myself, especially appearing on television with Joyce Minsky. If it hadn't been for you, that would never have happened, nor the draft scriptwriting contract," I replied.

"I hope your love life will be as successful."

I unloaded on Sonia what had happened between me, Donna, and Beth. Like Joyce, she laughed heartily. "Rejection is part of the business of finding a new partner. You told me that yourself."

"Yeah, but this is a double rejection. One doesn't expect to get hit twice in the same evening."

"Pat, get back on the internet. Remember, persistence pays. You told me so yourself."

Politeness made me ask, "Enough about me. How's your love life?"

Sonia paused before responding. "Jack's a sweet man. He's moved in with me. He makes me happy. I just hope you'll find somebody to make you as happy."

"Thanks, Sonia. I'm delighted to hear you've found somebody. Out of curiosity, how many men did you meet before you found Jack?"

"Pat, I don't keep track of them by numbers like you do. All I can say is that it took two years for me to find a man like Jack. I've appreciated having somebody to talk to while I was searching."

"Me too, Sonia. I enjoyed sharing my experiences with you."

Roger Banning called on Friday of that week to say his scriptwriters liked the material we had sent them. He would shortly send me a six-thousand-dollar check and the written go-ahead for the remaining five script outlines. He also said he would send me a copy of his network's script software, called Final Draft, in which he wanted us to format our material. I said okay and asked if he had contacted Joyce. "My next phone call," he said.

I waited an hour before calling Joyce. She forestalled me. "Wonderful news," she said excitedly. "When can we start?"

"Let's start the way we did with the previous outline—writing down our ideas, and then we can swap them by e-mail before we try to put the script to bed."

She agreed enthusiastically. For the next five days, I tried to assemble ideas for a new script, but I suffered writer's block. I reckoned it came from putting our best ideas into the first script outline and from my brooding extensively over losing Donna. I just could not raise a comic mood. I tried working on my novel, but had writer's block there also. Joyce sensed my heart wasn't in it from the paucity of fresh ideas in my e-mails. Five days later, when she called me, I told her how I felt.

"Pat, why don't you come here, and we'll work directly together. In fact, from a time-efficiency viewpoint and the saving of travel costs, why don't you stay at my place as before, and we'll finish all five contract-required scripts. You can work on your novel when we run out of ideas."

It sounded like a good idea, but then another struck me. "Joyce, have you ever been to Los Angeles?"

"No," she replied cautiously.

"Well, why don't you come and work with me at my condo. My couch has a pullout bed I can sleep on. I'll show you around the area, and you can make a holiday of it. There's lots of things to see—Disneyland, the La Brea Tar Pits, the Getty and other museums, art galleries, and beaches."

There was a long silence. "Are you sure you want me to stay with you?"

"I can't see any difference between me staying with you in Franklin and you staying with me in Los Angeles."

There was another silence. "Let me think about this, Pat. How long would it take for us to do all five scripts?"

"Let's say we take five days each—that's slower than the three days for the last one. Allow a little slack time. I would say we could wrap the whole thing up in about a month."

"You won't hold me to staying the entire month if our work goes slowly or we get into a fight?" Wow. She's actually going to come.

"Joyce, I think we've learned to be friends. I respect you and will do whatever is necessary to accommodate your wishes."

Joyce laughed. "You sound so pompous there, Pat." Her laughter, like a breath of fresh air, made me laugh too. Joyce said she would set up flight arrangements and call me. Anticipating Joyce's visit swept away my writer's block. I finished a second-draft chapter on my novel and sketched some ideas for the cooking script. Joyce called to say she would arrive in six days. I called in a cleaning lady, washed all the sheets and clothes, dusted my computer and hi-fi equipment—I would never let a cleaning lady do that—and bought some potted plants to decorate the patio of my condo. I bought some golden oldies for Joyce to listen to. I bought new bedspreads for both my bed and pullout couch. My condo still seemed slightly dingy, so I asked Bill Hancock to come over and quickly paint the walls. It looked wonderfully refreshed afterwards. I paid Bill for the extra work, and he asked me about the urgency.

"I'm having a guest stay with me for about a month."

"A woman?"

"Yes. It's the lady I met on the cooking television show I told you about."

"I thought she'd been tough on you and you didn't like her."

"She's not as bad as I first thought. She's coming out to work on a joint contract we have."

Bill smiled and raised his eyebrows.

I gave Joyce a friendly hug when I picked her up at the airport in my minivan, freshly washed for the occasion. She looked at the vehicle and remarked, "You actually dated women in that van?"

"Yes. It's a very useful vehicle," I replied defensively. "I can carry tools for plumbing, carpentry, and roofing repairs. It's even big enough to carry a sheet of drywall or plywood."

Joyce looked at the inside, grinned, and said, "Yes. It looks like it." Funny, her saying that doesn't bother me. Is it the way she says it, or is it because she, Joyce, is saying it? Reminds me of Axel's prisoner joke.

"Pat, it amazes me how you attracted so many women when you have such a disreputable vehicle and you don't make the most of your appearance."

"What do you mean by that last remark?" I asked as we drove along.

"Pat, you wear wrinkled shirts, you let your hair grow too long, you wear most unfashionable shoes, your belt shows wear—I bet you've worn the same belt for the past five years—and I hate to say it, but you don't trim your nose and ear hairs enough."

Didn't Mrs. Soames tell me I needed a woman to look after me?

"Really!" was all I could say at the moment. I collected my thoughts for a minute before facing Joyce. She had a grin on her face. "Well, it didn't seem to bother you before."

"It wasn't timely to say these things before, mostly because I didn't know you well enough. Now I've worked with you, I know I can be direct without hurting you."

I thought about this for a moment. "Joyce, does this mean I'm allowed to make remarks about your appearance or demeanor?"

"Yes," she replied, but you'd better be careful. We women are much more sensitive about our appearance than you men."

I hauled up her two luggage bags onto my second-floor condo, rested them in the patio area, and opened the door for Joyce. She entered eagerly and started looking around before I had pulled the luggage inside. "Ooh, I smell fresh paint. You had your house painted recently?"

"Yeah. It looked a little dull."

"Pat, it's perfectly okay to say you did it for me."

"Okay. I did it for you."

"What else did you do for my visit?" she asked and grinned as I told her about the bedspreads, the potted plants, the cleaning lady, and the golden oldies. I said I had made space in the closet for her and had taken the opportunity to throw away some clothes I hadn't used for years.

"Wonderful," she said, taking off her coat.

"Joyce, you've lost weight."

"Another five pounds. I would have been disappointed if you hadn't noticed." Joyce, you'll never be a slim person like Donna, but you look sturdily attractive. You've a decent shape, a lively smiling face, and I'm very glad to have you here.

"Well, did you do it for me or yourself?"

Joyce laughed. She went into the bathroom, used the facility, and returned to inspect my apartment. She checked the bedroom, complimented me on my choice of a new bedspread, and asked if she could use drawers in the chest and dresser. I pointed out the ones I had emptied for her and said she could use my treadmill at any time. She looked over my office, brushed her finger over the computer monitor, and noted the absence of dust on her digit. She asked me some questions about the h-fi set and the computer and then set upon the living room.

"Did you get this coffee table at the Salvation Army?" she asked.

"No, I bought it at a garage sale and refinished it. You don't like it?"

She made a funny sound like a long hmm. She moved to the kitchen. "This needs remodeling badly, Pat."

I agreed and asked if she wanted to organize it.

"How much do you want to spend?"

"Hey, Joyce, can't this wait until morning?"

She smiled and said of course. I asked her if she wanted anything to eat or drink after her journey. "Let me look in your refrigerator," she said. She did and turned up her nose. "You're a Fast Food Freddy. If I'm to stay with you, the inside of your refrigerator is going to change."

I smiled as she took three packaged burritos from the refrigerator, stripped off their packaging, and slipped them into the microwave. I wheeled her luggage into the bedroom and put them onto the bed to facilitate her unpacking. When I returned, Joyce had put plates and cutlery onto the dining table and was filling water glasses. I must say, I like the way this woman is taking over my domestic life even if it's for just a month.

"Do you need a hand?" I asked, and Joyce shook her head.

I examined Joyce as we ate and chatted. Such a different person from the one I had first met. No longer reserved, no longer caustic, or clearly in fun if she was. I liked this Joyce. Her eyes beamed through her thick glasses as she talked animatedly about some of her ideas for the next script. Her enthusiasm was catching; it generated fresh ideas from me and before long, it was ten p.m. I looked at my watch and realized this was equivalent to one in the morning for Joyce. I apologized for keeping her up late. She smiled, yawned, and asked me to clean off the table. Then she went to the bedroom and closed the door. I could hear her unpacking for the next fifteen minutes before she opened the door, went to the bathroom in her robe, and returned with a quick goodnight to me.

I had not slept well. The pullout couch was not as comfortable as I had alleged, but I thought it better to say nothing about it. I heard Joyce in the bathroom, taking a shower. and then dozed off, only to be shaken awake by my guest, already dressed, saying breakfast was ready. I put on my robe and retrieved the newspaper from the front door, giving her the front section while I concentrated on the business news and sipped orange juice. We said little as we read. Nice that Joyce, like me, enjoys reading the daily newspaper. Joyce made a pot of coffee; it tasted much better than my usual instant stuff. I told her so and how I appreciated the trouble she had taken. I asked her if she had slept well, and she replied, "Yes, you have a very comfortable bed." She looked at me and grinned. "Have many other women told you the same thing?"

"No. It has been employed for such research only by one other woman."

We both chuckled; it shook the sleep from my eyes.

"What do you think of this local newspaper, the Los Angeles Times?" Joyce asked.

"It's got a fairly good coverage of California events. It's just okay for national news. It has a left-wing editorial policy and a good comic section." I then added: "Its circulation is declining like most major newspapers. That's due a lot to the free classified advertising service Craigslist, which has decimated newspapers' revenue. We're now getting more news from television and the internet."

"Could you spring for an Eastern paper while I'm here?" she asked.

"Such as?"

"The Washington Post or the New York Times."

I said I would take care of it and got onto my computer to make the online order. I went to the bathroom, shaved, showered, and dressed, and came to find the dishes put away, my pullout couch folded, and Joyce's laptop computer on the dining table. Joyce got out three recipe books she had brought with her and selected a recipe as the main subject for the script. We worked diligently all morning, but I felt tired and was ready for the quick lunch that Joyce made.

"You look tired," she said afterward. "Why don't you take a nap while I go to the supermarket for some better-quality food to fill your refrigerator and also the basics for the first script?" I liked the idea. I gave her my van keys, the spare house key, and directions to the supermarket. I pulled out my wallet to give her cash, but she declined, saying that we would split the bill when she returned. I felt too tired to argue. I lay down on my comfortable bed and fell asleep.

Joyce was working on the computer when I woke two hours later. She looked at me cheerfully and remarked that the nap had done me good. It had. I sat down with her, and we produced several more ideas to go into the script, which, due to its formatting, was already longer than the first script outline submitted to Banning. Joyce made a dinner of the recipe chosen for the script. I watched her and made comments along the way, some of which I later incorporated into the script. The meal was delicious. "You're a great cook, Joyce," I told her.

She beamed at the compliment. "I realize now," she replied, "how much the pleasure of cooking comes from watching others enjoy the results. When there's nobody else to cook for, that pleasure is gone, which leads to a 'why bother' philosophy." After dinner, we enjoyed watching a PBS program called NOVA.

Joyce then looked at me carefully. "Pat. That pullout couch of yours is as hard as a bone. I sat on it while you were in the bathroom this morning, and you'll never get a good night's sleep on it. I suggest you sleep on the bathroom side of your king size bed. And no, this is not an invitation for sex. It's a recognition that we won't get our work done unless we both sleep properly."

I did like the idea. I hadn't realized until then how much I enjoyed being with Joyce. She made me feel very comfortable. I valued her friendship and companionship and wouldn't want them spoiled by trying to seduce her. I also feared her potential wrath.

Joyce sensed my thoughts. "Pat, I know I can trust you."

I temporized. "I can rent a decent foldaway bed. I don't want to embarrass you. Our work is too important."

Joyce replied in a straightforward manner, "I doubt if a rented foldaway bed will be any better than your couch. I think you're quite capable of sleeping soundly on your side of the bed without making a sexual advance to me."

She was right. We arranged the mechanics for her to be in bed in her nightgown before I retired. Fatigue overcame any thought of sex. I slept like a log and had no difficulty staying on my side of the bed.

Joyce arose before me and had changed into shorts and sports bra. "I want to use your treadmill for half an hour after breakfast," she told me.

We had breakfast; I put away the dishes and cleaned up in the bathroom while Joyce exercised. I put my head into the bedroom while she walked briskly on the machine. She did not see me, her attention being focused on a morning news program on the small television set I had connected to the front of the treadmill. The sweat poured off Joyce, and her breathing was labored. I had to admire her determination to stay or get into shape. And her shape wasn't bad. Hips, waist, thighs, bust—all well proportioned. The loss of ten pounds since we had first met had made a noticeable improvement. The slim elegance of Donna faded like a dream; here was a real person who knew me, trusted me, and whom I liked immensely.

We worked very well on the script that day. My well-rested brain in the company of a kindred soul produced an abundance of ideas. We became familiar with Final Draft and, in my view, were composing a completed script. We had some leftovers from the night before, which I heated up and supplemented with a package of frozen vegetables. Joyce chatted with me as I prepared the dinner, an easy, comfortable conversation encompassing our opinions on politics, the candidates running for office, and the likelihood that our choice might prevail. After dinner, we watched a show on PBS called The American Experience, a story about President Franklin D. Roosevelt. How nice we have similar tastes. We went to sleep in the king-size bed. Joyce's perfume made her quite feminine, tempting me to put my arms around her, but her gentle snoring dissuaded me.

On Saturday, after breakfast and exercise by both of us, I thought a day off work would be good for us. I made a suggestion to Joyce. "I've been thinking about what you said about my minivan. How about postponing work while we look for a new car? It would be convenient for you to have a car while you're here. And as you say, my van isn't suitable for dating."

Joyce looked at me and said she appreciated the idea, but a rental car would be cheaper, and she would be happy to pay for it. I said I would need a dating car for future internet ladies, but I would refrain from using it for such purposes while she was here. Joyce giggled at the notion. I suggested we first go out for coffee, where we could discuss what type of vehicle would be suitable for the above purposes.

"Starbucks, of course," said Joyce. "Your old hunting ground. Are you expecting to find any of your old dates there?"

"Quite unlikely," I replied. "My experience has been no such coincidences with sixty women; that is a zero probability."

"Sixty women?"

"Is there anything wrong with that?"

"It certainly implies you're picky"

"I prefer to call myself persistent."

Joyce grabbed a table at Starbucks while I queued for her black coffee and cream cheese bagel and my cappuccino plus blueberry muffin. I left the store counter and could hardly believe my eyes, for there sat Ruby by herself. Her dress flaunted her gorgeous body as usual, and her eyes scanned the breakfast throng, apparently expecting somebody. Her eyes caught mine, and I nodded to her as I walked back to Joyce. Ruby got up and came over to our table, where sat a third chair. I introduced the two women and invited Ruby to sit down.

"I can't stay long," she said. "I'm meeting a man I contacted on the internet."

"The internet?"

"Yes. Bill said you were looking for somebody on the internet, and I decided to copy you. It was a mistake for me to marry Bill, and I'd like to meet somebody better."

Gotta satisfy my curiosity. "Why did you marry Bill, then, may I ask?"

"He was kind. I was lonely. I was broke."

"Why didn't you pick somebody younger?"

"I know why you're asking. Bill told me he was a part owner with you in the apartment building. I needed security and was very disappointed to find he'd lied. It might have worked, but I'm a once-a-day gal, and Bill is now a once-a-week guy. I thought you might help out, but you were a perfect gentleman. You didn't want what I offered. I was surprised. I'd never been turned down before. I hope I get a younger guy this time who'll look after me properly. What I have now won't last forever. I want to grow old with my guy."

"I thought you'd hooked up with the tenant from apartment 25."

"He doesn't make enough money. I want better."

I didn't know what to say. Joyce broke the awkward pause: "Ruby, Pat and I wish you the best of luck. Search diligently, and you'll be rewarded."

Ruby stood up abruptly. "I see my guy."

Joyce and I both stood up and shook her hand. Wonderful. No sexy hug this time. She turned and left. We watched as she approached a young man wearing slacks, a sports jacket, and a tie. I guess he wanted to make a good first impression. I could see the man's eyes widen as he greeted Ruby with a broad smile.

We sat down, and I looked at Joyce, who finally said, "You were right. She's beautiful and sexy. How did you resist her?"

"It wasn't easy."

We drank our beverage and munched. "I guess the probability of meeting a former date is not zero," remarked Joyce.

"She doesn't count," I protested. "She was never a date. I never gave her a number."

"She's good looking enough."

"Looks aren't everything."

"I thought you numbered every woman you interacted with."

"Only those I had a coffee or a meal with."

"Then I guess you'll have to give me a number."

I grinned back at her. "Well, I think we could say we've dated given we've stayed overnight at each other's homes. That would make you Number 61."

"Same as my age."

"Interesting coincidence. What's the probability of that?"

I spread my hands. If I met women between the ages of fifty-six and sixty-five, then the probability would be ten percent. I did not give her that number.

We spent a happy morning touring auto dealers before having lunch at a beach restaurant. We talked over possible cars to buy at lunch, and Joyce played a major role in the decision to buy a new red Toyota Camry. We returned to the chosen dealer and made the purchase and payment arrangements. I had Joyce drive the car home, and the smile on her face as she slid behind the wheel was memorable. It widened even further when the salesman said, "Have a safe drive home, Mrs. Muir. You've made a great choice."

What pleasure I had in making Joyce happy! To celebrate the purchase of my new dating car, I told her I would take her to Redondo Beach's finest restaurant, Puccini's.

Joyce looked at me doubtfully. "Are you sure you can afford it after buying the car?"

I laughed and said the cost by comparison was insignificant. When Joyce emerged from the bedroom after dressing for dinner, I had to stare. She had a white silk top and a flowing black skirt that gracefully showed her sturdy, well-proportioned figure. She wore a gold necklace and earrings. I think she appreciated my stare more than my compliment. "You look good." That's better than "You clean up good."

At Puccini's, the young woman with the revealing black cocktail dress greeted me. "Good evening, Molly," I said, ogling her again.

The young woman replied: "Nice to see you both again."

Joyce nudged me and whispered, "You men are all the same—boobs and backsides."

I replied carefully, "I've only seen her once before and thought those components were very well structured."

Joyce giggled as the maître d' led us to our table. But there, to my great astonishment, I saw Donna seated at the table across from us, in the company of a distinguished-looking senior. It seemed rude to ignore her, so I said hello and introduced Joyce. Donna introduced her companion, and we all shook hands.

"A remarkable coincidence, seeing you here," I said to Donna.

"Likewise," she replied. She paused. "I see you have a new lady."

"I see you have a new gentleman."

Donna smiled. "Not at all. William here is the president of my law firm."

"Joyce is the lady whom I'm working with on the television contract." I have to admire Donna. No loss of cool and a good sense of humor. "Has Pat given you a number yet?" she asked Joyce.

"No, I don't think he's in the numbers business anymore," replied Joyce with a face she could barely keep straight. "Probabilities and coincidences defeated him."

At this point, William asked if we would like to join their table. I could see Donna wasn't keen, but Joyce jumped right in with a "Love to." We sat down, and Donna asked me gingerly how my novel was going. It seemed a polite way of starting a neutral conversation while the two women spent time appraising each other. Donna wore a splendid lavender dress, dark lilac sash, and diamond necklace, earrings, and bracelet. I could sense her appraising Joyce's simple white top, black skirt, and gold chain. This is a class thing, lady. I said I had finished the outline of my novel and had completed two draft chapters. "I wondered if I should approach some of the companies and businesses I had planned to mention in my novel to see if they would pay me money for the inherent sponsorship."

"Sounds like a good idea," said William, turning to his companion. "Donna, you could handle this for Pat, couldn't you?" I love how these lawyers look out for new business.

Donna said she would be delighted to, though her face did not exhibit that emotion. "I look forward to a good working relationship," she added. I detect the emphasis on "working" and love this sly dig that we had an unsatisfactory personal relationship.

"I play bridge regularly at a community center every Friday," I said, "and I told the players I was writing a novel. They were interested, especially when, in fun, I suggested my book might be similar to the one entitled Belvedere, in which the quirks, mores, and foibles of the local society were exposed and ridiculed. Should I ask if they would like to pay me to be written into my book?"

Donna smiled. "I can certainly tell you to be careful when you write about real characters. Heavy hitters may sue you for slander or invasion of privacy." Thinking of yourself there, Donna, aren't you?

"Now don't be giving Pat free legal advice," interrupted William, smiling.

There was a pause before Donna spoke: "How's the television script work going?"

William leaned forward to hear our response. Joyce told him we had written the first script outline and had received the go-ahead on the remainder. William asked what we were being paid for the scripts. Joyce and I looked at each other before I told him it was six thousand dollars each per script.

William whistled. "That's a lot less than you would get for a regular sitcom script, and even for a minor cable network. I would have thought you would have been paid more." Joyce and I looked at each other as he continued. "Did you have your contract reviewed by an attorney competent in the entertainment field?"

Best to take Donna off the hook here in front of her boss. "Donna did advise me to do so, but I decided against it because it could have affected Joyce's relationship with the TV station she worked for and hence the affiliate that will resume her original cooking show. In addition, Joyce's sponsor, Brankhoff Foods, the imbedded sponsor on the cable show, might have been impacted."

Donna flashed me a smile of gratitude. William acknowledged my reply. The conversation then moved onto the economy and politics and became banter without sharp edges. After dinner, we bid goodbye graciously and promised to keep in touch.

"She's a good-looking woman," said Joyce.

"You're right. Gorgeous figure, black gown, great legs, boobs nicely showing..."

"You know I didn't mean the greeter," interrupted Joyce, chuckling.

"Oh, you mean Donna. No, she doesn't compare to Molly."

Joyce gave me an exasperated look. "For a woman of—you said fifty-five—she's in good shape. I can see why she was a turn-on for you. Personally, I think she's much older. You know she's had a face lift."

"Really! How can you tell?"

"Her face is smooth; her neck has wrinkles."

"Hmm."

"Didn't you tell me her son was in his mid thirties?"

"Yes. What about that?"

"Well, if she got married a year after law school, she would have been at least twenty-eight when her son was born."

I did the math. Even if I had misjudged John's age, Donna would still be well over sixty. Not that the age mattered as much as Donna being untruthful about it.

"Did you ever challenge her age?" Joyce added.

"No. I had no reason to."

"Why don't you look her up in the California Bar Association Records and find what year she graduated?"

"Why would I care to do that when I won't be going out with her anymore?"

"Are you sure you don't want to?"

"Yes. I'm sure I don't want to. A worthwhile relationship is based on trust. Donna doesn't trust me, or perhaps it's that we hadn't built up sufficient mutual trust where she would have been prepared to listen to an explanation."

Joyce squeezed my arm. "I'm sorry, Pat. Let's get to work tomorrow early to take your mind off missed chances."

The clock showed ten thirty when we arrived home. Our stomachs were full. This coupled to the events of the day made us tired. I got into bed first and left the light on so I could watch Joyce emerge from the bathroom in her lacy nightgown. This is quite a sexy woman. She made no comment at this departure from our usual practice. With deliberation, she turned off the light. She got into bed, and I pulled her into my arms. I kissed her passionately, and she responded. "What took you so long?" she murmured as I pulled up her nightgown. I fondled her large breasts and massaged her sweet spot—already wet. She moaned in pleasure, and Johnson responded quickly. I will never forget that first time of being intimate with Joyce and her noisy responsiveness. We cuddled at length afterwards and fell asleep in each other's arms.

The postscript of this story is simple. We finished the five scripts within the month. As each was finished, we turned it in to Banning and obtained his approval on the first two before Joyce returned to Franklin. By that time, I knew I had found my soulmate. I told Joyce I loved her and wanted her to be with me always.

"I love you too," she said, beaming, "but I would never have expected it the first time I talked to you." Me neither.

We decided to live in the Los Angeles area—Joyce loves the climate and the amenities of a large city, but she wants me to get a larger, modern condominium. She returned to Franklin to clean out her apartment and tell the news to her friends and relatives. Aunt Jo was ecstatic and asked when and where we would be married. We haven't decided that yet. As I write this, I am waiting for Joyce to return and wondering what pieces of my furniture, files, and personal property will need to go to make room for hers. My blue suede shoes have already departed. My feisty partner assures me I have no taste; I tell her my taste, at least for a partner, is excellent. Until she returns, I will still enjoy my days of wrinkled shirts, upright toilet seats, unmade beds, and quick meals of leftovers.

A few months later, I took Joyce to the dance studio I had patronized before. By coincidence, Number 33 was there and came over to me when Joyce went to the restroom. "I see you have a new girlfriend, Pat," she said.

"Hi, Noreen. "I remembered her name this time. "There's safety in numbers, you know."
