Addicted to Love (23 page)
“Girl Scout cookies. Get your sweet treats here,” Vivian called out.
Michael gulped, closed his eyes, and shrank back from the door. What had he done?
She rang the bell again.
Go away.
The bell chimed a third time.
What the hell, Henderson, are you a man or a mouse? Open the door and tell her you’re not interested.
But what if Selina didn’t take him back? What if there really was no hope of repairing his ripped marriage? Didn’t he deserve something good in his life?
Vivian is not good and you know it. You’ve been down this road with her before. Sure, she’s sexy as hell, but she’s nothing but trouble.
He had to take a stand. He’d cruised by for so many years on his money and his looks. He’d taken Selina for granted and he’d hurt her, and instead of being contrite about answering Vivian’s e-mail, he’d been defensive. He’d accused her of being jealous and petty. He’d been in the wrong. And he’d wanted her back more than he wanted to breathe. That was the only reason he’d done what he’d done to Rachael. To repair his damaged family.
Michael took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and went for the door. Then quietly, emotionlessly, he told Vivian what he should have told her when she’d sent him that e-mail three months ago: “The only sweet treats I’m interested in belong to my wife.”
F
aced with no job and an uncertain future, Rachael spent the rest of the next month trying to decide what she was going to do with her life. The heat of August ebbed into the slightly less-scorching heat of September. Football season started and along with it, a constant reminder of how well Trace was doing with the Chicago Bears while she was languishing jobless in Valentine.
Rachael had completed her court-ordered community service shortly after losing her job. She’d done her best to avoid Brody, and for the most part she’d succeeded. He’d raise a hand in greeting now and then if he spied her from across the street, or when he saw her in town. And she would wave back, but that was as far as things went.
The one area of her life where things were going well was with Romanceaholics Anonymous. Due to the popular demand generated by the YouTube video, Rex had helped her start her own Web site, and she’d created a blog devoted to debunking romantic myths. She’d also started several Romanceaholics chapters in surrounding towns.
But while it was emotionally satisfying, her anti-romance crusade wasn’t generating any income. Selina had told her not to worry about money, that she’d take care of Rachael’s expenses while she went through her metamorphosis, but the truth was she needed something to bolster her self-esteem.
Then one bright afternoon in late September, she came home from setting up a new chapter of Romanceaholics Anonymous in a neighboring town to find a black Lincoln Town Car parked outside Mrs. Potter’s house.
Something bad has happened.
The thought seized hold of her and wouldn’t let go. Her legs felt leaden as she trod up the sidewalk to the front door. Her heart flipped up into her throat. What else could go wrong?
She found her mother in the living room having coffee with a sharply dressed woman in her late thirties. The visitor wore a tailored suit that hadn’t come off any department store rack, drop-dead stilettos, and an expensive, big-city coif. She looked decidedly out of place perched on an aged sofa with a hand-crocheted afghan stretched across the back.
“Here she is,” her mother said brightly. It looked as if she’d been having trouble holding up her end of the conversation with the sleek creature on the sofa.
The woman settled her cup and saucer onto the scarred coffee table and rose to her feet, her right hand extended. “Hello, I’m Maggie Lawford. The entertainment editor for
Texas Monthly.
”
“Rachael Henderson,” she said.
“I know.” Maggie Lawford’s eyes sparkled.
“What are you doing in Valentine?”
“I’m here to see you. You’re the talk of the Internet. My guess is that you’re averaging ten thousand blog hits a day. Is that number in the ballpark?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to ask my Web guy.” Rachael tucked her bottom lip up between her front teeth. “Really? I’m actually on your radar?”
“Not just on my radar, but in my magazine.”
“Excuse me?”
Maggie smiled. “I’m here to offer you a job.”
“You drove all the way from Austin to offer me a job?”
“That,” Maggie said, “and to see Valentine for myself. It’s everything you describe in your blog and more.”
Rachael’s trepidation vanished and she felt a sense of anticipation that equaled the thrill she experienced whenever she encountered a potential love interest. She hadn’t known that anything other than romance could make her feel this way — giddy, breathless, hopeful.
“It’s so exciting,” Selina said.
Rachael agreed with her mother, but facing her romanceaholism had taught her a few things. Just as she shouldn’t romanticize a man, she had no business romanticizing a job, either. “Exactly what would the position entail?”
“Why don’t we have a seat?” Maggie invited, settling onto the sofa again and crossing her chic legs. She patted the cushion. “Relax.”
Rachael eased down beside the other woman and tried to restrain the surge of enthusiasm pushing against her chest.
Don’t look too eager.
“What kind of job?”
“We’d like for you to write a monthly column.”
It took everything she had inside her not to squeal out loud. She wanted to say,
Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.
But those were the words she’d used when Trace asked her to marry him. She was done impulsively riding the wave of excitement. She amazed herself by saying, “A monthly column is quite a commitment.”
Brody, she thought, would be so proud of her. Immediately, she wondered why she was thinking about him.
“You’d be well compensated,” Maggie said smoothly. She named a figure that was almost twice Rachael’s salary at Country Day.
It was all she could do to keep from breaking out in a grin. “I’d have to relocate to Austin?”
“Actually, we want you to stay right here in Valentine. Keep your finger on the pulse of America’s heartbeat. We can do everything through e-mail.”
Hmm, something to think about. She wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in Valentine. “What would the column be about?”
“Same thing you’re doing on your blog. Raising questions about love and romance. Debunking romantic myths. Highlighting examples of what real love is. Show how movies, music, and the media create false illusions when it comes to courtship and marriage. Draw on stories from Romanceaholics Anonymous.”
“Those stories are confidential,” Rachael said.
“Fictionalize them,” Maggie said smoothly. “Or convince people to go on the record.”
Rachael frowned. “Wouldn’t that be taking advantage of people’s foibles and vulnerabilities?”
“Aren’t you already doing that with your Web site?”
“Not specifically. So far, I’ve only skewered myself and my ex-fiancé.”
“Ah, yes.” Maggie smiled. “Trace Hoolihan.”
Something unpleasant occurred to her. “That’s why you’re offering me this job, isn’t it? Not because of my Web site, but because Trace is high-profile and that will bring readers to my column.”
“That’s part of the reason, I won’t deny it. But you underestimate yourself, Rachael. You’re quite the writer. We admire your creativity and your spunk. You didn’t take rejection lying down. You fought back. Painted that billboard. Posted that video on YouTube. Plus you know how to hit right at the center of your readers’ emotions.”
Stroke to the old ego. She had to hand it to Maggie Lawford. The woman was a good persuader.
“I do?”
“Come on. You know you’re special.”
It was flattery, but she fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. “If I decide to do this, I won’t use stories from the people in my Romanceaholics meetings. Even fictionalized. It’s unethical. They’ve put their trust in me and I won’t betray them.”
“That’s fine,” Maggie said without missing a beat. “Do the stories of the people whose names are on the Walk of Flames sidewalk on Main Street. Not all of them could have had a happily-ever-after ending.”
Rachael looked to Selina to get her take on this. Her mother lifted her shoulders, held up her hands in a whatever-you-think-is-best gesture. “You only want to tell the stories of romances that have gone bad?”
“Conflict sells,” Maggie said. “Happily-ever-after might be sweet to live, but romance without any bumps in the road is boring to read. Start with the love-gone-wrong tales. When you run out of those, we’ll reevaluate.”
Rachael considered it. “What are you thinking of calling the column?”
“We’ve been tossing around a couple of titles. ‘Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes’ got the most votes.”
Not bad. She liked it.
“Although ‘Happily Never After’ is still in the running.”
Rachael didn’t like that one so much. It was too negative. As if romantic love wasn’t possible at all.
Maybe it’s not.
“So may I call my editor-in-chief and give him the good news that you’ll be writing for us?” Maggie asked, drawing her cell phone from her purse.
Rachael paused, knowing she was on the verge of a monumental opportunity. Her mouth was dry, her stomach in knots. Writing for such an acclaimed regional magazine would stretch her creative skills beyond anything she’d ever dared. It was a dream she’d never even thought to dream.
But this wasn’t strictly about her. There was something else to think about. What would the column do to her hometown?
It could put it on the map, but it could also hurt a lot of people. Good, decent people who were just trying to make their way in life. Did she have any right to shine a floodlight on her community without the permission of its citizens?
On the other hand, she couldn’t be held responsible for the way some people might react to her column. She’d spent her life as a people pleaser. It was time for her to do what she thought best.
Chin up, she met Maggie Lawford’s eye. “Tell your editor I’m on board.”
“That’s wonderful.” Maggie smiled. “Now, there’s just one more thing.”
What now?
Rachael’s muscles tensed. “Yes?”
“We’re planning a big romance exposé edition for Valentine’s Day and we want you to lead the charge. To quickly build you a following, we want to get your column started as soon as possible. The November issue will be going to press in three weeks and we want ‘Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes’ to be in it. With that deadline in mind, we’ll need your first column by the end of the week. Can you handle it?”
It didn’t give her much time to take a breath, much less think this through. She’d already gone this far out on the limb. What was a couple more feet? “I can handle it.”
“Excellent.” Maggie Lawford got to her feet and extended her hand to Rachael again. “It’s great to have you on board.”
It felt great, too.
Except for the sinking feeling deep in the pit of her stomach that she had no idea what to write about that wasn’t going to step on a lot of toes in Valentine.
T
HE PRESSURE WAS ON
.
An hour after she’d accepted Maggie Lawford’s offer, Rachael sat in Bristo Park across from the courthouse, laptop resting on her thighs, the cursor blinking accusatorily at her from the blank Word document. She hadn’t a single idea in her head.
What was she going to write about?
Think, think.
Nothing.
She shifted on the park bench, ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, twisted a curl of hair around her index finger. Hmm. What could she say that she hadn’t already said on her Web site?
The emptiness inside her brain was excruciating. She wasn’t a writer. She was a kindergarten teacher. Why had she agreed to write that column? It had been a momentary lapse of sanity.
Pursing her lips, she gazed out across the clipped green lawn for inspiration and saw nothing the least bit inspiring. A flush of red chrysanthemums encircled the tree. Maybe she could rant about the practice of romanticizing football homecoming games with high school football mums.
It was something.
She typed “Mums.” Then paused to nibble her bottom lip. She thought about her own high school football mums and her heart went all melty remembering the boys who’d given them to her.
Snap out of it!
But the mums brought back such happy memories. Why would she want to bash the practice? Why deny other young girls the fun simply because she’d had rotten luck with romance? It felt like sour grapes.
Come on, come on, you’re getting soft on me. You’re in danger of falling off the wagon. Remember why you painted that billboard in the first place. You said you wanted to get your message out about the folly of buying into the myth of romance. Here’s your chance.
Except she just couldn’t seem to work up the requisite anger. At least not in reference to homecoming mums.
She backspaced, erasing “Mums.”
Great. Blowing out her breath, she cruised her gaze around the courthouse square.
And spied Mayor Wentworth hustling down the steps of City Hall, his white Stetson jammed down on his head. Where was he off to in such a hurry?
Rachael narrowed her eyes. Probably heading out to cook up some new way to bolster his standing in the polls. She thought about the way he’d acted toward her ever since she’d begun her anti-romance campaign and suddenly an idea came to her.
It was perfect in its simplicity.
Lay the blame on Valentine’s obsession with romance squarely where it belonged. On the shoulders of the man perpetuating the myth in order to hold on to his job.
And the sweet thing was, she was in tight with the mayor’s assistant.
Smiling, Rachael stowed her laptop in its carrying case, then got up and walked across the park to interview Rex for her scathing exposé on Kelvin Wentworth.
R
ACHAEL PACED
M
RS
. P
OTTER’S
living room. Two days had passed since she’d e-mailed Maggie Lawford her column. Maggie had sent a terse reply, saying she’d call her today. Rachael had been waiting by the phone since eight a.m.
