Send Me No Flowers (5 page)

“Type? Who cares about type. I mean, just look at him!”

Rachel swallowed, remembering how she’d looked her fill that day in her office. Savoring all six feet plus, of solid, muscle-bound male. Her mouth went dry just thinking about that chiseled jaw, his boyish smile, those deep blue eyes. The phone rang again, shattering the image. Then the sound of Drew’s voice brought it right back again.

Rachel glared at the telephone. “The nerve of that man, calling me when I’m with a patient.”

Gina laughed. “Hey, I’m not one of your patients. You invited me over for pizza, remember? One large sausage, black olive and pepperoni. And I hope they deliver it soon, because I’m starving.”

“Have another appetizer,” Rachel said, shoving the Mallomars in front of her. “And you might not technically be a patient, but sitting here talking about ways to assassinate your husband probably calls for some kind of therapy.” Her gaze dropped to the pamphlet in her lap.
“Oooh,
what do you think about this one?” She picked up the pamphlet, turning it around so Gina could see the picture.

“It doesn’t look vicious enough,” Gina replied, critically eyeing the photo of a cuddly schnauzer. “Don’t you think a Doberman pinscher or a rottweiler would do a better job of making dog meat out of my soon-to-be ex-husband?”

“I’m not looking for a canine assassin for you, I’m looking for the perfect pet for me. The new owners are allowing pets in the building. I thought a nice, small, housebroken dog would be the perfect companion.” She flashed another picture at Gina as the telephone rang again. “What do you think?”

“I think you should answer your phone.”

“Why?” Rachel asked, as the telephone rang again. “I know it’s Drew.”

“Think of it as opportunity calling.” Gina propped her chin in her hand. “Especially since you just said you’re in the market for a perfect companion.”

Rachel rolled her eyes as the answer machine clicked on. Only instead of Drew’s voice, she heard music. The unmistakable strains of Motown, with Diana Ross and the Supremes singing “Stop, in the Name of Love.”

Gina hummed along until Rachel reached over to press the Off button on the answering machine. Then she grabbed a throw pillow, punching it with her fist. “Why can’t he just leave me alone?”

Gina’s brow crinkled. “Let’s see...a tall, dark and sexy man won’t leave you alone. Exactly how is this a problem?”

“Because all this man wants to do is get me to drop the boycott.”

“So string him along for a while. Make him think you’re open to negotiations so you can enjoy all his methods of persuasion. After all, he’s not a hypnotist, he can’t
make
you do anything you don’t want to do.”

Rachel wasn’t so sure. Drew certainly made her feel things she didn’t want to feel. Tongue-tied. Frazzled. Overheated. He also left her off balance. When he was around she did things like leave a patient in the closet. Lose her temper. Forget about Twinkies.

“I’d rather just have an opportunity to tell my side of the story,” Rachel said. “State all my reasons for the boycott without him interrupting me every other word.”

“So why don’t you leave a message on his answering machine?”

“Because I refuse to play games.” She sighed. “Look, I asked you over here to help me decide on a dog, not complain about Drew. Now I’ve looked through all these pamphlets the veterinarian gave me, and checked out a book on various breeds from the library.”

“Wow. If I had put this much research into choosing a husband, I never would have ended up as Mrs. Kurt Kurtz. Remind me of that next time I go man-hunting.” Gina licked chocolate crumbs off her fingers. “So which breed wins?”

Rachel set three pamphlets in front of her. “I’ve narrowed it down to a choice between a miniature schnauzer, a toy poodle or a Yorkshire terrier.”

“I vote for the one with the most teeth.”

The jangle of the telephone forestalled Rachel’s reply. “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe that man won’t give it a rest.”

She stood up and moved to the telephone, glaring at it as it continued to ring. “I’m not picking up, Lavery, so you can just keep dialing my number until your index finger falls off.”

“We could switch murders,” Gina suggested, as the answering machine clicked on. “Like that Alfred Hitchcock movie
Strangers on a Train
. You can kill Kurt and I’ll get rid of Lavery.”

Rachel rolled her eyes at the suggestion. “I think it will be a lot easier if I just unplug my telephone.” She reached for the cord just as the tone sounded on the answering machine.

“
Dr. Grant, this is Jonathan Kasper.
”

Rachel’s hand stilled on the cord, surprised to hear the voice of her claustrophobic patient. She’d wondered if he’d ever speak to her again after almost suffocating in her closet.

“
My wife would like to invite you to appear as a special guest on her station’s television morning show, ‘A Look at Love.’ This will be a chance for you to tell everyone about your Valentine’s Day boycott in an objective, dignified forum. We hope you’ll consider doing it and let us know as soon as possible. Thank you
.” He hung up right before the answering machine beeped to signal the end of the message.

“Your wish came true,” Gina said. “A chance to state your case for the boycott without Mayor Lavery’s interference.”

With a wide smile, Rachel turned to Gina. “Now that’s what I call opportunity calling.”

She could not go out there.

It wasn’t nerves. “A Look at Love” was simply a morning talk show that featured local talent, a cooking segment and an informational piece by the Jolly Greengrocer on the fruit of the month. She’d spoken at enough mental health seminars and conferences to be confident in her abilities.

It wasn’t doubts about the boycott, either. She had a file full of statistics and studies on her lap. All showing very good reasons why her boycott might actually help people. She’d sifted through the information and had composed a short, concise speech outlining the reasons why the Valentine’s Day boycott should be supported. There was only one reason she couldn’t go on live television.

It was her hair.

Her really big hair. José, the show’s hairdresser, had moussed and back-combed and spritzed her thick blond hair until it took on a life of its own. At five-nine, she’d always been aware of her height, preferring to wear flats so she didn’t tower over other people. But her shoes hardly mattered with four inches of hair sticking up on her head. She looked like an Amazon prom queen.

No one would take her seriously with hair this big.

A harried assistant stuck his head in the door. “Five minutes to air, Dr. Grant.”

“Wait,” she cried, before he could disappear among all the cameras and cables and chaos. “What’s your name?”

“Dave,” he said, scanning his clipboard.

“I can’t go on, Dave.”

The young man looked up, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses. “That is
not
an option, Dr. Grant. You have to go on.” He checked his watch. “In four minutes and twenty-five seconds.”

“I can’t go on looking like this,” she said, standing up so he could see the full effect. She’d have to duck under doorways with this hair.

His myopic gaze flicked over her from head to toe. Then he shrugged. “The dress is a little dated, but I’ve seen worse.”

“It’s not my dress,” she cried, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “It’s my hair. Look at it!”

He walked into the room, circling her as he stared at her hair. “Wow,” he said with a grimace. “That’s some head of hair. José must be on his mousse kick again. We had to take away his stash last year.”

She breathed a sigh of relief that he finally understood her dilemma. “Well, I obviously can’t go on looking like this. Can you reschedule me for tomorrow or sometime next week?”

Dave shook his head. “No way. You have to go on today, Dr. Grant. You’re on the schedule and the schedule is sacred around here. This is television. We have to meticulously account for every second.” He glanced at his watch. “And you’ve only got two minutes and five seconds until show time.”

“You can give my time slot to the Jolly Greengrocer,” she said a little desperately. “He can give an in-depth report on the fruit of the month. What is it this month?”

“The tomato,” he recalled, clasping his clipboard to his chest. “Called the love apple back in the pioneer days. Once thought poisonous, today it is used in a variety of condiments around the world. The tomato is a versatile, meaty fruit that people often mistake as a vegetable.”

“See,” she said excitedly. “There’s plenty to learn about the tomato. You could probably do an entire show on it.”

“We did,” he replied. “Two weeks ago. It was the Jolly Greengrocer’s big finale. He’s a goner. And so is the cooking lady. The show’s got a whole new format now—dealing with hot topics and issues that affect the citizens of our fair city.”

Stifling a groan, she closed her eyes. After today’s show, the hottest topic in town would be what she had hidden in her hair. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

“Wait,” he said, moving in a step. “Let me see if I can fix it.” He put the palm of his hand on top of her head and pushed down. Hard. Then he lifted his hand and stepped back to look at the results.

“Is it better?” she asked hopefully.

“Well...” He cleared his throat. “You know, the audience really doesn’t pay that much attention to hair once the show starts. Just smile a lot. You’ve got a nice smile. Then they’ll focus on you instead of—” he pointed to her head “—that.”

“Audience?” she echoed, looking frantically around the room for a mirror. “What audience?”

“That’s new to the show, too. We’ve got a whole new look. New set design. State-of-the-art lighting. And a hotshot hostess straight from New York City. She’s even done nationally advertised hemorrhoid commercials.”

Rachel steadied herself by taking deep, calming breaths. Maybe she did have a case of television jitters after all. This was just a local show. The
audience
probably consisted of a high school civics class on a field trip. And she could certainly hold her own with a hemorrhoid huckster.

“You’re on in forty-five seconds,” Dave announced, propelling her toward the door. “Look on the bright side, Dr. Grant. Sometimes unusual hairstyles start a trend. Look at Dennis Rodman.”

Somehow Rachel doubted the women of Love would be running to the beauty shop to request Hurricane Hair. She stood in the shadows on the edge of the set, Dave and his clipboard by her side. The set looked smaller than she’d imagined, with two overstuffed armchairs on a raised circular dais. The audience sat around it on wooden bleachers, five rows high. She stood motionless as Dave clipped a cordless microphone onto the collar of her dress.

Music suddenly blared out of the big speaker next to her, making her jump. The show had begun.

“Good morning, Love, Michigan!” a petite, perky brunette in a periwinkle blue silk suit shouted from the stage. “I’m Candi Conrad, and I want to welcome each and everyone of you to another addition of ‘A Look at Love.”’

Neon applause signs flashed above the stage, and the audience responded enthusiastically. Candi smiled and waved at the cameras.

Candi had every reason to smile, Rachel thought to herself as her palms began to sweat. Her hair looked normal. Even attractive, arranged in a stylish wedge cut. José and his magic mousse obviously hadn’t been anywhere near her.

“The topic of today’s show is Valentine’s Day—Love it or Leave it. And I’d like everyone to give a warm welcome to our special guest, Dr. Rachel Grant.”

“You’re on!” Dave exclaimed amid the spattering of applause.

Surprised by Dave’s gentle shove, Rachel stumbled onto the stage. Still, she forced herself to smile as she headed toward her chair, all too aware of the bright, hot lights and the camera lenses pointed in her direction. She silently reassured herself that this fiasco would be over in less than thirty minutes.

And it might not be so bad, once they focused on the boycott. She could hardly wait to cite her statistics, explain the motives behind the boycott, discuss her views about love and happiness. How many people watching today’s show dreaded February the 14th? How many needed to know they weren’t alone? How many were already making snide comments about her hair?

“We’re so happy to have you on the show today, Dr. Grant,” Candi said, flashing her a wide, toothy smile. Rachel briefly wondered if she’d hawked toothpaste as well as hemorrhoid creams.

“Thank you for the opportunity to be here,” Rachel replied, as they both sat down. Her voice sounded tinny to her ears. Settling into her chair, she began to relax a little, until she caught a glimpse of herself in the monitor. To her horror, her hair looked even bigger on television.