She's Got Mail!: She's Got Mail! / Forget Me? Not

“Why do you always add the ‘Cowboy’ part? He was a master chef at a dude ranch—”

“The harp-shaped chairs were from your Antoine—or was it Beauchamp?—era, the fellow interior decorator.” Ben gestured toward another wall. “The Jimmy Stewart poster and matching Tinseltown cups were from your Rocky era—”

“Rock. No Y. Just Rock.”

“And those copper plates with the feathers and beads sticking out…what was his name? Thunder? Lightning?”

Meredith pursed her lips before speaking. “Storm.”

“Yep. He’s the one who should have had a y tacked onto his name because that relationship was storm-y. You didn’t care about the couch then. Remember? You had a desperate need to tear down a few walls.” Ben shuddered. “Fortunately, building management denied you a permit.”

Meredith brushed something off her kimono skirt. Putting on her noblest voice, she said, “I’m doing you a favor by removing that couch. Plus, French blue is passé.”

“So is Geisha orange.”

One of her chopsticks quivered.

Now he’d done it. Her face crumpled into that pitiful look of hurt he’d seen at the crash-and-burn ending of each boyfriend era. Now Ben felt like a cad. He’d glibly pointed out her past disastrous relationships. Mocked her decorator-recovery program. As recompense, he toyed with sacrificing the coatrack…but stopped himself.

That’s what I always do. He would offer some piece of his life to smooth things over. What would he do when he ran out of furniture? Offer a leg? An arm? A spark of anger flared within him. Yes, Meredith was hurting…but she needed to find a way through her hurt without literally dismantling Ben’s life. “Why can’t you swipe other people’s furniture?” he asked.

They stared each other down so long, Ben swore he’d lost feeling in his right eyelid. But he was tired of backing down. Refused to back down. Suddenly, he was ready to fight to the death over that couch.

Was that a tear in Meredith’s eye? Was her chin trembling?

He felt yanked back to his years growing up, being the built-in caretaker and mediator for his kid sister and mother. Good ol’ peacemaker Ben who could never stand to see a woman cry. Okay, he’d go the compromise route. “Let’s…re-cover the couch rather than replace it.”

Meredith sniffled. “It’s lumpy.”

“We’ll put it on a diet.”

Her orange-cone lips trembled as she smiled. He’d always liked it when she let down her guard. She looked younger, more relaxed. Ben would bet his coatrack that Dexter hadn’t seen enough of that smile.

“I’ll bring some swatches by tomorrow,” she said softly. “Some colors that will look darling, darling.”

She left so quickly, he still wasn’t sure which “darling” was the couch, which was him. As the main office door clicked shut, Ben breathed a mind-leveling sigh. Alone. Finally. No ex-wife. No ex-fiancée. Just he and several decorating themes…and the couch for which he’d been willing to fight to the death.

Although he’d never have gone to such an extreme, it felt good to feel passionate about something again. Even a couch! He hadn’t experienced a passion for anything—or anyone—in a long time. Forget passion. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had fun. Had to have been with his best pal, Matt, full-time lawyer and part-time rake, who fell hard for a beekeeper from Northern California. Almost a year ago, Matt quit his law firm and moved to California to help his wife-to-be with her bee farm. Matt had joked he’d gone from an A-type personality to a B-type.

It was funny, but also true. Matt turned from an uptight lawyer to a laid-back guy. Meanwhile, Ben remained in Chicago, an uptight lawyer who spent his days in court or in his office, Ex-ville. His only male bonding these days was with his dog, Max. But sharing a drink and swapping tales with a Brittany spaniel didn’t cut it. Plus, the conversations were awfully one-sided.

What were Ben’s options? He could hang out at the local bar, a watering hole for lawyers. But after a day of negotiating and mediating, it set his teeth on edge to hear more lawyer talk. Other options? Go to a strip club? Not Ben’s style. Take up fly fishing? He preferred chess.

“If I want male camaraderie, I first need to escape Venus and move to Mars,” he muttered, thinking again of those Venus-Mars books Heather was always reading. That author was making a mint telling women how to be Venus and men how to be Mars. Too bad Ben couldn’t drop him a line and get some shortcut directions to the manly planet.

Writing a big-buck author was far-fetched. But what about that columnist? The one in Real Men magazine, the periodical he made Heather hide. Ben tapped his fingers along the edge of his desk. Sure, buddy. What kind of man writes to “Mr. Real”?

From what Heather had read to him, men from all walks of life. Carpenters. Doctors. “Mr. Real” sounded sophisticated, but also gave some get-down, get-real advice on everything from predatory pricing to predatory dating.

Ben moved his fingers to his computer keyboard. It would be easy to search the net for Real Men magazine, find their e-mail address, type a note to Mr. Real. No. Heather had access to his e-mail, which was essential to his business. When he was off-site, he could call her, have her check his messages, write back to whomever. No, e-mailing Mr. Real was out of the question. Heather would read it, tell Meredith, and he’d never hear the end of it.

He glanced at the piece of paper he’d scrawled on earlier. I’m swimming in a Windex-blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée.

Hmm. Sounded like the beginning of a note to Mr. Real.

“WHERE’S MR. REAL?” Seth, one of the mailroom gulchers, waved an envelope over William Clarington’s desk.

“Blue?” Rosie blurted, checking out Seth’s short-cropped hair. “I had just gotten accustomed to medicine red.”

“Medicine-cabinet red,” Seth corrected. Two weeks ago Seth had dyed his short-cropped blond hair a neonlike red, which he claimed was labeled Medicine-Cabinet Red on the bottle.

“Let me guess,” Rosie mused. “Blueberry-Box Blue?”

“Squad-car Blue.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “The flashing blue light on top of the cop car?”

“Very…urban.”

“And distinctive. Yellow blends. Blue commands attention.”

Rosie figured if she took a picture of Seth outside, his blue hair would blend right in with the sky and he’d look bald—defeating the whole commanding blue-hair experience. “Interesting policelike hue,” she murmured, not sure how one complimented someone with Squad-Car Blue hair.

“So, where’s the dude?” When she didn’t answer, Seth elaborated, “Mr. Real?”

Rosie sat a little straighter. “You’re talking to him.”

Seth scratched his blue head. “You’re the copy editor who sits—” he looked around, then waved the letter at her desk “—over there.”

Rosie swiped at a curl that toppled over her forehead. “I’ve been promoted. Well, for a few weeks. Until they hire a new Mr. Real, I’m…the dude.”

“Whoa!” Seth took a step back, tilting his head as though to see her better. “You? Mr. Real? Men ain’t gonna like this.”

“Men ain’t gonna know.”

Seth cocked an eyebrow, which looked oddly blond with his blue hair. “How they not gonna know? Girls write different than guys.”

“Oh, really? Do tell.” Rosie leaned back in Mr. Real’s ergonomic desk chair and crossed her arms.

Seth seemed stymied for a moment. He scratched his T-shirt, decorated with a picture of a red-white-and-blue cow. Along its flank was painted the skyline of Chicago. Underneath, the words Chi-Cow-Go. Cute.

Seth stopped scratching. “Chicks—ladies write more flowery. You know, they use words like pink and pretty.”

“I’ll avoid all P words. What else?”

“And they gush on and on.” Seth made a rolling motion with his hand as though she might not understand what gush meant. “And they use too many words. Sometimes big ones.”

“I’ll work on the gushing. Never hurts to trim prose. But I can’t promise not to use big words. After all, I’m a seasoned writer.” Rosie smiled, liking the sound of those words as they rolled off her tongue. “Anyway, I’ve sat so close to William for the past seven months, I’ve heard nine-tenths of his conversations. I’ve proofread hundreds of his articles. I know how he talks, how he writes. For the next two weeks, no one could possibly guess it’s a woman behind the man’s words.” Actually, a goddess behind the woman behind the man’s words. Rosie wasn’t sure yet if she’d don Athena or Artemis for the next two weeks—which she could do as long as no goddesslike words slipped into her Mr. Real answers.

“What if some dude sees you?” Seth had moved closer to her desk and was fiddling with a pile of thick, gold paper clips, remnants of William Clarington’s former life.

“What dude is going to march into the offices of Real Men magazine, sneak past the front office receptionist, and know where to find William’s former desk? Such a dude would need some serious built-in radar.” Rosie leaned forward. “And no one within the magazine offices would blab because blabbing means that person would spend eternity in the gulch.” That last point cinched any blue-haired men gabbing to the wrong dudes.

“The gulch sucks.” Seth made a face.

“Tell me about it. This is my chance to prove myself. Make the great leap to life beyond the gulch.”

Seth stopped playing with the paper clips and held his hand up, palm toward her. It took Rosie a moment to realize he was giving her a high five. She stood and slapped the palm of her hand against his.

“You’re a cool chick,” Seth said. “I mean, uh, you’re a cool woman to be impersonating a dude. This is sorta like that Robin Williams flick.”

“Mrs. Doubtfire?”

“Yeah.”

Rosie tried to dismiss the image of Mrs. Doubtfire beating out a fire on her breasts. There would be no crises for the next two weeks, whether Rosie was a dude or a woman…or a goddess. “I get to wear my own clothes, fortunately.”

“Cool.” He tossed the letter onto the desk. “Can I have one of those?” He pointed to the gold paper clips.

Mr. Real was gone. Forever. Why not? “Sure.”

Seth picked up a clip and attached it to his belt. He adjusted it one way, then another. Seemingly pleased with the impromptu accessory, he walked away with his signature swagger. “Good luck, Mr. Real,” he called over his shoulder.

Rosie watched him leave, wondering what her oldest brother, Dillon, who’d never left the family farm in Colby, would say if he saw a man with blue hair. Nothing. He’d be speechless, thinking Seth was from another planet.

“Planet Chi-Cow-Go,” she murmured, chuckling to herself as she picked up the envelope and read “To Mr. Real” printed in black ink on the outside. Her eyes were tired of perusing William’s computer screen, reading the gazillion e-mails addressed to [e-mail]. No wonder the real Mr. Real ran off with Boom Boom the bongo player. After telling hundreds of men how to live their lives, Mr. Real probably decided to get his own.

She flashed on William and Boom Boom cavorting in the Bahamas or some other tropical paradise. Rosie sighed as images filled her head. Brilliant sunsets. Crashing waves. Two naked, sand-coated bodies writhing on a beach. But these bodies weren’t William and Boom Boom…

…they were Ben and Rosie.

Me and Ben? Writhing nakedly? She shut her eyes, her tummy clutching in anticipation of such a sensual encounter. The exploration of each other’s bodies, the discovery of each other’s pleasures…their inner world more fiery and exotic than the outside one.

She opened her eyes. “It’s this desk,” she whispered hoarsely, running her fingers over the smooth polished oak. “I’m picking up Boom Boom vibes. Better to pick up the letter opener.” Rosie snatched the silver opener and glanced at the words engraved on its handle: Old Men Ought to Be Explorers.—T. S. Eliot.

Why would someone engrave that on a letter opener? Perhaps a gift from Boom Boom? Rosie’s mind reeled with images of a bongo-playing stripper quoting T. S. Eliot. What a killer combo. Great beater, great reader.

Okay, she got what William saw in Boom Boom, but what did a stripper see in an uptight, persnickety columnist who ate a bran muffin at 8:10 sharp every morning?

Old men ought to be explorers. Maybe Mr. Real wasn’t as old or unadventurous as Rosie had labeled him. Maybe Boom saw the real Mr. Real—saw that he was, at heart, a globe-trotting tiger. An old fantasy resurrected in Rosie’s mind, one where she was Isak Dinesen, the writer Meryl Streep had portrayed in the movie Out of Africa. Isak was a woman ahead of her time. A multifaceted adventurer who ran a farm in Africa, maintained a long-term, torrid love affair and wrote memorable stories.

With more flair than she knew she had, Rosie blithely zipped open the envelope, the tip of the blade barely missing her other hand. She paused, staring at the reflection of fluorescent light off the gleaming silver blade. “Stay focused, Rosie,” she whispered. “If you cut off your pinkie, you won’t be able to write back to Mr. Real’s readers.” That’s when she knew which goddess she needed for this job. Wise, coolheaded Athena. Rosie cooly laid the silver opener aside and eased the letter from its envelope.

The date at the top of the letter had been so hurriedly scrawled, it was difficult to decipher it was today’s date. Rosie glanced at the rest of the letter. No, the guy just had horrendous handwriting. Or maybe he wrote it in a frenzied hurry?

Thinking back to the crazed speed at which she drove into work most days, Rosie could relate to that. Already empathizing, Rosie read on.

“Mr. Real, I’m swimming in a Windex-blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée.”

Rosie paused, wondering why the word blue seemed to predominate the past few minutes of her life. Maybe there was some cosmic, mythical meaning behind this color? Nah. More likely, this man was simply blue. Depressed. She looked down at the scrawling handwriting and its terse loops and dips. Or angry? She continued reading.

Why are women so needy? Growing up, I was the built-in mediator, cook and limo service for my mother and sister. That was sixteen years ago, but not a damn thing has changed. These days, I’m still a nice guy to an ex-fiancée who wants me to be her caretaker and an ex-wife who has a deranged need to redecorate my office with busted love affair themes. And get this—some strange woman also wants my space!

My ex-fiancée has access to my e-mail, so respond to the P.O. box on the envelope.

Signed,

Wishing to move from Venus to Mars

He liked the Roman gods and goddesses while she stuck with the Greeks. But, hey, same thing. “He’s obviously one very together, insightful male,” Rosie murmured. “If anyone ever needed a goddess’s guidance, it’s this lucky man.”

Rosie quickly looked up. Good. No one heard that last comment.

4

AT 8:30 P.M., after a business dinner meeting, Ben eased his BMW up the driveway of his house in the outskirts of Chicago. Home sweet ranch-style home. The one place in the world where he could walk in and—except for his dog, Max—be alone. No ex-fiancées. No ex-wives. And no space nabbers nabbing his space.

He punched a button above the rearview mirror. The electric garage door opened and he drove inside. The back of the garage was lined with tool-filled shelves. Mixed in with the saws, drills and toolboxes were remnants of abandoned hobbies: a baseball mitt, a pair of inline skates, a battered trumpet case.

He got out and pressed the button on a side wall. As the garage door creaked closed, he looked up at the ceiling from which hung a kayak, an abandoned hobby he’d often dreamed of resurrecting. At one time—Nine years ago? Ten?—he’d loved kayaking down rivers. Feeling the heat of the sun on his skin. Hearing the slap of water against the hull—a hull now covered with dust. He’d even fantasized about kayaking in some exotic locale—like New Guinea or Africa—and taking photographs. Fitting a key into the door lock, he wondered where unused dreams went. Milwaukee?

The door opened into his kitchen, which was filled with the soothing strains of classical music. He always left the radio playing for his dog. Late afternoon, various lights also turned on automatically. “Max?” he called out, looking across the kitchen at the nearly closed sliding door that led into the living room. Through the narrow opening, his Brittany spaniel would stick its nose, nudging and sniffing the air, anxious to greet his master.

But tonight, no nose greeted Ben.

“Max?” he called again, checking the blinking light on the phone. Clients. More legal problems, questions, issues. They could wait. Right now he needed to unwind, chat with Max, do anything but play lawyer.

Still no nose.

Ben crossed the linoleum floor and slid open the door. “Maxwell?”

But instead of the scrabble of dog toenails on the living room hardwood floor, he heard the sharp click click of high heels.

“Not Maxwell, darling. Meredith.” His ex-wife halted in the living room, center stage, and smiled so broadly, the white rectangles of her teeth looked eerily like the white wood-paneled blinds behind her.

“How’d you get in?” Ben looked around. In her deranged postaffair state, maybe she’d cut a hole in a window with that mega-ice-cream-diamond ring Dexter wanted back.

“No hello?” Those blindingly white teeth disappeared behind a pout.

“Hello,” he snapped, scanning the room. “Did you break in to steal another couch?”

Meredith threw her head back and laughed. Ben flinched as one of her hairdo chopsticks came precariously close to getting tangled in his ficus tree. As he debated whether to make a mad lunge to save the tree, she raised her head and propped her hands on her kimono-clad hips. “Darling, darling. I’m not stealing a couch. Or a chair. Or any coatracks.” She opened her arms so wide, he feared she’d break into a song from The Sound of Music. “I’m—” she paused dramatically “—re-modeling your bathroom!”

He stared at her so long, he felt that same eyelid start to go numb.

“Say something!” Meredith gushed, her arms still open.

“You broke into my house to remodel my bathroom?” This had to be a first. A thief who doesn’t steal, but remodels.

She dropped her arms, which fell with a soft fwop against the silky kimono getup. “I didn’t break in,” she said peevishly. “I used the key hidden under the brick.”

“The brick?”

“The third one—the loose one—on the outside of the brick patio. We wrapped the house keys in a plastic bag and stuck it under there…remember?”

He’d almost forgotten. Which was easy to do considering his backyard patio was a sea of bricks. A big, round brickred sea. Something Meredith had had installed as a good-will gift after their ill-willed divorce…the divorce where she got to keep the house, the car, the antiques. But worst of all, she’d insisted—and pleaded and cried—that she wanted to keep their golden retriever, Bogie.

That was a painful trot down memory lane.

Ben had only been bitter over losing Bogie. That dog had been his pal, his kayaking buddy, his confidante. Newly single and worse, Bogie-less, Ben had crashed on his friend Matt’s couch for several months until Ben found this small, affordable ranch home in suburban Chicago. Meredith, knowing Ben loved the massive brick fireplace at their old home, took it upon herself to bestow him with a brick patio. He had thought it a gracious gift until Ben discovered Meredith had just broken up with a bricklayer.

He still wondered what their sex life had been like.

At that moment, Max trotted into the living room, his short tail wagging double time. Max rarely got anxious. Had to be Meredith’s impromptu visit.

“How’d you think I got in?” she said, obviously more miffed that she’d been accused of breaking in than dismantling someone’s bathroom.

“Through the doggy door.”

“Doggy—? Hardly!” Meredith smoothed her hand over her dress. “My hips would get stuck.”

An image that filled Ben with a moment of deliciously perverse pleasure. Meredith, stuck in the doggy door. He’d take his sweet time calling for help. Feign deafness to her calls for assistance as he popped open a beer, sat in his favorite chair and, with Max leaning against him, read the paper for, oh, thirty, forty minutes before calling the fire department.

“What are you thinking about?” Meredith said testily.

“Doggy doors. Fire departments.” Time to stop dawdling in day dreams and put a stopper on Meredith’s newest redecorating urge. He’d deal with little issues like breaking and entering later. “Leave my bathroom alone, Meredith,” he said in his best he-man no-nonsense tone. “A bathroom is a man’s castle.”

Max’s tail thumped against the floor, like an exclamation point to Ben’s statement.

Meredith dipped her head, barely missing the ficus tree again. “Well, as of today, your castle needs a new commode.”

He had to ponder that for a moment. “Toilet? Why? What happened—”

“And your castle also needs a new shower,” she said speedily, ignoring his question. “That blue-and-gold-speckled tile and grimy sliding-door look is passé.”

“To hell with passé. What happened to my toilet?”

“Well,” Meredith raised her eyebrows so high, they nearly blended in with her hairline. “After the moving men undid the bolts—”

“What were moving men doing in my bathroom?”

“How was I supposed to get a plumber at this hour?”

This logic was giving him a headache. He raised a warning finger when she started to speak. “Forget whoever was in my bathroom, just explain why they removed—” Forget asking. He made a beeline for his castle. The scrabbling of Max’s nails and the clicking of Meredith’s heels followed him down the hallway.

Right before he reached the bathroom, Meredith said, “I forgot to mention something. After that little explosion, we had to turn off the water….”

ROSIE, more than a little cranky from having to double-park her Neon in a spot barely large enough for a cow, shoved open her apartment door. After stepping inside, she closed the door, turned the lock and shoved the bolt. “Home Sweet Fortress,” she murmured. Back in Colby, they never locked doors. But in Chicago, she’d been counseled by her friend Pam to always lock her door. Any door. Car, apartment, whatever. “You get in and you lock it,” Pam had lectured with a dead-on And-I’m-not-kidding-around look.

Rosie tossed her keys into an upside down helmet on a coffee table. It had been her dad’s, from when he served in Vietnam. Years ago, he’d given her brothers mementos from that war—but nothing to her. She’d complained. Said even if she was a girl, she too wanted something that held meaning for him, something that got him through the war and back home. A few days later, he quietly walked into her bedroom and handed her his helmet. Obviously, he’d worn it, but she never knew he’d also used it as a food and water bowl for a German Shepherd war dog, an animal that had once saved his life.

Rosie now stared at the helmet, taking a moment to remember her dad’s stories. The husky timbre of his voice. The way he’d squint one eye when he wanted to drive home a point. The way he’d lightly tap her on the head, an unspoken I-love-you gesture. Typically, she tossed the keys into the helmet, which jangled and clattered as they hit bottom. If she didn’t toss the keys into the hat first thing upon getting home, she’d never find them again in the morning. But tonight, she gently placed them inside before settling onto the futon love seat and stretching out her five-three frame.

Silence.

This was always the toughest part of the day. These first few minutes of stony quiet after coming home. Because no matter how hard she listened, she wouldn’t hear her family’s voices, watch their comings and goings. At this point in the day, her heart always shrank a little as she yearned for how it used to be. She’d slam open the screen door, hear her mom’s voice, “Don’t slam…” Rosie, tossing a coat or book on a side table, would apologize for the slamming while waving hello to her dad. He’d be in his overalls, sitting in his favorite armchair, reading the paper while watching the news. Sometimes he’d catch a discrepancy in what he read and what he heard and loudly announce the difference, whether anyone was around to hear or not.