7 Days and 7 Nights (14 page)

Matt leaned way back in his chair and cleared a spot for his feet on the edge of the audio console. He missed his basketball net back at the studio and the freedom to move around without an audience studying his every move. And though he didn't plan to come out and say so anytime soon, he'd give huge sums of money for five minutes outside the too-tiny apartment.

His dinner with Olivia lingered in his mind, as did the unprecedented conversation about Adam and his death. It wasn't a topic he shared, and he wasn't thrilled at how easily she'd pried the details out of him. Or how much better he'd felt immediately afterward. She had a way of slipping past his defenses that was nothing short of alarming.

Dawg Rollins hung on the line wanting to talk, yet again, about his failed relationship and his inability to move on. Matt shook his head in disgust. Moving on was his specialty. In fact, he could pack up and hit the emotional road faster than most men could finish a burger and fries. As in most endeavors, practice made perfect.

“Hey, Matt.”

“Hey, Dawg. How's it going?”

“Okay, I guess. Except I have a question for you.”

“Then I probably have an answer. But remember, I am not your high school guidance counselor
or
Dear Abby. I'm only prepared to talk about guy stuff.”

Dawg's voice, already gruff, took on a puzzled tone. “Okay, then. What do
you
do when a woman comes on to you and you're not interested, Ransom?”

“Gee.” Matt scratched his head and forced himself to think. “I can't remember that ever happening. Is she unattractive?”

“Nope.”

“A ball buster?”

“No.”

“Have bad breath?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Rude to your friends?”

“ 'Fraid not.”

“Wanting to change you?”

“Hell, no. She looks at me like I'm God's gift to the universe.”

Matt blinked. “And the problem is . . .”

“I don't know. She just doesn't do anything for me, ya know?”

“Not really.” The memory of the first six months after he drove Olivia away rapped at the back of Matt's brain, but he refused to let it in. “Are you still mooning after the one who wants to get married?”

“I'm not mooning after JoBeth. I just miss her, that's all.”

“Well, I'll tell you what, Dawg. You're just going to have to get over it. There's an old song that kind of covers this topic, called ‘Love the One You're With.' Ever heard of it?”

“Not really.”

“Well, that's my philosophy. If you can't be with the one you love—and you apparently can't unless you're willing to get married—then love the one you're with.”

“But—”

“You're wasting time dwelling on what was, man. It's time to move on to what can be. Believe me, women are pretty much alike and not worth all this grief you're putting yourself through.”

“And you've never come up against a woman who made you rethink your philosophy?”

Once again he quashed the image of Olivia so young and eager to share all of herself, opening to him completely. “No, I haven't,” he lied. “But I am ready to move on to a more suitably masculine topic. Like the horrible end of the Braves' latest winning streak, or how to tell if you're about to get downsized.”

“Okay,” said Dawg. “I'll let you get on with things. But don't be so sure this'll never happen to you, Ransom. It seems like sometimes love just sort of tiptoes up and bushwhacks you from behind. And then nothing is ever the same again.”

15

On Friday morning Olivia faced an uncontestable truth: Being thirty sucked. It was her birthday and although she'd only been awake for five and a half minutes, the added year was already taking its toll.

Too old and too tired to get out of bed, Olivia stretched her sheep-clad arms up above her head, kicked the rumpled bedsheets out of the way, and contemplated the ceiling. It was made of the popcorned plaster common in condos and apartments, and it had absolutely nothing going for it. She felt a strange sort of kinship with the pimply slab of concrete and an awful sort of lethargy that she wished she could indulge.

In the bathroom, Olivia searched through her cosmetics bag until she came up with an ancient sample tube of anti-wrinkle cream. After smearing it liberally around her eyes, she faced herself in the mirror and attempted a smile. She still had all her teeth, but the longer she looked, the more pronounced the signs of her advanced age became.

Shimmying out of her pajamas, Olivia squeezed her eyes shut to avoid discovering any suddenly sagging body parts or newly bulging varicose veins, and stepped under the stream of hot water, keeping her back to the mirror while she lathered and rinsed.

Clean, but still thirty, she slipped into her clothes and headed out to the kitchen for the cup of coffee that she prayed would help put things back into perspective. Within minutes, she'd parked herself in front of the computer, coffee mug in hand. Diane's birthday wishes awaited her on the computer screen.

Thanks
, Olivia typed, unable to summon a more profound or lengthy response.

Diane gave her the vote count. Once again, donations and votes were relatively even. Olivia sensed it would take something major to obtain a real lead, but she refused to think about the consultant and his endless questions. Being thirty was bad enough.

The spaghetti looked pretty good last night
, Diane typed.
I'm
putting on pounds just watching you and Matt eat.

Olivia replied,
When I get out of here we'll try hypnosis. But
I'm too old to think about food today.

Diane's next missive read,
You're only as old as you feel
.

Olivia sipped at her coffee.
Then I must have turned a hundred and two.

You don't sound so good. Should I wake up Matt
? Olivia could almost hear Diane's concern in the words she typed.

NO!
Olivia typed.
I'm planning to check out retirement communities as soon as I get off the air. Until then, I'd prefer to do my
show in peace.

Okay
.

You haven't told anyone it's my thirtieth birthday, have you?

There was the computer equivalent of dead silence while Olivia waited for the reassuring words to appear.

Diane
, she typed.
Tell me you haven't said anything to
. . .

The doorbell and the phone rang simultaneously. With only ten minutes until air, Olivia picked up the cordless phone, brought the receiver to her ear, and moved toward the front door.

“Olivia, it's Charles.”

She braced herself.

“Crankower,” he said, as if there were another. “I just wanted you to know that I—”

“Hold on, Charles. There's someone at the door. I assume I'm allowed to open it?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

Olivia turned the key in the dead bolt and pulled open the front door, an act that made her feel immeasurably better. Until she saw what awaited her.

The deliveryman looked like a bit player from
The
Sopranos
. His wiry arms cradled a bulging floral arrangement, and a cloud of black balloons floated above his head.

“Got a delivery for one Dr. Olive Moore.”

“That's Olivia.”

“Whatever. Can I bring this stuff in?”

“I guess so.” She stepped back to let him in and had an alarming thought. “You haven't been paid to take off your clothes or anything, have you?”

He looked at her as if she were deranged. “Look, lady, I just want to put this stuff down. You want me to take my clothes off, you'll have to call my supervisor.”

Olivia lifted the phone to her ear. “Charles, what's going on here?”

“It's your thirtieth birthday, Olivia. The station wants to help you celebrate it.”

The deliveryman continued to eye her as if she were exactly the sort of woman who might force him to perform an unauthorized striptease and then call his office to complain. “I've got a few more things down near the elevator. Can you hold the door?”

At her nod, he slid carefully around her and walked down the hall, leaving her with the phone and less than five minutes to air. She contemplated the hallway longingly.

“Charles. This is ridiculous. I don't want . . .”

The delivery guy came back with more flowers, a cane with a rearview mirror and horn attached, and two cardboard boxes with Matt's name on them. He eyed her as she stood in the doorway. “I got some other stuff to do in here. You wanna close the door?”

Olivia let the door slam behind her. “Charles. I need to go on the air. You have to put a stop to this right now.”

“Sorry, Olivia, can't do it. Everything's already in motion. Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Charles, I am not willing to—”

“There's lots of interest in the story of you turning thirty, so we'll be feeding a ton of video off the Webcam today.”

“Now, there's some good news. Charles, I—”

“Gotta go, Olivia. Have a great day.”

She spent her last minutes before air watching the deliveryman decorate the apartment. He crisscrossed the room hanging black crepe paper and anchoring bunches of black balloons to chair backs while she watched with growing dismay.

When he started taping an “Over the Hill” banner to the wall, she wanted to go back to her room and crawl under the covers. Instead, she fielded her first call.

“This is
Liv Live.
In case there's anyone who hasn't figured it out, today is my thirtieth birthday. Hi, Wanda. You're on the air.”

“Happy birthday, Dr. O. Hope it's a great one.”

Wanda sounded about twelve, which was probably why she still thought birthdays were something to cheer about. Olivia tried not to hold it against her, but caught herself listening with only half an ear as she watched the deliveryman/decorator pack up and depart.

So far, the one bright spot was Matt Ransom's absence. And though her gaze strayed to his closed bedroom door more times than she cared to count, she told herself she was relieved when he didn't put in an appearance.

Drawing the conversation with Wanda to a close, Olivia moved on. “JoBeth. Has your Dawg learned to heel yet?”

“No, Dr. O. In fact, the last time I saw him, another woman had her paws all over him.”

“How'd that go?”

“I told her she was welcome to the hound, and left. But I felt like rubbing both their noses in some serious—”

“Yeah,” Olivia interrupted. “I know just what you mean.”

“Really, Dr. O?”

“Really. I know it's hard, JoBeth, but you're doing all the right things. You've taken control of your life, and you're prepared to move on if you have to. But, you know, I heard your Dawg on the air with Matt last night, and I'm starting to wonder if you might not be able to teach him some new tricks.”

“I don't know, Dr. Olivia. It doesn't look like he's going to roll over and play dead anytime soon. And I sure don't intend to sit up and beg.”

Olivia smiled her first real smile of the day. Evidently even old people could still see the humor in things. “Well, JoBeth, if we continue the obedience metaphor, we could say that the rolled-up newspaper made an impression. Now you have to decide whether to give him something to wag his tail about or get out the choke collar.”

“Oh.”

“You know, a kind of Milk-Bones-versus-the-electronic-fence decision. You've got lots of options, JoBeth, you just need to take the time to sort through them.”

“Uh, okay, Dr. O, thanks. And happy birthday, you hear?”

“Thanks, JoBeth. Keep me posted. Who knows, maybe that Dawg can find his way back home.”

She segued into a commercial break with, “Don't forget to call in your food pledges. This is
Liv Live
, reminding you to live your life . . .
live
.”

Olivia shut off her microphone and stretched her arms over her head to work the kinks out. She stood and strolled over to the kitchen, then turned and walked back to stare out the balcony doors. Outside, a woman and young girl walked hand in hand toward the playground in the tiny park across the road. White dogwoods flowered along the sidewalk, and pale yellow roses twined through the arched park gate. Olivia longed to be out there with them, her own hair stirring in the gentle spring breeze.

She was thirty, and she was locked in a very small apartment with Matt Ransom. Somehow both truths loomed ominously over her, unavoidable and inescapable. Turning, she headed back to the audio console and took her seat just before the commercial break ended.

“This is
Liv Live
, the thirtieth-birthday edition. We've heard from JoBeth, who's still trying to work things out with her Dawg, and I'm up for another challenge. Give me a call and tell me what's on your mind. I'll talk about anything as long as I don't have to think about how old I am.”

Glancing down at the computer screen, Olivia read the words “dinner,” “birthday,” and “sorry.” With no time to get more information, Olivia took the call. Despite the written warnings, Matt's voice took her by surprise.

“Happy birthday, Livvy.”

Her gaze swung to his bedroom door, but it remained closed. Olivia sat back in her chair, folded her arms across her chest, and instructed herself to remain calm. “Hello, Matt. How
good
of you to call.”

“My pleasure.”

“Okay.” She kept her voice even and professional, unwilling to let anyone know how completely he rattled her. “Why don't you go ahead and tell me what's on your mind.”

“Why, you are, of course.”

Olivia blinked.

“Getting older can be tough, especially for a woman.”

“And you're calling to . . . console me?”

“I'm calling because I have a birthday present for you, and I figure you're more likely to accept it with your listeners listening in.”

“And what kind of gift are we talking about?”

“A birthday dinner. In honor of your being so old and all.”

“What an attractive offer. Any chance we'd be dining out?”

“Nope.”

“Then I don't think I'm interested.”

He chuckled with maddening good humor. “See, this is where calling in to your show really pays off.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Because I know you won't want your listeners to think you're afraid to have a birthday meal with me.”

“We've been alone for four days now and shared several meals together. Why should I be afraid
today
?”

She could practically hear his shrug. “Because you're older now, more mature? Possibly more . . . desperate?” He paused and she could picture his dimple cutting a groove into his cheek. “And you've never had my duck à la Ransom. It drives women wild.”

“You're driving me wild
now
, Matt. With annoyance. But I'm not afraid of you. And I'm not
that
old.”

“Good. It's a date, then. We'll have drinks earlier and dinner at eight. I assume you don't need directions.”