J. McKenna - Wanted - Kept Woman

Brian Armstrong had had enough. Maybe I’m just too old to fall in love anymore , he mused. Even as he thought it, he scoffed. Hell, I’m only forty. That’s not exactly over the hill.

It was Monday morning, ten o’clock. He looked down from his office on the thirtieth floor and reflected on his disappointing date last Saturday night. How could someone who appeared to be so attractive turn out to be so bull-headed? God, everything had to be her way!

Is it me? What am I doing wrong?

He turned and opened his coat closet. A full-length mirror showed him to be in pretty good shape for a middle-aged, desk-bound CEO. Tall, trim, with shoulders that could be called broad if one was being generous. Tailored suit, silk tie. Salt and pepper hair surrounded a reasonably handsome face, but then, he was hardly the one to judge.

He turned sideways, patting his stomach. Still flat—thanks to a hell of a lot of sit-ups at the gym. So, what’s the problem? I’m rich, I own my own company, I’m fit, some might even call me good-looking—why can’t I find a woman who is a good fit? Someone who loves me for who I am and doesn’t try to change me.

He already knew the answer. Half the women he dated were blinded by his wealth. He could almost see the dollar signs in their eyes when they gazed upon him and hear their inner voices clamoring to be saved from a lifetime of drudgery. A rich man meant a big house, servants, shiny new cars. Cocktail parties every weekend. Hanging out with the upper crust. It didn’t matter that Brian had no desire to be a social climber. Like most women, they probably figured they would change him after they snared him.

To that end, they would do anything to stay on his good side, becoming whoever he wanted them to be. Finding their true personalities was like digging for buried treasure. Often, after all that effort, their true selves were more like rhinestones than rubies.

The other half came from rich families already, so money wasn’t the issue. However, their sense of entitlement usually spoiled them. When they went out with him, they were like thoroughbreds—nothing but the best would do. The finest restaurants, the poshest clubs, the most expensive vacations. They had to be seen by others of their class.

Hell , he thought, I just don’t have their pretensions. Sometimes I like to go bowling or eat fish and chips at a greasy diner.

If he ever suggested such lowbrow entertainment to one of his upper-crust dates, the sneer in her eyes would tell him exactly what she thought of the idea. There’d be a hint of a curled lip, a narrowing of the eyes and she’d say, “You want to do what ?” as if he’d lost his mind.

“Maybe I’m just a blue-collar guy in a white-collar world,” he said aloud, and looked around to make sure he was still alone in his spacious office. It wouldn’t do to be caught talking to himself. He stared at his reflection. “Or maybe I’m too particular.”

But how would he know? He was too close to it. He needed an outside opinion. Brian thought of himself as a problem-solver. He’d successfully solved problems in his business, driving Armstrong Control Systems to become the third-largest supplier of computerized production control systems to manufacturers. He could conceivably retire today a wealthy man.

But so far I’ve been a miserable failure at love , he mused. I’m tired of dating, trying to figure out if we’re compatible. I’d like to cut through a lot of the wasted time. Why can’t I apply the same techniques I learned in business to my desire to find a good woman?

He closed the closet door and returned to his desk. He sat down, put his feet up and leaned back, fingers interlaced behind his neck. Well , he thought , I could hire a dating service. Or try that “Speed Dating” I saw on the TV news once.

But somehow, those seemed too generalized for him. He’d still have to go on endless dates to find that special woman. One he’d like to marry and have kids with. What he’d really like to do is eliminate all the gold-diggers and the sycophants. Tailor a solution for him alone. One that cut through the clutter, the wasted time.

He sat up suddenly and placed both feet on the ground. He reached across the clear expanse of desk and flipped the intercom.

“Yes?” The voice of his secretary Rebecca Detwiler came through.

“Would you come in here a minute, please?”

Three seconds later, the door opened. Rebecca had her dark blonde hair in a bun as usual. It fit her personality—efficient, competent and organized. Driven, like he was. That’s why he’d hired her so many years ago when he had his choice of much younger and more attractive secretaries. But he hadn’t wanted a looker, he had wanted someone who could be a teammate. Rebecca, now in her mid-fifties, would not have allowed any hanky-panky anyway. She’d been happily married for twenty-two years.

Now, when faced with the friendly but serious face of his secretary, Brian suddenly felt at a loss for words about his plans for his latest project. He could feel himself on the verge of embarrassment. He decided to ease into it.

“Come, sit down.”

She strode to one of the two chairs in front of his desk and sat, smoothing the skirt of her business suit as she did. She held a notepad in her hands, a pen poised.

He waved his hands. “This is all off the record, okay?”

She appeared briefly puzzled then put the notepad into her lap, folding her hands over it. She merely waited, an expectant look on her face.

“Rebecca, how long have you been my secretary?”

“Eight years next month,” she replied without hesitation.

“So you’ve gotten to know me pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

Rebecca’s eyebrows twitched. “Yes, Brian, I have.” Her boss had long ago forbidden her to call him “sir”—he had said it made him feel old. Besides, after eight years, they’d become friends.

“So, through the years, you’re, um, familiar with my dating history.” Brian could feel a red blush creep up his neck. He fought to stay focused. This is just another problem to solve! No need to be embarrassed.

Rebecca’s right eyebrow went all the way up and she allowed a small grin to show. “Yes, to some extent. Of course, most of that takes place after business hours.”

“About how many of the women that I’ve dated have you met?”

Rebecca thought for a moment. “Well, that’s hard to say. You don’t bring many of them around, except when they’re meeting you for lunch.” She stared over Brian’s head for a moment. “I’d say maybe five or six.”

“What did you think of them? I mean, generally?”

“Ooh, we are getting into rather dangerous territory, aren’t we?” Her voice was light, but she spoke the truth. Brian could remember the time he’d been dating Nancy, a thoroughbred of the highest order. Rebecca had tried to warn him about her, after the woman had made some rude, off-hand comment about Brian while waiting for him outside his office. Brian had dismissed the warning abruptly, only later realizing Rebecca had been right—Nancy had been completely wrong for him.

“Yes, well,” he struggled to regain his momentum. “I value your insight, Rebecca. You know that.” He tugged at his tie. “I’m just taking stock. Um, if I asked you—out of those five or six that you met, how many would you say had been a good fit for me?”

“Oh, dear.” She let her eyes fall to the floor for a moment then brought them up to Brian’s face. “I didn’t get to know them very well, but, uh, I’d have to say, none.”