Kathleen O'Reilly - Breakfast At Bethany's

Harry, who had never been to the wilds of Los Angeles, elected to stay. “I worry about you. This aloneness can’t be good. The next thing you know, you’ll be getting a cat.”

Spencer shot out of his seat, the veins hammering away in his head, the pain only making him angrier. “First off, since you are the primary reason that I’m suffering from all this aloneness, your concern smacks of hypocrisy. And I’m not getting a cat. Not even a dog. Not even a hamster. The little beasts are nothing more than glorified rats.”

Harry shook his head in a mournful manner. “You’re never going to meet another woman with that sort of attitude. You need to get back in the saddle.”

“I can get back into the saddle anytime I want. You tell Joan that. In fact, I’ve got a date tonight,” snarled Spencer, mainly to salvage what was left of his ego.

Never one to practice the fine art of subtlety—damn sports writer—Harry began to laugh. “A date? Returning a favor?”

“No.”

“Mother’s dentist’s niece?”

“No,” Spencer snapped.

“Some friend of Joan’s that I haven’t met yet?”

“Since you’ve been sleeping with her longer than I was married to her, that’s highly unlikely.”

“I waited four months. It seemed acceptable. Does this still bother you?”

“No.” Spencer sighed. “Why don’t you marry her?” he asked. Then he could at least save the alimony. Fifteen hundred a month, which was galling, since Joan’s father could buy Spencer several million times over. Unfortunately, Mr. Barclay didn’t believe in passing along his wealth to his daughter until he was dead, so now it was Spencer who was footing the bill.

Harry picked up the latest New York Times and began to read. “I’ve tried. She says no. It breaks my heart that her desire for revenge is bigger than her love for me. But you inspire that in women, Spence.”

The phone rang, sparing Spencer a reply. “I bet that’s my date now.” In one smooth move he picked up the phone and opened the door for Harry to exit. “James here.”

“Spencer, it’s Beth. Beth Von Meeter.”

After listening to her voice all afternoon, he still found it sent a tingle to places he thought were long dead. He turned his back on Harry, intimating intimacy. “Yes, I was hoping you would call.”

“I think you’re on to something. I’ve gotten four responses so far. Oops, make that five. And they all sound amazing.”

Did she actually doubt his skills? “Of course.”

“You wanted me to check in with you after I set up my first date, right?”

“Yes, I’ll need to see you as soon as possible. Can you excuse me for a moment?”

“Certainly.”

Spencer turned and glared at Harry. “Out,” he said, arm stretched toward the door. If his arm were long enough to make it to hell, he’d have pointed there, too.

Harry gestured to the phone, then made pornographic hand signs, but he did pick up his coat and make his way to the door. Spencer walked over and slammed it right after him.

Then he took a deep, calming breath. “I’m sorry, Beth. You were saying?”

“We’re going to see a play at the Steppenwolf tomorrow.”

“Oh. What time will you be done?”

“It’s a date, Mr. James, not a business appointment.”

“You’re right. What was I thinking? I’ll meet you at one a.m. There’s a coffeehouse across the street.”

“I’m not dumping my date, who might be the most fabulous man I’ve met in my entire life, in order to go through the third degree with you.”

As if he were just some two-bit stringer from Pomona. Spencer slammed his hand on the counter, immediately bruising his palm. Stupid moves like this were the prime reason he was healthier staying away from the human race. “As the man responsible for you meeting the most fabulous man you’ve ever met in your life, I would think some gratitude would be in order.”

“Gratitude is not the emotion of the day. Try again tomorrow. I’ll meet you Sunday morning.”

Defeat came and smacked him on the head. “I’ll meet you at nine. Where do you live? We can find someplace nearby.”

“All right,” she replied, and then gave him her address. It was an apartment two blocks from his. Cheap, but safe and serviceable. Sad that an award-winning journalist was placed in the same caste as a coffee shop barista. Damn Joan. Why couldn’t she just marry Harry?

“What’s your date’s name?” Spence asked, mainly because even while he was condemning his wife to alimonial purgatory, he was lining up lemming-style to be pushed over the edge again.

“Donald. Donald Hughes.”

She sounded thrilled, as if the love of her life was going to be standing behind door number one. She’d been married before. How could she be so goddamn excited about the idea of doing it again?

“Wonderful,” was all he said before he hung up.

Inside of him, there was the usual burning he felt at the start of every good story. Today there was something else. A different kind of burn, deep inside him.

A severe case of lust could do that to a man.

THAT EVENING, Beth spent two hours wheeling and dealing on eBay, before sending an IM message to Cassandra. The temporary money pinch she was in was improving and the man shortage was definitely improving in spades. Hallelujah!

Beth says: “You there?”

Cassandra says: “Yes.”

Beth says: “Are you alone?”

Cassandra says, while inhaling the soothing scent of lavender: “If I’m entertaining, I’m not going to be sitting at the computer.”

Beth says defensively: “I thought I’d ask. It’s Friday night. Why are you sans a date?”

Cassandra says casually, too casually: “I felt like being alone.”

Beth says: “You heard, didn’t you?”

Cassandra says, shrugging: “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Beth says: “Benedict.”

Cassandra says: “Eggs.”

Beth says: “You know exactly what I mean.”

Cassandra says: “Yes, I heard.”

Beth says: “What are you going to do?”

Cassandra says: “There is no rope painful enough to hang him from, so that’s out. There’s no river wide enough to ensure that he’d drown—so that’s out.”

Beth says: “Still feeling hostility for the former boyfriend, huh?”

Cassandra says: “Of course.”

Beth says, because she’s an optimist and a romantic: “He’s going to show up. You know he will.”

Cassandra says: “I’ll handle it when he does. Are you going to the Christmas gala?”

Beth says: “It’s family stuff. I have to go. You?”

Cassandra says: “Much too boring.”

Beth says: “Lots of cool guys. You should go. And now to transition to all about Beth: Got a date tomorrow, got a date tomorrow, got a date tomorrow.”

Cassandra says: “Stop the presses. Who’s the latest?”

Beth says: “Personal ad person.”

Cassandra says, while holding up thumb and forefinger: “Loser.”

Beth says: “Hey, I resemble that remark.”

Cassandra says: “No, you don’t. We’ve had this discussion before.”

Beth says: “You’re right. This is the new, improved, no longer directionally challenged me.”

Cassandra says: “Knock ’em dead, tiger.”

Beth says: “You betcha.”

DONALD HUGHES WAS a nice guy. He had a decent job—civil engineer for the city—was attractive and funny. In short, he was the ideal man. Beth kept checking him out during the play, casting quick glances just to see if he truly existed, or if she was overcompensating on his behalf and he was truly a wuss. No, he seemed to be real. A couple of times he caught her peeking, and smiled. The last time, he actually reached over and held her hand. It was the most romantic thing that had happened to her in almost eight months.