The minute his feet hit the floor, Jake realized his mistake. His ice-benumbed groin was connected to his ice-benumbed hip flexors and all the other muscles that helped operate his legs. At sub-zero temperatures, none of them worked properly. His knees buckled. He pushed one arm onto the table for support and held the other out to Carly. He could do this.

No pain, no gain.

She looked oblivious to his tottering state of operability. Also flattered, he noticed with relief. She gazed up at him with sparkling eyes and a semi-smile on her lips, then put her hand in his. They whooshed toward the dance floor—okay, staggered toward the dance floor. Gritting his teeth, Jake drew her into his arms.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” she asked.

She looked dubiously at him, as though he were a ninth-round draft pick. Her skepticism only made him twice as determined. He wasn’t some kind of wuss. After all, he’d been whacked in the nuts with the door to an Accord, not a Buick.

“I’m fine.” He tightened his arm around her slender waist, drawing her a little closer. “Better than fine.”

It was true. As they danced, his body thawed…all over. Jake forgot about everything except Carly. She was a good dancer—graceful and steady, with an excellent sense of rhythm. He kept a respectful amount of distance between their bodies, but even so he felt in sync with her. They swayed together. They dipped and twirled. They laughed. Once, he swore he heard Carly sigh happily.

“This is nice.” She tilted her face upward, giving him an appreciative look. A slight smile touched her lips. “I feel so anonymous.”

Huh? That didn’t make sense. “Anonymous?”

Her eyes widened. Her body tensed in his grasp. Carly sprang away, coming to a standstill about a foot away. “I mean, um, I feel so…like I might miss-the-bus. Missthebus.” She mashed the words together. “You know, to get home.”

Jake frowned. “But you said—”

“Miss-the-bus. Yup, that was it. Ha, ha. Sometimes those voice lessons really fall down on the job, don’t they?”

She bolted for their table and grabbed her purse. Jake watched in confusion as she hastily crossed the room to stand in front of him again. She rose on tiptoes. She lifted her mouth as though she meant to kiss him on the cheek, then apparently thought better of it and stuck out her hand instead.

Automatically, he shook it. Then he thought better of it—what was he, a man or a mouse?—and lowered his head to kiss her good-bye.

Carly ducked. He’d swear she did. That was going to look super on their “Dream Date” compilation tape. He could hear the smarmy host narrating it already: “Whoa! Just grazed that one, buddy. A sa-wing and a miss!”

“Sorry to dance and run,” she said, shrugging prettily.

“Wait. I’ll drive you home.”

“Thanks, but I’m really more of a bus girl.”

He considered the logic of a stiletto-wearing Carly on the city bus. What was she, crazy?

She’d get her flimsy high heel stuck in a wad of gum, flail her purse to break her fall, wallop some unsuspecting criminal type with the twenty pounds of girl stuff she probably carried, and wind up inciting a cross-town brawl. Half the bus would take her side—Carly was just that kind of woman—the other half would take exception, and she’d have to escape from the brouhaha with a broken ankle and a sticky shoe. Knowing her, she’d announce the condition of the bus driver’s nuts as she made her getaway. She’d indirectly cause the first embarrassment-related mass transit fender bender ever.

He had to stop her.

Jake turned. Too late. She’d already gone.

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

 

Okay, so those “scrubbing bubbles” on the bathroom cleaner were a sucker’s bet, Marley realized. Despite what the ads claimed, they really didn’t “do the work…so you don’t have tooooo!”

Perspiring and grungy, she swiped her forearm over her forehead. Wearily, she sat back on her heels. She glared at the bright-eyed cartoon scrubbing bubble on the spray bottle of cleaner, remembered all the commercials she’d seen as a kid touting this product, then glared at the bathtub in her new, modest apartment.

Okay, so it was really Meredith’s apartment. After much coaxing, Marley had convinced her sister to temporarily swap living spaces with her—clearly, the most elegant solution to the problem. Marley had needed an everyday, ordinary apartment for Carly, and Meredith lived in one. Voilà! They’d switched lives for a while. Sort of.

Until now, Marley hadn’t quite regretted her decision. But at this moment, she did. Because while lucky Meredith was probably lounging beside her swimming pool, enjoying her fruity drinks with tiny umbrellas as dispensed by her staff, Marley was stuck attempting to clean. It was like some freakish revenge for all the chores she’d skipped as a kid. It just wasn’t fair.

No, hang on. It got even worse, she realized. Knowing Meredith, she was probably reading beside the pool. Reading not something entertaining (like a paperback novel) but something (ugh) enriching (like a study of advertising through the ages).

Thinking of it, Marley couldn’t help but shake her head. Some people just didn’t know how to enjoy life. And here she was, a person who definitely knew how to enjoy life…trapped in Blahville.

She glared at the scummy bathtub again. Like everything else here in Meredith’s place, it required a ton of work to look respectable. The apartment was old, circa 1988 or so, and although it had come furnished with all of her sister’s things, it wouldn’t quite come clean.

 Marley couldn’t believe she was living in a place built before “Fantasy Family” had gone on the air. What was the matter with her sister? Didn’t Meredith aspire to better things? The two of them had been buying training bras and worrying about getting braces when this one-bedroom-plus-bath was new.

Nestled in a quiet neighborhood filled with retirees and young families, Marley had to admit it was perfect for her purposes, though. Perfect for Carly, too. It was humble, unremarkable, and completely forgettable.

Her first nights here had been awful. Lonely and silent, they’d stretched through the darkness in a way that had thoroughly unnerved Marley. She’d never been alone before. Growing up, she’d lived with her family, of course. Later in her teen years, she’d had the company of Meredith and her friends and her co-stars on whatever soap or sitcom she was currently cast in. Once in her twenties, she’d been part of “Fantasy Family,” and had been able to afford round-the-clock companionship. She’d never expected doing without it to be so hard.

All during those first nights, Marley had clutched Gaffer to her in Meredith’s creaky double bed. She’d whispered in the dark to her dog, knowing by his snuggles and occasional whimpers that he could sense her unease, and wanting to help him feel better. Now, after having weathered three such nights, she’d emerged stronger than ever.

Not strong enough, however, to battle soap scum.

Marley had begun the skirmish with lots of energy and positive vibes. She’d even dressed for success, in blue jeans rolled at the ankles, a red gingham shirt tied above her navel, a kerchief for her hair, and Keds. She looked like a housewife straight out a fifties Spic and Span commercial, and she’d thought she’d be able to scour like one, too. Apparently not.

The bathtub resisted her efforts the same way everything else did. The dishwasher burped soapsuds all over the earth-toned kitchen linoleum. The “free cable” constantly went on the fritz. The air conditioner blew burnt-smelling breezes, and the wall-to-wall sculptured carpeting soaked up stains like it had thirsted for spilled store-brand diet soda all its half-inch-high life. Existing here in the land of ordinary, everyday girls-next-door was no cakewalk, she’d discovered. But Marley was nonetheless determined to make a go of it.

As her acting teacher had once told her, it was impossible to truly build a character without having walked a mile in her shoes. (The character’s shoes, not the acting teacher’s. The acting teacher generally wore Birkenstocks, which were comfortable but limiting as far as characterization went.) So Marley was doing exactly that.

As far as was possible, she was getting by only on the resources Carly would have had. She’d turned over her bungalow and staff to Meredith, surrendered her BMW and driver, and relinquished all her starlet perks. For the time being, those things were her sister’s to enjoy. From here on out, Marley intended to be as “real and raw” as they came.

Of course, it had all begun with that crash course on the city bus. After having blurted that ridiculously revealing “I feel so anonymous” to Jake, she’d skedaddled out of Champs in a blind panic…and found herself confronted with the necessity of doing something she’d never done before.

Taking public transit.

Two minutes after hesitantly sidling up to the bus shelter to peer at the schedule posted there, Marley chickened out. Other people were waiting, people who looked confident about the idea of abandoning taxis and limos and private, chauffeur-driven cars. People who belonged. She grabbed her cell phone and called her sister.

“Meredith, you’ve got to help me!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m about to ride the city bus!”

Silence. “…and?”

“That’s it.” Marley hugged herself. A car whizzed past on the street just inches from her feet, sending a blast of hot air toward her. She shrank back. “Help, please! What do I do?”

A woman sitting in the bus shelter gave Marley a shove on the backside. “Hey, watch it. You’re standing on my foot.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Marley mouthed an apology. Then she huddled into herself and whispered into the cell phone. “The other bus riders are hostile. It’s like the fifth-grade cafeteria all over again.”

“Everyone loved you in fifth grade,” Meredith said, sounding distracted.

What was she doing? Working? During her twin sister’s moment of distress? “Meredith!” Marley pleaded. “You’re not that far away. Come pick me up, please?”

“What, is your driver off having a cosmetic butt lift or something?”

That wasn’t a bad idea, Marley mused. Hugh had been complaining lately about the broadening effects of his long hours in the car. Maybe when this was over, she’d…nah.

“I gave him the rest of the day off.”

Quickly, Marley filled in her sister with a shorthand version of all that had transpired since Hugh had dropped her off at the “Dream Date” auditions that morning. Jake. The coffee philosophy. Jake. The goat attack. Jake. The delights of fatty food, and the horrors of rowdy kids high on Kool-Aid. Jake, and his sexy version of slow dancing—which had mostly involved lots of touching, easy movements, and staring soulfully into each other’s eyes.

She left out the part where she’d nearly maimed the man. It was too devastating to reveal, and she already felt bad enough. Jake had been forgiving, though.

Somehow, Marley already felt a little closer to him. Close enough to feel warm where he touched her, tingly elsewhere, and a teensy bit breathless. Close enough to relax in his arms, to savor the novelty of being noticed for herself instead of her role as that bubble-headed Tara…to blurt out things both truthful and better left unsaid.

“Besides, even if I hadn’t given Hugh the day off, I can’t let Jake see me jumping into my BMW,” she explained to Meredith desperately. “I told him I was taking the bus.”

“So take the bus.”

“I…” Wow, was this embarrassing. “I don’t know how.”

More silence. “Sometimes I forget exactly how sheltered you really are.”

Marley knew her sister was shaking her head. She pictured Meredith behind a pile of the research books she loved so much, with her hair in that unflattering scraggly ponytail of hers and her face devoid of makeup. Both non-style choices were further rejections of all things starlet-and-Marley related. Marley tried not to let that fact hurt her feelings.

As always, it did. A little.

“Please, Meredith. Please, please, please. I see the bus headed this way.” Marley leaned sideways to track the progress of the huge vehicle. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Jake as he emerged from Champs and headed in her direction. “Jake’s coming, too! I see him.”

He would insist on driving her home. He was just that kind of guy. But she couldn’t let him. Home was a decidedly non-Carly Hollywood Hills bungalow worth a cool few mil.

Meredith sighed. The sound of a book thumping closed came through the receiver. “First you’ll need correct change. Bus drivers accept exact fares only.”

Marley searched her purse. “I have two twenties, five tens” –tip money for messengers and maître d’s— “my American Express card, and a platinum Visa.”

“The fare is a dollar thirty-five.”

“I’ll tip the driver eight-sixty-five. He’ll be happy.”

“He’ll be shutting the doors in your face.”

“Because I offered him a tip? That’s crazy!”

“Welcome to the real world, sis.”

Shaking her head, Marley examined her resources again. Nothing in her “Carly” life functioned the way she expected it to. She spotted Jake, waving to catch her attention. The bus lumbered ever closer, spewing exhaust fumes.

“After you get on,” Meredith went on instructing, “you’ll have to watch for your stop.”

“Can’t I just give the driver my address?”

“Tell me you’re not serious.”

She had been. Sort of. After years of being driven places, Marley wasn’t comfortable with fending for herself. How would she even know if this bus went to her neighborhood? She’d certainly never noticed it, if it did.

Biting her lip, she tried squinting at the schedule again. At the same moment, Jake saw the bus approach and hurried up.

“Carly!” he yelled. “Wait!”

His pursuit gave her the nerve she needed. Marley turned to the “you’re standing on my foot” woman and traded a ten dollar bill for several ones and some coins. In the process, she made a friend for the day. The woman smiled and let Marley move to the front of the small waiting group, just as the bus squealed to a stop. Hot air and street dust billowed from beneath its tires.

Yuck. But Marley didn’t have time to be particular. Portraying Carly had pushed her to the limit of her improvisation skills. Another one of Jake’s smiles might coax the whole truth out of her. That would jeopardize everything.

She teetered onto the bus in her heels, frowned as she tried to get her bearings on the crowded vehicle, and then deposited her money in the fare box the driver wearily indicated.

Twenty minutes later, having made a clean getaway, she looked through the window and recognized the distinctive script letters of the Beverly Center sign. Although she wasn’t home yet, Marley decided it was better to get off the bus someplace familiar.

She excused herself from her companions, offered the driver a grateful smile, and stepped onto the sidewalk. As the bus pulled into traffic again, she watched it go with a sense of accomplishment…and confusion. Was that really Jake’s picture on the side of the bus?

It was. And it was Jake’s picture on the ad banner at the top of the taxi she hailed, too. Curiously, Marley peered at it as she opened the rear door. Get your motor revved, it read. Jake Jarvis, Sports at Six—for complete NASCAR coverage.

She wasn’t sure what NASCAR was, but judging by the seductive look on Jake’s face—and his state of partial undress in a mostly unbuttoned shirt—its coverage was delectable. Hmmm…maybe sports were worth watching after all.

Marley’s mass transit adventures had come to a happy ending when the taxi had deposited her in front of her bungalow. She’d strode through the security gate, successfully fought an urge to kiss her BMW parked outside, and then immediately launched into full-scale alter ego mode…beginning with moving to Meredith’s ordinary-girl apartment.

Which was what had brought her to this point. Scrubbing soap scum.

The stuff was like radioactive waste. It wasn’t budging. Probably, Marley had introduced some unusual dirt molecules when giving Gaffer a bath last night (even her dog had been denied his usual pet pampering). Either that, or she was just clueless when it came to cleaning.

Okay, clueless won. Hands down. She’d never had chores as a child, because she’d been too busy going to auditions, lessons of every variety, or tutors to help make up schoolwork. Her parents had cut her a certain amount of slack, due to her career. Later, she’d employed household help. Now, Marley realized, she’d grown into a stunted person, incapable of more than rudimentary tidying.

She braced herself on the tub and examined the scum at close range. From here, she could see that the tile grout needed spiffing up, too. Ugh. She’d have to call in professionals. Experts with knowledge and equipment…and heavy duty super tools.

Sure, that’s what she’d do. Call in a cleaning service. She owed it to her sister, didn’t she? In thanks for all her help?

She reached for her cell phone. At her side, Gaffer watched her. His fur still gleamed from the silicone styling gloss she’d sprayed onto it. It occurred to Marley that maybe he didn’t need the three hundred dollar “pampered pooch” treatment he usually received from her private grooming service. He looked pretty darn good.

She looked up the number of her cleaning service and dialed. As she waited for an answer, she gave Gaffer a pat. He looked balefully back at her, his big brown eyes filled with the knowledge that she was cheating. Cheating.

You made me endure a homemade bath…just so you could call in the cavalry when the going got tough? his doggie gaze seemed to say. I endured amateur blow-drying, for this?

Guilt-stricken, Marley hung up the phone. “You’re right, boy. There must be another way.”

Four days of living as Carly had taught her a thing or two. One of the most significant of those things was the importance of creativity. Biting her lip, Marley gave the situation some thought. Then she picked up an exfoliating facial puff from the vanity and went to work.

Voilà! Perfection. Proudly, she gazed at the results her ingenuity had wrought. The bathtub gleamed a decidedly glorious white, and the grout looked better, too. The facial puff had really done the job.

Marley lifted the puff and looked at it. She was considering what the heck it had been doing to her skin all these years when the doorbell rang. Company!

Smoothing her gingham shirt and jeans, she hurried to the door.

 

 

“In the good old days, news viewers were predominately white, middle-aged males,” Rich said. He leaned back in his upholstered desk chair at KKZP and fixed Jake and Sid with a serious expression. “They watched broadcasts in taverns on dinky black and white TVs, and were damned grateful to do it. But these days, more than half of our viewers are female.”

Sid shifted uneasily.

“Women care about who’s on ‘Oprah.’ About what happened on their soaps. About human interest stories and sentimental real-life bullshit. They don’t care about sports.”

“Tell that to the women of the WNBA,” Jake said. “They’re probably too busy scoring three-pointers to worry about who married whose long-lost ex-husband on ‘All my Children.”

Rich ignored that. “We’re going to make them care about sports. Sports as human drama. Sports as inspiration. Sports as entertainment. That’s the reason for the media tie-ins—”

Jake thought of the lobby banner, only subtly toned down by the addition of banana-print swim trunks. He frowned.

“—and that’s the reason for using you, Jake, as a draw. For some damned reason, your appeal skews high among female viewers. Our mail and our call-ins show it. So we’re going to make the most of it. We’re going to focus on you harder than ever—”

“I’m a serious journalist.” Jake didn’t want management to forget that in this idiotic chase for ratings. “That’s what I’m going to focus on. This ‘Dream Date’ thing won’t last forever.”

“Neither will you, with an attitude like that.” Rich glanced at the stack of contract renewals waiting for his approval, then folded his arms. “Remember, sports is an entertainment product that just happens to be aired on my newscast. It’s expendable.”

So are you. It didn’t take a genius to read the subtext here.

Reluctantly, Jake settled in. “Why the chase for female viewers anyway?”

“Advertising.” Rich rubbed his fingers together as though handling money. “Women make most of the purchasing decisions in households today.”

Advertisers wanted to buy spots during the programming that hauled in their target audience. Even as a former jock, Jake knew that much.

“We should program to them, then,” Sid suggested. “Load up on talk shows and infomercials and soaps—”

Rich shook his head. “Opposite other news broadcasts? We’d be cutting our throats. As a local affiliate, news—especially weather and local crime—is still our bread and butter. If we can lure female viewers from other stations’ news to ours, though—”

“Our bread is buttered on both sides,” Jake finished. “Fine. I’ve got it.” He stood. “And I’ve got an interview with Robert Horry in half an hour, plus a voice over/sound on tape to get ready for tonight’s package. Thanks for the pep talk, Rich.”

“Not so fast, Jarvis. I’m not finished yet.”

Hell. There was more. Jake waited.

The news director steepled his fingers and remained silent until Jake took a seat again. Then he said, “I’m cutting your duties. Temporarily. You need time to spend on the ‘Dream Date’ project. Until it’s finished, you’re off reporting. Skip will pick up the slack.”

“I can do both.”

“You don’t have to. For the next few weeks, it’s anchor only. Now scram, and go buy that ‘Dream Date’ gal of yours some flowers or something. Make a good impression. That’s an order.”

Jake frowned, pissed that he was being denied the part of his job he loved most. Anchoring was all right, but the real challenge was in reporting. Talking with players, managers, and coaches, covering games, interviewing fans, putting together video-plus-voice over packages for the nightly broadcast. He loved the real work involved.

He glanced at Sid. The poor guy shifted in his seat, nervously waiting to see if Jake would agree. For his sake, Jake nodded. “Fine.”

Rich must have seen the muscle twitching in Jake’s jaw, because he spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “You won’t be docked those hours, of course. Consider it a paid hiatus, for the guy who’s about to hook the minnows that will draw in the bigger fish.”

“They’re women, not bait.”

“Whatever. Beat it. Go be charming.”

Jake turned to leave.

“Oh, and Jarvis?” Rich added. “There’s a lot riding on this. You’d better not lose that game show.”

 

 

When Marley opened her sister’s modest front door, Meredith was standing on the concrete second-floor stairway that served as a stoop. She held a bundle of something in her arms. Before Marley could so much as greet her, her sister’s gaze shot to the facial puff in Marley’s hand.

She rolled her eyes. “What, you knew I was coming and decided to ambush me into a facial? Please, Marley. Give me a little credit.”

“Would you prefer a makeover?” Marley shot back, arching her brows innocently. “A new haircut, some lipstick—”

“Bite me.”

“Charming. Really.” She opened the door wider.

Meredith made a face and entered. Apparently, sibling rivalry never died. It only curled up and hibernated occasionally.

But honestly…seeing Meredith schlump into her apartment’s humble living-room-slash-dining-area in a mismatched set of khaki pants and a droopy black T-shirt just about broke Marley’s heart. Didn’t she have any pride in her appearance? Didn’t she care if her ponytail made her look like a reject from a sock hop, her lack of makeup made her look like a low-rent Camille (not the Garbo version), and her posture stole three inches from her height?

“Let’s not start that makeover business again,” Meredith said, scraping something unidentifiable and brown from the sole of her combat boot. “I’m on my lunch break. I just stopped by to drop these off.”

She held out her armload. Marley gingerly accepted and examined it.

“A pink polyester uniform? This looks like something Helga would wear.”

“Your housekeeper should be so lucky. It’s for you. I got you that job you asked me about.”

“I’m a professional fashion victim?”

“Har, har. You’re a waitress.”

A waitress? Nervousness clutched at Marley’s heart. It was true that she needed a part-time job for Carly, but she’d hoped for something a little more…glamorously girl-next-door-ish.

“Don’t panic, it’s only temporary. Just like you requested,” Meredith said.

She made her way around the apartment, probably checking to make sure Marley hadn’t destroyed it somehow. She was such a skeptic.

“One of the ladies in the museum coffee shop is going on vacation to Niagara Falls,” Meredith went on, “and they needed somebody to fill in. I suggested you.”

In dismay, Marley raised the uniform to her body, assessing the effect. It was an above-the-knee zippered dress with a white collar and cuffs. French maid style in Pepto Bismol pink. Its fabric was thin, with permanent darts stitched at the bust line.

She’d never fill it out. Not in a million years. She’d have to wear her cutlets just to garner any tips. After all, she wanted Carly to do well.

“It’s Fifties Month at the museum,” Meredith went on to say. She worked as a researcher, historian, and all-around gal Friday at a local popular culture museum. “That’s why the uniform looks like that, to complement the collections. Last month, all the waitresses wore togas.”

“It’s…polyester,” Marley said.

Meredith rolled her eyes. “It’s yours.” She explained the details of where and when “Carly” was expected to report for duty. “Don’t make me regret doing you this favor.”

Marley was hurt she could even think that. “I swear, I’m dead serious about doing a good job with this.”

“That’s what you said about Sparky.”

“Our goldfish died twenty years ago!”

Meredith sighed. “Look, just don’t fluff this off, okay? Please. My reputation is on the line.”

Her reputation as a scholarly, slobby, stick in the mud, Marley thought, still miffed over the Sparky accusation. She didn’t voice those thoughts, though. Instead, she nodded solemnly.

“I’ll do my best,” she said…and hoped like heck her best would be good enough.

 

 

After receiving a few more words of advice from Meredith—and after giving her sister a grateful hug for her help—Marley said good-bye to Meredith at the door. She watched Meredith navigate along the sidewalks of Carly’s apartment complex, her stride schlumpy but her gaze fixed on her destination.

Marley envied her that. Meredith had a purpose in life, an interesting job she loved, and the respect of her colleagues. Marley’s Hollywood colleagues had already forgotten her, she suspected. Stardom didn’t have a long life span, but it was all she knew. She needed it.

She closed the door and picked up her temporary waitress uniform. Thoughtfully, she stroked her thumb over the awful, scratchy pink fabric. The woman who usually wore this uniform lived an ordinary life, a life Marley was only imitating. Was she happy with it? Or did she yearn for something more, the way Marley did?

Sighing, she set the uniform aside. It was time to meet her favorite prop guy, Archie, to pick up the atmospheric clunker of a car he’d promised her. Marley could hardly wait to find out what he’d turned up.

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

Saturday was a sacred time at the Jarvis house.

It was sports time.

Jake selected a game on TV—as a professional necessity, he subscribed to every pay-per-view sports channel. Noah selected a variety of snacks. Then they snuggled up together on the sofa to watch grown men wallop the hell out of each other in contests of skill, brawn, and bravery.

Today, the game du jour was football. A classic 1998 matchup between the Philadelphia Eagles and the New York Giants, rebroadcast on ESPN Classic.

“Yay!” Noah yelled as the tailback broke away and completed a fifty-yard running play to tie the game. “Touchdown!”

He leaped from the sofa with his Nerf football tucked under his arm. Still in his pajamas, Noah ran circles around the coffee table, whooping and hollering. He stopped to exchange a high five with his dad, then ran across their apartment to the kitchen doorway.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

Jake looked up to see the Nerf ball sailing a wobbly trajectory toward his head. He caught it easily, then tossed it back to Noah. Grinning, the boy scampered back to the sofa. He grabbed two Chee-tos from the open bag and munched, adding to the fluorescent orange mustache already on his upper lip.

Jake leaned forward to wipe it away. “Be sure to brush your teeth extra thoroughly today. You know how it is on Saturdays.”

“No Miss Suzy for me,” Noah recited, hugging his football in the crook of one arm. “No work for you. All junk food, all day. Yahoo!”

He started running again. He paused to watch the Eagles’ kicker go for the extra point, then whooped when it was good. He came back to the sofa and fidgeted beside Jake, then selected a Twinkie and settled down to eat it as the game continued.

Contented, Jake glanced down at Noah’s happy face and sticky little fingers. He stroked a hand over his son’s hair, considering how lucky he really was. Noah was his. All that little boy love was Jake’s to savor, and to return. He didn’t have to share Noah with anyone else.

Even more importantly, Noah didn’t have to share his dad. Jake’s attention wasn’t divided between several children, the way his father’s had been. Everything he had went to Noah, and that was the way Jake liked it.

Some would have said Noah needed a mother. Hell, some had. Jake didn’t agree. They were doing fine as they were. Adding a woman to the mix would only divide Jake’s attention and steal time from his son. He could count on himself, Jake knew; he wasn’t so sure about anyone else.

Besides, this way no one could complain their weekly junk food fest was giving the kid a food complex, food allergies, or high cholesterol. No one could argue with Jake’s methods of ensuring cooperation (baseball card rewards), doling out punishment (a stern look usually did the trick), or regulating proper little boy attire (the pajamas at ten-thirty were a case in point).

He and Noah were a perfect team. They didn’t need anybody else.

The game continued. During halftime, Jake and Noah grabbed baseballs and mitts, then went outside to their apartment complex’s grassy play area. A few grounders later—their games of catch were more like lawn bowling, but that was the way Noah liked it—they were back on the sofa for the second half.

“Hey, what’s that sound?” Noah asked, cocking his head.

“I dunno.” Jake listened.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Somebody at the door?” Noah wondered.

“It doesn’t sound like knocking. It sounds like…”

Before he could guess, somebody did knock. Jake brushed the Chee-tos crumbs from his T-shirt, stretched out his legs in his worn Levis, and went to answer it.

“Surprise!” Carly said when he opened the door. “I figured it was my turn to organize a date for us, and we did exchange addresses at ‘Dream Date,’ so here I am! I’ve come to kidnap you for a picnic.”

She hefted a wicker hamper, looking bright-eyed and beautiful. She’d done something to make her dark hair wavy. It was different. Nice. A quick glance downward told Jake that either she’d dressed in a white lacy shirt and shorts which weren’t visible behind her picnic basket, or she was naked from the waist down.

He hoped for the latter.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked.

“Uh, sure.” He held the door open.

Carly sashayed in. He realized the tap, tap, tap he’d heard earlier had been the sound of her high heeled shoes clicking against the sidewalk. When he saw her from behind, he also realized she was not naked from the waist down. As consolation, though, what she had on was the next best thing: a pair of denim cutoffs that made the most of her long, long legs.

She caught him looking. Seemed flustered. “I know these shoes aren’t exactly Saturday casual.”

“I wasn’t looking at your shoes.”

Even more flustered. “But this is a date, right? And they’re thongs. And the heels are only an inch and a half high. I figure that’s close enough to appropriate.”

In that getup, Jake didn’t want her anywhere near “appropriate.” He wanted her wild and willing and headed in his direction. Carly looked riotously fresh, from the froufrou fabric daisies on her shoes to the cotton candy pink on her fingernails. She also looked sexy as hell. Sure, she was wearing enough jewelry to rival a major league player’s collection, but jewelry could be removed, piece by piece…just like everything else she had on.

“You look good,” he said.

This “sportscaster and the Pop Tart” match-up of theirs might actually work, he decided in that moment. At this rate, Jake felt ready to send the “Dream Date” viewer vote tallies into overdrive.

Sexual attractiveness? A billion points, Doug!

In the background, the TV pumped out the sounds of the game and Dick Enberg blathered on about a penalty. The natural noise—crowd sounds—increased. Jake realized dimly that the Giants must be going for that game-saving fourth down they needed.

Carly frowned slightly, seeming unsure as to where to put her picnic hamper. “I hope you don’t mind that I stopped by. It looks like you’re in the middle of a—oh!”

Suddenly, Jake felt two small arms clamp around his thighs from behind. Next came the telltale sensation of a face being buried in the back of his jeans as Noah hid behind his dad. His son had a death grip on his quadriceps, and didn’t appear to be planning to let go any time soon.

“My son, Noah,” Jake said by way of introduction—and explanation. “He takes a little while to warm up to new people. Just don’t make any sudden moves, and he’ll be fine.”

“Your…your son?”

“Yeah. He turned four last month.”

Eyes widening, she looked around the small apartment. If she was looking for Noah’s mother, she wouldn’t get far.

“Tell me you’re divorced,” Carly said, backing up.

He shook his head. “I’m not divorced.”

She gawped, then swiveled on her heel. “The ‘Dream Date’ people really should have screened for this type of thing,” she said as she strode back to the door. “Married men should not be trolling for dream dates!”

He smiled. “I didn’t exactly have to troll. You picked me up at the coffeemaker, remember?”

“Arrgh!” Carly marched back and jabbed her finger at his chest. “I was just being nice! Besides, you picked me up.”

Noah angled his head sideways. “She looks too big to pick up,” he whispered.

“Shhh,” Jake told him. “Every lady is light as a feather. Remember that, son. Your life will go lots more smoothly.”

Carly glared at him. She tossed her head. “I,” she announced, “am light as a feather.”

“See?” Jake told Noah. The boy nodded wisely.

“And I don’t need to be picked up.” She strode to the doorway again, then paused for a dramatic moment. “Not that I’d allow you to do it, anyway.”

Noah tugged on his dad’s sleeve. “She goes back and forth a lot.”

“Kind of like one of your remote control cars, huh, buddy?”

Carly huffed and opened the door. Jake realized he’d misled her. He unpeeled Noah from his legs to hurry after her.

“Don’t do that.” He met her in the doorway. Gazed down at her seriously. “Stay. I’ll call my sister to hang out with Noah, and we can go on your picnic. I’ll explain everything.”

Suspiciously, she examined him. “I don’t date married men. Or men who are involved with other women.”

“You say that like it’s some kind of loophole you’re dragging closed.”

She arched a brow.

He was offended she thought so little of him. “I generally stick to one woman at a time. It’s better for my sanity.”

“Fine.” Carly adjusted the picnic basket in her arms. She glanced over Jake’s shoulder at Noah, who’d plunked himself on his knees on the sofa and was watching them over the back of it. “But I can’t let you call a baby-sitter.”

“It’s no trouble. My sister lives pretty close by, and—”

“And if I’m going to learn all about you, I’ll have to learn about your whole life,” Carly pointed out. She seemed gamely ready to accept this new development and run with it. “Including your son. Noah will come with us, of course.”

 

 

When she’d concocted this picnic scheme, Marley had planned to launch a wonderfully romantic rendezvous on the grounds of the Griffith Observatory. Ever since seeing the place in Rebel Without a Cause, she’d decided it was the perfect spot for couples. Because honestly…if it was good enough for Natalie Wood and James Dean, it was good enough for anybody, right?

But Marley and Jake and Noah were a threesome. Not a couple. Plus, it seemed possible that seeing his father get romantic with an unknown woman might scar little Noah for life. So Marley switched plans. She piled everyone into her battered-looking car, and they headed for the kid-friendly La Brea Tar Pits instead.

“This is a great car,” Jake said as Marley navigated through the endless L.A. traffic. “A real classic.”

“It is?” It had four wheels and it ran. It looked decrepit enough for Carly to afford. That was all that had mattered to Marley when Archie had dropped it off. “What’s so classic about it?”

“Are you kidding me? Everything. This car” –he paused for dramatic effect— “is the 1977 Super Bowl of cars. I mean, look at it. It’s totally classic.”

“Oh, I get it.” Marley gripped the steering wheel harder. “That’s just a nice euphemism for ‘hunk of junk,’ isn’t it?” She felt wounded on Carly’s behalf. “Well, maybe this is all I can afford. Have you thought of that? Huh?”

For a moment, Jake looked discomfited. Obviously, he was considering exactly how ordinary, how real and raw, Carly really was. He ran his hand over the vinyl dashboard soberly, as though realizing how common all of it truly was.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked. “This is a ‘69 Mustang Coupe with a 302 V-8 engine, fastback body, and all the goodies. This is not a hunk of junk.”

Uh-oh. Had she inadvertently bagged the car equivalent of an original Chanel suit, designed by Coco herself?

She remembered Archie saying something when he’d dropped off the car. Something like, “You’re not exactly the ‘89 Yugo type, Marley.” She hadn’t had a clue what he’d meant.

“Well…it’s pretty loud,” she said skeptically.

“It’s supposed to be loud. Vroom, vroom.”

Noah joined in from his buckled-in booster in the back seat. Vroom, vroom competed with the rumble of the engine. Men and their cars. Glancing sideways, Marley caught the look of admiration on Jake’s face as they continued to their destination, and wondered if she and Archie had blown it. This car was impressing Jake way too much to help establish Carly’s ordinariness.

“It doesn’t even have a CD player,” she pointed out.

“That’s what radios are for.”

“An automatic transmission would really be nicer.”

He scoffed. “Where’s the adventure in that?

“I’m pretty sure it’s an official antique.”

“Like I said, a classic.” He gave her a boyish grin. “But if it’s that tough on you, let me drive.”

Marley couldn’t help but grin back. “No way. I have a feeling I’d have to crowbar you out of the driver’s seat afterward.”

“Maybe.” Jake watched her drive for a moment. “It’s still a pretty great car for a ‘bus girl.’”

She felt his gaze sweep over her, beginning at her white eyelet peasant-style shirt and moving downward to her legs. She wished Carly had been able to afford a self-tanner application session at the spa. As it was, Marley had been forced to make do with a tube of drugstore InstaTan, and the resulting color had been neither golden enough nor dark enough to truly…hey, it wasn’t the state of her fake tan Jake was checking out, Marley realized. It was her.

Instantly, she felt warmer. Sexier. More feminine. She glanced sideways again, and found him still looking. His gaze lifted from her legs to her breasts, and her nipples tightened in response. She was braless. Surely he could see the effect he was having on her. After a few moments, though, Jake only released a pent-up breath and examined her profile.

“Where have you been all my life?” he asked.

Marley sighed. He really was too sweet. Dreamily, she braked for a stoplight. “Say that again,” she begged.

“I said, where was your car earlier this week? When you rode the bus?”

Screech. The pleasant fantasy she’d been building in her head clanged to a stop. She must have imagined his first question in her eagerness to spin a gooey, hearts-and-flowers fantasy around poor Jake—the original sports-and-sports-cars type. Now, she had to address the real issue.

What was that line Archie had told her to use? Oh, yeah.

“My car’s been in the shop,” she said, being sure to employ the long-suffering delivery Archie had specified. “You know. Marigold problems.”

Jake squinted. “Manifold problems?”

“Those, too.” Marley spotted the modern gray architecture of the Page Museum at the La Brea Tar Pits and swung the car into a parking space. Hurriedly, she switched off the ignition. “We’re here! Who’s ready for a picnic?”

“Me!” Jake and Noah yelled. Noah waved his stuffed armadillo toy. Gleefully, he hurled it toward Marley.

It pelted her in the head.

“Sorry!” he shouted. He chuckled.

“That’s okay,” she said, trying not to grit her teeth. She could be a good sport about this, and she would. She handed back the armadillo.

Jake had already gotten out of the car. He reached back inside to unbuckle Noah from his booster seat. Marley decided to do her part and retrieve the picnic basket.

She leaned in. Jake did, too. Their eyes met, and Marley’s hand stilled on the picnic basket handle. Jake really was the most wonderful looking man. His square jaw was shadowed with stubble—it was a Saturday, after all, and she had caught him unaware—lending him a rugged, macho look. His jeans and T-shirt showed off his fit physique and highlighted the sturdy ease with which he carried himself. His horn-rims added just the right touch of practicality. They transformed Jake from untouchable hunk to very approachable everyday guy. The combination was powerfully appealing.

He smiled, and she was sunk. Just like that, she knew she had to have him. Here, there, on the car’s marigold—she didn’t care where.

A horn honked. An electronic news gathering van pulled into the parking space behind them, then their assigned “Dream Date” camera and audio teams piled out.

“I’ve gotta pee!” Noah hollered at the same moment. “Right now!”

The intimacy between Jake and Marley vanished. A short distance away, the TV crew began setting up.

“Great.” Jake gave her an accusing look as he finished unbuckling a squirming Noah. “We’re on ‘Candid Camera’ again.”

“It’s part of the gig,” she reminded him.

He stepped back to allow Noah room to get out. Marley wrestled her picnic basket free. They stared at each other over the top of the car.

“I didn’t want my son on TV.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to have a son at all!”

That did it. Jake’s mouth flattened into a straight, stubborn line. He stooped to capture Noah’s hand in his. “We’ll be right back.”

“Jake, I’m sorry!” Marley said, hurrying around the car to stop him. “That came out all wrong. I didn’t mean—”

He held up his palm, his back already to her. “Save it.”

“I was just surprised, that’s all,” she told him earnestly. “You can’t blame me for that.”

But he did. Clearly. And words to the contrary were useless. Spine rigid, Jake led Noah up the grassy slope outside the museum…farther and farther away from her.

“I’m no good with kids, that’s all,” Marley murmured, bleakly watching as the two of them crested the rear stairs and headed toward the entrance to the building. Noah did a little gotta-pee jig, then trundled down the steps out of sight. “Never having had a chance at being a real kid myself, that is.”

Marley sighed. She’d made a mess of this all right, and she had no idea how to fix it. Children were at least as foreign to her as the goats at the petting zoo had been—probably more so. She doubted she could placate Noah with a handful of Altoids and a pat on his tummy.

A member of the “Dream Date” crew approached her. Mutely, she put down her picnic basket and stood as he wired her with a wireless lavalier mic and Minicam.

“Good thing we followed you in order to get some establishing shots of you driving to pick up Jake,” the crew member said. “Otherwise, we’d never have tracked you here. You’re supposed to call in if your date plans change.”

“I know. Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ll do better next time.”

She had to do better, Marley knew. And she swore she would. She’d do better at everything. Just as soon as Jake and Noah returned.

 

 

When Jake exited the restrooms with Noah, the “Dream Date” crew was waiting to wire him with the usual reality-TV accoutrements. After they’d finished and returned to their filming spot, Jake continued down the hill. The first person he saw was Carly.

“Thank God! You came back!” she cried.

She hustled up the grassy slope outside the museum, her face alight with relief and her hands filled with what looked like little blue pillowcases. Napkins, Jake realized. Cloth napkins, each one probably bigger than that itty bitty sleeveless shirt she had on. Formal linens, for a picnic?

With those napkins fluttering, Carly closed the distance between them. Clearly, she meant to continue their conversation. Given what she’d said about his having a son, Jake knew he wouldn’t want Noah around for this.

He released Noah’s hand. “Go on and run around a little,” he suggested. “Stay on the grass. The I-Zone. I don’t want to have to give you any penalty warnings.”

“Okay. The I-Zone,” Noah agreed, confirming their usual game plan. Noah would play only in the places where Jake could see him—the I-can-see-you Zone. “Yippee!”

He scampered off, jumping up and down with an excess of little-boy energy. Now all that remained was telling Carly exactly what she could do with her damned “I didn’t want you to have a son!” remarks. Jake frowned, started forward…and was instantly flattened by a surprise tackle.

“Ooof!”

The breath squeezed from his midsection as Carly barreled straight into him. She flung her arms around him, too. Okay, so it wasn’t technically a full-on tackle, and he wasn’t technically flattened by the wee hundred-odd-pounds of feminine impact she mustered, but Carly did have a killer hug.

Jake resisted it. He was pissed, dammit. He had a right to be. It didn’t matter how good Carly felt. The wonderful curviness of her body slapped up against his would not change his mind.

“You took so long,” she mumbled against his chest. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back.”

She sounded so pitiful, he had to withstand an urge to comfort her. “You’ve obviously never taken a four year old to the bathroom,” he said grudgingly. “Washing hands takes days. Playing with the dryers takes weeks. Glaciers move faster.”

She squeezed harder, pinning his arms against his sides. “I’m just glad you’re not mad.”

“Oh, I’m mad.”

Carly leaned backward. She examined his face. For a moment, he thought she might panic and run. But she only drew in a deep breath and appeared to gather her courage.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” She grabbed his hand in an iron grip and dragged him across the grass. “Let me make it up to you. How about some water?”

Hastily, she knelt at their picnic spot. She’d covered the grass with a blanket—a five-by-five square of fabric that coordinated with the froufrou napkins—and she’d spread out an array of dishes, too. Real dishes, not paper plates. Jake also spotted cutlery, stemware, and a bouquet of flowers propped in a jar of water.

Carly had really gone all out, as though she truly wanted this picnic to be a nice one. And she was moving as though she feared he’d bail out on their alfresco date at any moment. He watched her frown of concentration as she hurriedly retrieved a few more things, and felt himself waver still further.

Then Jake spotted Noah creeping up on a sparrow pecking at the grass, his little boy’s concentration fierce. Love for his son welled up. It easily outweighed the appeal of Carly’s good intentions and bodacious body. Jake might be a “Dream Date” contestant for the next few weeks…but he was a father for life.

He folded his arms over his chest. “You were out of line with that crack about Noah.”

“I know. I was surprised.” Her voice sounded muffled as she fished something out of the picnic hamper. He couldn’t see her face. “You never mentioned having a son.”

“I try to keep him out of the limelight.”

“Understandable.” Nodding, she uncapped a bottle of Evian and poured some into a glass. From a compartment in the picnic basket, Carly retrieved ice and a lime wedge. She added those to the glass, too, arranging the garnish just so. “Being in the public eye can be tough on kids.”

“You’re right. It can be.”

“I know. I once had…a friend who did some acting as a child. The kids in our school never let her live it down. If they weren’t making fun of some part she’d played, they were accusing her of being snobby. Or laughing when she fell behind in schoolwork after being away on location.”

She handed him the water, nestling the delicate stemware in Jake’s big palm. Icy condensation chilled his fingers. He felt ridiculous holding it—Carly’s idea of a simple glass of water was one umbrella short of being a sissy blender drink. But he cradled it, all the same.

“Her mom always said those kids were just jealous,” Carly went on. “But I had my doubts. There were so many of them, and only one of my friend. Majority rules.”

“Not necessarily.” Jake drank. He could recognize a peace offering as well as the next guy. This wasn’t just sissified water. It was an apology in a glass. “Where’s your friend now?”

“Still acting. At least as much as she can.” Carly poured another glass of water, no ice. She fiddled with arranging three lime wedges in it. “Only now she can pay for friends. An entire entourage of them.”

Pay for friends? Jesus, that was a sad idea. Only in the screwed up world of Tinsel town, Jake guessed. “Except you.”

“Me?”

“You’re her friend without being paid for it.”

“Sure. Of course.” Brightly, Carly glanced up at him and changed the subject. “So, what’s the deal with you and Noah? Where’s his mom?”

Jake hesitated, studying his glass of water. He considered the fact that Carly liked her water specially bottled in France, served up in a fancy goblet, and enhanced with a garnish…while he occasionally liked his straight from the garden hose while washing his car.

 Maybe, as a woman who’d never experienced parenthood, Carly really didn’t understand how thoughtless her words had been. Maybe Jake needed to cut her some slack. Maybe he did owe her an explanation.

“Noah’s mom?” Carly prompted.

“Upstate. She lives in the Bay Area,” he said. He lowered himself to the blanket beside Carly, resting his arm on his upraised knee. He swirled his water, still gazing into it. “The short version is, the two of us had a fling after college, she got pregnant, and wasn’t ready for a baby. I offered to raise Noah, and here we are.”

Jake glanced over the museum’s landscaped grounds. Several yards away, Noah lay belly first on the grass, chattering to himself as he played. The sunlight sparked from his hair and highlighted the babyish curve of his cheeks. He still looked much the same as he had when Jake had first seen him, screaming with indignation in a hospital nursery.

“And the long version?” Carly asked.

“The long version is, I wanted him. It surprised the hell out of me, but once I knew Noah was on the way, I couldn’t wait. The way I wanted him was bigger than anything.”

He sensed Carly’s gaze on him, and felt suddenly self-conscious. He’d never revealed that much to anyone. Jake cleared his throat.

“Not very macho, huh?” he muttered, gulping more water.

“Hugely macho,” Carly said. Her honest nod confirmed it. “Are you kidding me? Men don’t realize what an amazing turn-on it is when they take on responsibility.”

“Right.”

“Really! Women love responsible men. Especially when they volunteer to be responsible for the dishes, the laundry, the groceries—”

Jake laughed. Carly’s answering grin lightened him, and encouraged him to go on. Feeling unexpectedly free, he did.

“I come from a big family—five kids, including me,” he explained. “My mom is crazy for babies. My dad is too, even though he’d never admit to those goo-goo faces he makes. I had plenty of help when Noah came.”

“What happened to his mother?”

Jake shrugged. “She’s happy in San Francisco, working as a broker. I’ve always encouraged her to visit. To spend time with Noah. She’s never had much interest.”

“Oh, Jake.” Carly reached for him.

Her hand on his shoulder felt surprisingly welcome. Jake relaxed beneath it.

“Don’t get me wrong. She’s not a bad person. It was just a case of bad timing. We keep in touch, but mostly it comes down to cards and gifts at Christmas and birthdays. Noah doesn’t seem to mind.”

“He knows about her?”

“I’m not going to lie to him.” Jake glanced at her surprised face. “Don’t worry. I’m not the brothers Grimm. I don’t fill his head with evil-birth-mother stories. I tell him as much as he can understand.”

Together, they gazed across the grass at Noah. There was no denying that he seemed like a very well-adjusted child. Chee-tos mustache aside.

“The rest of the time,” Jake said simply, “I love him.”

“Oh, Jake.” Carly sniffled. Actually sniffled. “That’s just about the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Uh-oh. He’d said too much. Dammit, what the hell had gotten into him? He’d been acting like one of those share-your-feelings blubberers on “Oprah.” Christ.

Carly gazed at him through watery, emotion-filled eyes. She looked ready to slap a wedding ring on him, chain him to a dishwasher, and make him wear pink golf shirts.

Jake tossed her one of those froufrou napkins and stood. “Dry your eyes and blow your nose, Princess. I’m not a man to spin fairy tales around, remember?”

He waited above her, arms crossed, as she dabbed at her eyes with the napkin. Eventually, Jake glared her into nodding.

Satisfied, he strode across the grass to get Noah. “Let’s eat!” he bellowed in his deepest voice—mostly for the benefit of Carly, who claimed to love those let’s-be-responsible-wussy-men so much. “I’m so hungry I could eat a woolly mammoth!”

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

They did not eat woolly mammoth.

They did, in fact, feast on ham and Brie sandwiches on pumpernickel bread. On salad of roasted red new potatoes with spring peas and tarragon vinaigrette. And on fresh fruit tarts filled with pastry cream and jewel-like slices of berries, kiwi, and tiny sweet oranges—all courtesy of a local gourmet deli.

Marley—having only planned a meal for two—shared all of hers with Noah. She led off with the goblet of Evian she’d poured, carefully pressing it into his hands as the boy approached their picnic spot with Jake at his side. Noah glanced into the glass, frowned as he rotated it, then broke into a grin.

“There’s a smiley face in my water!” he cried.

Marley hid a grin as Jake put a hand on Noah’s shoulder and peered along with him into the glass. “So that’s what you were doing with those lime slices.”

With a shrug, Marley nodded. She’d learned the trick on set, at the craft services table, where a bored caterer had taken pity on her jittery, six-year-old actress self and rigged up a surprise to make her smile. It was only fair now that she pass on the tradition.

Carefully, Noah raised the goblet in both hands and drank. She watched his little grass-stained fingers flex as he tilted it upward to drain the last drops, heard his satisfied exhalation of breath as he finished. He handed back the glass, the lime slices spent at the bottom.

“Delicious!” He beamed.

Her heart gave a little flutter. This boy was a charmer like his father. No doubt about it.

Then Noah hopped away. Literally. “Like a bunny!” he cried as he bounced a path along the perimeter of the picnic blanket. He wrinkled his nose, his face glowing with exertion and pleasure.

Okay, so he had a few rough edges. Like his father. Marley could live with that.

“Does he ever wear down?” she asked as she offered the food to Jake. “Or is he always like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a schnauzer on speed.”

Jake gave her a wary look. She made a face to show him she was only kidding.

He smiled. “He’s always like that.”

“You must have a lot of stamina.”

“I’ve got plenty of stamina.” He winked at her, clearly not referring to his parenting skills. “Remind me to demonstrate it for you sometime.”

Zing. Warmth raced through her, reminding Marley this was a date—a date with a man who, so far, seemed very interested in her. In her, not Tara. She couldn’t help but feel drawn into the illusion of their couplehood. After all, Jake had just shared some very personal details about his life with her. She’d shared some things about her childhood. There was a new intimacy between them…an intimacy that tempted Marley almost as much as fresh new scripts tempted Gaffer.

Too bad she couldn’t nibble a tiny sample of Jake.

Marley sighed. With all that was at stake, she was forced to walk a tightrope between cozying up to Jake so they’d do well in the “Dream Date” competition, and keeping her alter ego performance at the forefront of her mind.

Being with him wrecked her concentration, though. When confronted with his wide shoulders, ribald jokes, and perfect forearms, all she wanted to do was enjoy him. More and more, being “Carly” felt like an imposition, an imposition that interfered with all the things Marley really wanted to do—most of which involved her, Jake, and a long stint in some romantic, deserted place.

She experienced a sudden impulse to tackle him. In an entirely different way than she had before. She’d push him onto their blanket, straddle him in her girl-next-door ensemble, and run her hands all over the hard planes of his chest. His T-shirt would feel soft beneath her palms, but his body wouldn’t. His body would feel strong and masculine and oh, so good.

Jake would tuck his hand at the nape of her neck and pull her down for a hot, leisurely kiss, murmuring how he’d been waiting so long to taste her. She’d succumb like the heroine in a romantic movie, the whole world going soft-focused and candy colored as they…ahem.

“Oh, my God. You’re a winker,” she said, giving a struggling little laugh. “I’m not sure I can date you anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Uncle Mortys wink. Dirty old men wink. Midlife crisis victims wearing gold chains and leisure suits wink. Superhot superstuds definitely don’t—”

Jake edged closer. He winked. Her knees wobbled and her collarbone got hot. Marley was forced to reconsider her objections.

“—wink,” she concluded emphatically, all the same. “They don’t.”

“You know a lot about superhot superstuds?”

“I’ve worked the red carpet with the best of them. Brad, Tom, George, Hugh.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Grant. Hugh Grant. Devastating, I assure you.”

“That’s good to know, but it’s not what I meant.” His eyes teased her into coming nearer. “You’ve worked the red carpet?”

Whoops. Ordinarily, she possessed a laser-sharp focus when it came to acting. Studio audiences, guest stars, temperamental directors…none of them got to her. None of them distracted her. So what was the matter with her now? When it, um, mattered?

“No, of course not!” Marley fluttered a hand carelessly. She began piling salad of roasted new potatoes with spring peas and tarragon vinaigrette onto Jake’s plate. “I meant working the red carpet as in watching award shows. The Oscars, the Grammys, the People’s Choice Awards. I’m a major award show junkie.”

“A self-improvement junkie and an award show junkie?”

Confused, she cocked her head to the side.

“You said you were a self-improvement junkie. Voice coaching, affirmations, therapy—”

“Oh, right! Sure. I’m wearing motivational underwear right now.”

Marley bit into half of her ham-and-Brie-on-pumpernickel and chewed rapidly. She busied herself with cutting the other half sandwich into perfect mini triangles for Noah, then arranged them on a plate with a scoop of salad. When everything was just so, she glanced up to call Noah…and encountered Jake’s avid, curious gaze instead.

He cleared his throat. “What, exactly, does your underwear motivate you to do?”

Umm, jump your bones? If there’d been so much as a shred of truth to the outrageous statement she’d just made, that would have been it. But since Marley could hardly admit that, she settled for forcing her fingers to carefully set down Noah’s plate.

“I really want to know,” Jake went on, earnestly. He touched her chin with his fingertips, turning her face to his. “I feel a sudden interest in exploring the possibilities of self-improvement.”

So did she. She couldn’t help it. His voice was like a rough caress, reaching inside to all the closed-off places Marley hadn’t visited for years. The vulnerable, hopeful places she’d tried to forget.

For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to remember.

“I just want you to know,” she said, “this has nothing to do with my underwear.”

Then she leaned across the few inches still separating them, sucked in a crazy breath, and kissed him.

The world narrowed to the meeting of their mouths, to the feel of Jake’s lips hot against hers. It was a small kiss, a gentle, how-are-you-doing? kind of kiss, but it shook Marley all the way through, just the same. Kissing Jake was like standing on the edge of a precipice and leaping into the sky. In a single moment she fell into something completely new.

It felt like love, but she assured herself it was lust. It felt like exploration, but she needed it to be satisfaction. That way, she wouldn’t be lured into trying it again.

No sooner had Marley realized this strategy would never help her concentrate on the job at hand, than Jake recovered from his initial surprise…and took control of the kiss altogether.

His version was hotter. Harder. More deliberate and yet still amazingly tender. His hands rose to cradle her cheeks, and his thumbs stroked sensitizing little circles over her skin. He tasted of certainty and demand, smelled of green grass and clean shirt. He felt like heaven, wrapped up in equal measures of playfulness, stubbornness, and machismo, and Marley greedily demanded more.

He delivered everything she wanted, along with something she didn’t: a sense of honor. Of honesty. Of genuine connectedness. Here was a good man, Marley realized hazily, and she was misleading him. How could she let Jake get closer, when he didn’t know the truth about her? It wouldn’t be fair, it wouldn’t be right, and it wouldn’t be…honorable. Suddenly, Marley wanted to be that. Honorable. For him.

She ended their kiss and lurched backward. “Whew!” she cried, fanning herself. “I guess the powers of suggestion are stronger than I’d thought. I’d better not trot out these underwear in public again.”

A giggle came from beside her.

Noah.

And here she’d thought this situation couldn’t get any more awkward.

“He thinks ‘underwear’ is one of the most hilarious words in the universe,” Jake explained. Now he seemed completely—and disappointingly—unaffected by the momentous kiss he and Marley had just shared. He pulled a laughing Noah onto the picnic blanket and handed him his plate of food. “Other laugh riots include underpants, booger, and butt.”

Noah covered his mouth with his hand and chortled. “Booty!” he cried.

“Elbow,” Jake offered. He shrugged at Marley. “You’ve got to admit, it’s a funny name for a body part.”

“Foot!” Noah yelled, then dissolved into giggles. He’d taken a bite of potato salad, and his exclamation delivered a marvelous view of its half-mashed state amid his teeth.

Jake matter-of-factly flicked a tarragon fragment from his shoulder and got back into the game. “Fanny,” he said.

“Pooper-scooper!”

“Butt, butt, butt.”

At that, they both guffawed. Jake even wiped a tear of laughter from his eye.

“Do you two do this often?” Marley asked, eyebrows raised.

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it. This is the height of humor at Toddler Time.”

Noah agreed with a nod, his baby-fine hair flopping into his eyes. He swiped it away. “You do one, Carly.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she demurred.

“Come on!” they urged.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Jake shook his head. “We gave you plenty of examples. You’re just chicken.”

“Bawk! Bawk!” Noah chimed.

Exasperated, Marley eyeballed them both. “You can’t be serious.”

They silently waited. Noah flapped imaginary chicken wings.

“Fine.” She searched for something appropriate, drawing herself up to her most dignified, Pilates-assured seated posture. Finally, a suitable phrase occurred to her.

“Ummm…ear wax!” she declared triumphantly.

They both stared at her blankly.

“Ear wax?” Jake echoed.

“Yeah. Get it? It’s gross, it’s funny—”

Noah shook his head. “She doesn’t get it,” he told his dad.

“It’s okay, son. Women usually don’t.” With a disappointed air, Jake went back to his lunch. He urged Noah to do the same.

Nonplussed, Marley watched them. “What’s wrong with ear wax?” she demanded.

They shrugged. “It’s not funny.”

“Sure, it is!”

But they only went on eating their food, clearly unconvinced. Marley felt on the outside, all of a sudden. Left out. She wanted in.

“Toe jam!” she yelled.

Jake glanced up. “We’re trying to eat, here.”

“Not me.” Noah opened his mouth and let a bite of ham-and-Brie-on-pumpernickel fall onto his plate. Blah. “This cheese tastes squishy. And there’s something wrong with my bread.”

He examined everyone else’s plates with obvious little-boy suspicion. Marley wanted to respond with something encouraging, something along the lines of, “It’s from France! It’s gourmet!” But she was too busy realizing she could never, ever become a mother—not if it involved butt talk, bunny hopping, and this weird variety of reverse eating.

“Eat it,” Jake instructed his son. “Or no dessert.”

In an effort to be helpful, Marley used her best game-show-hostess routine to display the miniature glazed-fruit tarts.

“Ugh, fruit.” Noah wrinkled his nose. “Okay. No dessert.”

He abandoned his lunch and immediately launched into a game of “be a snake.” At least that’s what Marley assumed it was, given the way he wriggled belly first through the grass.

“His clothes are going to get completely ruined,” she said.

Jake gave her a carefree look. “He’s the one who’s got to wear them.” He glanced downward at his son’s plate. “Say, do you want the rest of that sandwich?”

As if. That thing had spent way too much time being “evaluated” by Noah. He was like a pint-sized culinary version of a wine taster. Sip, swish, spit…bite, taste, blaaarch.

“Go ahead,” she said.

Unbelievably, he did—ignoring the spit-out portions, of course. Both sandwich triangles disappeared within three minutes. “That cheese is pretty squishy,” Jake commented.

Marley shook her head. Obviously, these Jarvis men needed the civilizing touch of a woman in their lives. They ate like linebackers, talked like sailors, and—ohmigod, now Jake was belly wriggling through the grass, too!—gave no thought at all to decorum.

In small doses, it was kind of fun. But on a larger, more permanent scale? Well, Marley was just glad she wouldn’t be called upon to tame their wilder impulses. She was definitely not the domesticating type.

It was a good thing, she assured herself, that this “Dream Date” arrangement was only temporary. Because the “be a snake” routine or the “butt-butt-butt” game definitely wouldn’t play long-term during her own paparazzi-filled personal appearances.

“Come on, Daddy!” Noah cried, scrambling eagerly to his feet. “Let’s go see the woolly mammoths! And the saber toothed tigers, and sloths, and wolves, too.” He hurried to Marley’s side and pointed to the museum. “They’ve got all that stuff inside. My daddy said so.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said.

Jake came to stand nearby, his shadow falling over the remains of their picnic. “I know you probably didn’t plan to visit the museum. It’s pretty geeky. But we’ve got time for a visit if you do. What do you say?”

“Yeah, what do you say?” Noah crouched down. He angled his head until his face was on a level with Marley’s. His impish blue eyes urged her to join them. “You come too, okay?”

Marley wasn’t sure she should. Being here with Jake and Noah felt suspiciously like being welcomed into their family. Being welcomed into their family made her feel like even more of a fraud than she already was. That was bad.

On the other hand…Noah’s presence might enable her to keep a lid on her more alter-ego-scrambling impulses—like kissing Jake again. If she were smart, Marley realized, she’d arrange to have their three-foot chaperone present at every date, just to avoid further “work the red carpet”-style blunders. Avoiding future slipups would be good.

Noah grabbed her hand and tried to tug her to her feet. Despite the butt jokes, he really was very sweet. Marley laughed and levered upward as though the boy really had lifted her on his own.

“Okay, let’s go,” Marley said.

Happily, Noah danced a “gonna see woolly mammoths jig,” making up a song to go along with it.

She knelt and began gathering their picnic gear. Jake joined her, taking on the more “mechanically inclined” job of assessing the dimensions of her basket and packing the items neatly. By the time he was finished, her hamper looked like the inside of one of those pocket tool kits Marley’s dad owned. Compact. Efficient. Not an inch of wasted space.

She waited while Jake chivalrously stowed the basket in her Chanel-worthy vintage car, then enjoyed the view as he moved to meet her with that athlete’s stride of his.

“Let’s go, Carly!” Noah yelled, gesturing toward the tar pits and museum.

Jake caught up. He gave her an assessing glance. “Noah likes you,” he said. “I guess you’re in.”

She was in. Imagine that.

“I’ve never been given the seal of approval by a four year old before,” she said. “It’s nice.”

Jake only hmmphed. He offered his son a speculative look as the three of them headed up the hill. Then he shook his head and took Marley’s hand. Not even the unexpected bonus of his touch could turn her thoughts completely from the course they’d rambled onto, though. Studying his stony expression, she couldn’t help but wonder…exactly how did Jake feel about her being “in” with Noah?

 

 

“I didn’t know they’d all be dead!” Noah sobbed, collapsing on a bench inside the Page Museum. “They’re nothin’ but bones!”

Marley knelt beside him. Tentatively, she patted his back. They hadn’t ventured far inside the museum—having spent a lot of time choosing a cuddly plush woolly mammoth for Noah in the gift shop—but it was obvious this visit had already gone south.

“But they can’t feel a thing,” she explained gently. They’ve been dead a long time now.”

“How long?”

“Oh…” She squinted at the nearest plaque. “Thirty thousand years or so.”

“Thirty thousand? That’s even worse!” He clutched his toy mammoth, sobbing harder.

“It’s, umm, the circle of life, Noah.” Pat, pat. “Animals are born, they live and have babies, they die. The lucky ones get to become famous museum exhibits!”

He rubbed his blotchy face on his forearm, then raised his teary-eyed gaze to hers. “Being famous must be awful.”

Boy, he’d nailed that one. “Sometimes it is,” Marley agreed.

“Look, Noah! Over here.” Jake waited until he had the boy’s attention. “I’m a caveman, conquering the mammoth that scared you.”

He raised his arms and pretended to clobber the nearest exhibit—which actually necessitated jumping up and down, because the thing was so big. Each of the mammoth skeleton’s curvy tusks were as tall as Jake. Nevertheless, he pretended victory.

“See?” He spread his feet and planted both hands on his thighs in a victorious-warrior’s pose. “It’s safe now. I won.”

Slowly, Noah lifted his head. He blinked. “You beat up that mammoth! Waaah!”

“But it was already dead, slugger,” Jake explained, abandoning his pose. Clearly, he’d expected his Cro-Magnon routine to help. “It got caught in the tar pits a long time ago.”

That engendered more sobs. Marley shook her head and went on patting Noah’s back. Jake joined them. He stood awkwardly nearby, obviously hating his helplessness in this situation.

“Let’s go outside and look at the tar pits,” he said.

Four minutes later, the three of them stood at the chain link fence which enclosed a pool of thick black tar. To Marley, it looked like swampy mud, although she knew from reading the museum signs that it was technically asphalt. In the center and at the edge, displays had been erected to depict a mammoth family—daddy mammoth, mommy mammoth, and baby mammoth—being sucked down into the goo. She had to admit, it was fairly horrific. This was educational?

Suddenly, she was glad she’d usually missed school field trips, those longed-for adventures of fun and frolic Marley had so pined for while stuck on a TV show set someplace. Her school friends—and even Meredith—had made them sound terrific. Now she knew the truth.

Noah hooked his fingers in the chain links. He peeked through them. “Aaaah!”

He averted his head and closed his eyes. Jake stared down at him in puzzlement. “What’s the matter? Those mammoths aren’t skeletons and they aren’t real. They’re just statues.”

“They look real,” Noah said accusingly.

“Be tough. Shake it off,” Jake advised.

“Really real.”

“They do.” Sympathetically, Marley again hunkered down beside him.

They looked real to her, too. She could just imagine the poor mama mammoth’s fear when she realized her baby would be trapped in the oozing asphalt right along with her. She’d flail around trying to help, probably get stuck deeper, and trumpet a mammoth 911. That, of course, would lure the daddy mammoth to his doom, and the whole family would be….

Marley averted her head, too. Sometimes it was a curse to possess an actor’s imagination. Here she was, all but practicing The Method on a museum display.

Noah must have that same kind of imagination, she realized. It was all too much for him.

“You know what?” she asked him briskly. “I’ll bet those scientists have it all wrong. I’ll bet the mammoths and all those other animals came here on purpose.”

The boy sniffled. He opened one eye. “On purpose?”

“Sure! I’ll bet this wasn’t a dreaded tar pit at all. Heck, no. I’ll bet it was an Ice Age version of a day spa.”

Noah hugged his toy mammoth. He bravely opened both eyes.

“The animals probably came from miles around,” Marley said, really getting into it now that her story seemed to be helping Noah. She spread her arms wide, as though offering the place’s Pleistocene pampering to one and all. “They enjoyed mud masques, herb baths…maybe even steam treatments. I’ll bet they had a waiting list.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “And a maître d’, right?”

“Don’t be silly. It wasn’t a restaurant.”

Jake scoffed. He hunkered down, too, and clapped his hand on his son’s shoulder, “Look, Noah. Sometimes nature is cruel—”

“And sometimes it isn’t,” Marley interrupted, glaring.

“You just have to accept it.”

“Or, you can choose not to.”

Noah turned around. He looked at them both, his little face scrunched as he considered things. Then he smiled at Marley. “Do you s’pose they had TVs?” he asked. “I wish I had a TV while I take my baths.”

“I’ll bet they did,” she announced. Pride surged inside her, making her wonderfully glad. She’d actually helped Noah feel better. It was, quite possibly, the best thing she’d accomplished in years. “Cable, too.”

“And snacks?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“But not gooshy cheese sandwiches with black bread.”

“Oh, no,” Marley agreed seriously. Hey, she was on a roll.

“Yippee!”

Plainly relieved, Noah skipped a short distance ahead of them. He jumped over cracks in the sidewalk, making up a mammoth snack song as he did.

Jake shook his head. “In the long run, pretending won’t help him,” he told Marley.

“I know that,” she replied. “In the long run, pretending doesn’t help anybody. But it’s fine for now.”

At her breezy statement, a part of her squirmed. She hoped the universe wouldn’t punish her for tempting fate.

It did. An instant later, she and Jake rounded the corner to return to the car and Marley’s words were proven prophetic. Coming straight toward them were her personal manager, Brian, and her agent, Sondra, apparently out for a weekend stroll.

“Marley!” they cried, and rushed to greet her.

 

 

 

Chapter Ten

 

He could have handled that, Jake groused as he and Carly and Noah prepared to leave the tar pits and museum behind. He didn’t need anybody else to help out with his own son, dammit.

Carly had stuck her adorable button nose where it didn’t belong. If she hadn’t been there, Jake would have cheered up Noah on his own. No doubt about it.

He sure as hell wouldn’t have conjured up an Ice Age day spa to accomplish it, either. Imagine—an animal as fierce as a saber toothed tiger, submitting to a mud masque? Ridiculous. That would be about as likely as Mike Tyson having a pedicure. Randy Johnson getting a bikini wax. Dennis Rodman shooting baskets without eyeliner on.

Carly was obviously one of those buttinsky types. Women who couldn’t leave well enough alone, especially when it came to kids. Didn’t she know how dangerous crying was for a little boy? The misery of confronting mastodon bones was nothing compared with the anguish of having six other boys pointing, laughing, and labeling you a “crybaby” for the whole of first grade.

Jake needed to protect Noah. He needed to toughen him up a little, before the cruel kiddie world did it for him. Carly had no business undermining his efforts. What did she want to do, turn Noah into some kind of Poindexter?

Protectively, he watched the boy as he skipped along just ahead of them. If Jake were smart, he’d try to keep Noah and his dream dates with Carly separate from here on out. There was no reason why he should treat her any differently than any other woman he’d dated.

Except he already had, and Jake knew it.

He’d never allowed the women he’d been casually involved with to spend much time with Noah. Somehow, Carly had made an end run around his defenses. Now he was dealing with the consequences.

Not that all of those consequences were bad, exactly. He remembered the kiss they’d shared, recalled the moment between his realization that she was about to kiss him and the first touch of her lips against his. Jake had felt his whole body tense. His breath had shortened and his thoughts had stopped. Once their kiss had begun, his entire awareness had been centered on the wonderful softness of Carly’s mouth, on the sweet taste of her and the heat that gathered when they came together.

Kissing Carly had opened a door to something Jake hadn’t let himself feel for a very long time. Something that had slipped inside to leave him both warmer and brighter for the experience.

No matter how he tried to pile up new barriers now, the simple truth remained. He’d felt something special when that door had opened. Now it was too late to pretend he hadn’t.

Too late.

Jake considered that. He squeezed Carly’s hand and, given the distance of a good hour between mind-blowing kiss and simple hand holding, decided he was wrong. Hell, yeah. He could pretend he hadn’t felt anything remarkable, and he would. Probably, he’d just gotten a little too rambunctious because of his need to perform well on “Dream Date.”

Sure. That was it.

Reminded of their ever-present entourage, he scanned their surroundings. Yup, the TV crew still followed them. Kids and tour groups milled about the Page museum grounds. Just in front of them, a yuppified pair of business types headed directly toward him and Noah and Carly.

“Marley!” the woman cried, looking surprised. She urged her partner, a stuffy-looking man, to hurry closer. “Marley! Fancy meeting you here.”

Beside him, Carly froze. Her face paled. She looked left and right, as though searching for this “Marley” person.

“It’s Carly, dear,” Stuffy said. “Remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. Carly!”

Tittering, the woman thrust out a handshake. She appeared to think better of the gesture, and tentatively enveloped Carly in an awkward, shoulders-first hug instead.

The yuppie woman seemed a complete stranger to spontaneous shows of affection—possibly because her entire body was accessorized with electronic gadgets. A pager hung from her hip. A PDA sat in a holster slung over her shoulder. Not one, not two, but three cell phones competed for space elsewhere, and she wore a hands-free headset around her neck.

A slobbery kiss could have seriously short-circuited her.

“I see you’re not spending your weekend alone,” Yuppie Electro-Woman said, nudging Stuffy. She waggled her eyebrows toward Jake, then wiggled her fingers in a wave to Noah. “So, who are your friends?”

Carly introduced them. She held out her hands to indicate Stuffy and Yuppie. “This is Brian and Sondra. They’re, ummm…members of my Beef Jerky Addicts support group.”

Jake raised his eyebrows. A self-improvement junkie, an awards-show junkie, and a beef jerky junkie?

Sondra laughed, ignoring the flashing light summoning her to one of her cell phones. She nudged Carly in the ribs. “You silly. We’re not in her Beef Jerky Addicts group. We’re her—”

“Cousins!” Brian interrupted. He rocked upward on his heels, looking absurdly pleased with his announcement. “We’re Carly’s cousins.”

“Both of you?” Jake asked. He’d been sure he’d noticed a romantic vibe between them when they’d approached. “But you looked like you were—”

“Sondra’s my cousin,” Carly said. She hugged her closer. “But Brian isn’t. They’re just in town for a visit.”

“From Appalachia,” Brian explained, bright-eyed.

Carly stared, open-mouthed.

“Yup. I’m just here with my hillbilly husband-to-be,” Sondra agreed. “We’re gonna get ourselves hitched.”

The two of them beamed. Jake frowned, trying to take it all in. Carly had hillbilly beef jerky addict relatives? Relatives who hadn’t even remembered her name?

Sondra peered at him, as though picking up on his confusion. “I can see we’re losing you, Jake,” she said. “It all makes perfect sense in Appalachia, I promise. Say, we were just about to head out to go, umm—”

“Bowling,” Brian said. A look passed between them.

“Good one!” Sondra told him, nodding. She turned to Jake again. “Bowling. And you know bowling is always more fun with a crowd, right?”

“Well,” Jake began, “the last time I bowled with a crowd, I—”

“You three come along with us!” Brian said before Jake could refuse. He issued his invitation in a hearty voice. “There’s nothing, uh, Carly likes more than a good round of bowling. Is there?”

“Uhhh…”

“Why, you wouldn’t believe the bowling cups she’s got.”

Carly glanced at her breasts, looking confused.

“Trophies?” Jake asked.

“Yes!” Sondra and Brian said in unison. “Trophies.”

“I wanna go bowling, Daddy!” Noah said.

“It’ll be a hoot, honest,” Sondra urged. By now, her various devices all flashed, making her look a little like a walking Lite Brite. “Wait’ll you see Carly bowl a hole in one.”

“Now that I’ve got to see,” Jake said, smiling at a clearly uncomfortable Carly. He wanted to see her “bowling cups,” too. But that would have to wait. “Let’s go.”

 

 

At the bowling alley—a stinky, fluorescent-lit cave last decorated during the Rat Pack era—Marley cornered Sondra the minute Jake went to the opposite side of their assigned lane to help Noah put on his rented—yes, rented! And used!—shoes.

“What are you doing?” she cried in a muffled voice. She fixed Sondra with an urgent look, keenly aware of the “Dream Date” crew diligently setting up at a nearby lane. “Hillbilly cousins? The closest you and Brian come to being hillbillies is attending a revival showing of The Grapes of Wrath.”

Sondra looked defensive. “I think Brian and I are very convincing country folk.”

“Convincing? The closest you’ve been to ‘the country’ is Napa Valley. Your idea of the simple life is going to New York and not staying at the Plaza. Oh, and by the way—I seriously doubt your ‘pappy’ really made corncob pipes for a living.”

“That was Brian’s pappy.” Sondra folded her arms.

“I mean it, Sondra. You should have pretended not to know me. When you saw me at the museum, you and Brian should have walked on by. Just walked” –she gestured eloquently with both arms— “on by.”

“Not a chance! We care about you. We want to help you.”

Marley sighed. “So far, all you’ve ‘helped’ me do is discover a serious phobia of pre-worn shoes.” She eyed her assigned pair of garish saddle shoes with distaste. They didn’t even have a paltry half-inch heel to enhance her legs. “I swear, after this I’m going to dunk my feet in a whole vat of Purell.”

“Oh, check with Brian,” Sondra advised readily. “He’s got gallons of sanitizers at his place. He’s probably packing Lysol, Handiwipes, and a bar of Safeguard right now.”

“Maybe I should,” Marley said. “I feel sort of itchy already.”

Ugh. And if she felt that way, how did her personal manager feel? Aware of his germ-a-phobe tendencies, Marley frowned with worry. Why had Brian suggested coming here, to the nearly deserted bowling alley? The one place most teeming with microbial mayhem, short of a producer’s hot tub?

As though sensing her question, Brian joined them. He leaned down, keeping their conversation private. “Isn’t this terrific? This bowling thing will completely cement your alter ego,” he said urgently. “When Sondra and I saw you at the museum, the first thing we thought was, what would be best for Marley in this situation?”

“And what you came up with,” Marley asked, “was hillbilly cousins with a beef jerky fixation?”

He tilted his head censoriously. “You came up with the beef jerky thing.”

“Oh, yeah.” Marley frowned. A few feet away, near the bowling ball, um, regurgitating thingie, Jake finished tying Noah’s shoes and stood. “Well, just don’t get me into any more trouble, okay? I need to lead this thing. Let me handle the cover stories from here on out.”

“Fine,” they murmured.

Marley felt somewhat reassured.

Sondra glanced toward the “Dream Date” crew. “Does my hair look okay?” she asked. “I probably need a blowout.”

Brian showed her his teeth. “I had spinach for lunch. It would look bad on TV. Do you see any?”

Marley groaned. Just what she needed. Her personal manager and her agent, both usually so sensible—even straitlaced—had been suddenly stricken camera crazy. She rolled her eyes.

“You both look great,” she said. On top of this, she was supposed to actually bowl?

Well, she wasn’t enduring the agony alone. Getting to her feet, Marley left her plastic molded chair behind and went to join Jake. He’d finished outfitting both himself and Noah with bowling balls. He offered to help Marley choose one, too.

“Sure,” she agreed. “Thanks.” They headed for the long racks of black and multicolored balls. “Say, did I ever tell you what Sondra and Brian do for a living…?”

 

 

Four frames in, Jake leaned back in his seat at the little scorekeeper’s desk. He watched Carly take her turn, her gaze focused on the lane arrows. She hefted her ball (a pearly pink child’s version), took careful aim, lined up her shot…then realized her shirt had come partway untucked. She plunked her ball at her feet, tucked in her shirt, straightened her shorts, fluffed up her hair, then gave him an over-the-shoulder smile before resuming her turn.

He grinned. Bowling with Carly was unlike bowling with anyone else.

Beside Jake, Noah fidgeted, doodling with crayons on a menu from the bowling alley’s snack bar. To his right, Sondra primped and made eyes with a “Dream Date” camera man. To his left, Brian swiveled his tongue around his teeth. Jake wondered if the man had a dental disorder to go with his beef jerky fixation.

“So, Carly tells me you’re in the sanitation business.”

Brian started. “The what?”

“Oh, right. You guys in the field probably think those euphemisms are pretentious,” Jake said. “Sorry. How’s life as a garbage man treating you?”

Brian emitted a strangled sound. He glanced at Carly, then back at Jake. He straightened the lapels of his very tidy dress shirt. “Fine. It’s fine.”

“It must pay pretty well, if you can afford Armani.”

Now Sondra and Brian both boggled at him.

“I’m a sportscaster for KKZP,” he explained. “You should see the getups some of the players can afford. Designer clothes, amped-up sports cars, gold rings as big as your knuckle.” He shrugged. “After doing interviews for a while, you get so you recognize the fancy stuff.”

Sondra gulped. “We may have underestimated you, Jake.”

“Hey, that’s all right. I underestimated you, too, Sondra. If Carly hadn’t clued me in, I’d never have pegged you as a stripper.”

Sondra choked.

“Oh, sorry.” Apparently, Sondra liked euphemisms. “Exotic dancer.”

She mustered a wan smile as her various gadgets continued to blink. Jake supposed she used them to keep up with work issues—pole dancing lessons, G-string shortages, pasties problems.

“I can’t believe Carly told you that about me,” Sondra said, shooting a nervous glance toward the camera guy.

The man nodded, having obviously overheard. He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously.

Jake smiled. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Your job is probably a lot like mine.”

“You perform for sweaty, drooling men?” Brian asked innocently. “Wearing not much more than a smile?”

Sondra glared. “Butt out, garbage man.”

Noah giggled. “She said ‘butt.’”

Jake ruffled his son’s hair. “No, I mean people tend to think sportscasting—especially working as an anchor—is an easy job. To the rest of the world, it looks like I just sit there reading scores off a TelePrompTer. A monkey could do that.”

Noah circled the score table, making monkey sounds.

“Nobody sees the field reporting,” Jake went on, “the long hours of research, the time spent at batting practices, scrimmages, and shootarounds, the hours of watching game tapes. The writing, the rewriting, the editing—”

“The dance lessons, the practicing, the choreographing,” Sondra chimed in. She flung a hand dramatically over her brow. “You’re right, Jake. We’re kindred spirits.”

A klunk reverberated through the mostly empty bowling alley. Carly had just thrown her second ball…straight into the gutter.

Shoulders slumped, she watched it wobble toward the pins. It disappeared without touching a single one of them. The lane machinery swallowed up its jolly pinkness.

“Hey, garbage man,” Sondra nudged. “Get busy. We need somebody to clean up Carly’s game.”

“Har, har,” Brian said. He got up to take his turn.

Carly took his seat.

“You really bowl with gusto,” Jake told her.

“Is that a nice way of saying my bowling stinks?”

“Nah. But I’ll admit, I’ve never seen anyone plant a big lipstick kiss on their ball before every throw.”

“It’s for good luck,” Carly explained.

“Carly’s very superstitious,” Sondra said. “Lots of actors are.”

“Not that I want to be like an actor!” Carly laughed, waving her hand. She shot her cousin a disapproving look. “I mean, who would? Those kooky Hollywood types are into some pretty weird stuff.”

“That’s for sure.” Jake made a note of the two-ten split Brian’s first throw had earned him. “I try to avoid the industry types in this town. Noah and I like to keep it real.”

Sondra seized on his statement instantly.

“Your son’s adorable,” she said, as though eager to change the subject. Probably, she considered herself “in the industry” because of her exotic dancing. “Isn’t he, Carly?”

“Very adorable.” Carly lifted her gaze to Noah. She smiled slightly as the boy tilted his head upside down and looked at her from between his knees. “I like him a lot.”

She sounded a little surprised at that…and very sincere. Thoughtfully, Jake studied her. Carly had come a long way in a few hours.

“Hey, Carly.” Noah clambered over the welded-together plastic chairs to sit beside her. “Will you teach me how to bowl better?”

At that moment, Brian returned. “Yes, do it, Carly,” he urged. “Do it for all of us down at the Garbage Men’s Local 624.”

He offered Carly a toothy grin, then sat down to clean his hands with the wipes from his pocket dispenser.

“You have a union in Appalachia?” Jake asked.

Before Brian could answer, Carly did. “Sure! In fact, there’s nothing Brian doesn’t know about Appalachia,” she said, her sweet tone at odds with the inexplicable glare she offered her cousin’s fiancé. “You should quiz him.”

She turned to Noah. “Sure, I’ll teach you how to bowl better. As long as your dad doesn’t mind.”

“Yippee!”

Jake stopped her part way to the ball return. “Thanks. But are you sure you ought to?”

“Why? Because my bowling is so terrible?” Looking hurt, she put her hand on her hip. “Look, I’m just warming up, here. I’m perfectly capable of instructing a four year old.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I might even be better than you.”

That stopped him. Shaking his head, Jake eyeballed her. She dared to challenge him, after all the gutter balls she’d thrown today? Carly was gutsy, he’d give her that. Deluded, but gutsy.

“I’ll prove it on the next game,” she bragged.

He scoffed.

She sashayed away to help Noah retrieve his ball. “I will. Care to make it interesting?”

Sondra and Brian both perked up, listening.

Jake spread out his arms. He’d tried to take it easy on her, but… “I couldn’t take advantage of you like that.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, twenty bucks says you can.”

He looked her over. First her bet with the “Dream Date” guys, now this. “I think you have a problem. Have you considered that you might be a gambling junkie, too?”

With a shrug, Carly shook her head. “Okay, never mind. I guess you’re just a big old…” Grinning, she crooked her arms, flapping them in a dead-on imitation of Noah’s “chicken” routine from their picnic.

Noah chuckled. He started flapping, too. “Toe jam!” he cried gleefully.

Okay, this was too much. Toe jam? Even his son had gone over to the other side. Jake bolted from his chair and offered a handshake.

“You’re on.”

Carly grinned, and prepared to bowl.

 

 

An hour later, Marley held out her hand toward Jake and wiggled her fingers. “Pay up, hotshot.”

“One more game,” Jake protested. “Double or nothing.”

“You’re already into me for sixty bucks. Don’t you think you ought to quit while you’re ahead?”

He scanned the bowling alley, looking adorably disgruntled. “We should try another lane. This one’s lost its polish.”

“So? I don’t mind a less-than-spiffy lane if you don’t.” As it turned out, even on a dull lane, “Carly” was an excellent bowler—or at least she’d become one, just as soon as Marley had remembered her lessons from the movie “Gutterballs Wild” she’d made as a teenager. “Does anyone else mind this lane?”

Garbage man Brian and stripper Sondra both shrugged. Noah lay down on the connected plastic chairs and sang the “Itsy Bitsy Spider” song, complete with hand movements.

“The slickness of the lane affects the spin of the ball,” Jake told her seriously. “When the glossiness is gone, so is some of the surface tension. Losing that is enough to throw off a man’s entire game.”

He obviously wasn’t accustomed to losing. Especially to a woman. Marley considered taking pity on him.

Nah. She wiggled her fingers again.

Jake glanced at Sondra and Brian, then ducked his head. He rubbed the back of his neck. His direct, beautifully blue gaze met Marley’s.

“I don’t have that much cash with me,” he admitted.

Instantly, she felt contrite. How could she have been so thoughtless? Jake was a sportscaster—basically, a reporter. He probably didn’t rake in bundles of money, especially with a son to support.

“Fine,” she said lightly. “You cook dinner for me tomorrow night at your place, and we’ll call it even.”

“I, uh—” His gaze shifted to Noah. Returned to her. “Okay.”

Triumphantly, Marley allowed herself to savor her victory.

“But no TV cameras,” Jake specified. “No ‘Dream Date’ crew, and no microphones.”

Marley nodded. He probably didn’t want Noah taped for TV any more than necessary. She understood that. “All right.”

But that wasn’t all. Jake leaned a little nearer, so Sondra and Brian wouldn’t overhear. They helpfully took the hint and picked up their balls to return them.

“We don’t have that much time to get to know each other,” he said. “I think we could use a crash course in togetherness. Off the record. I don’t know about you, but I plan to ace this show.”

“M—me, too.” Gulp. Spending time with Jake off-camera wouldn’t help show off her acting abilities. It wouldn’t augment her résumé reel or garner publicity later. It would only tempt her to buy into the whole we’re-a-couple illusion they’d spun together.

He had her trapped, though. Backing out now would be cowardly, and reneging on her offer to change their bet would be stingy. Not to mention ungracious. Marley looked into Jake’s rugged, ridiculously handsome face, and found herself unable to disappoint him.

“If we’re going to nail those ‘Dream Date’ voter tallies,” she said with forced brightness, “we’ll have to work together.”

“Yeah.” Jake moved closer. “We will.”

“That’s right.” She nodded vigorously.

Me, deceiving you, a part of her jibed. You, being the wonderful, honest, upstanding, aw-shucks kind of guy you are. Criminy. She was lower than pond scum.

She’d have to be careful. It would be all too easy to really fall for him…and too distracting by far. There was no way Marley could pull off a good “Carly Christopher” while she was falling in love for real.

“I’m glad you agree,” he said. He raised his hand to her face, briefly cupped her cheek. Jake’s earnest gaze met hers. “I’m glad you’re a good person, Carly.”

Hearing her phony name spoken so tenderly made Marley feel even worse than before. Now she was really low. Unimaginably low. Lower than low.

“A lot of people wouldn’t have changed that bet,” Jake went on. “But you did. Thanks.”

His caressing palm casually touched her hair. She felt the wavy strands slide through his fingers, and struggled against an urge to reciprocate. Jake’s hair looked thick and smooth. It also looked exactly the color of the expensive, buttery Scottish shortbread which had always tempted her…and that her diet had always denied her.

Until now. Heck, now she was Carly, wasn’t she? Marley thought defiantly. Carly could have whatever she wanted…the more tempting, the better. Nothing could have been more tempting than Jake. He was still talking, his voice rumbling and affectionate. It lulled her, drew her a little closer.

“You’re a more caring person than your cousin and her fiancé realize,” he said.

He lowered his hand. Marley blinked. “Huh?”

Jake lifted a shoulder, indicating Brian and Sondra as they trotted across the bowling alley to return their rented shoes. “Let’s just say I don’t believe everything I hear from those two.”

Uh-oh. “What did they say?”

“It’s not important.” Jake hefted his bowling ball in one hand and Marley’s in the other. She followed as he strode to the ball racks, trailed by Noah. “Given the jobs they have, I think they resent your ordinary work as a waitress.”

Hah. “What did they say?”

“Especially Sondra. I don’t think she likes being a stripper much.”

“Jake.” She grabbed his arm. She resisted an impulse to squeeze the muscular bulge of his biceps. Geez, was he ever strong. “What did they say?”

“They said you’re not really the sweet, gentle bowling champion you seem to be.” Jake grinned. “They said you’re secretly an actress.”

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

The following Sunday afternoon, Marley slumped in her chair and leaned her head back, giving herself up to the ministrations of her new pedicurist. Given the way this day had gone already, she desperately needed a little pampering.

The pedicurist offered her a choice of coconut lotion or peppermint spray. Wearily, Marley indicated both. Soon, the pedicurist’s soothing strokes as she buffed calluses, applied lotion, tended to overgrown cuticles, and performed the other miracles of her art lulled Marley into relaxation. Ahhh.

“Christopher!” someone barked nearby. “Break’s over!”

Marley’s lazy oasis dissolved. Her surroundings jolted back into focus, hurling her into full awareness. All around her, grungy fellow employees rushed through the noisy, steam-filled kitchen in the coffee shop of Meredith’s museum. Waitresses rushed through the swinging doors in search of ice or towels or trays. Busboys hustled past bearing tubs of filthy plates, and other crew members accepted their disgusting burdens, matter of factly shoving them onto the racks of the gigantic steel dishwasher.

The smells of burnt coffee, grease, and fried meat hung in the air, sharpened by the ever-present tang of bleach. Sock-hop music played on the old-fashioned juke box out front. Everything passed by in a pink-polyester-tinged blur.

Against all reason, this had become Marley’s life.

Resignedly, she scraped fifteen one-dollar bills from the meager pile of tips in her uniform pocket. She handed them to her pedicurist—one of her customers who’d happened to mention her expertise at the exact moment Marley and her aching feet had been granted a break.

“Thanks a million, Rowena.” Marley thrust her tootsies into a pair of flip flops and stood. “Do you want that piece of apple pie you ordered now?”

“Sounds great.”

They navigated to the front of the museum coffee shop, Rowena reclaiming her place at the restaurant’s long counter. Marley flopped her way to the pie case and slid out the last uncut whole pie in its aluminum foil tin. She surveyed it.

Serving pie was new to her. So far she’d handled one patty melt, several cheeseburgers, a chili size, and any number of milkshakes, with only a few mishaps—and her dented pride—to show for it. Since this was Carly’s first day on the job, Marley wanted to do well. She bit her lip, glancing at the jumble of serving items beside the enormous coffee urn. Decisively, she grabbed a thick white serving plate and knife and began to carefully cut a slice of pie.

“Not like that,” another waitress interrupted, her orthopedic shoes squeaking as she hurried past.

She gave Marley an impatient over-the-shoulder look and set down her stack of vinyl-bound menus, then grabbed an implement from nearby. It looked a little like a miniature version of her accidental-Chanel car’s hubcaps—round with spokes radiating from the center. One side of the spokes had serrated edges.

Marley thought it looked a lot like something she’d once seen on a Style Channel documentary on Max Factor, the king of Hollywood makeup. He’d been known for his scientific methods, for his carefully calibrated approach to beauty, and for his torturous-looking glamour “measurement” machines made of metal and pins and—

The waitress slammed the thing onto the pie. One thud later, she lifted it to reveal eight slightly smashed slices.

“Wow, that’s really handy,” Marley said, impressed. “You know, if that thing cut smaller pieces, it would be terrific for serving pâté de foie gras at parties.”

She nodded, happily looking to the other waitress for confirmation. The woman raised her eyebrows.

“Whatever you say, your majesty.” The waitress offered a mocking curtsy. “While you’re crooking your pinkie over your tea and pâté, the rest of us will be over here, working our asses off.”

She snatched up her menus and clipped an order ticket to the cook’s rotating steel wheel, then bustled away. Marley watched her go, feeling inexplicably beaten.

This was exactly like being in school. Once again, Marley didn’t fit in. Everyone knew it, and used that fact to make fun of her. Even as Carly, somehow people could see right through her—and then dismiss her.

She’d only ever been good at one thing: acting. Real life failed her. Dammit! What did she have to do?

Just serve the pie, she told herself. And keep going. So she did. She arranged a slice on a plate, nearly blinded a fellow waitress while squirting on “whipped cream” from the E-Z spray canister, then finally slid the dessert in front of Rowena. Triumph!

The pedicurist picked up her fork. “Wow, tough day?”

Her innocent sympathy was Marley’s undoing. Tears rushed to her eyes and her throat closed up. Being a waitress was horrible. It was hard, hurried, unforgiving work, performed in an atmosphere of expectancy for people who didn’t even have the decency to acknowledge her as a human being. The surroundings were stinky. The wardrobe was like something Joan and Melissa would savage on the red carpet. Being a waitress, Marley decided as she blinked back her tears, was the polar opposite of being a star actress.

She needed to be a star actress. This proved, once and for all, that she wasn’t cut out for anything else.

“It’s been a little tough,” she forced past her tight throat.

“Hang in there,” Rowena said. “Whenever you get down, just look at your toes.”

Marley did. At first, the view was hazy with unshed tears. But gradually those tears cleared. Her new pedicure came into view—complete with the diminutive white daisies with yellow centers Rowena had expertly painted on the pink background of each big toe.

At the whimsical sight, a smile wobbled onto Marley’s face. It became a full-blown grin.

“You’re a genius,” she told Rowena, feeling better already. Encouraged, she sniffed away her tears. “You ought to be on some big star’s payroll as her personal pedicurist.”

Rowena made a face. “Yeah, right. I’ll do that. Just as soon as I magically make the rent on my hole-in-the-wall salon in West Hollywood.”

“You’ve got your own salon?”

“Not for much longer.” Rowena fished a foot-shaped business card from her purse and handed it over. “My partner and I can barely keep it afloat. When the economy goes south, nobody can afford extras like manicures and pedicures.”

“Extras? Those are essentials!”

“I know!”

Both women smiled at each other. Marley examined the card. “Can I keep this? I know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody. There might be a chance I can hook you up with one of those spoiled starlet types. A major trendsetter. If you started doing her nails, you’d be set.”

“Like with a feature in InStyle.” Rowena gave her a dreamy look. “Hey, whatever you can do, honey,” she said gratefully. “I need all the help I can get.”

Thoughtfully, Marley pocketed the card. She had a feeling Rowena’s shop was about to get all the publicity it could handle.

 

 

By the time her shift was half an hour from being complete, Marley had started getting the hang of things. Sure, she still hadn’t mastered the complexities of the coffeemaker, and the cook had looked like he’d wanted to strangle her a few times for messing up her order tickets, but she’d managed to persevere.

She approached her next table in the busy restaurant, efficiently handing out menus.

“Hello, I’m Carly and I’ll be your waitress today. Our specials are the Reuben plate with onion rings or the club sandwich, and the soup of the day is—” She took out her order pad and glanced up. “You! I can’t believe you have the nerve to show up here.”

Sondra and Brian grinned back at her. Beside Brian, Meredith sat with her nose in a book. It was thick and oversized, like a glossy coffee table collectible. Knowing her twin sister, though, Marley figured the volume was more likely one of those dreary old historical texts.

“I’ll have the club sandwich,” Brian said.

“The Reuben,” Sondra told her, “with a salad instead of the onion rings, dressing on the side. Not too much cheese on the sandwich.” One of her cell phones rang. She flipped it open, holding her palm over the mouthpiece as she finished ordering. “A Diet Coke, extra ice. Oh, and tell the chef not to use too much butter when grilling that Reuben, would you? I don’t—”

Marley seized their menus. She snapped the vinyl-covered stack fiercely onto the table. “Have you lost your mind?”

Sondra paused in mid-cell-conversation. “Oh, sorry. Please bring me a Reuben, would you? With a salad instead of the onion rings, dressing on the—”

“Stop.” Marley slid into the booth beside Sondra, nudging her sideways with her hip. Unsurprisingly, her agent didn’t complain. “I have a bone to pick with you two, and I’m not waiting an instant longer. You snuck out together yesterday before I had a chance to corner you.”

Warily, Sondra hung up her phone. Brian paused in the act of polishing his fork with a napkin. They both looked sheepish.

They ought to look sheepish, Marley told herself. After what they’d told Jake about her, they ought to look for new jobs.

They said you’re secretly an actress.

Sheesh. She could still feel the panic that had whooshed through her in that awful moment at the bowling alley. She’d never in a million years expected that statement to come from Jake’s lips.

“Are you both insane?” Marley demanded. Her authority felt lessened by her hideous Pepto Bismol polyester uniform, but she tried to muster her usual clout, all the same. “You told Jake the truth about me! You told him I’m an actress!”

They nodded, obviously—and outrageously—pleased.

“That’s right,” Sondra said.

“Hiding in plain sight,” Brian agreed. “It’s brilliant.”

“Brilliant? It’s suicidal!”

They looked wounded.

“It’s the oldest trick in the book,” Sondra explained. “Dazzle ‘em with the truth. If Jake thinks you’re an amateur thespian, he won’t think twice whenever you slip up—”

“Great. You assume I’m going to slip up?”

“—he’ll just think you’re making an ‘I’m an actress’ joke.”

Marley put her head in her hands, groaning. “It wasn’t enough that you ambushed me into your wigged-out ideas of ‘lowbrow entertainment,’ hillbilly relatives, and beef jerky addiction—”

“Hey. For the last time, the beef jerky thing was your—”

She glared at Brian and he snapped his mouth shut. “Now you’ve turned me into a double liar, too! I hate lying to Jake. Really, I do. He’s a nice guy. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Don’t worry,” Sondra told her, patting her hand. “You’ll get better with practice.”

“I don’t want to get better with practice! I want none of this to be necessary.”

“Don’t worry. You’re doing great,” Brian reassured her.

“Yes. You’re fabulous,” Sondra agreed.

“No help from the two of you.” Marley turned to Meredith. “Did you know they actually took me bowling yesterday?

“They told me that,” her sister said, blithely turning the page in her book. “I didn’t believe it.”

“Bowling was fun,” Sondra said brightly. “That Jake’s a real hottie. You could do worse.” She gazed longingly at the plate of food another waitress carried past their table. “So what happened when he pulled out that ‘you’re an actress’ line?”

“I told him you were both mental patients.”

Brian and Sondra laughed. “No, what did you really tell him?”

Marley arched a brow.

“Ha! Good one, sis,” Meredith said.

Marley relented. “I told him that my mother had always wanted me to become an actress—”

“That much is true, at least,” Meredith muttered.

“—and that because of her, I’d dabbled in some community playhouse work. I think he bought it.”

But she still felt terrible about it. Playing the role of Carly was one thing—actively denying her real career was something else again. Somehow, it seemed doubly deceptive.

“Good thing,” Sondra said, nodding. “Because Brian and I have news.”

“Yes.” He abandoned his efforts to buff clean his coffee cup. “We’ve seen a tape of the ‘Dream Date’ footage they’ve shot so far—”

“What? How did you—”

“They smuggled it out,” Meredith interrupted, still reading. “Payola amongst the crew.”

“—and it’s remarkable. A real hoot,” Brian continued eagerly. “I’m telling you, Marley, you have incredible comedic flair.”

“With the material on that tape,” Sondra said, picking up the gauntlet, “we could successfully market you to Woody Allen, the Farrelly brothers, even Nora Ephron or Garry Marshall. They’ve done wonders for Meg Ryan and Julia Roberts, you know.”

“But, but—” Stricken, Marley gaped at them. “But I want to be a serious actress. That’s the whole point of this ‘Dream Date’ thing. To show I can play against type. Against Tara. To show how real and raw I can be.”

They shrugged. “All we’re saying,” Sondra explained with a nonchalant wave, “is that we could not stop laughing while watching the footage of your dates. The goats, the hot dogs, the slapstick! Brian practically howled when you whacked Jake with that car door.”

“That whole ‘I’m a bus girl’ thing you improvised was genius,” Brian said. “As if!”

Marley sunk lower in the booth. This was terrible. All her efforts…just for laughs. Was she doomed to be a sitcom has-been forever?

“It’ll be different when Jake and I are more comfortable together,” she said defiantly. Comfortable—as in, kissing? her conscience taunted. She gave it a mental drop kick and went on. “There won’t be so many awkward moments. In fact, I’m meeting him for dinner tonight. We’ll start morphing into the perfect couple in approximately” –she checked the wall clock— “two hours. So there.”

“Good luck,” Meredith muttered. “You’ll need it.”

Marley turned to her. “What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have some kind of booooring advertising historian work to do? Or did leaving your office just to pester me take priority?”

“As a matter of fact.” Her sister looked up from her book. “It did. I had to come down here and make sure you hadn’t (a) burned the place down with your curling iron, (b) forgotten to come to work at all, or (c) caused a mass revolt among the coffee shop staff by suggesting they all get highlights and wear lipstick.”

“Very funny,” Marley said. Although the waitress who’d helped her with the pie-cutting could have used a mustache-bleaching kit. “Besides, I’ll have you know I use a straightening iron these days.”

“Oooh. I stand corrected.”

“You stand slumped over. Your posture defies Darwinism.”

“Darwinism?” Meredith snorted. “To you, Darwinisms are the sweet nothings you whisper in your latest Hollywood stud muffin’s ear. ‘Oh, Darwin, you cuddly wuddly hunk of he-man-ness,’” she mocked. “‘Come on over and help polish my Emmy.’”

Marley seethed. “You take that back! Nobody makes fun of my Emmy! I treasure that Emmy!”

“Girls, girls,” Brian interrupted mildly. “Let’s not cause a scene.”

They both glanced at him. Marley realized where she was and what was at stake. So, apparently, did Meredith. With a final glare at each other, they crossed their arms and looked away.

“You know,” Sondra remarked, “now that your hair is closer to its natural color, Marley, the resemblance between you and Meredith is astonishing.”

“It’s true,” Brian agreed, nodding as he examined both sisters. “Meredith could be your stand-in. Your body double. Your stunt person.”

“My biggest headache.”

Beset by worries about her supposed laugh-riot performance as Carly, Marley didn’t have time to babble on about the similarities between her and her sister. She and Meredith were identical twins, after all. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize they’d look alike.

She slid from the booth and stood. “If you’ll all excuse me,” she said with dignity, “I have butter pats to stock.”

They nodded. Nearly respectfully.

How about that? Marley thought. Maybe, after seven and a half hours of serving food, shuffling plates, and reciting specials, she’d been blessed with an aura of practical, blue-collar confidence. Go figure.

Emboldened by their response to her, Marley paused. She fixed them with a no-nonsense look. “And, for the love of Jennifer Aniston’s latest hairdo, please—please—stop interfering with this. I’ve got it all under control.”

“Your cutlet slipped again, Control Girl,” Brian said, nodding toward her chest.

What was it with him and the cutlet-watch? Marley slapped her hand over the breast augmentation device currently sneaking toward her armpit. She wrenched it into place, then resumed her decorous pose.

“You’ve seen the last of the slapstick,” she promised them. “By this time tomorrow, Jake will be completely under the spell of Carly, girl-next-door extraordinaire. And there’ll be some very memorable moments on upcoming ‘Dream Date’ tapes to prove it.”

Congratulating herself on her steely resolve, Marley flounced toward the waitress’s station. She only hoped she could resist succumbing to those memorable moments herself. After all, it wouldn’t do for Carly to fall in love with her co-star…especially not when that co-star was completely unaware of the script.

 

 

In the tiny kitchen of Jake and Noah’s apartment, Noah scrambled onto one of the two stools fronting the Formica island. He put his chin in his hands. “Whatcha’ gonna cook for dinner?”

“I dunno, sport.” Jake ran his hands through his hair, then squinted through his glasses at the possibilities arrayed on the countertop in front of him. “Carly’s a pretty fancy lady. She deserves something really special.”

Again, he surveyed his choices. Frozen chicken pot pies? Take-out pizza? Hot dogs? Nah—they’d already done hot dogs at the petting zoo. Hungry Man dinners? Hormel chili? Canned beef stew?

“Macaroni and cheese?” Noah suggested. “That’s special.”

Jake considered the box. It was their family favorite, especially with cut-up hot dogs in it. But that brought them right back around to the hot dog issue. He shook his head. “I’m thinking…something different.”

“Cheerios for dinner! Yay!”

Noah got down and whooped through the kitchen.

Jake nabbed him as he ran past. “Not Cheerios. I think…I might have to cook something.”

His son’s eyes widened. “Cook it?”

“Yes,” Jake agreed gravely. “Possibly” –he lowered his voice— “from scratch.”

“Yuck. I don’t like scratch.”

“It’s not a kind of food. It’s a way of making food.”

“Yuck. I don’t like scratch,” Noah repeated.

“You’ll eat it and like it,” Jake commanded.

“You sound like Grandpa.”

“When I was your age, Grandpa would have sent me to bed without supper for saying something like that.”

Noah only laughed. He could recognize a bluff when he heard one. “Make some waffles for Carly. That would be good.”

Dubiously, Jake picked up the box of Eggos. If he stashed the package someplace, she might never know they weren’t homemade. All waffles looked…waffley, didn’t they?

Nah. The fake blueberry bits would give him away. Nobody kept fake blueberry bits on hand, unless they lived in an industrial kitchen. Jake and Noah lived in a mostly unused kitchen. Although the path to the phone (used for speed-dialing pizza delivery) was well-grooved into the linoleum.

“If I want to do this right for Carly,” Jake said, “I’m afraid I have no choice. I’m going to have to call in an expert.”

“Yay! Pizza guy!” Noah jumped up and down.

“Nope.” Gently, Jake put a hand to his son’s head to make him quit hopping. He stroked the hair away from his face, then chucked him on the chin. “An even better expert.”

Noah wrinkled his forehead. “The Hamburger Helper?”

Jake shook his head and reached for the phone. “Grandma.”

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

Stephanie Jarvis was the ultimate California girl turned mother. She kept her blond hair highlighted, her tan perfectly golden, and her smile sunnily bright. At the age of fifty-six, she dressed like a woman half her age—and pulled it off. Where other mothers yearned occasionally for moments to themselves, Stephanie embraced every instant with her family. She didn’t like to be alone…so consequently, she never was. Stephanie always got what she wanted.

Today, Jake realized, what his mother wanted was to help him with making dinner. She arrived at his apartment bearing grocery bags, pink tulips, and a bottle of chardonnay, and immediately proceeded to take over.

“I’m so glad you called me,” she said as she breezed inside. She kissed Noah hello. “I’ve been waiting years.”

“Come on, Mom.” Jake stepped aside as four more people followed Stephanie inside—his father, his two brothers, and an unknown twenty-something man. “I call you once a month, at least.”

She tsk-tsked. “I’ve been waiting for this call. About a woman.”

Trailed by her entourage, Stephanie bustled into the kitchen. Her yellow blouse and tropical-print Capri pants were brighter than anything else in his apartment—louder, too. Her platform wedges lifted her nearly to her son’s shoulder level as she began unpacking groceries.

“It’s just a dinner,” Jake said.

“It’s a dinner you’re prepared to cook. That makes all the difference in the world.”

He leaned against the counter. Everyone else took seats, either at the island or at the kitchen table. Noah stood beside his grandmother, gazing up at her with obvious devotion.

“I told you about this whole ‘Dream Date’ thing,” Jake said. Although this particular date with Carly wouldn’t be on camera, he remembered. This date was private, and all the more anticipated because of it. “That’s all this is. It’s practically a business dinner, to help me keep my contract with KKZP.”

His mother only smiled—a knowing, delighted smile. “I thought we’d make one of your grandmother’s old recipes. One she handed down to me.”

Jake braced himself. Other families shared recipes for treasured old-style favorites like four-cheese lasagna, pierogies, Swedish meatballs, tamales, or corned beef brisket. His family’s idea of timeless traditionalism was—

“A nice poached chicken breast with steamed asparagus and mango coulis. How does that sound?”

“Like spa cuisine from the sixties.”

“Stop that. It’ll be lovely.” Stephanie reached up and attempted to brush a wrinkle from Jake’s shirt. “Don’t argue with your mother.”

Beneath her clear-eyed gaze, Jake softened. Just for a moment, he felt like an eight-year-old boy again, yearning for a piece of his mother’s time all for himself. Now, his wish would be granted. They were both adults, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t spend some quality time together. Jake felt glad he’d called her.

Stephanie smiled fondly at him. She shook her head as though marveling at the fact that she was actually looking up at her own son. Then she turned briskly to the counter.

“Of course, we’ll need some appetizers to start with. James, you start peeling this shrimp” –she handed a two pound bag of jumbos to Jake’s older brother— “and Nate, you find a plate or something to serve it on. You’ll need ice, too. Chop, chop!”

She clapped her hands like the seasoned household general she was. At her command, Jake’s other older brother got up from the kitchen table and began rummaging through Jake’s cupboards. His father left the table, too.

“I’ll turn the TV this way,” Henry Jarvis said. “There’s a Braves game being broadcast on TBS.” Sounds of grunting and swearing were heard as he wrestled the living room TV and its stand sideways, so the unit faced the kitchen doorway. He turned it on, then flipped through the channels.

James stationed himself at the sink to start on the shrimp. Jake received four mangoes to peel and slice—his assignment—along with a cutting board and knife to use in fulfilling his culinary mission.

Soon, his tiny kitchen teemed with activity—and people. His brothers, both solid six-footers like Jake, dodged Jake and Stephanie and Noah as they went about their assigned tasks. Dishes clattered. Water ran. Everyone began talking.

So much for a private, shared mother-and-son moment. Jake should have known better than to hope for such a thing.

“Henry, you help, too.” Stephanie shoved a bowl and a bottle of cocktail sauce toward Jake’s dad. “You know I can’t open these bottles all by myself.”

Like hell she couldn’t, Jake thought, suppressing a grin. His mother had been taking aerobics classes and Nautilus training for as long as he could remember. Working out was like a religion to her—the fit-into-my-Capri-pants religion. She probably could have bench-pressed a Frigidaire and not broken a sweat.

But his dad bought into the ruse every time. Looking grumpy—and flattered—he accepted the bowl and bottle.

“Ulrich, you help, too,” Stephanie said, gesturing toward the lone man remaining at the table. As he unfolded his tall frame from the chair, she turned to Jake. “You haven’t met Ulrich yet. He’s visiting California as part of a German cultural program. A month from now, he’ll be back in Göttingen, but until then, we’re happy to have him staying with us.”

Ahh. Jake had forgotten his mother’s propensity for taking in strays. As a kid, he’d always come home to a house filled with half the neighborhood—his brothers’ friends, his sisters’ giggling cheerleader pals, his mother’s fellow Mary Kay Cosmetics representatives in the days before she’d defected to Avon. There had never been a dull moment in the Jarvis household—and there’d never been a peaceful, intimately shared one, either.

Stephanie unpacked an enormous bundle of asparagus from her grocery bags and turned to Ulrich. “Do you know how to clean asparagus? Just wash it under some running water, then hold each piece like this” –Stephanie demonstrated— “and snap it.”

“Ja.” Ulrich nodded. “Der Spargel.”

“Excellent!” Stephanie beamed. “Now, Jake. About the poached chicken breast…”

Jake listened intently as she instructed him in seasoning, then poaching, the chicken. A few minutes later, Noah edged in beside him and tugged on his grandmother’s blouse.

“Grandma, can I help?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Stephanie paused in the midst of searching for a flower vase, the tulips cradled in her arm like a particularly froufrou football. “You can just go right into the other room and play. That’s how you can help.”

Noah’s mouth turned downward. “I wanna really help.”

Jake’s heart ached for his son. He remembered the feeling of being put aside—however gently—all too well.

“Why don’t you help Uncle James with the shrimp?” he suggested, glancing to the counter space near the stove where his brother had set up a shrimp-on-ice assembly line. “He could probably use your artistic eye to make a nice display.”

“Sure, sport!” James urged. “Come on over.”

Happily, Noah skipped to his uncle’s side. “I’ll make it look great!” he crowed.

Stephanie watched. “Honestly, Jake. He’s not a little caterer-in-training. I’d think he’d have more fun playing with his toys. Why should he want to be cooped up in the kitchen with the grown-ups?”

“Because G.I. Joe’s no substitute for that.” Jake nodded toward the other side of the cramped kitchen, where his brother and his son were laughing as they pretended to make two peeled shrimp do the mambo. “That’s why.”

His mother looked. Frowned. “I don’t know where Noah gets that from. You certainly preferred your toys.”

“Sure. At least, that’s what I wanted you to think.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

Still, she gazed at Noah, then back at her son, perplexed. “Why, your father couldn’t have paid you to help him work on chores in the garage with him.”

“He paid me not to help him,” Jake told her.

Stephanie locked eyes with Henry. He shrugged. “By the time Jake came along, I’d realized it was easier just to do the damn chores myself.”

“You’re lucky, Jake,” Nate remarked, glancing up as he got out a blender for the coulis. “Dad almost sawed off my thumb with a circular saw once.”

“Yeah,” James chimed in. “He beat me over the head with a length of PVC pipe. And almost superglued my hand to an electrical cord while repairing a lamp.”

“Almost, almost, almost,” Henry mimicked. “Those were accidents.” He waved his hand as he turned back to the baseball game. “You’re all a bunch of crybabies.”

Stephanie grinned. “See? You didn’t miss much, son.”

But Jake, gazing at his family as they worked together, still believed he had. Hell, he didn’t hold any grudges. He’d let bygones be bygones a long time ago. Still, being with his folks again only reminded him how different he wanted his life with Noah to be. He wanted Noah to feel all the love, all the singular attention and care, he could possibly muster.

His mother found a vase, then carried it to the stool where her husband sat watching the Braves. She sorted the tulips, snipped their stems, and arranged them in water, all while chattering to Henry about the game. As Jake looked on, his father silently put his arm around Stephanie’s waist.

She smiled at him, still saying something nonsensical about the color scheme of the Braves’ uniforms. Henry smiled back. The intimacy between them was plain to see, and a little bit remarkable—after all these years—too. No matter how crazy things had gotten in their household, Jake recalled, his parents had always been rock solid. Preoccupied, busy, and occasionally embarrassing, but always rock solid.

He looked at Nate and James. His brothers still worked diligently at their stations, occasionally sneaking glances at the baseball game and frequently cracking jokes with Noah. Ulrich cleaned and snapped asparagus with good-natured Teutonic industriousness, the pile of green veggies beside him growing with every passing minute.

Jake shook his head. He’d forgotten that his mother only understood how to cook for an army of seven people—three of them ravenous teenage boys. No matter how old he and his brothers got, Stephanie still prepared enough food for a pillaging horde.

“Grandma, Grandma! Come look at this!” Noah called. He ran over to Stephanie and grabbed her hand. “Come look at what me and Uncle James did.”

Carrying her finished flower arrangement, Stephanie went to the counter. There, James displayed the shrimp he and Noah had laid out circularly on ice.

First course: the ShrimpCapades.

“Does it look pretty?” Noah asked his grandmother, looking up at her with an eager expression. His hair stuck up in a cowlick. His clothes—a T-shirt, swimming trunks, and one of Jake’s old neckties—didn’t match, as usual. But he clearly wanted Stephanie’s approval. “Do you think a lady would like it?”

She studied the shrimp. “Yes, Noah. Yes, I do. It’s lovely.”

“Yippee!” Noah hooted, running around the room. He high-fived his uncle on his second pass, then ran some more. “Carly’s gonna like it, Carly’s gonna like it,” he sang.

Uh-oh. Instantly, Jake lowered his gaze. He went back to work on the chicken, frowning as though sprinkling on salt and pepper required every ounce of concentration he possessed.

“She’s going to love it,” his mother told Noah, her voice laden with significance.

Jake cringed, hearing the well-meant lecture lurking behind her words. But she was talking to Noah, he assured himself. It would be safe to glance up long enough to get the chicken in the pan.

Thinking exactly that, Jake lifted his gaze. His mother was staring straight at him, with a look he—unfortunately—recognized all too well. It was the Noah-deserves-a-mother-you-stubborn-idiot look.

Stephanie raised her eyebrows and nodded toward her grandson. Defiantly, Jake met her meaningful gaze with one of his own.

“We’re fine, Mom,” he said. “You can quit campaigning, already. Noah and I don’t need anybody or anything.”

Naturally enough, an instant later Carly arrived…and proved him completely wrong.

 

 

The first thing Marley noticed when she arrived—uncharacteristically early, and with Gaffer in tow—at Jake’s place for dinner was that he wasn’t alone. The second thing she noticed was that the people surrounding him looked more like a fantasy family than the cast of “Fantasy Family” had.

They were all tall, blond, and beautiful, with Pepsodent smiles and casually coiffed hair. Jake’s dad—introduced to her as Henry—looked hearty and vaguely golden, in a pro-golfer sort of way. His mother, Stephanie, could easily have been an ex-Bond girl…if 007 had ever boffed beach bunnies. His two brothers were like something straight out of Hunky All American Monthly. And their friend with the dark, curly hair, Ulrich, somehow brought a European flair to everything he did.

“Ein reizender Hund,” he said, nodding toward Gaffer. “Wie heisst er?”

“He says that’s a lovely dog,” Stephanie translated while Marley bent to pick up her Yorkie. “What’s his name?”

“Gaffer,” Marley told them, unsnapping his favorite rhinestone-studded leash. “His name’s Gaffer.”

They gave her clueless looks.

“You know, like the chief lighting technician on a TV or movie set?”

“Oh. So that’s what that means,” Jake’s brother Nate said.

Marley nodded in confirmation.

At the same moment, so did Jake. Also in confirmation. She tilted her head in surprise.

That’s when it struck her, oddly enough for the first time: their worlds were alike. If she were herself instead of Carly, she and Jake could have shared funny we-work-on-TV stories about technical crew members and other below-the-line types. About craft services and the ultra-caloric feasts they provided. About honeywagons and their script-memorizing inhabitants.

Or maybe sportscasters didn’t get star trailers, she realized. That was a shame. While on the set, hers had been Marley’s home away from home—and Gaffer’s, too.

“Hello, Gaffer!” Stephanie exclaimed. “You’re sooo cute!” She scratched the dog between his perked-up ears, cooing baby talk at him.

Marley liked her already.

She caught Jake giving her a funny look, and stepped closer to him, still cradling her dog. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought him,” she said earnestly. “It was an emergency.”

“An emergency?”

She nodded. “A doggie psyche emergency. Since I started ‘Dream Date’ and my new waitressing job, poor Gaffer’s been left home alone so often. He’s really getting lonely. He used to spend every day with me on the—”

Set. On the set. Marley stopped herself just in time.

“—job hunt. You know, pounding the old pavement? Hitting the want ads?” She forced a laugh. “Since I started working at the coffee shop, he can’t come with me anymore.”

“Of course,” Stephanie said. “They don’t allow dogs.”

“Actually, he can’t handle all the caffeine. He gets a doggie buzz going, runs around, tries to get lucky with the other waitresses…” Marley shrugged as if to say, what can a dog owner do? “He made us both look bad.”

“You could never look bad.” Jake stepped nearer, oblivious to the meaningful glances his family shared at the movement.

He stroked a tendril of hair away from her cheek with his fingertip, his gesture both tender and uniquely welcome. “Not even as the owner of a waitress-humping, caffeine-addicted, troublemaking bundle of fur.”

“Jake!” his mother objected.

But everyone else laughed. Everyone, that is, except Marley. Because even though Jake’s dazzling smile and his joke both demanded an answering grin—for politeness’ sake, at least—she found herself completely unable to comply.

At the first brush of Jake’s fingertips against her skin, Marley was suddenly immobilized by the fluttering of her heart, by the overwhelming sense that he’d touched her not because her hair had been too messy to bear…but simply because he hadn’t been able to help himself.

Simply because he wanted, needed, to make contact with her, just that much.