A Proper Wife

“... latest adventure movie, coming your way,” an excited male voice screamed as Ryan, heart pounding, shot bolt upright in his bed.

He reached out a hand, slammed the radio into silence, and fought to get his bearings.

Hell, he thought, scrubbing his hands over his bristly face, waking up to that was all he’d needed. His housekeeper had done it again. In her zeal to whisk away dust, she was forever unplugging things and plugging them in again with no clue as to what small disaster she might have left behind.

Last week it had been the microwave oven, pinging away in the middle of the night; the week before, the VCR had gone on at dawn, madly recording test patterns from the local public television station.

Well, at least he was awake. Anything was better than the awful nightmare he’d been having a few minutes before.

In the dream, he’d been standing at the end of a flower-strewn aisle, not in a church but in a department store. The place was empty but for Frank, who stood beside him dressed in jeans, black bow tie, sweatshirt and sneakers.

Ryan, on the other hand, was in a tuxedo.

What are we doing here? Ryan said, tilting his head warily toward Frank’s.

Frank gave him a sad smile. You tell me, pal, he said, and before Ryan could reply, there was a swell of music from the mezzanine and a woman in an ankle-length, crimson velvet cape suddenly materialized at the far end of the aisle.

Who’s that? Ryan whispered.

Frank sighed. How should I know? It’s your dream.

Ryan stared down the aisle, his brow furrowing. He couldn’t see the woman’s face—it was hidden behind an elaborate white lace veil—but there was something very familiar about her.

Slowly, she began walking toward him. The cape swung gently open at each step, revealing a stunning length of long, tanned leg.

Frank stepped back.

Wait, Ryan said, I’m not ready for this.

The woman glided to a halt. Her hands rose to her veil.

Wait, he said, wait.

It was too late.

Ryan shrieked as Agnes Brimley lifted the veil from her persi

mmon-sour face.

With a nervous laugh, Ryan swung his legs off the bed. He sat still, taking deep breaths.

“Damn,” he muttered.

So much for gagging down Sharon’s homecooked version of chicken Marengo last night.

He’d canceled his date with her Saturday evening. The thought of dealing with her and Devon Franklin in one twenty-four-hour period had seemed more penance than anyone should have to pay for being male. But by Sunday, with his equilibrium regained, he’d decided that it was foolish to prolong things.

Their relationship was over and it was time she acknowledged it.

Experience had taught him that public places were best for goodbyes. There was less likelihood of a scene if there were strangers around. So he’d made a reservation at an Italian restaurant in midtown—a businesslike place, nothing romantic—and then he’d telephoned Sharon.

“No, no, Ryan,” she’d said in a little-girl whisper she’d developed in the past week, one that he wryly suspected would have shocked the pants off the dozen stockbrokers who took orders from her. “Let’s not eat out tonight. You come to my place. I’ll make us something simple.”

Ryan groaned and put his hand on his flat, muscled belly where Sharon’s “something simple” still lay like a ball of lead. He rose to his feet, padded naked to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet and took out a packet of Alka-Seltzer. He waited impatiently for the tablets to dissolve in half a glass of water. Then, screwing up his face and holding his breath, he slugged the water down.

The meal hadn’t been the worst of the evening.

Ryan sighed as he lathered his face with shaving soap, picked up his old-fashioned, straight-edged razor and placed the blade gently against his jaw.