Mixed Messages. Linda Miller Lael
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just inexperienced, that’s all.”
She took up a packet of envelopes and switched on her computer. The printer beside it hummed efficiently at the flip of another switch. “I won’t ever have any experience,” she responded, “if you hang around my office for the rest of your life, picking my qualifications apart.”
He stood up. “I assume you have a degree in psychology?”
“You know better.”
Mark was at the door now, his hand on the knob. “True. I looked you up in the Reader’s Digest book of Beauty Queens. You majored in—”
“Journalism,” Carly interrupted.
Although his expression was chagrined, his eyes twinkled as he offered her a quick salute. “See you at dinner,” he said, and then he was gone.
Thoroughly unsettled, Carly turned her attention back to the letters she was expected to deal with.
Resolutely she opened an envelope, took out the folded page and began to read.
By lunchtime, Carly’s head was spinning. She was certainly no Pollyanna, but she’d never dreamed there were so many people out there leading lives of quiet desperation.
Slipping on her raincoat and reaching for her purse and umbrella, she left the Times offices and made her way to a cozy little delicatessen on the corner. She ordered chicken salad and a diet cola, then sat down at one of the round metal tables and stared out at the people hurrying past the rain-beaded window.
After a morning spent reading about other people’s problems, she was completely depressed. This was a state of mind that just naturally conjured up thoughts of Reggie.
Carly lifted her soft drink and took a sip. Maybe she’d done the wrong thing, breaking her engagement and leaving Kansas to start a whole new life. After all, Reggie was an honest-to-God doctor. He was already making over six figures a year, and he owned his sprawling brick house outright.
Glumly Carly picked up her plastic fork and took a bite of her salad. Perhaps Janet was right, and love was about bruised hearts and insomnia. Maybe it was some kind of neurotic compulsion.
Hell, maybe it didn’t exist at all.
At the end of her lunch hour, Carly returned to her office to find a note propped against her computer screen. It was written on the back of one of the envelopes, in firm black letters that slanted slightly to the right. This guy needs professional help. Re: dinner—meet me downstairs in the lobby at seven. Mark.
Carly shook her head and smiled as she took the letter out of the envelope. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip as she read about the plight of a man who was in love with his Aunt Gertrude. Nothing in journalism school, or in a year’s reign as Miss United States, had prepared her for dealing with things like this.
She set the letter aside and opened another one.
Allison popped in at five minutes before five. “Hello,” she chimed. “How are things going?”
Carly worked up a smile. “Until today,” she replied, “I had real hope for humanity.”
Allison gestured toward the Rolodex on the credenza. “I trust you’re making good use of Madeline’s files. She made some excellent contacts in the professional community while she was here.”
Madeline, of course, was Carly’s predecessor, who had left her job to join her professor husband on a sabbatical overseas. “I haven’t gotten that far,” Carly responded. “I’m still in the sorting process.”
Allison shook a finger at Carly, assuming a stance and manner that made her resemble an elementary school librarian. “Now remember, you have deadlines, just like everyone else at this paper.”
Carly nodded. She was well aware that she was expected to turn in a column before quitting time on Wednesday. “I’ll be ready,” she said, and she was relieved when Allison left it at that and disappeared again.
She was stuffing packets of letters into her briefcase when Janet arrived to collect her.
“So how was it?” Janet asked, pushing a button on the elevator panel. The doors whisked shut.
“Grueling,” Carly answered, patting her briefcase with the palm of one hand. “Talk about experience. I’m expected to deal with everything from the heartbreak of psoriasis to nuclear war.”
Janet smiled. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she teased. “God did.”
Carly rolled her eyes and chuckled. “I think he divided the overflow between Abigail Van Buren, Ann Landers and me.”
In the lobby the doors swished open, and Carly found herself face-to-face with Mark Holbrook. Perhaps because she was unprepared for the encounter, she felt as though the floor had just dissolved beneath her feet.
Janet nudged her hard in the ribs.
“M-Mark, this is Janet McClain,” Carly stammered with all the social grace of a nervous ninth grader. “We went to high school and college together.”
Carly begrudged the grin Mark tossed in Janet’s direction. “Hello,” he said suavely, and Carly thought, just fleetingly, of Cary Grant.
Mark’s warm brown eyes moved to Carly. “Remember—we’re supposed to meet at seven for dinner.”
Carly was still oddly star struck, and she managed nothing more than a nod in response.
“I take back every jaded remark I’ve ever made about love,” Janet whispered as she and Carly walked away. “I’ve just become a believer.”
Carly was shaken, but for some reason she needed to put on a front. “Take it from me, Janet,” she said cynically, “Mark Holbrook may look like a prize, but he’s too arrogant to make a good husband.”
“Umm,” said Janet.
“I mean, it’s not like every dinner date has to be marriage material—”
“Of course not,” Janet readily agreed.
A brisk and misty wind met them as they stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Times building, and Carly’s cheeks colored in a blush. She averted her eyes. “I know he’s the wrong kind of man for me—with all he’s accomplished, he must be driven, like Reggie, but—”
“But?” Janet prompted.
“When he asked me out for dinner, I meant to say no,” Carly confessed, “but somehow it came out yes.”
2
Carly arrived at the Times offices at five minutes to seven, wearing an attractive blue crepe de chine jumpsuit she’d borrowed from Janet and feeling guilty about all the unread letters awaiting her at home.
She stepped into the large lobby and looked around. She shouldn’t even be there, she thought to herself. When she’d left home, she’d had a plan for her life, and Mark Holbrook, attractive as he might be, wasn’t part of it.
An elevator bell chimed, doors swished open, and Mark appeared, as if conjured by her thoughts. He carried a briefcase in one hand and wore the same clothes he’d had on earlier: jeans, a flannel shirt and a corduroy jacket.
“This almost makes me wish I’d worn a tie,” he said, his warm brown eyes sweeping over her with admiration. Another of his lightning-charged grins flashed. “Then again, I’m glad I didn’t. You look wonderful, Ms. Congeniality.”
Carly let the beauty-pageant vernacular slide by. Although she’d had a lot of experience talking to people, she felt strangely shy around Mark. “Thanks,” she said.
They walked three blocks to Jake’s, an elegantly rustic restaurant-tavern that had been in business since 1892. When they walked in, the bartender called out a good-natured greeting to Mark, who answered with