Once Upon A Mattress. Kathleen O'Reilly
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Boyfriend? It was such an innocent-sounding word. Hilary had had a boyfriend once, and she and Mark had encountered no problems. Of course, he had broken off their seven-year engagement, which some might consider to be a problem.
She liked to think of it as a blessing.
Now she was footloose and fancy-free, and if she really put her mind to it, she could do footloose and fancy-free. Yup, she was on her way to a new and improved lifestyle.
And any second now, her new and improved lifestyle was going to spring a leak.
Cursing her Realtor, she moved the rugs out of the way and stared at the slightly warped, wooden flooring beneath.
She had thought the softened appearance gave it character. She was a moron.
Hilary didn’t like insecurity. She knew she was capable and intelligent, a real go-getter. Yet, this afternoon when Ben MacAllister had flashed her a bit of his oh-so-abundant charm, she’d had a tremendous desire to go out and get her nails done.
Men like him didn’t notice women like her. He had charisma, was handsome and she’d heard the stories about all the places he’d been.
So why pay attention to her?
Inconceivable. No mere man would reduce her to such a quivering mass of spineless Jell-O. And thanks to Mark, men weren’t to be trusted—none of them, not one bit.
While she was contemplating her own gullibility, the first drop fell. Big and fat.
Hilary dashed to what was someday going to be her newly remodeled kitchen and searched frantically for a bucket. There, back at the far wall under the sink, she found the shiny blue plastic pail she’d salvaged from Mark’s place in Atlanta. She carried it back to the living room and, feeling rather cocky, placed it under what was now a steady stream of water. Then she put her hands on her hips, ready to battle the storm gods.
Take that.
It would require more than a puny drip-drip to poke holes in her future.
She dusted off her hands and sank down in front of the spot where the TV would eventually go. She couldn’t afford a TV yet—Mark had taken theirs in the breakup.
Twenty-seven inches, right there in front of the bay window. Twenty-seven inches in approximately ten days—as soon as she got her first paycheck from MacAllister Beds, thank you very much.
She listened as Dr. Tracy calmly explained to her caller that she was kidding herself about her new boyfriend. That he would never amount to anything and the caller should dump him.
Sage advice. So thrilling to be the dumper rather than the dumpee. So where had Dr. Tracy been when Hilary was in Atlanta?
In Dallas, of course.
That was Hilary’s home now, but it didn’t feel like it. Yet.
She loved her new house, she really did. It was situated in Kessler Park, a small suburb just south of Dallas. The house was small, like Mark’s house back in Atlanta. It had wooden floors that, when polished and disinfected, had a fresh, pine scent. Okay, perhaps it was a lot like Mark’s house, but this new and improved house had three little rooms rather than four. Living room, kitchen and, as soon as she moved all the boxes, she’d even have a bedroom. Of course, it did need a little work. But she was willing to do whatever it took to start over.
A new life, a new house.
Then she took a hard look at the ceiling and sighed. And a new roof.
She thought about calling the roofer, even went and picked up the phone, but then she thought of what repairmen charged these days. Her credit card was in a world of hurt. No, she thought as she put down the phone. She’d wait out the storm, wet spot and all. Again she studied her ceiling. Really, it didn’t look that bad. If she were lucky, the storm would pass soon.
Thunder boomed and she jumped, still a little nervous about being alone. What she needed was company. She went to her would-be bedroom, rummaged through the boxes until she found the old paper box that she had treasured since her childhood. She popped open the lid and at last pulled out her friend, her confidant, her constant. The storms raged around her, and Hilary held tight to her musty, yet still pristinely preserved, stuffed Benjamin Franklin doll.
When your father was in the air force, some guy in a red cape and the likes of Barbie just didn’t cut it. Thomas Jefferson, Betsy Ross, John Wayne—those were the stuff of legends.
She padded back to the living room, feeling a little better with Benjamin at her side. This was the first time she’d truly been on her own, and although she was off to a shaky start, things would work out.
She hoped.
Hilary stared at the wise man sitting in her lap. Of course they will, won’t they, Ben?
If only it would stop raining.
An ominous creaking sounded deep in the bowels of her roof.
She didn’t want to see this.
Crack.
That made her look. One truss jutted right through the middle of her ceiling, drywall drooping like a weeping willow. Above that, there was only the dark gray sky.
And of course, rain.
Her mother had always punished her for cussing—a lady never cusses—but this time Hilary swore up and down in a manner that her father, retired Air Force Colonel Douglas Sinclair, would have approved of.
Just for good measure, she swore again.
Benjamin stared back at her, his blue eyes laughing at her behind his wire-frame spectacles.
“You keep that up, I’ll put you back in the box.”
She found the first water-removal ad in the yellow pages and picked up the phone to dial.
But there was no dial tone.
Unbelievable.
BEN SHUFFLED through the papers on his desk, not that it helped. Nine at night, and he hadn’t made it through the first diagram yet. The internals of a bed. He had been an English major, not an engineer.
The Cowboys game on TV called to him. Ben, you don’t really want to read that, do you? Come watch me.
Why did football have to have such a seductive voice? He groaned and took another sip of his cola.
No, he was not going to accept defeat at the hands of an innerspring. He propped his elbows on his desk and tried to concentrate.
Not that it helped.
MacAllister Beds wasn’t about security, it was about a mattress. And if Ben was going to succeed here, he really needed to understand how a mattress was put together.
He blew out a breath, staring at the springs.
What the hell was a helical anyway?
AFTER A THOROUGH CHECK of her closets for ax murderers, Hilary knew the dead phone line was not a plan to kill her, merely another step to wrecking her new and improved life.
With half a tank of gas, she wasn’t going far, and gas stations open in Kessler this late at night were hard to find. She found a hotel nearby, a by-the-hour establishment, but decided against it.
At two in the morning, she found her way to the familiar confines of MacAllister Beds.
Thank God. Tired and exhausted, she was ready to discover if the company’s advertising claims were true.
The office was dark and gloomy, shadows creeping along the wall. Hilary clutched her herbal-extracts pillow to her chest, letting the scents of lavender and barley soothe her senses. Her backpack was filled with tomorrow’s clothes, toiletry bag, mini-alarm clock, one breakfast bar and a new tin of mints. Only two more days until the weekend. Thank God. Maybe she could spend the time waterproofing her house.
The rain pounded, but