The Bachelor Takes A Wife. Jackie Merritt
To whisper and speculate and imagine. Andrea could see them doing it as she and her self-appointed escort moved among the tables. Escort indeed. What nerve!
“Here we are,” Keith announced, stopping at a circular table with four couples and two vacant places. “I think you already know some of these people, but let’s make this easy. Starting on the left we have Will and Diana Bradford, then Rob and Rebecca Cole, Sebastian and Susan Wescott and finally Jason and Merry Windover. Everyone, this lovely lady is Andrea O’Rourke.”
Hellos were said, Andrea’s chair was pulled out and then she and Keith sat down. Conversations began, and Andrea participated graciously. In mere minutes the first course of the meal was served, and Andrea found herself relaxing with these friendly people. From bits and pieces of the table talk she overheard while eating, she gathered that all of the men were members of the Cattleman’s Club, which forced her to alter the hard-drinking, crude-talking, cigar-puffing image of the typical member of this club with which she’d arrived. These were intelligent, attractive people, every one of them, ranging in age from mid-twenties to early forties, and it occurred to Andrea that she could like them—some more than others, of course—if they weren’t such bosom buddies with Keith.
She fell silent, while enjoying a delicious salad made with tender greens, warm mushrooms and crunchy pecans, and thought about the kiss he’d ambushed her with in the limousine. She was glad, of course, that she hadn’t embarrassed herself by kissing him back. With his massive ego Keith would have taken even the slightest response from her as a green light and no telling what would have happened next.
Andrea suffered a sinking sensation over the scenario that idea conjured up. She knew exactly what would have happened if she had given Keith the encouragement he’d obviously hoped for. The problem with that relatively certain theory was the sensual ache it created in the pit of her stomach.
No! She would not ache for Keith Owens! For heaven’s sake, had she lost her mind tonight? She never thought about sex. She wasn’t looking for a man now, nor had she even considered another man since Jerry’s death! Lord love a duck, if you have to suddenly rediscover your libido, why pick Keith?
Right in the middle of that horrifying question she felt Keith’s leg press hers under the table. She moved her leg away from his and furtively reached under the tablecloth and pinched him on his nervy thigh, at the same time giving him a phony smile and saying in a low, for-his-ears-only voice, “Try that again and I’ll sue you for sexual harassment. There are eight witnesses around this table, and friends of yours or not, if I suddenly stood up and told you to keep your hands to yourself, they would testify on my behalf in court.”
“All I did was accidentally touch your leg with mine. You’re the one with the wandering hands. Who pinched whose thigh, you sneaky Pete?”
“Who kissed whom in the limousine, you Don Juan degenerate?”
“Oh, oh, the club photographer just snapped your picture. Could be one for the books, what with that accusing, vengeful expression on your pretty face.”
“You’re lying through your teeth. I know how to maintain a normal expression however furious my thoughts.”
“Learn that trick during your marriage?”
Andrea gasped. “How dare you? My marriage was…was wonderful!”
“Yeah,” Keith drawled. “So was mine. That’s why I’m divorced.”
“You know perfectly well my husband passed away. We never would have gotten divorced!”
Keith regretted his comment at once. He never should have wisecracked about Andrea’s marriage, not when he really knew nothing about it except that her husband had died. He just seemed to be more nervous around Andrea than he’d anticipated.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have implied anything.”
“No, you should not have!” Andrea turned away. In a second she sent him another resentful look. “And I am not a snob. You’re incredibly rude, which, when I recall the past, you always were.”
“Rude, vexing Keith,” he whispered with a dramatic sigh. He had to get over it, he knew, and forced himself to lighten up and ask, “How did you ever put up with me for so many years?”
Andrea decided they were both going too far. If it hadn’t been for the din of so many conversations plus background music, their dinner companions would already easily have overheard them. She didn’t want to cause more gossip, since she was positive it was already occurring all around their table. It was better just to ignore Keith as much as she could.
Dishes were cleared away for the next course and Andrea looked up to see Laura Edwards, a waitress from the Royal Diner, working at another table. Laura wasn’t a friend, but Andrea knew her from stopping into the diner occasionally to indulge in one of Manny, the cook’s, fabulous hamburgers. The diner itself was an assault on one’s senses with its red vinyl décor and smoke-stained walls and ceiling, but there was no question about Manny’s burgers being the best in town.
Something about Laura tonight gave Andrea pause. The woman looked pale, pinched and—was haunted the right word for that wary, frightened expression on Laura’s face? Or perhaps hunted was more appropriate. After a few moments of watching the waitress at work, and pondering her unusual demeanor, it occurred to Andrea that Laura looked exactly like the terrified women who came to New Hope’s shelter to escape abuse!
Andrea pushed back her chair. “Please excuse me,” she murmured to the table in general. Keith leaped up and the other men started to rise, also. Andrea smiled her thanks at them and walked toward the Ladies’ Lounge sign. As planned, she intercepted Laura on her way to the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes.
“Laura, hello,” she said. “I’d like to speak to you. Can you take a minute?”
“Oh, Mrs. O’Rourke,” Laura said in recognition. “It would have to be only a minute…we’re all real busy…but let me get rid of this tray first.”
“Of course. Can you meet me in the ladies’ lounge?”
“Employees aren’t supposed to use that facility, but I’ll tell the boss that you asked to see me about something. That should clear it.”
“Good. See you shortly.” Andrea continued on to the lounge and Laura disappeared into the kitchen. Andrea was touching up her lipstick in front of a long beveled mirror over a pink marble counter—pink marble was the last thing she might have expected to see anywhere within the confines of this otherwise blatantly male retreat—when the door opened and Laura slipped silently into the room.
Andrea turned from the mirror. “Thanks. Laura, I can see from the look in your eyes and on your face that something is seriously wrong. I’m sure you’re aware of my connection to New Hope and of the good the organization does for battered and abused women. You can talk to me, Laura. Nothing you say would ever be repeated, except perhaps to a counselor at the center, and only with your permission.”
Laura was visibly squirming, obviously taken by surprise. “It…it’s not that, Mrs. O’Rourke.”
“Call me Andrea. I know how hard it is to talk about certain troubles, Laura, but if you’re in an abusive relationship you really must get out of it. I can help. New Hope can help.”
Laura wouldn’t quite meet her eyes and something sighed within Andrea. It happened so often. Too many abused women simply couldn’t speak of their torment and suffering until it got too horrible to bear. Andrea couldn’t spot any bruises on Laura, but some men beat their women in places that were ordinarily covered by clothing. And then, too, emotional bruising wasn’t visible.
Andrea reached into her small handbag for a business card, which she put in Laura’s hand. “Please call me if you ever need to talk, Laura,” she said gently. “Along with New Hope’s number, my home number is on this card. Call anytime, day or night.”
“Thank you,” Laura said hoarsely, slipping the card into a