By Kirk Curnutt

In a 1922 letter to his agent, Harold Ober, F. Scott Fitzgerald expressed frustration that one of his most creative stories, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” didn’t fetch as much money in the short-story marketplace as the tales of flapper-and-philosopher love he cranked out for the Saturday Evening Post: “I am rather discouraged that a cheap story like “The Popular Girl” written in one week while the baby [daughter Frances] was being born brings $1500.00 + a genuinely imaginative thing into which I put three weeks real enthusiasm [sic] like [“Diamond”] brings not a thing,” he grumbled.

His frustration is understandable. Today, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” is recognized as an inventive critique of the unstable monetary values of the 1920s, as close to sci-fi as the author of The Great Gatsby would come. Yet ninety years ago, as Fitzgerald’s recently digitized ledger reveals, it pulled in a whopping $300, barely enough to cover a bar tab. But just because “Diamond” stands as one of the Top Ten stories the author wrote doesn’t mean “The Popular Girl” is one of his ten worst. For most of the Twentieth Century, however, “cheap” is precisely how critics described the bulk of the 65 Post stories he produced between 1920 and 1937: they were mere entertainments written to finance “genuinely imaginative thing[s]” such as Gatsby and Tender Is the Night.

We probably have Ernest Hemingway to thank for turning this idea into conventional wisdom. In the posthumously published A Moveable Feast, Hemingway took great pleasure in rubbing his rival’s nose in his reputation as a Post contributor, insisting Fitzgerald had confessed to dumbing down his work to appease its 2.7 million readers: “He had told me … he wrote what he thought were good stories, and which really were good stories for the Post, and then changed them for submission, knowing exactly how he must make the twists that made them into salable magazine stories.… He said it was whoring but that he had to do it as he made his money from the magazines to have money ahead to write decent books.”

To a certain extent, the reputation of Fitzgerald’s popular fiction has always reminded me of the reputation of the popular girls I went to high school with. For those of us who didn’t move the needle on the popularity meter, prom queens, cheerleaders, and student-council candidates were easy to deride as superficial and shallow. They were careerists and glad-handing phonies whose inner lives couldn’t possibly be as complex and conflicted as us overlooked, tortured souls. Conformity and insipidity had to be the currency by which they won friends and influenced people—how else to explain why profundists such as ourselves couldn’t entertain anybody’s eye? Yet if Molly Ringwald taught us nothing else in The Breakfast Club, it’s that popular girls have feelings, too, and those feelings hurt every bit as badly as ours when trampled. If Judd Nelson is man enough to learn that lesson, why can’t we literary critics who continue to assume that commercial fiction must equate to “cheap”?

When I reread the seven early Post stories collected in Gatsby Girls, I’m struck by how empathetic they are to their heroines’ romantic dreams and aspirations, as well as how fully aware they are of the limits of Jazz Age gender roles. These are plots that hinge on assuming disguises and creating spectacles to demonstrate that the excitement we demand of love is not only possible but sustainable.

In “The Offshore Pirate,” a man presumed to be a bore reinvents himself as a pirate and hatches a cheeky kidnapping ruse to prove he’s no dullard. In “The Camel’s Back,” another man slips into a costume-shop camel suit to dupe his gal into marriage. And in the much-maligned “The Popular Girl,” a dashing beau plays dumb, allowing himself to be long-armed and toyed with so the deb of his dreams gains a measure of independence and resolve before he rescues her from financial ruin.

When the games and ruses work, the stories celebrate the mutuality we also expect of romance: the joke of “Head and Shoulders” is that Horace and Marcia are so compatible that they take on aspects of each other’s personality, reversing the roles of intellect and spirit in the relationship.

First-time readers may be surprised to discover that these extravaganzas don’t always work. Wait—aren’t commercial stories obliged to end happily? Not in Fitzgerald’s world. In “Myra Meets His Family,” a debutante discovers that her flame hoodwinks her not out of ardor but of fear. He’s terrified she’s after his money. Insulted, Myra turns the tables on him in a way that teaches him to never again fall for the stereotype of the “husband hunter.” In “The Ice Palace,” a Southerner discovers that behind her Northern betrothed’s façade of gallantry are hardcore regional prejudices that will prove a deal-breaker. Even when the stories do end in matrimony, there’s recognition that not everything is automatically rosy. When Betty Medill agrees to marry Perry Parkhurst in “The Camel’s Back,” it’s not because she’s finally ready to jump the broom—it’s because the impatient Perry has contrived a booby trap that’s so fool-proof she has no other choice.

Then there are stories that aren’t about love at all but about social customs, etiquette, and the perils of the social faux pas. “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” is a certified Fitzgerald classic because it wickedly captures his awareness of the way class customs shape character. At the end of the day, we may not remember that this story appeared in an era when Bible scholars pontificated against hairstyle revolutions and legislators actually tried to outlaw short hair on women; we delight instead in the revenge plot Fitzgerald contrives for his fish-out-of-water character and for the cheap shot her nemesis takes at Louisa May Alcott: “What modern girl could live like those inane females?” Marjorie rails against Little Women. To the emerging flappers of 1920, the March sisters were so your-mother’s-generation. And that’s also a charm of these stories: the dialogue is chockfull of spunk and verve. When Ardita Farnam in “Pirate” boasts that “[Men] tell me I’m the spirit of youth and beauty,” her captor asks how she responds to such compliments: “I agree quietly,” she smiles. You can almost feel young women across America stepping out of the dreary shadows of propriety to revel in such a coquettish strutting of stuff.

For all the vivacity and exuberance that marks these stories, they’re also streaked with trademark Fitzgerald melancholy. There’s something charmingly poignant about Sally Carrol Happer in “The Ice Palace” longing for a kiss that will make “all her smiles and tears … vanish in an ecstasy of eternal seconds.” Or of Yanci Bowman in “The Popular Girl” imagining the exciting life she would lead if only she lived in New York: “She adored New York with a great impersonal affection—adored it as only a Middle Western or Southern girl can. In its gaudy bazaars she felt her soul transported with turbulent delight, for to her eyes it held nothing ugly, nothing sordid, nothing plain.” Fitzgerald knew how to render his characters’ naiveté in a way that makes their dreams at once achingly palpable and unrealizable.

So what’s so “cheap” about “The Popular Girl” and her sisters in Gatsbyhood? Only the price of admission. These are stories that may have been written to charm the marketplace, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t rich and rewarding reads. They reverberate with beauty and joy and a desire to experience a word we don’t get to use much anymore: splendor.

(Kirk Curnutt is professor and chair of English at Troy University’s Montgomery Campus in Montgomery, Alabama, where he also serves as a director of the Alabama Book Festival. His thirteen books include two novels—Breathing Out the Ghost (2008) and Dixie Noir (2009)—and studies of Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson.)

“I don’t feel good about this.”

My sexy lover placed a hot kiss on my mouth. Behind us was the cabin we were renting for the weekend, located hundreds of miles from civilization. We stood beside the Jeep we’d rented. “I told Anthony I’d be out of range so he wouldn’t try to call me.”

I’d told Anthony that I’d volunteered to chaperone a camping trip for a friend whose daughter was in the Girl Scouts. My friend really was camping with her daughter, but I wasn’t with them.

I was in the mountains with my virile, inventive lover. His kiss turned even more demanding, his hips grinding into mine.

“You may not feel good now,” he growled, “but you will later. . . . ”

If my husband had murmured something that cheeky and conceited, I would have laughed it off, knowing he’d never live up to such a promise. But now I shivered with anticipation, knowing from experience what I could look forward to.

He squeezed my waist. “Can you believe it?” His sexy brown eyes were bright with the eagerness of a teenager, although he was forty-eight. “We’ve got three days and two nights without a soul around. No phones, no television, and no interruptions.”

I smiled. He was just so vibrant and lustful. “No lumpy hotel beds, no uncomfortable backseats . . . ”

His grin was naughty as he continued the game of naming all the illicit places where we’d managed to make love. “No grass-stained clothes, no imbedded rocks in the skin . . . ”

I burst out laughing as I remembered one particular incident that had stayed with me for weeks. “No poison ivy!” It was a mystery that still puzzled my husband, how I’d gotten poison ivy when we lived in the city, surrounded by concrete and glass. For hours and hours I’d tried to think of a good explanation and kept turning up blank. Finally, I’d shrugged my shoulders and told my husband I didn’t have a clue.

Sometimes I felt ashamed, but I was too happy to stay down for long.

Anthony hadn’t made me feel that alive in several years. Deep in my heart, I knew our marriage was over, but I just couldn’t bring myself to officially end it. We had three kids—two in high school and one in junior high. I wanted to hang on, at least until they graduated.

The sad part was that Anthony didn’t seem to have a clue that our marriage was in trouble. I think that he believed it was normal not to make love for weeks on end, or to kiss or hug or just have a “moment” when we stared deeply into each other’s eyes.

So I sought out my lover whenever and wherever I could, for the fulfillment that I could only find in his arms.

“Let’s go inside and take a shower,” I suggested.

It had been two whole weeks since we’d last managed to see one another, and then only for a brief time. The cabin we’d rented was simply furnished, with a full-sized bed, a couch, and a tiny table with two chairs. There was also a small kitchen and a fireplace.

I was in the shower when I heard my lover call out, “Did you bring the handcuffs?”

A delicious shiver stole down my spine as I imagined the fun we were going to have with those cuffs. “Yes, I did!” I called back, deciding I’d go first. Handcuffing each other was only one of the dozens of fantasies we’d discussed but hadn’t tried.

“Baby, take all of me.”

He started singing a country ballad as I finished up in the shower and wrapped a towel around me.

“Your turn!” I told him as I hurried into the bedroom and shut the door. I wanted to get everything ready while he was in the shower and surprise him.

Racing around—because he never took long in the shower—I lit candles, turned back the bedcovers, and began to rub scented lotion all over my body. Then I combed my hair and slipped into a sexy red teddy. I laid the handcuffs on the bed.

I was ready.

When he came into the room and saw what I’d done, his brown eyes darkened. He flicked his wrist and the towel fell from his waist. Slowly, he advanced. I giggled and scrambled onto the bed, pretending to be alarmed. He caught my wrist, snagged the handcuffs, and anchored each wrist to the bed post. He almost spoiled it by asking, “They’re not too tight, are they?”

I shook my head, my heart racing. Despite my excitement, it was a little unnerving to be so completely at a man’s mercy. But I reminded myself that I trusted him. I watched his sultry expression. His face was flushed and a line of perspiration had formed above his lip. He was breathing hard, like I was.

When he put a hand to his chest and grimaced, I thought he was playing. “What’s wrong, baby?” I crooned teasingly. “Did I break your heart?”

But he didn’t answer. Instead, his grimace became a twisted mask of agony. His eyes went wide with shock. In a second, he tipped forward onto me, his body heavy.

“Hey, this isn’t funny!” I felt a twinge of fear. “I don’t like this game.”

I couldn’t feel him breathing, and I didn’t feel his heartbeat. The upper half of his muscular body was lying on the bottom half of mine. I wiggled my hips, refusing to panic. I still thought he was teasing me.

“I said it’s not funny. Get up, okay?”

Finally, fear got the upper hand. I bucked hard, knocking him from me and flipping him over onto his back. His head lolled over the side of the bed. His lifeless arm followed. He wasn’t moving; he wasn’t breathing.

Nobody can hold their breath that long, I thought. A scream was building in my throat. Oh, God. He’s had a heart attack! But how was that possible? He was only forty-eight years old. He worked out three times a week. He was a health nut. He didn’t smoke and he rarely drank.

This could not be happening.

After fifteen minutes of denying it, I was forced to realize the absolute horror of the situation: I was handcuffed to a bed in a cabin miles from anyone or anywhere, and my lover was dead or dying.

In a blind panic, I twisted my head around to study the bed and the handcuffs. I nearly fainted with relief as I realized that I could lift the handcuffs over the bedposts. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded, however, and by the time I managed to get one wrist freed, I felt as if my arms were detached from their sockets.

The moment I was free, I scrambled from the bed and found the duffle bag where I’d left the keys to the cuffs. My hands were shaking badly. I kept dropping the key, sobbing now as the horror of my plight sank in. My sexy teddy was drenched in sweat by the time I got the key in the lock and freed my wrists from the handcuffs. I spent another harrowing thirty seconds untangling my bracelet from the cuffs.

I stared down at the open bag at the array of sex toys I’d acquired in the past six months since the beginning of our affair. The sight of them made me feel like a pathetic idiot.

Forcing myself to be strong, I slowly approached the bed again. My lover’s lips had turned blue, his skin as white as the sheet on the bed. I started shaking and couldn’t stop. I had to stick my fist in my mouth to stifle the screams, although no one would have heard me.

Inch my inch, I reached my trembling free hand out to his chest. Pressed flat against his chest, I held my breath, waiting for some sign that he was still alive.

Nothing.

But I wasn’t a nurse or a doctor, I reminded myself. Maybe he was in a coma and I just didn’t know it. Maybe he wasn’t really dead. I remember reading somewhere that many people had been accidentally buried alive back in the days before modern medicine.

I had to get help, just in case there was some slim chance that he was still alive.

Gently, with tears streaming down my eyes, I lifted his head and used my body to push against him until I could lay his head on the bed. I don’t know why I felt so strongly about making him comfortable; maybe it was hysteria. Whatever it was, it helped me get dressed instead of crawling into a corner and staring at the wall, like I wanted to do. I hated leaving him, dead or not, but I knew I had no choice.

Outside the cabin, I ran into another obstacle: the Jeep we’d rented was a stick shift, and I’d never learned to drive a stick. Sobbing with frustration, I got inside, determined to give myself a crash course. How hard could it be?

I managed to get it in reverse, but the moment I let out the clutch, the Jeep lurched forward, then died. Five more times I tried—and failed. Finally, I lowered my head to the steering wheel and sobbed until my throat hurt and my eyes were nearly swollen shut.

Then I tried again. I had gone maybe ten yards in reverse, but it wasn’t far enough to be able to try driving forward. After a few moments, I put the Jeep in neutral, got out, and tried desperately to push it backward.

It was no use. The rutted path was too deep and my strength too puny. With a cry of rage, I slammed the Jeep door with enough force to remind me that I’d nearly dislocated my shoulder while getting out of those handcuffs. It was almost dark, so in a matter of moments I wouldn’t be able to see my hand in front of me.

The realization lessened the possibility of me striking out on foot after sunset. Defeated, I returned to the cabin and my dead lover. I sat on the couch in the ever-darkening living room until I was forced to light a lamp. Taking the lamp with me, I walked slowly into the bedroom. Had I really expected him to suddenly be alive again? He hadn’t moved, of course.

Although I was cold, I used the only blanket to cover him up before returning to the couch in the living room. I could have built a fire, but it seemed somehow wrong to enjoy even a simple thing like the warmth of the fire with my lover dead in the next room.

So I sat on the couch with the single lamp burning beside me, shivering with grief and horror and watching the shadows play on the wall. Sitting in the quiet gave me too much time to think. It didn’t take me long to convince myself that God was punishing me for my sins. I wasn’t overly religious, but I knew that what I had been doing was wrong and that sooner or later I would have to pay.

I just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Finally, hours later, I drifted into an uneasy slumber.

I woke with a scream locked in my raw throat and the sun peeping through the window. I closed my eyes tightly, praying it had all been just a nightmare, that when I opened them again I would be home with my family and yes, my husband, and not in a cabin with the dead body of my lover.

But I wasn’t so fortunate. I wasn’t dreaming and I had to do something. The light of day hadn’t revealed any answers, other than the one I’d decided on the previous night: I was going to have to strike out on foot.

I moved like a robot, gathering my clothes, the sex toys, and anything else that could be even remotely connected to me. I hesitated over the body, reminding myself that I hadn’t touched him and that he’d just gotten out of the shower. Using the teddy, I wiped the bedposts and everything that I remembered touching, as if I were cleaning up after a murder.

I was fairly certain he’d died of a heart attack, but I didn’t see the point in confessing that I’d been there when it happened. What difference would it make? None that I could think of.

As a result, I left the cabin with everything that I’d brought, including my fingerprints. With my one suitcase and the bag full of sex toys, I started out along the dirt road leading away from the cabin. I walked about two miles before coming to another dirt road. This road was wider and looked well-used. I followed it for some miles before I reached a black top.

I don’t really know how many miles I walked in all before I reached a small frame house, but I had blisters on top of blisters, and I was so thirsty I could scarcely swallow. I hadn’t thought to bring water with me, although I knew there was bottled water in the cooler in the back of the Jeep.

My knock brought a middle-aged woman to the screen door. She eyed me with mild suspicion when she saw me.

I tried to swallow but my voice was a hoarse croak as I said, “Could I use your phone?”

She hesitated, nodded, and opened the screen door. “It’s in the kitchen.”

“I could use a drink of water, too. My car broke down.”

The woman gestured toward the old-fashioned wall phone. “If you’re looking for a towing service, the number’s on that magnet on the refrigerator. Might cost you a pretty penny for coming out this far, though.”

“Thanks.” I mentally calculated the cash in my purse. I could have taken my lover’s cash from his wallet, but I hadn’t thought that far ahead. As I dialed, the woman handed me a glass of water. I downed it without pausing, not caring if it dribbled down my chin.

Once my thirst was quenched, I asked the lady for her address, then called the towing service. I didn’t need a towing service, of course, but I didn’t want to make her suspicious by calling a cab. Once the towing service got there, I planned to explain to him that I’d been deserted by my friends. I’d offer to pay whatever rate he charged for towing if he took me into town.

It took about a half hour for the tow truck to arrive. When the horn blared I hastily thanked the lady and rushed outside. I got in on the passenger side and looked at the driver. He was young, perhaps late twenties, with bad teeth and wearing smelly overalls. But his demeanor was friendly, so I grasped at that hope and smiled at him.

“I have a confession to make,” I said. “I don’t really have a car for you to tow. My—I had a fight with some friends. They left me on the side of the road.”

The name tag stitched to his overalls read charlie. He spit a stream of brown tobacco juice through the open window before replying. “Wasn’t very nice of them, was it?”

I looked away. “No, it wasn’t. Will you take me into town? I’ll pay whatever it was you were going to charge to tow my car.” In my lap, I crossed my fingers, praying I had enough cash on me. I didn’t want to write a check, leaving a paper trail.

For a long moment, Charlie didn’t speak or move. Finally, to my relief, he put the truck in reverse and backed out of the driveway.

“It’ll cost you a fifty bucks,” he said. “Normally I’d charge a hundred, but I figure that wouldn’t be fair, with you being kicked out of the car and all.”

“Thank you.” My relief was so great, I felt faint. I had a hundred and fifty-seven dollars on me. If there was a bus running through whatever town we were going to, I thought I’d possibly have enough left to buy a ticket.

But before I left for home I had to find a pay phone and report my lover’s death. I knew my call would arouse suspicion, but I couldn’t leave him to rot there. It might take weeks for someone to find him. My plan was to tell them I was camping in the area and stumbled upon the cabin, giving them the directions.

It was late in the evening before I made it back to my hometown. I’d left my car in a parking garage several blocks from my house, so I was able to take a cab to my car, then drive home.

Along the way, I dumped my bag of sex toys into a dumpster, choking back fresh tears as it hit me hard that I would never see my lover again. My world turned gray and lifeless at the realization. Without the affair to look forward to, how could I go on living with Anthony?

The house was silent and empty when I got home. I knew that Anthony had taken the kids to the mall, just as he did every Friday night. What he had failed as a husband he excelled at as a father, always eager to be a part of their activities and their lives. Sometimes I wondered if he’d just gotten married so he could have kids.

I took a shower, then made myself a sandwich. It had been more than twelve hours since I’d left the cabin, and more than ten hours since I’d reported his death to the local police in that area. How long would it take for them to notify next of kin?

The phone rang, making me jump. I stared down at my half-eaten sandwich, my stomach rolling with sudden nausea. My legs felt like rubber as I got up to answer the call.

It was my mother, and she was hysterical. I gripped the phone so hard, my fingers went numb.

“I just got a call, Kathy,” she said, sobbing, “from the Mississippi state police. “They said—they said that Jack was dead!”

I closed my eyes, swallowing a sob. So they had found my lover—my mother’s husband.

My stepfather.

Mom went on, oblivious to my silence as she continued to alternate between sobbing and talking. “Kathy, what am I going to do? They said they found him in a rented cabin down in Mississippi. He was supposed to be at one of those salesmen conventions. . . . They think he died of a heart attack.”

“Is—is someone with you now?” I was amazed at how calm and rational I sounded.

“Yes, your sister was here when they called. She came over to borrow my steam cleaner.”

Good. That meant I didn’t have to rush right over. I was glad, because I had some thinking to do. “I’ll come over when Anthony gets home with the kids,” I told her before hanging up.

I stumbled to the kitchen table and sank into a chair, my eyes burning with bitter tears. Mom would never in a million years suspect me of having had an affair with her husband. Jack and I had talked about telling her when my kids got older, but we’d never come to a solid decision. I think we were waiting to see if the affair would burn itself out.

Ironically, I was the one who introduced Jack to my mother. I was a realtor, and Jack had just moved into town and was looking for a house to buy. After showing him several small houses, we went to dinner to discuss the possibilities. Jack was not only fun and engaging, he was a great conversationalist. The fact that he was handsome and fit was an added bonus, but I was married, so I kept the flirtation to a minimum. At the time I hadn’t thought about having an affair, although I knew our marriage was in trouble.

“Do you have any sisters?” Jack had asked me during dessert.

The teasing light in his eyes told me that he found me attractive. I admit that I was flattered.

“Yes, but she’s married.” I paused, thinking of my mother and how my sister and I had tried to get her to get out more to meet other people. My dad had been dead for five years, and we both knew that Mom was lonely. Impulsively, I said, “My mom’s a widow. Would you like to meet her?”

His eyes glistened. “Is she as sexy as you are?”

I laughed, trying to see Mom through Jack’s eyes. Mom was fifty three, but she looked forty-five. I didn’t know how old Jack was, but I did know that he was handsome and had to be at least forty-five.

“Yes, in fact, she is. She plays tennis and she’s a member of a health club.” My smile was wry as I added, “Most people think she’s my sister instead of my mother.”

“Then I’m game! Why don’t you have me over for dinner—and invite her, too? That way, it won’t be so awkward if we find out we’re not compatible.”

That dinner was a success. Mom and Jack talked nonstop and often had to be reminded there were other people in the room. I remember feeling a little envious, but I was happy that Mom had found someone like Jack. It turned out that he was seven years younger than her, but that didn’t seem to bother them.

Mom saw a lot of Jack over the next few months, and we had them over often to play cards or to have dinner, so I saw him a lot, too. I knew that I was growing increasingly fond of him, but I passed it off as infatuation. Jack was outgoing, whereas Anthony was quiet. Jack was courteous and sensitive, whereas Anthony didn’t seem to remember I existed half the time. Just being around Jack made me feel warm and beautiful.

When Mom told me that Jack had asked her to marry him, I realized that I felt more than infatuation for Jack. My response was spontaneous and alarming.

“But you can’t marry Jack!”

She had looked at me in surprise. “Why not?

“Well . . . because you haven’t known him for very long.” Even to my own ears, my excuse sounded lame. “I mean—are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. After being married to your father for thirty years, do you think I’d jump into something this serious without thinking it through? I don’t take marriage lightly, Kathy.”

Several days later, I managed to get Jack alone in the kitchen while Mom and Anthony checked the barbecue on the patio. “Jack, are you sure about this?”

He winked at me almost jauntily. “Yeah. If I can’t have you, I’ll take the next best thing.”

I’d believed he was joking at the time, although his words had made me blush. Later, after our affair began, Jack had confided that he truly had married my mother so that he could be close to me. He claimed he had fallen in love with me from the day we’d met.

Mom and Jack had a small wedding and honeymooned in Jamaica for two weeks. When they returned, Jack looked more handsome than ever, with his golden tan and even leaner form. He and Mom settled into a routine, and even I could see that they were more friends than lovers. They got along great, but the sexual spark was missing.

Two and a half years later, Jack and I were alone in our pool when he confessed to me that he and Mom were having problems. Anthony and Mom had gone to pick up my youngest daughter, Lindsey, from the movie theater. My oldest son and daughter were staying the night with friends.

Jack told me that he loved my mother, but he wasn’t in love with her, and their sex life was almost nonexistent. I swam to the side of the pool and held on, staring at him with a shameful mixture of dismay and elation. Over the years, my infatuation with him had grown into something bordering on a secret obsession. The man made me quiver, and the only thing he had to do to accomplish that was to give me one of his incredibly hot smiles. I had also taken to fantasizing about Jack when Anthony and I made love—which was only occasionally.

As I was fumbling for something to say, Jack swam up to me and put an arm on either side of me, pinning me to the side of the pool. He looked at me with open desire, making my mouth go dry and my legs go weak. He kissed me then, and I let him. It was something I had fantasized about. He more than lived up to my fantasies.

Apparently, I wasn’t alone, because he lifted his head and whispered hoarsely, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time now.”

I stared at him as if mesmerized, fully aware that his lower body was pressed against mine in a way that told me exactly how he felt. Instead of reminding him that he was married to my mother, I found myself saying, “Me, too.” I did have the presence of mind to add weakly, “But we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know,” Jack sighed, “but I can’t help myself.”

With a groan, he kissed me again, his hand sliding from my waist to my breasts. I felt as if I were on fire.

“Meet me somewhere tomorrow,” he gasped then.

That’s how our affair started. We met the next day in a hotel outside the city. Jack told me how things were with Mom, and how much he cared about her. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he didn’t want to lose me.

In return, I told him how things were between Anthony and myself, how I didn’t want to ask for a divorce until my kids were out of school. The conversation lasted ten minutes, and then we were frantic to get each other undressed.

We made love three times before we left the hotel. I was exhausted but pleasantly sated for the first time in a long time. I should have felt guilty, but at the time I really believed it was only sexual and that it wouldn’t last long. I never intended for Mom or Anthony to find out, and I was certain Jack didn’t want them to know, either.

Only our attraction never faded. It just got hotter and hotter, until we were having trouble being in the same room together without scorching each other with our eyes. I learned to be an excellent actress, hiding my feelings from both my mother and Anthony. Of course it helped that they would never have thought something was going on between us. Mom joked about Jack being an excellent stepfather, and Anthony often commented that Jack was a perfect father-in-law.

Sneaking around turned out to be remarkably easy. At that point in my marriage, Anthony was taking me for granted to the point of stupidity. He thought we had a wonderful marriage, therefore he had no reason to become suspicious when I started doing “charity” work at the hospital—or any of the numerous excuses I made up to see my lover.

Jack being a salesmen made it easy for him to mess around. He was often away at conventions or going out of town to meet with junior salesmen, so his excuses were seldom questioned.

Now Jack was dead, and I felt as if I had died with him.

Later, when the family gathered at my mother’s to comfort her and help her with the arrangements, I was able to show my grief without arousing any suspicion. It wasn’t a secret that Jack and I had gotten along great. He’d been well-liked by everyone and would be sorely missed.

Mom tried to be strong, but I could see she was hurting inside. I realized that she’d truly loved Jack. For the first time, I felt a very real shame for what I’d done. If Jack and I hadn’t been having an affair, would he have died anyway? It was a question that I asked myself many times over the next few days.

When the police came to the house to inform us that an autopsy would be have to be performed before they could release the body, my mother became hysterical.

“Why?” she demanded, tears streaming down her face. She looked her age that day. “Didn’t you say that he died of a heart attack?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the investigator answered, looking ill at ease. “But we don’t think he was alone when he died, Mrs. Solten, so we have to make sure there wasn’t any foul play involved.”

Bad choice of words, I thought, quickly squeezing Mom’s shoulder for reassurance.

“What was he doing at that cabin anyway?” she asked me the moment the investigator left.

I knew she wasn’t really expecting me to answer, so I kept quiet.

“Could he—do you think he might have been having an affair?” Her expression was tragic, making me feel about two inches tall.

Thank God she would never know what I had done to her.

Swallowing hard, I said, “Jack loved you, Mom.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but he hadn’t loved her the way a man should love his wife.

She wiped her tears away with a clenched fist. “I know, and I loved him, too. But I can’t imagine what he could have been doing in that cabin! He was supposed to be at a convention in Tupelo.” Her face crumpled. “Why would he lie to me?”

It was ironic, I suppose, that I had experienced little guilt during my affair with Jack, yet now I was wallowing in it. Seeing how much my mother had truly loved him shed a different light on things. I was more determined than ever to hide my shameful secret.

Then Mom said something that caused my heart to pound.

“Maybe the investigation will uncover some clues.”

“In-investigation? They—they said they were going to do an autopsy.”

“Yes, they are, and they also told me on the phone that they’re going to ask around, see if anyone can tell us what he was doing at that cabin.”

“But . . . if he died of a heart attack, what difference does it make why he was there?”

“It makes a difference to me.” Mom’s eyes glowed with a fierce light. “If only for my peace of mind. If Jack was having an affair . . . ” She choked on a sob. “If he was, then I want to know about it. I’m not going to grieve for a man who was sleeping around.”

I went home, feeling worse than ever.

The funeral didn’t take place until four days later. As we filed past the coffin to pay our last respects I lingered, staring at Jack’s white, handsome face until his features began to blur. Impulsively, I leaned down and kissed his lips. I just couldn’t move forward until I had kissed him one last time.

When I straightened, I caught Mom staring at me. I quickly buried my nose in my handkerchief and moved on, praying that she would think my actions innocent. She knew how much I’d admired Jack; she just hadn’t known how much I’d loved him.

A week later I answered the door to find two “suits” waiting on the threshold. They introduced themselves as Detectives Maynard and Branch. My gut clenched as I invited them inside and shut the door. What did they want with me? Had they found out I was at the cabin?

They couldn’t have, I tried to reassure myself. I’d wiped the place clean and taken all my stuff with me.

Nervous and trying to hide my emotions, I followed the detectives into the living room. “Can I get either of you something cold to drink?”

They both shook their heads and remained standing. Detective Maynard was the first to speak. “We have some information about your stepfather, and we thought it would be best to come to you first.”

My hands began to tremble, so I thrust them behind my back. “You—you have some new information?”

“Yes,” Detective Branch said. He withdrew a plastic bag from his pocket and held it out to me.

Slowly I took it from him, staring down at the gold dolphin. I felt instantly sick to my stomach. The dolphin had come from the bracelet I always wore on my left wrist, given to me by my kids on Mother’s Day several years ago.

I wanted to hide my arm, deny that it was mine, but I knew it was too late. I looked at the detectives, my heart in my throat.

“How did you know who this belonged to?”

Detective Maynard nodded at my bracelet. “I was at the funeral, and I noticed there was one missing. We found this under the bed at the cabin.”

I realized that I must have lost it when I was trying to free myself from the bed posts. Shame filled me. I could feel their accusing eyes on me as I kept my head bowed.

“We also conducted a door-to-door investigation. Mrs. Freeman lives in the house closest to the cabin; she told us an interesting story about a woman who matches your description showing up on her doorstep, asking to use the phone. After talking to Charlie’s Towing Service, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together . . . and come to the conclusion that you were with Jack Solten when he died.”

Was there any use in denying it? One look at their stoic faces and I knew that I was truly caught.

My first thought was of my mother. Strange, probably, to worry more about her reaction than my husband’s. “You—you don’t have to tell her, do you?”

“That depends,” Detective Maynard said. “Will you tell us exactly what happened so that we can officially close this case?”

I sat down before my rubbery knees gave out. Quietly, I told them the truth, that Jack and I had been having an affair for six months. If they disapproved of my actions, they kept it to themselves well.

When I finished, I kept my head bowed, waiting for the verdict. What if they decided they couldn’t keep the information to themselves? What would I do?

“Thanks, Mrs. Griffith, for being honest.” The edge to his voice hinted that he was surprised. “I don’t see any need to make this public, do you, Branch?”

Branch hesitated. I held my breath and prayed.

Finally, he shook his head. “I guess not. Cause of death was ruled a heart attack.”

I was so grateful, I could have kissed their shiny shoes. After they left, I sat down and cried again, wishing I’d never met Jack in the first place. I’d been selfish and reckless, and there was no excuse for my actions. Finding out about our affair could have destroyed my mother—not to mention my husband, who believed I was happy.

Then and there I vowed to make it up to my mother, even if she never knew why. I also made a vow to talk to Anthony about my unhappiness. If there was any chance we could recover what we once had, I was willing to give it a try.

For my sake, and for Anthony’s and my children’s sake.

I give free lessons to men.

The red wine had a lot to do with it.

If we hadn’t been polishing off the wine Sherry’s boss had given her for Christmas, I probably would never have ended up on “Live with Lola,” telling all. Not that I’m shy or anything, but I usually keep my private stuff to myself—especially when it comes to men.

Delinda, Sherry and I were kicking back at Sherry’s apartment that Friday night, watching a “Boy Toy” segment on “Live with Lola.” Brad Pitt, Ben Affleck, Tom Cruise—that’s the kind of guy who’d slink out from behind the deep blue curtains and hunker down on Lola’s tiger-striped sofa to look soulfully into her baby blues and divulge all. We loved it. Delinda and I held our glasses high and Sherry poured.

“Just a little for me,” I insisted. “You know how nuts I get on this stuff.”

“Marcie, we’re counting on it, honey,” Sherry said, filling my glass to the brim.

I sighed and settled back. One headache every so often wouldn’t kill me. Besides, I was safe: Delinda and Sherry were my best friends.

The show started and our chatter stopped. Lola made her entrance, moving like warm taffy in her pink stiletto slings. Her platinum hair caught the lights as she gave a coquettish wave to the audience. They went wild, lots of whistles and hoots.

“They just love her,” Delinda said.

“She’s our girl!” Sherry settled down on the floor.

Yep, that Lola was something, all right. Her pink silk shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a tantalizing bit of cleavage. Turquoise tights hugged her shapely legs and what you could see of her firm, taut backside under that shirt. As the camera dallied on her, she slipped off her heart-shaped sunglasses and smiled, then sank onto the couch. She draped an arm across the back, her long pink fingernails tracing one of the tiger stripes.

“Today, as always, we’re going to tell all,” Lola purred. “Only difference is, today the men of your dreams are going to do the telling. I’m just going to sit back and enjoy it, if you know what I mean.” Her laugh was throaty and suggestive. The audience went wild.

“She’s something,” I said. “She takes on the world, with no apologies. Lola calls the shots, all right.”

“Here’s to Lola!” Sherry lifted her glass. “She’s got what we all want—sex appeal and freedom!”

Well, the parade of hot men began and they were to die for: biceps and devil-may-care smiles, thighs straining at snug jeans, hair that fell over mischievous eyes. They were devilish and dangerous, and that’s what we’d tuned in to see—eye candy. We weren’t at all disappointed.

Lola played them like a twelve-string guitar. She leaned forward with her questions, as if to catch every word of their response. How did they manage to keep their eyes on her face and not on her low cut-shirt? She batted those long lashes, smiled in adoration, and occasionally put a hand on her Boy Toy’s arm, giving just a gentle squeeze.

“Hmm. Wonder what his wife will think of that,” I murmured, holding out my glass as Sherry opened the second bottle of wine.

Lola was brash and beautiful, sexy and secure. At least, that’s what I thought back then.

The hour went too fast, and we were glued to the screen until the very end.

“Wasn’t that something?” Lola asked her audience as the eye candy left the set. She fanned herself with one hand as if to get her temperature back to normal. Then she leaned toward the camera and cocked an eyebrow.

“Okay, ladies, these fellows are sex symbols, no doubt about it. But I think a lot of you out there have your own opinions about what’s hot and what’s not. We want you to call in and tell us some of your own ‘rules’. Throw out the book! Be crazy. We’re looking for ballsy women who can speak out.”

A phone number flashed across the screen. I yawned, fighting the wine to keep awake. Maybe Sherry would make coffee.

“I’d start with first dates,” Delinda said, giggling, obviously feeling a little happy herself. “If you’re hitting it off and he tries to kiss you, it should be wet and warm, not the pursed lip, grandpa kiss!”

“You’ve got a point,” I mumbled sleepily.

“On that first date, you have to watch body language,” Sherry pointed out, always the more analytical one. “If he talks about his ex and starts to crouch just a little as if he’s protecting himself, then he’s not over her.”

“Run for the hills!” Delinda chimed in.

“Agreed.” I curled up on the sofa. It was hard getting my words out with my tongue so thick.

“And just what would your rule be?” Sherry needled me. She knew I was getting stupid and she loved it when I let my guard down.

I held up one finger. “Never go to bed with a guy on the first date.”

Delinda and Sherry burst into wild laughter. “Right,” said Sherry. “Unless he’s Shane McCullough.”

“Ouch! That hurts. That really hurts,” I admitted. “Especially when he never called again.” It still made me sad to remember Shane, the one time I’d broken my own rule for a guy who’d forgotten my telephone number the very next day.

“And then, the size of their feet.” I felt a sudden surge of energy, waved one hand in the air and knocked over a vase of artificial daisies on Sherry’s table. “Absolutely immaterial, my dear Watson. It’s the size of their hands that counts.”

“Really?” Sherry continued to encourage me. “What other pearls of wisdom do you have, Marcie Hansen?”

“Take your time . . . and time is on your side.” I launched into a spirited, if slightly soggy, version of the Stones’ classic song.

“And is there any advice you would give if you were on ‘Live, With Lola!’?” Sherry asked.

“Stop yelling!” I held my head. “Sure. Why not? Always watch how a man eats. You’ll know just how good he is in the sack.” That last word came out sounding like “shack.”

It was at about this point that I noticed Sherry was holding a phone. Her face brightened.

“You do? Hey, great!” she said into the phone. “She’ll be there. Taping in a week. All right!”

At least I thought that’s what she said. It was so warm in that room that I fell asleep.

When I woke up the next day, Sherry’s cat was licking my hand and I was still sprawled out on the sofa. My mouth tasted nasty and my head throbbed as I struggled to sit up. Since the blinds weren’t drawn I shut my eyes against the bright sunlight streaming in through the window. Sherry was singing in the kitchen.

I groaned.

“Time to rise and shine!’ She appeared in the doorway holding a steaming mug of coffee. My stomach turned and I held up one hand in protest.

“Poor baby.” She sat next to me and wrapped my fingers around the mug. “Here you go. This’ll get you going.”

“What happened?”

“Well, let’s put it this way: We finished the wine!” She laughed.

My jeans and sweater felt grubby. I needed a shower and a shampoo. Toothpaste wouldn’t have hurt either. I checked my watch.

“Thank goodness I’m not scheduled today. This is the last time I help you two finish off anything,” I moaned. “I feel awful. Did I do anything stupid last night?”

“Well, not stupid. Not really. But you did volunteer for ‘Live, with Lola!’ ”

“I did what?”

Sherry looked sheepish. “Well, we kind of helped you, but you’ll be a great spokeswoman, Marcie! Don’t you see? You can be the voice of experience, helping other women to avoid the common pitfalls of being single.”

“Or I could make a major fool out of myself.”

“Marcie, you’ve dated more than any of us. We always said you should write a book. This is your chance.”

“My chance for what? To become a laughingstock?” I set the mug on the coffee table and dropped my head into my hands.

Sherry was on her feet now, her hands on her hips. “To let men know that they don’t really call the shots and to educate them about the woman’s point of view,”

“Michael is going to love this.” I could just picture the shocked expression on my boyfriend’s face when I told him that I was going to appear on “Live, with Lola!” Michael thought Lola was an exhibitionist and a tramp.

So that’s how it started. The taping was scheduled for the following week. Although the whole thing made me very nervous, I admit that after I thought about it, I was kind of excited. Me—on “Live, with Lola!”

When I told Michael about the upcoming segment, just as I’d expected, he was anything but supportive of me.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asked.

I played with my fork. It was Saturday night and we were in my favorite Italian restaurant for dinner before going to a movie. “Of course I’m not kidding. I think it will be interesting. Educational.”

“She’s a whore.” Michael pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up with one finger and brushed some crumbs of bread off the red tablecloth with his other hand.

“She just does her own thing. What’s wrong with that? Lola doesn’t care what anyone thinks.”

“She’s in it for the money, Marcie. Wake up.” He wound his spaghetti around his fork with precision.

My blood began to boil. “She’s the voice of all of us. She’s liberated.”

“She’s a moron.”

I watched him fold his napkin and thought, Yep—this is why when the lights go off, I don’t get turned on. Sex is way too messy for this man.

Well, it’s a good thing we were seeing a movie that night and didn’t have to talk to each other. It was an action flick and Michael seemed into it. I was seething. I think he got the message. When we got back to my place I quietly said I wasn’t feeling well and he gave a me peck on the cheek and disappeared down the hallway.

Twice that following week Sherry, Delinda, and I met to grab a bite after work. I jotted down notes as they listed their hot issues and pet peeves. My stomach was doing a little dance that was somewhere between excitement and terror. Could I really talk about all this stuff on television?

“Michael’s not exactly thrilled about my upcoming television debut. Men just can’t handle us taking matters into our own hands,” I told Sherry one evening when we were checking out the sale racks at the mall. “They think they have to have all the answers, that they’re in charge. How could I have thought this man might be the father of my children?”

Sherry gave me a blank look. “You did?”

“Don’t we all? Don’t we hope that every date we have will turn out to be Mr. Right?”

Shrugging, she grabbed two sweaters and followed me to the fitting room. “Yeah, but Michael? Didn’t you tell me he weighs his food?”

“All right, so he’s an engineer. They’re . . . oh . . . organized. Methodical.”

“Boring.”

“Yeah. That, too. So maybe he is a little anal.” Every negative thought I’d ever had about Michael now came back to haunt me.

Well, there were reasons for dating him. He was attractive and had a good job. For some reason, after our Saturday night dates—after which he usually spent the night—I often ended up humming Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got to Do With It.” Even though Michael didn’t put a helluva lot into it, I still made sure I got something out of it. I had a stressful job as a nurse in an orthopedic unit and I needed some relaxation. Having his strong arms around me felt good.

But maybe I was just kidding myself about the “happily ever after bit.” Maybe all women do that at one point or another.

The days before the show passed quickly. There were moments of total panic when I really thought of calling the producers of “Live, with Lola!” and giving them some excuse as to why I couldn’t be on the show. I was having doubts about it. Even though I’d be representing Sherry’s and Delinda’s views, did I really want to be the one who “told all?”

Sure, I’d been single for thirty-two years and I’d been lucky. I’d dated a lot. But I hadn’t found the man of my dreams, not by a long shot. Although I was a nurse, I avoided dating the docs. They had busy lives, took calls at night, and most of them were married. An affair with a married man had never made sense to me. You always take a chance with any single guy that he might break your heart. Why go looking for trouble with a married man?

I’d been involved with men who still loved their ex wife or ex girlfriend, and I found out that you really can’t change them. You’re better off moving on. Then there are guys with small children who take up more time than I was willing to give. Besides, I wanted to have my own family someday.

So I’d smiled through many dinners and cocktail parties and sat through many plays and concerts with a lot of really nice guys who turned out to be Mr. Wrong.

Casual sex had never been my thing. There’s too much to worry about nowadays. As a nurse, even though my current field was orthopedics, I was well aware of all of the sexually transmitted diseases out there. I wasn’t about to take that kind of risk. The joke “Herpes is forever” isn’t funny in my book.

Then there are the far more serious viruses—like AIDS or all the strains of hepatitis. One of our doctors contracted hepatitis C during surgery. Even though we wore goggles and gloves, somehow he’d gotten it. That was the end of his career and the only bright spot was that he had disability insurance. What would his future be? Maybe a liver transplant somewhere down the road. But for a guy who loved to ski and run, it was pretty much over. He could look forward to increasing fatigue and exhaustion.

He picked up hepatitis C in the OR, but it would be a lot easier to get it from unprotected sex. So many people didn’t even know about it.

So there are limits, rules, and consequences for not knowing the rules. It sure isn’t easy. In fact, being single is a minefield if you’re sexually active.

For what reason did I want to go on television and talk about it? Well, as Sherry and Delinda said, someone had to do it. I told myself I was helping younger women avoid the mistakes I’d made. And, boy, I’d made plenty, but I’d tried to limit my losses.

Meanwhile, the television station had begun to promote the segment. The whole world seemed to know that I was going to be on the show. When I’d dash through the ER on my way to the fifth floor orthopedic unit, even the orderlies would call out, “Whoo, whooo! Marcie’s a star! She’s going to tell all!”

I’d duck my head and punch the button for the elevator. Well, I doubted I’d be Lola’s only guest—and that was a relief. Hopefully the women on the show would band together and offer our opinions as a group.

“Hey, I hear I’m working with a celebrity,” Dr. Nash commented that Monday.

“News sure travels fast around here,” I said. I’d worked with Dr. Nash for over five years and liked his good-natured kidding. “Yep, well, I guess somebody’s got to keep you guys in line.”

“My wife watches that show. I’m not knocking it. It’s just a little . . . controversial.” He began making notations on the chart and I hustled off to answer a patient’s call light.

Controversial. What did that mean? Probably that guys just didn’t want to hear what we had to say. My appearance was beginning to feel like a noble cause.

I’d arranged to take the day of the taping off. At one-thirty sharp, there I was in the Green Room, which was, for all intents and purposes, a holding tank. Delinda and Sherry sat on either side, trying to distract me. I took deep breaths and tried to envision cool, calm pools of water, but to no avail.

A coffee pot perked invitingly on a side cart, along with hot water for tea. There was no way I was going to risk having to go the bathroom in the middle of the show. I licked my lips and carefully fluffed my hair.

“You look terrific,” Sherry said.

I was wearing a matching purple sweater set and my new black pants. The fact that I worked out three times a week helped me look good in tight pants. I’d picked up my boots, which had a slight heel, on a shopping spree, and they made my legs look extra long.

“Oh, why am I doing this?” I groaned, watching the time tick closer to showtime. “Where are the other women?”

Delinda shot Sherry a look.

“What?” I asked. “What’s up?”

“Marcie, this is just you and some—”

Sherry never got to finish her sentence. The door opened and the three of us whirled around.

His jeans were slung low on his hips, a nice contrast to the broad shoulders that filled out his forest green sweater. As he came through the door he raked one hand through ragged hair that needed a trim. He stripped off a pair of sunglasses and hung them from the front of his sweater.

“I didn’t know this was Boy Toy day, too,” I murmured. Sherry and Delinda looked stricken and gave each other a guilty look. Suddenly I got it. “No. Oh, no—”

The newcomer zeroed in on us. “So, which one of you is the girl?”

“What ‘girl’?” I asked with a touch of sarcasm.

He folded his arms across his chest and bowed slightly. “Sorry. Woman. Which one of you is the woman?” The word “woman” definitely had two syllables.

I crossed my arms and my chin went up. “I am.”

He strolled to the coffee pot and regarded me from gray-green eyes as he poured himself a cup. “You’re the woman who’s going to talk to Lola and me about the boy-girl thing.” He held up a hand. “Sorry, sorry. I mean the male-female thing. Relationships. Whatever—oh, you know.”

I was steaming and this guy was turning up the heat. I shifted my gears fast, going from a one-of-the-girls discussion group mood into an adversarial stance. This guy made it easy.

Just then a woman in a floor-length flowered skirt and a peasant blouse swept in, holding a clipboard. She grabbed a pencil from behind her ear, checked her clipboard, and looked at the three of us expectantly. “Marcie?”

“That’s me.” I raised my hand and then quickly buried it under my arm, feeling like a schoolgirl.

“Curt Sandler?”

“That would be me.” He waved his coffee cup at her, drained it, then tossed the cup into the waste can.

She smiled. “Terrific! You both look great. Now, if you’ll just follow me . . . ”

In the distance we could hear Lola’s theme song playing. The audience roared. My stomach plummeted but my shoulders squared. Curt was already out the door, following the assistant producer.

“Well, let the games begin,” I murmured to Sherry and Delinda as I passed them.

“You go, girl!” Sherry hissed, giving me a thumbs-up. “Do us proud.”

I stood next to Curt in the wings. We could hear Lola’s voice, husky and suggestive, saying. “Don’t you wonder what goes on in the single woman’s mind today?” A roar went up. “Sure, we all do, don’t we?” More cheers and some foot stomping. “Well, from the many callers we’ve chosen a bright young woman whose experience and wisdom set her apart . . . ”

And just who was Lola talking about? I wondered. Was that me? Panic overcame through me. Just then the assistant opened the curtain and gave me a push. Stiff with fear, I made it across the stage, my smile stretched from cheek to cheek while the crowd welcomed me with applause and whistles. I climbed the steps to the tiger-striped sofa, shook Lola’s hand, and sat down.

A heavy wave of perfume sent my stomach tumbling. Up close, Lola’s makeup was heavy. Her lips were sharply penciled in and mascara clotted on her lashes.

“Welcome, Marcie,” she purred, smiling at the camera instead of at me. “We’re so glad you could come. And now . . . ”

With that, she turned and Curt shouldered his way through the curtain and bounded up the steps. He shook Lola’s hand but she pulled him toward her, planting a kiss right on his cheek. If he was surprised, he recovered pretty quickly. This was a guy who never seemed to have a nervous moment.

In a flash, I saw how it would be. This was going to be a pitched battle between two opponents the producers thought they’d chosen carefully, except they didn’t know that the woman they’d heard that night had been drunk out of her mind.

Nevertheless, I’d just make the best of it. I smiled at Curt, whom Lola had angled between us.  The lights were hot and blinding. Maybe that was a blessing. I really couldn’t see the people in the audience, just hear them. They were restless and raring to go.

“Now, Marcie.” Lola leaned toward me and her little teeth looked very sharp, like a Chihuahua’s. “Just what would you say is the biggest challenge in the singles’ dating scene today?”

I took a deep breath. “Well, Lola, I think we all want to meet quality people. Men who have some depth to them . . . ”

Lola held up her hands. “Oh, but there are so many. Where does one start?”

Was that a smirk on Curt’s face? I went on. “Lots of places. The personal ads. The Internet. Your friends.”

Lola nodded as if I’d just said something profound. “Interesting. What about work?”

“Dating men you work with can have professional complications.”

“Oh, I see.” Then she turned to Curt. “How about you, Curt? Where do you go when you want to meet that special someone?”

He leaned back and chuckled, his voice throaty and confident. The hair rose on the back of my neck. “Never a problem, Lola.”

Hah! Right, I thought. He probably picks up any hoochie he can charm off a bar stool!

“I’ll bet that’s not hard for you, is it?” Lola rested a hand on his arm.

Now suddenly it was being made to look like I had to beat the bushes for my dates, but women just fell into Curt’s lap. I felt perspiration trickle down between my shoulder blades.

“And when you’re on that date?” Lola’s penciled brows lifted. She swiveled over to me, almost with regret. Clearly she’d rather spend the hour focusing on Curt. “What is the major—?” She held up both hands as if she were forming a ball of pie dough. “—The major problem that keeps men and woman from truly coming together? Keeps them from understanding each other?”

I was thinking that one over when Curt jumped right in. “Women practically want a ring on the first date. They want to know how much money you’ve got in the bank and if you’re playing the field or looking for a serious relationship, because they sure are.”

I crossed my legs and sat back. Curt’s eyes shifted to my legs. “You know, Lola, I think the biggest problem with men is that they want intimacy on the first date,” I said as innocently as possible. “No prelude. They want to know on the first date just how sexual you’re prepared to be—and how soon.”

Curt cut in, his eyes flashing. “Hey, come on, Marcie. We like a little warmth, that’s all.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Curt! I think men want more than ‘warmth’. They want to know right off the bat just how much you like sex and how much of it they can get from you without any commitment.”

Was that an incriminating blush working its way up Curt’s neck?

Lola was beaming. “What about that, Curt?”

He shook his head, giving me an almost pitying look. “Well, I don’t know who Marcie’s been dating, but I don’t know any guys who are insensitive enough to demand sex on the first date.”

My laugh was more of a bark. “Did I say that? I think I said that men want to know when and how much they’re going to get.”

Lola gasped. “You certainly don’t mince words, Marcie. Isn’t she great, folks?”

The crowd roared and the blood rushed to my head.

“I think Marcie may have misunderstood me,” Curt said, his good-natured smile tightening. “While men may certainly find a woman desirable, they aren’t coarse enough to think they’ll go to bed with her on the first date. I think most men want to get to know a woman first. Find out if she has any, well—depth, as Marcie so aptly put it.”

Well, he’d caught me off guard. He almost sounded sincere.

“And how long would that ‘getting to know each other’ period take?” Lola asked.

Curt and I regarded each other as if we were about to start bidding at a poker table.

“Six dates,” I said with certainty.

Curt laughed. “Oh, sure, make a guy wait that long.” The crowed roared again.

I tossed my head impatiently. “I think that by that time a couple knows if they want to explore their relationship further.”

“Well, men don’t necessarily like to have sex with every woman they go out with,” he said defensively. “We have scruples. We have standards. Hey—any guys out there? Would you agree?”

A male chorus went up. I tensed, sputtering, “Not every man has those standards.”

“Well, I suppose you never become intimate with a man just to have some company, just to make it though the night? Women never do that, do they?”

“Of course we do!” I blurted out before I could think. “But usually there’s some kind of exclusivity. Definitely that’s within a monogamous relationship.” What had I said? I cleared my throat to gather my thoughts.

Right then, I knew that it was over between Michael and me. I also knew it didn’t matter. Every woman in the room was applauding. Curt looked a little surprised and then he smiled slowly. By this time Lola had become a silent observer.

“Now, let me get this straight,” Curt said, leaning forward, his arm behind me on the sofa. “So you’d go out with a man who pleased you sexually if there was little hope of a future together, just to satisfy your physical needs?”

“Definitely.” Okay, maybe I was just making a point at the time. His grin widened. I found myself digging in my heels. “As long as the sex is safe. I don’t see any problem with that. And as long as the sex is consensual.”

“Safe sex.” He seemed to be turning the words over his mind as if it were a new philosophical concept.

Briefly I went though some basic facts about sexually transmitted diseases and the dangers they present. It was crisp and short, but by the time I finished Curt was nodding in silence. He didn’t seem at all defensive or dismissive, which a lot of guys would be. No smart comments from him. It didn’t seem as if any of that stuff was new to him.

But Lola was sitting up and taking notice. “Well, ah, Marcie, that’s . . . very interesting. Sounds as if we have a subject for another show, wouldn’t you say?”

I nodded. “Might be a good idea.”

Curt was regarding me silently, like a fencer who was planning his next lunge. But Lola wanted to get back on track. She wanted more bloodletting.

“But today,” Lola continued, “I think the audience would really like to know how you discover if your partner is appropriate for you. How you know you’re compatible.”

“I have all kinds of criteria,” Curt said quickly.

“And I’d just love to hear them!” I shot back.

Each comment seemed to draw us closer together until we were almost nose-to-nose. The musky smell of his cologne, released by the hot lights, teased my senses. But a strange antiseptic smell was laced under that cologne, almost reminiscent of the hospital. Lola was sinking back into the sofa again, nodding as Curt began ticking off his requisites on his fingers.

“She has to be sensitive, kind to animals, her grandmother, and her kid sister. She has to know what to wear in the house and make it minimal, and how to dress on the street—with style.” He was really on a roll and his list surprised me.

Kind to her grandmother?

My turn. “He has to know that a card can say a lot more than a call and that flowers sent to work go a long way.”

Curt just kept coming. “She has to know that a home-cooked meal is a lot better than a French restaurant.”

Lola looked at me and I was ready. “He has to know that fixing a broken screen door can be the sexiest foreplay in the world.” Women applauded wildly.

But the men cheered Curt on and he was ready. “She has to understand that a home-cooked meal is as inviting as perfume—which should be, by the way, understated and subtle.”

Lola blushed. Suddenly she didn’t seem to be there anymore.

“Go, Marcie!” The women in the audience began to chant.

All the ideas Sherry and Delinda and I had talked about came spilling out. “And I never want kitchen appliances for presents, either,” I said, jutting out my chin in a challenge.

“What do you think jewelry stores are for?” Curt shot back with disgust. “How’s this? She has to realize that time with the guys is important and that we all need it.”

“Of course, I agree. And he has to appreciate my friends and know that I might want to take off for a fun weekend with them once in a while.”

By this time Curt’s face was flushed. “She has to know that a black lace negligee is lot nicer to sleep next to than flannel pajamas.” The men howled like alley cats.

“Oh, without a doubt. And he has to borrow my Victoria’s Secret catalogues once in a while so that a surprise package might appear at my door.”

“Agreed!” Curt leaned even closer until I could see the pupils in his green eyes. “She has to wear whatever I give her and not whine about the color not being right. I’ve taken trouble to pick this stuff out.”

“Whine! Men should talk about whining . . . ”

The remarks kept flying fast and thick. When they took commercial breaks Curt and I just rolled right on. The audience encouraged us, and so did Lola. Funny thing was, as we went along it seemed as if we were finding common ground instead of differences. I was wishing Michael and the other men I’d dated had held some of these views. I would have been glad to wear black lace for a guy who came through the door with fresh flowers or dark chocolates—and not just the TV Guide.

By the end of the hour I felt as if I’d run a marathon. The hair around my face was curled in damp tendrils and I was trembling slightly for some reason. Curt looked as if he’d been running right beside me.

Suddenly the closing theme music was playing. Lola was saying good night and the lights came up in the audience and everyone was filing toward the exits. Lola stood up, stretched, and kicked off her heels.

“Damn things are killing my feet.” Her sexy accent had vanished. “Well, I want to thank both of you. Great show. Our ratings should be terrific. Too bad this isn’t sweeps week.”

Then she was gone and Curt and I were left on the sofa. He was regarding me with an unreadable smile.

“Well,” I began, searching for the right words. “This was really very . . . interesting.”

He nodded and his green eyes softened into warm hazel. “I enjoyed meeting you, Marcie. You’ve been, ah . . . educational. And you’re a good sport.”

“Right.” Avoiding his eyes, I swung to my feet and fumbled until I found the opening in the curtain. Delinda and Sherry were standing outside the Green room, beaming.

“What was that all about?” Sherry laughed as she steered me out the door. “I wasn’t sure if you two were going to kill each other or end up in a passionate clinch right there in front of millions of viewers!”

“You’ve got to be kidding! I just said what I felt.” But the truth was, I’d found Curt intriguing. He’d told me things in front of millions of viewers that I’d been wondering about for years.

“You know, Lola really isn’t very pretty,” I mumbled as they bundled me into the back seat of Delinda’s coupe. “She wears too much makeup. It’s all for show.” Then I groaned. “Do you think Michael will ever speak to me again?”

“Nope,” Sherry said.

“That’s good,” I said with relief.

Although I would have liked to stay home in my apartment for the rest of my life, I couldn’t. The next day I drove to the hospital and trudged onto the floor.

I was checking over the charts when Dr. Nash came up behind me.

“I saw the show,” he said.

My shoulders tightened. “You did, huh?” I tensed myself for the kidding that would follow. Had I made an idiot out of myself?

“Yeah, my wife and I agreed that the single world sure is complicated nowadays.” Then he paused. “And you did a lot of people a favor by warning them about the more unpleasant side of sex, the STDs. That was pretty brave, Marcie.”

“You thought so?”

Then he smiled. “And I think you gave old Curt a run for his money.”

Hmm, so it was “old Curt” now, was it? The brotherhood of men.

Other nurses had come up behind him and they broke into applause.

“I think I’m being paged,” I said, hurrying away.

That afternoon there was a new doctor orientation, so I gathered my folders and the laptop and headed for the conference room. While I was setting up the projector the new hires entered the room and sat down behind me. I adjusted the focus, snapped off the lights, and turned.

And there he was. Curt.

“You!” I was unable to hide my surprise. “Curt—”

“Yes. Curt Sandler. ER.” He smiled, leaning forward as if to read my nametag. “Nice to meet you, uh, Marcie.”

The other docs smiled. Were they aware that the two of us had “told all” on television? Even in his white lab coat with his name crisply embroidered on the pocket, Curt still had a disheveled look about him. But then, many ER docs are on the wild side. Their high adrenaline work almost demands it.

Somehow, I made it through that hour. At the end I handed each of them a packet with the necessary paperwork and badges. The other two physicians left, but Curt stayed behind. I thought back to the antiseptic smell I’d detected on him during the show.

“You sure fooled me, Dr. Sandler.”

“Some of the guys who recruited me to come here thought it would be a good way for me to get introduced to the city.” He grinned. “Although I admit, they persuaded me to call after we’d had a few beers one night.”

“Hmm. See, women would never do that.” I chuckled mysteriously.

“I know you have rules, but I’m hoping you’ll break one, Marcie. You are, ‘a woman with depth and substance,’ as we described on the show, and I’d like to learn more about you. And not in front of a howling crowd, either. How about dinner some night this week? I promise I’ll help you work through any ‘professional complications.’ ”

“Well . . . ”

Oh, I was really torn. Sure, the whole experience on “Live, with Lola!” had been embarrassing, but the truth was I liked him. I never dated the guys at work, but the fluttering in my stomach told me just how attracted to him I was. You could have cut the chemistry with a scalpel.

“Sure,” I said, admiring his lack of pretension, and most of all, his refreshing honesty.

Which brings me to another one of my rules—and that’s flexibility. If you’re single, you’ve got to be flexible. Be willing to break one of your rules now and then and follow your heart.

Curt and I both know the rules and seem independent and honest enough to respect each other’s views and negotiate our differences. That’s probably what it really takes in the singles’ world. That . . . and a little black lace now and then!