Tame An Older Man

imbued with the results of thirty years of living in New Jersey.

'Oh, Mama, I'm sorry. I got in too late last night to call, then this morning I completely-'

'Did you have a date?' Olga asked breathlessly, Phoebe's transgression forgotten.

Phoebe decided it wouldn't hurt to tell Olga the truth, or at least some portion of it. She would never meet Wyatt, and her fondest wish was for her daughter to meet and marry a nice man-since the movie star thing hadn't worked out.

'I got together with a neighbor,' Phoebe said, sounding deliberately cagey.

'Who? What neighbor?'

'Wyatt Madison. You know, I've told you about Rolland and Helen Madison?'

'The nice older couple.'

'Right. Wyatt's their grandson.'

'How old is he?' Olga immediately asked.

'Oh, about thirty-eight or thirty-nine, I think.'

Phoebe thought her mother would declare that was too old, and then Phoebe could reassure her that nothing was going to come of their 'date.' But Olga surprised her.

'That's perfect. Old enough to be settled, and to know how to treat a lady. What does he do?'

Phoebe didn't dare tell her. If her mother discovered Phoebe knew a TV producer, Olga's dreams for Phoebe's show business career would revive in a heartbeat. 'He works in, um, public relations,' she said, which was almost true. Certainly he dealt with the public.

'And the date went well?' Olga asked, the question dripping with insinuation.

'He's very nice, but I don't think we'll be seeing each other socially anymore. He's a workaholic, and my life is pretty full-'

'Oh, that reminds me why I called in the first place. Adelaide Phelps, how could you keep your new job a secret from your own mother?'

Phoebe cringed. She'd been hoping she could indefinitely postpone telling Olga about 'Heads Up.' Now Olga would be after Phoebe to get herself back into the limelight, to use this window of opportunity to revive her dead acting career. She'd always viewed Phoebe's move to Phoenix and her job at the spa as a stopgap measure, a brief respite until she landed another TV or movie role.

'How did you…?' Phoebe began.

'I was watching 'Heads Up,' and I saw your name in the credits. How long have you been doing that?'

'Just a few days. It was only temporary at first-I didn't think it was worth mentioning. But now I've got the job permanently. I was going to tell you about it.' In five or six years.

'So what's it like? Do you get to meet movie stars?'

'So far, just Taylor Shad, and it wasn't very pleasant.' She shuddered at that memory.

'Do you have much sway with the producer?'

Now there was a loaded question, Phoebe thought. 'Could you get booked onto the show as a guest?' Olga went on, more and more excited. 'You are a TV star, after all.'

''Heads Up' is about trends. They book hot people, not has-been actresses from third-rate TV programs. Anyway, I'm not interested. I just want to do makeup.'

'That's a real ambitious career you got there.'

Phoebe sighed. They'd been through this argument before. She had once told her mother about going to college, but Olga had laughed at Phoebe's lofty career plans. 'Addy, honey, you're whistling into the wind,' she'd said. 'No one born with your face and body should waste it on bio-whatever.' So Phoebe hadn't mentioned it again, and she wouldn't, not until she had the diploma in her hand. Maybe not until she'd started her company and had a product on the market with her name on it, something Olga could show to her friends. Now that Olga would understand.

'If you don't want to be on the show,' Olga said, 'that's your choice. But what about me? Could you get me on 'Heads Up'?'

Now it was Phoebe's turn to laugh. 'Mama, the show is about cutting-edge trends. What could you possibly do that would qualify?'

'Well, I don't know. I've been making these wreaths, you know, for your front door? I custom design them. I even made one for a man-he wanted troll dolls all over it.'

Phoebe didn't want to demean her mother's handiwork. Olga did do some beautiful crafts. But that was hardly newsworthy. 'I'm sure it was wonderful,' Phoebe said. 'How come you haven't made one for me?'

'Just wait your turn, young lady. You have a birthday coming up, and I've got some ideas.'

Phoebe actually looked forward to receiving her mother's gift. The wreath would be one-of-a-kind and memorable, she was sure.

A terse knock on her door startled her. 'Oh, Mama, there's someone at the door.'

'The neighbor man? What's his name again?'

'Wyatt. I'm sure it's not him,' Phoebe said as she headed for the door.

'I'll let you go, honey. We'll talk next week. I want you to tell me all about that TV show. And I want you to talk to the producer about my wreaths.'

Phoebe stifled a groan as she ended the call. Once Olga got her teeth into something like this, she wouldn't let it go. Phoebe could just imagine Wyatt's reaction if she asked him to put her mother's wreaths on 'Heads Up'!

She pulled open the door, expecting to see Elise or Daisy or Frannie. They usually got together on the weekend for some type of exercise session. No one else she knew would pop in unannounced- Except Wyatt, apparently. She looked down at her ratty bathrobe and bunny slippers, then at him in his sweatpants and T-shirt, his face unshaved, his hair still mussed from sleep-from her running her fingers through it. They could have been poster children for the Rumpled Saturday Morning disease.

Then she saw the plate he was holding, which was heaped with something that smelled awfully good.

Her stomach rumbled.

He thrust the plate at her. 'I made French toast, and I had some left over.'

Reflexively she took the plate, but she was too surprised to respond. Without another word, he turned and tromped back to his apartment.

For a few moments, Phoebe just stared. What was that all about?

She retreated into her kitchen and, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, poured some syrup over the French toast and ate it. It was fantastic. Who'd have thought Wyatt could cook? Although, she did remember the Madisons saying something about their grandson being a whiz in the kitchen.

He'd seemed a little angry. Of course, when he'd seen her in her bathrobe he would have realized she didn't have an appointment He'd caught her in her little white lie.

Was he insulted? Had she hurt his feelings by leaving in the middle of the night? She had a hard time picturing that. Still, she thought back to her checkered past. Once or twice a guy she'd thought she cared something for had slipped off into the night without a backward glance. And yes, it had hurt, briefly.

But those were guys she'd naively thought she might have some sort of future with. Surely Wyatt didn't have any such illusions about the two of them.

Still, now she felt bad. She'd been trying to protect them both from any further involvement, which might lead to more discomfort, heartache, disillusionment. And instead, she'd somehow angered or otherwise disappointed a man she very much wanted to remain on good terms with.

* * *

Wyatt felt like an idiot. He had no idea why he'd marched over to Phoebe's with that plate full of French toast. It had seemed important at the time that he make her understand she'd disappointed him by sneaking off in the night. A man who did something like that would be considered a tomcat of the worst order.

After he gave her the toast, though, he realized he'd been acting like a lovesick nut. Neither of them had made any promises. In fact, each had taken pains to make it clear to the other that they weren't looking for long-term anything, which pretty much relegated their lovemaking to one-night-stand status.

So why had it felt so different from other instances of casual, noncommittal sex in Wyatt's past?