Wanted: Wife (2 page)

INTERVIEWS WILL BE HELD AT THE IRON BOG
FIREHOUSE

MAIN STREET, IRON BOG

FRIDAY 27 AUGUST 1:00- 4:00 PM

PLEASE BRING ID

“Can you believe it?” Denny said. “It’s positively medieval.”

“I searched all the local sources, Googled him, even checked Twitter and Facebook,” said Terri. “Nothing’s out there on this guy. I have no idea how long the flyer’s been hanging on that pole”—she fingered it—“but it doesn’t look too weathered.”

“Weird,” Denny said. “You’d think someone would’ve picked up on it fast.”

Terri sniffed. “If you were a single gal with ten bucks in your pocket, would
you
tell anyone?”

“Yeah,” I said, dropping to a chair, “to run in the opposite direction.”

She winced. “Oh no, what’d that bastard do now?”

“Richard bailed,” Denny said. “The wedding’s off.”

Terri sniffed, ever pragmatic. “Why am I not surprised?” She tapped the flyer. “The hell with that jerk, work’s what you need. This has to be the most bizarre yet, so jump back on that horse.”

“Especially since he’s looking for a broodmare,” said Denny. “Hey, why does his name sound familiar?”

“Because it’s the same as the character actor,” Terri said. “Ever see that old John Wayne movie,
Stagecoach
? Well, Andy Devine was the guy driving it.”

“Oh,
that
Andy Devine. Tall, chubby, real squeaky voice.” Denny glanced at Terri. “Think they’re related?”

I was feeling nothing but unkind. “Or maybe he looks like him?”

“Well, if he looked like John Wayne,” Terri said, “would he be shilling himself at the firehouse?”

“Maybe he’s so hot he’ll need to hose ’em back,” Denny said.

Terri snickered. “The divine Devine.”

“He’d have to be,” I said. “What sane woman would actually marry someone like this?” I sniffed. “Not that
sane
and
marry
should occupy the same sentence.”

Denny leaned in. “
So
happy you’re not bitter. You must have missed the line about ‘generous monetary compensation.’”

“Like citronella to skeeters,” Terri said. “In this economy he’s
gonna
need a fire hose.”

“I’m getting my gear,” Denny said. “If we hurry we can just make it.”

Suddenly I felt trapped in one of my own stories. But, as crazy as the whole thing seemed, this Andy Devine was still a man wanting to get married, and how cruel was that? Yet, after so many fits and starts, after so much self-delusion, I should’ve been surprised if Richard actually went through with it. Though he always seemed one for grand romantic gestures—flower-filled carriage rides, schooner cruises on the Delaware, even proposing to me via the Jumbotron at Citizen’s Bank Park—they were always when someone was watching. It was the smaller moments, the early mornings, the hard days nights, that always left him stymied.

I felt Terri’s hand on my shoulder. “Forget about Richard, Julie. He never did deserve you. Trust me, there’s somebody still out there that will, and until he finds you, there’s the work. That’s exactly what you need right now.”

“The work . . .” I said absently. “The
work
,” like a mantra.

“It’s your one constant.” She came around to face me. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“No, you’re right.” Dammit, she was. “Like Tara to Scarlett.”

Soon we were crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge out of Philly and into New Jersey. Though apparently, I had fed the GPS an address a little too low tech for high tech.

I slid the GPS back into the holder. “It keeps saying ‘incomplete.’”

“I never liked those things anyway,” said Denny, coming up on Route 73. He pointed toward the glove box. “Get the map. What was the name of that town again?”

“Iron Bog,” I said, smoothing it across my lap. “Terri said to take 70 into Medford, then to the Red Lion Circle and from there we look for Route 582.”

We passed from city to suburban sprawl to farmland and, quite suddenly, into what is euphemistically known in these parts as the Pines. Covering a quarter of the state to the south, it could be tough to explain to someone from outside the region. Most people think of New Jersey as this cheek-to-jowl succession of refineries, housing and garbage dumps, bordered with crumbling cities on one side and casinos on the other. But that’s a New York City view. From Philadelphia, we see the lower half of the state much differently. If the Jersey Shore is the great cleansing breath we take to clear our citified lungs, the Pine Barrens, the wide, mysterious woods we cross to get to it, is the balm that clears our mind first.

Soon we were in the thick of it: deciduous maples and locusts gave way to scrub oak and pitch pine, the shorter, lankier trees which opened up the forest and cooled the hot August air. A bend in the road led us past a cedar marsh, the scent reminding me of my grandmother’s winter coat. I rolled down the window as we lost all sight of houses and habitation, breezes off a big lake chilling us before the woods swallowed us again.

I thought of when my parents would take my brother and me to the Shore as kids, and they’d tell us scary stories about the Jersey Devil, the part-man, part-goat, horse-headed horror that terrorized the Pines. But I couldn’t imagine such a monster right then, with my arm out the window, riding in the current. As I fixed on the trees flicking past, the sandy forest floor littered with needles and laurel and fern, I knew all my demons were right there beside me.

“Iron Bog, two miles,” Denny said, glancing at a sign. A few minutes later we rolled into downtown.

Iron Bog didn’t appear much more than a crossroads, with a general store, a gas station, a post office, Town Hall, and a shiny little place called The Cranberry Café. With geraniums here and there along white picket fences, it seemed the crusty-old Pine Barrens village had taken on a bit of a polish, like the cursory perking-up a house gets when company’s coming. And five hundred or so feet later I’d know why. That’s where the Iron Bog Volunteer Firehouse was, and from the looks of it, the company had arrived.

“Damn, look at that,” Denny said. “There must be a hundred women in line.”

I leaned into the windshield, squinting. “And the door’s not even open yet.”

He parked the van on the opposite side of the street. “Hurry,” he said, grabbing his equipment. I grabbed mine and scrambled after him.

We passed women of all shapes, sizes and ages, all glammed to the hilt, some with one or two kids. Seeing Denny with his camera and me with my mic, they tossed us a few scowls, knowing their secret would now get out. When we finally reached the head of the line, we met a fireman in full uniform.

“Hi, Channel 8 News,” I said. “We’d like to chat with Mr. Devine before you open the door.”

He eyed me skeptically before his mouth widened in a grin. “Hey . . . You’re Julie Knott! I love your stories. You know, if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t—Oh, go on in.”

I gifted him with a smile, on autopilot now. “Many thanks.”

As we entered Denny already had the minicam hoisted atop his shoulder, but I kept my mic holstered for the moment. If this Devine was as loony as I figured him to be, I thought it best to ask his permission first. My childhood had been peppered with tales about Pineys, crazy backwoods Jethros who shotgunned first and asked questions later. Through the window I could see the back of a man standing behind a table, and all at once resentment boiled inside me. I took a deep breath, my shirt sticking to me in the un-air-conditioned hall. I opened the door.

“Hello? Mr. Devine? I’m Julie Knott from Channel 8 News. Might I have a quick word with you?”

When he turned, my heart leaped right out my throat.

Chapter Two

The Flipside of Serious

“H
OLY
M
OTHER OF—
God . . .” Denny said.

My sentiments exactly. Andy Devine had to be the most stunning man I’d ever laid eyes on.

He was tall, six foot two at least, his black hair swept back to just nick his collar, his skin tanned, his cheekbones high, his shoulders as wide as his waist was lean. He wore dark trousers, a white shirt, a tie, and a vest, but I could tell immediately he was used to more freedom. His body looked sculpted by hard and frequent use, his biceps nearly bursting from their cotton casing, and even in that un-air-conditioned room, he looked as cool and collected as if encased in ice. Putting it all together, he was quite the package, but that wasn’t what took my breath away. As I came toward the table, as he moved around it to meet me, it was his eyes that nearly nailed me to the floor: two sharp, liquid arrows so regally blue they looked cut from some empirical standard, and infused with an intelligence so far above any preconceived notions, I genuinely felt embarrassed.

To put it simply: he was
not
what I expected.

“What can I do for you?” he said, the overhead fans ruffling his thick hair.

Not that I would allow him to ruffle me. “As I said, I’m Julie Knott from Channel 8 News, and this is my cameraman, Denny O’Brien.

Denny cleared his throat—loudly—lowering the camera to his side. “Pleased to meet you,” he said with surprising steadiness, in spite of his blanch a minute before.

Andy Devine nodded, but didn’t reach for either of our hands, which we were too off-kilter to offer anyway. Instead he eyed us with a curiosity I’d last seen at the zoo.

Inwardly, I was a little miffed that any human—insanely gorgeous or otherwise—could invoke such ridiculous reactions, doubly so as I groped for the right thing to say.
My God! When’s the last time that happened?
Still, years of experience let me slip into my screen-perfected smile and simpatico interviewer’s mode, my voice precisely modulated as I leaned in and said conspiratorially, “Maybe you’ve heard of me? I do segments on Channel 8 called ‘Julie Knott’s Random Access.’”

“Can’t say I watch much TV,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed. “
Random
, as in meaning . . .?”

“You know, out of the ordinary, off the beaten track. Unusual.”

“Ah.” He considered that for a moment. “You think I’m unusual?”

Only the fact that you’re actually saying that with a straight face
. “Well, your interview process certainly is. We’d love to do a story on it.”

He looked honestly perplexed. “Why?”

I almost laughed. Either this man was yanking my chain, or there were still people out there who could surprise me. “You don’t think advertising on a utility pole for a wife is a bit out of the ordinary?”

He leaned back against the table, folding his arms across his massive chest. “No more than when a woman tricks herself out and goes into a bar, advertising herself as available. I’m just giving her a more respectable venue.”

His voice was deep and melodious, yet he had the oddest accent, as unmistakably American as it was faintly exotic. The sound of it sent a distinct wave of heat through me.
Good God
. I scrubbed my hand across the back of my neck; I refused to let him throw me. “So, you don’t see having them parade before you like horses at an auction as a tad different?”

That seemed to amuse him. “Miss Knott, it’s me who’s really for sale, and don’t think for a moment each one of those women out there isn’t aware of it.”

I had an image of Mr. Gorgeous being yanked from one frantic female to the other,
One Day Sale!
signs hung around his neck. “That would be true if they were doing the choosing.”

“Even the woman I pick still has to agree to it. I’ll be making all the promises.”

“As in a contract.”

“Actually, it’s very simple. I’m offering a three-month trial marriage, in which I’ll promise to house, feed and provide my wife with anything she needs. All I’m asking of her is to be healthy, work hard and try for a baby. If for any reason she’s not completely satisfied—and pregnant within three months—she’ll walk away with a generous compensation. So obviously, the risk is more at my end. Their risk is relatively effortless.”

“Effortless!” The ways in which this preposterous proposition
so
did not resemble
effortless
nearly made me laugh out loud. “Mr. Devine, I’d hardly call bearing your issue
effortless
!”

He bristled. “I’m not saying it would be. I only thought of children as a logical progression.”

Amazing, truly. He wasn’t medieval; he was positively Neanderthal. “A logical progression of
what
?”

“Why, marriage, of course.”

“So couples that don’t have children . . .” I flung my hands in a futile gesture. “Who don’t want or can’t have them—their marriages are a sham?”

“No . . .” he said, a bit condescendingly. “That would be the logic of their own particular marriages. But in ours, the terms will already have been spelled out. I have a farm. She’ll help me run it. And if it’s run well, we’ll share equally in the benefits and rewards. You couldn’t get a better deal than that.”

“You talk as if this marriage’ll be nothing more than a business relationship.”

He looked incredulous. “Isn’t that what all marriages really are?”

“Of course not,” I said. “What a crazy idea.”

“Well, if they aren’t, they should be. Because that’s what it comes down to at the divorce settlement anyway. A dissolution of a partnership, a consolidation of debts, a distribution of the assets. Are you married, Ms. Knott?”

I caught his glance to my left hand. I shoved my bare fingers into my pocket. “No. Presently unattached.” Denny cleared his throat. I tossed him a filthy glare. And when Andy Devine lifted a brow, I knew I’d better offer a quick clarification before my cameraman spilled it. “I just broke it off with my fiancé this morning.”

“Does this upset you?” he said.

I could feel the blood rising to my face. “What do you think? We were to be married in two weeks. The man practically left me at the altar.”

“Did you love him?”

He was beyond belief. “Of course I did! Why else would I have married him?”

“Probably not for any of my reasons. Because from what I can assume . . .”—he assessed me quickly—“you’re probably a good risk. Which just proves how ancillary love actually is.”