Bridegroom On Her Doorstep. Renee Roszel

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СКАЧАТЬ three days holed up inside that house, she needed to get out, walk off her frustrations. Even if it meant chancing a run-in with the insolent handyman. Why should she hide? She was the sanctioned occupant here, legally leasing this place. She had a right to enjoy the beach. After the horrendous day she’d had, if she didn’t do something besides stare at the walls, she would scream. She was customarily optimistic and confident, but today both her optimism and her confidence had been sorely tested.

      She vaulted off the sofa where she’d held so many unproductive interviews. “I’m going for a walk, Ruthie.”

      Her secretary sat on a wing chair placed at an angle to the couch. She looked up, flipped her notepad closed and nodded. “It’s about time you got out and enjoyed the nice weather.” She stood. “I’m going upstairs to call Raymond, see how he and the kids are dealing with his parents’ visit.” She rolled her eyes. “I can hardly stand the suspense.”

      “Fine,” Jen murmured, too preoccupied with today’s futile interviews to say more. She was out of the living room and almost to the kitchen before Ruthie called after her.

      “Boss?”

      Jen glanced back. “Yes?”

      “Should I order take-out for dinner?”

      Jen shrugged, not feeling much like eating. “Sure.”

      “For about an hour from now?”

      “Sure.” She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. She had plenty of time to walk off her anxieties. Well, at least she had some time. She didn’t think all the time in the world, or all the strength she could muster, would allow her to walk off all her troubles.

      She went out the back door and stood for a moment on the wood deck. Wicker furniture with red-and-blue-striped cushions brightened the shady area. Potted gardenia plants, with glossy green leaves and a multitude of white blossoms, lent delicate beauty to the space, their breeze-tossed, flowery fragrance mingling agreeably with the briny tang of the Gulf.

      The rustling of a wind through the sea grasses on the dunes beyond the freshly painted pickets, the rush of the surf, eased her stress slightly. How miraculous that only a moment in the relaxing magic of nature’s grandeur could have an effect.

      She inhaled, deciding this walk on the beach was days overdue. Provoking handyman or not, she needed this, needed the gentle relief of sun and surf to ease the coil of anxiety that had taken up residence inside her.

      She walked down the steps to the lawn, focusing determinedly on the beach. She strode to the fence, unlatched the gate and headed over the dunes to tawny sand. She came to a stop just out of reach of the skittering surf. The high-pitched cry of a seagull swooping nearby attracted her attention. She watched the bird dip and soar over the boundless Gulf. The view was gorgeous, with the brilliance of a late-afternoon sun glinting off the azure blue. It was so quiet, so restful, she could feel the pressures of the distressing day melt away.

      Edgy, worrisome thoughts tried to intrude—of the reason she had to be there, of all that depended on these next weeks. She tried not to let her anger and frustration over the unfairness of the world come to the surface. She’d spent too much time lately letting it get to her.

      Here she was, on a pristine beach, breathing in fresh, sea air, her face caressed by sunshine. She shouldn’t contaminate the moment by dwelling on her troubles. Through exhaustively long work days and total devotion to her career, she’d becoming the youngest, and only female, of three vice presidents. Then last week, when the current president abruptly announced he was leaving for a job out of state, Jen knew, by any fair measurement, she deserved the presidency.

      It was her tough luck that the owner and absentee CEO of the firm had ruled with raging conservatism over the years, never promoting a bachelor to the presidency—let alone a female—always opting for a settled, family man. Though the elderly owner recently passed away, and control passed to his son, Jen feared the governing beliefs of the heir would be equally unprogressive. What did it matter to this newest owner that the firm had become a substitute for a family? The fact that she was a thirty-one-year-old woman and single should not matter! Unfortunately, at the heart of the accounting business was a hard knot of conservatism that couldn’t be unraveled. Inflexible, old-guard thinking made her crazy.

      The new CEO, equally reclusive and all-powerful, had sent a gold-embossed missive to each of the three vice presidents that he would interview the candidates within the next three weeks. Jen’s discovery that her interview would be last was like a slap in the face. She took it as a bleak sign, since as Tax Vice President, she had what was considered the most prestigious post. Suddenly, and with stark clarity, she had seen the handwriting on the wall.

      Maybe she had gone a little crazy. Maybe it was partly because over the past year or so her biological clock’s ticking had grown loud in her head. What had begun as a faint whisper, had grown steadily, bringing with it flutterings of a desire for more in life than business success, a craving for her own two-point-four children.

      She wanted a career and she wanted a family. As president she could have both. Her plans included working-mother-friendly programs, like on-site day care and job sharing for support staff who would like to work half days so they could spend more time at home with children. Jen also planned to initiate eight weeks of paid maternity leave. In addition, mothers would be allowed to keep newborns in the office, and a lactation and child care consultant would be hired.

      D.A.A. was woefully behind the times when it came to its married female employees and their needs. The company, too, could use updating in other ways, and Jen had plans there, too. She had no doubt she could transform the small, prestigious firm into one of the most respected in Texas.

      She hadn’t planned to find a husband quite this quickly, or precisely this way, but to have a shot at the presidency she must be stable and settled. The presidential-quality Jennifer Sancroft must arrive at that interview with a legitimate, accomplished spouse.

      She’d had no choice but to act and act now. In her unwavering, intense way, the plan to correct her marital status had been hatched and put into action. With a mere eighteen days until the fateful audience with the company’s CEO, she had to focus like she’d never focused before. She must have a supportive spouse, must be settled and family oriented.

      By heaven, she would succeed!

      Jen stretched then lowered her arms, exhaling. She raised her arms again, taking in a deep breath, working to restore her confidence. “Don’t worry, Jen,” she told herself. “Tomorrow will be better. They won’t all be as discouraging as they were today. So what if a few of them looked at you like you’re insane?”

      Maybe she should have put the word “marriage” in her Wall Street Journal advertisement. The closest she’d come to even hinting at matrimony had been a few phrases like, “successful businessman, tired of the rat race, looking for new challenges,” sprinkled among more sterile requirements like “excellent people skills,” “degree required” and “loyalty a plus.”

      What had she thought would happen, that Mr. Right would sweep in, take one look at her and fall to his knees begging her to marry him? “Ha!” she scoffed. “Way to go, Jen. Your optimism certainly isn’t hindered by sound reasoning!”

      She hadn’t been able to bring herself to place a personal ad. It seemed too lurid for her high-minded intention. The truth was, her pride hadn’t allowed her to solicit a mate in a personal ad. Considering her restrained, conservative upbringing, a businesslike request through the Wall Street Journal held the right note of respectability and civility.

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