The Husband School. Kristine RolofsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the empty page of the legal pad spread before him and studied the yellow-lined paper as if the solution to his problems would magically appear. When he looked up, the six members of the town council stared back at him.
Bachelors all, they were a varied group. On his left sat Les Purcell, a young cowboy who had been injured on the rodeo circuit and now lived with his grandparents. Seated next to Les was Pete Lyons, a nice enough guy who looked as if he slept in his clothes.
“Now, there’s one heck of a question,” Les muttered. “Anyone who has the answer to that can write a book, go on Dr. Phil and make a pile of money.”
“It’s a valid question,” Jerry, recently elected mayor—because Art Woodhouse died and no one wanted the job—and full of ideas, looked across the table at the owner of the only auto-repair place in town. Hank Dougherty was likely too busy to watch much daytime television.
“What’s Dr. Phil got to do with it?” Hank asked.
“Nothing. Just that he knows everything.”
“Or thinks he does,” Les said.
Jerry took a swallow of coffee. Obviously this was going to take more time than he’d thought. “Let’s not get off track. I’m serious about this. We need to know what women want and then we have to give it to them.” He ignored the spurt of laughter that followed this declaration and frowned. “I’m trying to get something going here. We’re talking about publicity. About money coming into town. About women coming into town.”
“Women? What kind of women?” This question came from Jack Dugan, who Jerry figured had no problem getting dates.
“Single women,” he replied, as if he was talking to a bunch of first-graders. Not that he had any idea what it was like to talk to schoolkids. But this group, the city council and various other men who enjoyed free coffee once a month at the town meetings and sat around a couple of pushed-together Formica-topped tables, was about as dense a bunch of men as he’d ever met. No wonder they didn’t have women of their own, or at least a date once in a while. Not that he himself was much different. He’d had two dates since he left Los Angeles three years ago and neither one had been what anyone would remotely call a success.
Pete, a thirty-something rancher who also drove the school bus, leaned forward. “How old are these women gonna be? And they’re not gonna be from a foreign country, are they?”
“Like the Russian mafia and the mail-order brides,” Mike Breen, the town treasurer who ran the county newspaper, added. “Saw it on Law & Order last night. Scary stuff.”
This was quite the suspicious group. Jerry took a deep breath and started over again. “No, Mike, they’re not going to take your money and kill you when you want to divorce them.” He’d seen that episode himself. “Look,” he said, eying the six bachelors who comprised the council. They weren’t a bad-looking bunch. They could be cleaned up, their shirts ironed or, better yet, replaced. They had a rugged appeal he knew some women were attracted to, but he had severe doubts that his constituents had the skills to keep a woman interested past the first date. Heck, most of them couldn’t make it further than a getting-to-know-you bottle of beer. “I have a friend in Los Angeles who’s putting together an idea for a reality show.”
“Like Survivor?” Hank perked up. He was fifty-five, widowed, with two grown daughters and a decent property in town. He might appeal to an older demographic, maybe the over-forty women.
“More like The Bachelor.”
Jack, who worked at the feed store, grinned. “Man, that’s a great show, that Bachelor. I never miss it.” The crowd grumbled their displeasure, but Jack didn’t waver. “You should see the women,” he insisted. “They act crazy, and they’re gorgeous and they sit in a lot of hot tubs with the bachelor. Everyone tries to get a date with the guy and lots of times he can’t tell the crazy ones from the ones who really like him.”
Jack was young and good-looking, struggling to keep a small cattle outfit afloat while working in town. He picked up odd carpentry jobs and was careful with his money. And, Jerry thought, he’d look perfect on TV.
“That’s right. Hot tubs and hot women in bathing suits.” Now he had their interest.
“The only hot tub in the county belongs to MacGregor,” Gary Petersen, retired from the co-op, whispered. “And he just sat down behind you, Jerry, so you might want to keep your voice down.”
Jerry restrained himself from turning around to see if Gary was telling the truth. He’d never met Angus MacGregor’s descendant but he’d read a lot about the family history. They’d practically invented cattle ranching in Montana.
“Thanks, Gary, for pointing that out.” Jerry wrote hot tub on his paper. “I’ll bet the TV production would spring for something. Either that or maybe we could use some town funds and buy one ourselves.” Everyone looked at Mike, who shrugged.
“Money’s hard to come by these days,” he declared.
“Yeah,” Pete muttered. “And so is a sex life.”
“We’re not talking about sex,” Jerry felt it necessary to point out, though the lack of women was the one of the biggest drawbacks to living in rural Montana. “We’re talking about attracting single women to our town. We’re talking about publicity, about attracting businesses, about letting people know we live in a beautiful part of the country where people care about one another. We’re talking about expanding the population, saving the school, making Willing a great place to raise a family again.”
“Quite a speech, Jerry. You’re starting to sound like a politician,” Hank said, chuckling. “You’re not running for governor, are you, son?”
“Not yet,” Jerry said. “Now, do any of you have any objections to getting married?”
“Well,” Hank drawled, “I did it once.”
“And?” Jerry prompted.
“It sure beat being alone.”
Not exactly high praise. Jerry fought the urge to bang his forehead on the table. Instead he gave each man a long look. “You’re all lonely and miserable and you know well enough that if a woman gave you as much as a nod you’d be signing a marriage license and following her around the IGA with a grocery cart.”
No one denied it, so Jerry figured they’d all just voted yes. Yes to inviting Hollywood to Willing. Yes to encouraging a busload of single women to give Montana bachelors a chance to impress them. Yes to drumming up a little excitement for a change.
Speaking of excitement, Jerry looked down the length of the crowded room and waved to Meg. She picked up a carafe and made her way toward his table. As far as Jerry was concerned, Meg Ripley was an important person. She knew everyone in town and he had no doubt she could run against him for mayor and win in a landslide. He’d been told she was thirtyish, single and straight, so Jerry had asked her out to dinner a month after he’d moved to town. They’d quickly become friends, though Meg politely refused any dates that could be construed as romantic.
He actually preferred blondes, but dark-haired Meg was attractive in a no-frills, low-maintenance way. He’d never seen her in anything but jeans, but she had a cute figure and a nice smile. In a town overpopulated by men, she mysteriously remained single, though he’d heard plenty of stories about broken hearts. As far as he could tell, Meg kept to herself and didn’t go out of her way to break anything.
“Meg,” he began, “how many times have you been proposed to?”
“I really don’t think—”
“Seriously,” Jerry said. “It’s important.”
She took a step back. “I’m not going to—”
“Eighteen,” Jack declared. “Last time we did a count, it was eighteen.”
“You’ve kept count?” Meg shot him a horrified look and Jack shrank back