She's Got Mail!: She's Got Mail! / Forget Me? Not

Rosie swiped at a curl that toppled over her forehead. “I’ve been promoted. Well, for a few weeks. Until they hire a new Mr. Real, I’m…the dude.”

“Whoa!” Seth took a step back, tilting his head as though to see her better. “You? Mr. Real? Men ain’t gonna like this.”

“Men ain’t gonna know.”

Seth cocked an eyebrow, which looked oddly blond with his blue hair. “How they not gonna know? Girls write different than guys.”

“Oh, really? Do tell.” Rosie leaned back in Mr. Real’s ergonomic desk chair and crossed her arms.

Seth seemed stymied for a moment. He scratched his T-shirt, decorated with a picture of a red-white-and-blue cow. Along its flank was painted the skyline of Chicago. Underneath, the words Chi-Cow-Go. Cute.

Seth stopped scratching. “Chicks—ladies write more flowery. You know, they use words like pink and pretty.”

“I’ll avoid all P words. What else?”

“And they gush on and on.” Seth made a rolling motion with his hand as though she might not understand what gush meant. “And they use too many words. Sometimes big ones.”

“I’ll work on the gushing. Never hurts to trim prose. But I can’t promise not to use big words. After all, I’m a seasoned writer.” Rosie smiled, liking the sound of those words as they rolled off her tongue. “Anyway, I’ve sat so close to William for the past seven months, I’ve heard nine-tenths of his conversations. I’ve proofread hundreds of his articles. I know how he talks, how he writes. For the next two weeks, no one could possibly guess it’s a woman behind the man’s words.” Actually, a goddess behind the woman behind the man’s words. Rosie wasn’t sure yet if she’d don Athena or Artemis for the next two weeks—which she could do as long as no goddesslike words slipped into her Mr. Real answers.

“What if some dude sees you?” Seth had moved closer to her desk and was fiddling with a pile of thick, gold paper clips, remnants of William Clarington’s former life.

“What dude is going to march into the offices of Real Men magazine, sneak past the front office receptionist, and know where to find William’s former desk? Such a dude would need some serious built-in radar.” Rosie leaned forward. “And no one within the magazine offices would blab because blabbing means that person would spend eternity in the gulch.” That last point cinched any blue-haired men gabbing to the wrong dudes.

“The gulch sucks.” Seth made a face.

“Tell me about it. This is my chance to prove myself. Make the great leap to life beyond the gulch.”

Seth stopped playing with the paper clips and held his hand up, palm toward her. It took Rosie a moment to realize he was giving her a high five. She stood and slapped the palm of her hand against his.

“You’re a cool chick,” Seth said. “I mean, uh, you’re a cool woman to be impersonating a dude. This is sorta like that Robin Williams flick.”

“Mrs. Doubtfire?”

“Yeah.”

Rosie tried to dismiss the image of Mrs. Doubtfire beating out a fire on her breasts. There would be no crises for the next two weeks, whether Rosie was a dude or a woman…or a goddess. “I get to wear my own clothes, fortunately.”

“Cool.” He tossed the letter onto the desk. “Can I have one of those?” He pointed to the gold paper clips.

Mr. Real was gone. Forever. Why not? “Sure.”

Seth picked up a clip and attached it to his belt. He adjusted it one way, then another. Seemingly pleased with the impromptu accessory, he walked away with his signature swagger. “Good luck, Mr. Real,” he called over his shoulder.

Rosie watched him leave, wondering what her oldest brother, Dillon, who’d never left the family farm in Colby, would say if he saw a man with blue hair. Nothing. He’d be speechless, thinking Seth was from another planet.

“Planet Chi-Cow-Go,” she murmured, chuckling to herself as she picked up the envelope and read “To Mr. Real” printed in black ink on the outside. Her eyes were tired of perusing William’s computer screen, reading the gazillion e-mails addressed to realman@realmag.com. No wonder the real Mr. Real ran off with Boom Boom the bongo player. After telling hundreds of men how to live their lives, Mr. Real probably decided to get his own.

She flashed on William and Boom Boom cavorting in the Bahamas or some other tropical paradise. Rosie sighed as images filled her head. Brilliant sunsets. Crashing waves. Two naked, sand-coated bodies writhing on a beach. But these bodies weren’t William and Boom Boom…

…they were Ben and Rosie.

Me and Ben? Writhing nakedly? She shut her eyes, her tummy clutching in anticipation of such a sensual encounter. The exploration of each other’s bodies, the discovery of each other’s pleasures…their inner world more fiery and exotic than the outside one.

She opened her eyes. “It’s this desk,” she whispered hoarsely, running her fingers over the smooth polished oak. “I’m picking up Boom Boom vibes. Better to pick up the letter opener.” Rosie snatched the silver opener and glanced at the words engraved on its handle: Old Men Ought to Be Explorers.—T. S. Eliot.

Why would someone engrave that on a letter opener? Perhaps a gift from Boom Boom? Rosie’s mind reeled with images of a bongo-playing stripper quoting T. S. Eliot. What a killer combo. Great beater, great reader.

Okay, she got what William saw in Boom Boom, but what did a stripper see in an uptight, persnickety columnist who ate a bran muffin at 8:10 sharp every morning?

Old men ought to be explorers. Maybe Mr. Real wasn’t as old or unadventurous as Rosie had labeled him. Maybe Boom saw the real Mr. Real—saw that he was, at heart, a globe-trotting tiger. An old fantasy resurrected in Rosie’s mind, one where she was Isak Dinesen, the writer Meryl Streep had portrayed in the movie Out of Africa. Isak was a woman ahead of her time. A multifaceted adventurer who ran a farm in Africa, maintained a long-term, torrid love affair and wrote memorable stories.

With more flair than she knew she had, Rosie blithely zipped open the envelope, the tip of the blade barely missing her other hand. She paused, staring at the reflection of fluorescent light off the gleaming silver blade. “Stay focused, Rosie,” she whispered. “If you cut off your pinkie, you won’t be able to write back to Mr. Real’s readers.” That’s when she knew which goddess she needed for this job. Wise, coolheaded Athena. Rosie cooly laid the silver opener aside and eased the letter from its envelope.

The date at the top of the letter had been so hurriedly scrawled, it was difficult to decipher it was today’s date. Rosie glanced at the rest of the letter. No, the guy just had horrendous handwriting. Or maybe he wrote it in a frenzied hurry?

Thinking back to the crazed speed at which she drove into work most days, Rosie could relate to that. Already empathizing, Rosie read on.

“Mr. Real, I’m swimming in a Windex-blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée.”

Rosie paused, wondering why the word blue seemed to predominate the past few minutes of her life. Maybe there was some cosmic, mythical meaning behind this color? Nah. More likely, this man was simply blue. Depressed. She looked down at the scrawling handwriting and its terse loops and dips. Or angry? She continued reading.

Why are women so needy? Growing up, I was the built-in mediator, cook and limo service for my mother and sister. That was sixteen years ago, but not a damn thing has changed. These days, I’m still a nice guy to an ex-fiancée who wants me to be her caretaker and an ex-wife who has a deranged need to redecorate my office with busted love affair themes. And get this—some strange woman also wants my space!

My ex-fiancée has access to my e-mail, so respond to the P.O. box on the envelope.

Signed,

Wishing to move from Venus to Mars

He liked the Roman gods and goddesses while she stuck with the Greeks. But, hey, same thing. “He’s obviously one very together, insightful male,” Rosie murmured. “If anyone ever needed a goddess’s guidance, it’s this lucky man.”

Rosie quickly looked up. Good. No one heard that last comment.

4

AT 8:30 P.M., after a business dinner meeting, Ben eased his BMW up the driveway of his house in the outskirts of Chicago. Home sweet ranch-style home. The one place in the world where he could walk in and—except for his dog, Max—be alone. No ex-fiancées. No ex-wives. And no space nabbers nabbing his space.

He punched a button above the rearview mirror. The electric garage door opened and he drove inside. The back of the garage was lined with tool-filled shelves. Mixed in with the saws, drills and toolboxes were remnants of abandoned hobbies: a baseball mitt, a pair of inline skates, a battered trumpet case.

He got out and pressed the button on a side wall. As the garage door creaked closed, he looked up at the ceiling from which hung a kayak, an abandoned hobby he’d often dreamed of resurrecting. At one time—Nine years ago? Ten?—he’d loved kayaking down rivers. Feeling the heat of the sun on his skin. Hearing the slap of water against the hull—a hull now covered with dust. He’d even fantasized about kayaking in some exotic locale—like New Guinea or Africa—and taking photographs. Fitting a key into the door lock, he wondered where unused dreams went. Milwaukee?

The door opened into his kitchen, which was filled with the soothing strains of classical music. He always left the radio playing for his dog. Late afternoon, various lights also turned on automatically. “Max?” he called out, looking across the kitchen at the nearly closed sliding door that led into the living room. Through the narrow opening, his Brittany spaniel would stick its nose, nudging and sniffing the air, anxious to greet his master.

But tonight, no nose greeted Ben.

“Max?” he called again, checking the blinking light on the phone. Clients. More legal problems, questions, issues. They could wait. Right now he needed to unwind, chat with Max, do anything but play lawyer.

Still no nose.