“Oh come on, Marjorie!” Lydia declared, crumpling her napkin and tossing it atop her empty plate. “I’ve watched you chase after a sale when anyone else would have given it up. You have a reputation for putting deals together when others would have thrown their hands in the air.”

“Yes, but selling cars and dealing with a man are two entirely different matters.”

“No, they’re not,” Lydia disagreed sharply.

“You think I should phone him?” The idea didn’t appeal to her. Sam had left her with the impression that he’d contact her.

“No…” Lydia gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling fixture. “You need a more subtle approach.”

“I suppose I could do what he did,” Marjorie murmured thoughtfully.

Lydia’s stare was blank. “What do you mean?”

“Meet him on his own ground. I could call for an appointment, claim I was having problems with the insurance company or something.”

Lydia nearly tipped back the chair in her enthusiasm. “That’s perfect, and there wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary in you showing up with the forms.”

Even though it sounded easy, it took Marjorie nearly all afternoon to work up the courage to contact Sam’s office. Since she feared the receptionist would probably handle any insurance work, she asked for an actual appointment and was given one later the following week. Now that she’d taken some positive action, she felt a hundred times better—until she saw Lydia’s shocked face later that afternoon.

“What’s the matter?”

“Dr. Sam’s office just called.”

“And?”

“And, well…apparently Dr. Sam looked over his schedule and saw your name.”

“So?”

“Marjorie, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

“Lydia, for heaven’s sake, will you stop beating around the bush and tell me what’s going on?”

“You know Mary and I are good friends, don’t you?”

From what she remembered, Mary was Sam’s receptionist. “Yes, what did she say?”

“Mary told me that when Dr. Sam saw your name, he got upset, swore under his breath, and asked Mary to call you and suggest you make an appointment with another doctor.”

Five

Marjorie turned on the television and plunked herself down on the overstuffed sofa, crossing her arms in a defiant gesture. Five minutes later she dug through the sofa cushions to find the remote and switched channels, not that it helped any. She was too furious for a coherent thought, and the possibility of a mere television movie salving her injured ego was nil.

Men! Sam Bretton in particular! None of them were worth all this aggravation. She had behaved like a fool over Sam, and knowing it made her lack of savoir faire all the more difficult to swallow.