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

him a line and get some shortcut directions to the manly planet.

      Writing a big-buck author was far-fetched. But what about that columnist? The one in Real Men magazine, the periodical he made Heather hide. Ben tapped his fingers along the edge of his desk. Sure, buddy. What kind of man writes to “Mr. Real”?

      From what Heather had read to him, men from all walks of life. Carpenters. Doctors. “Mr. Real” sounded sophisticated, but also gave some get-down, get-real advice on everything from predatory pricing to predatory dating.

      Ben moved his fingers to his computer keyboard. It would be easy to search the net for Real Men magazine, find their e-mail address, type a note to Mr. Real. No. Heather had access to his e-mail, which was essential to his business. When he was off-site, he could call her, have her check his messages, write back to whomever. No, e-mailing Mr. Real was out of the question. Heather would read it, tell Meredith, and he’d never hear the end of it.

      He glanced at the piece of paper he’d scrawled on earlier. I’m swimming in a Windex-blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée.

      Hmm. Sounded like the beginning of a note to Mr. Real.

      “WHERE’S MR. REAL?” Seth, one of the mailroom gulchers, waved an envelope over William Clarington’s desk.

      “Blue?” Rosie blurted, checking out Seth’s short-cropped hair. “I had just gotten accustomed to medicine red.”

      “Medicine-cabinet red,” Seth corrected. Two weeks ago Seth had dyed his short-cropped blond hair a neonlike red, which he claimed was labeled Medicine-Cabinet Red on the bottle.

      “Let me guess,” Rosie mused. “Blueberry-Box Blue?”

      “Squad-car Blue.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “The flashing blue light on top of the cop car?”

      “Very…urban.”

      “And distinctive. Yellow blends. Blue commands attention.”

      Rosie figured if she took a picture of Seth outside, his blue hair would blend right in with the sky and he’d look bald—defeating the whole commanding blue-hair experience. “Interesting policelike hue,” she murmured, not sure how one complimented someone with Squad-Car Blue hair.

      “So, where’s the dude?” When she didn’t answer, Seth elaborated, “Mr. Real?”

      Rosie sat a little straighter. “You’re talking to him.”

      Seth scratched his blue head. “You’re the copy editor who sits—” he looked around, then waved the letter at her desk “—over there.”

      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 [email protected]. 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