Page 1 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love
CHAPTERONE
“Devastated in Denver,you’re on the air with Dr. Hartwell. What’s on your mind tonight?”
The silky voice floated across the airwaves as gentle as a caress between lovers. It was a voice that inspired sympathy, hope, and in some, lust-induced dreams.
Faith Hartwell adjusted her headphones and propped her feet up on the console that held an assortment of jelly donuts and granola bars. No one had made a dent in the granola bars yet, and she knew they’d been there since the 4 a.m. morning shift. In fact, they could have been the same granola bars that had been there since she started working at the station three years ago.
She shivered, glad she hadn’t been desperate enough to fall off the wagon and gorge herself with a plateful of fried lard or furry granola, and waited for the caller to ask her question. There wasn’t time in her hectic schedule to lose another twenty pounds.
“Thanks for taking my call, Dr. Hartwell.” The tear-clogged caller had obviously been crying, the sniffles and occasional hiccup giving her away. “I think my husband has lost interest in me.” The woman burst into a fresh round of sobs, and Faith had to spend a few minutes quieting her down enough to listen.
“Have you talked to him about your concerns?” Faith asked.
“Oh, no. I could never do that. What if he leaves me?”
Faith pushed aside her impatience. She had no tolerance for women that stood around and refused to fight for love. It was too precious and much too rare in her mind to throw away just because being a coward was easier. She pushed her own failure out of her mind and focused onDevastated in Denver.
“Why do you think your husband has lost interest in you?” Faith asked gently, trying to smooth the woman’s ruffled feathers.
“Because he never wants to make love anymore. He just comes home from work, eats the food I put in front of him and then falls asleep in his chair watching sports. It’s the same thing every night, even on the weekends.”
“Do you try talking to him about his day?”
“I shouldn’t have to do all the work in the relationship, right?” the woman asked.
Faith rolled her eyes. “Have you tried getting his attention? Maybe greeting him in sexy lingerie? Or nothing at all?”
“Goodness, no,” the woman said, scandalized.
Which was, in Faith’s opinion, the crux of the problem. People weren’t willing to take enough chances when their relationship was on the line.
“What does your husband do, and how long have you been married?”
“He’s a taxidermist, and we’re going on eight years.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe your husband needs something more animated in his life with you at home? He spends all day with, well…things that don’t move or talk back. The last thing he probably wants is more stillness and silence when he gets home. So when he sees that you’re not going to engage, he moves to the TV.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way before,” the woman said, as if a lightbulb went on above her head. “What should I do?”
“Your husband needs to see you as vibrant and engaging. He works with the permanently preserved all day. Make sure he knows you’re very much alive. Try something completely unexpected—dance around the kitchen while cooking dinner, plan a spontaneous weekend trip, or just engage him in a passionate debate about something you both care about. And when you’ve reconnected, tell him your fears about him losing interest. He’s part of your relationship too, and you should share each other’s burdens.”
“Thanks, Dr. Hartwell. I’m going to do it tonight. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” The woman’s tears had dried up and a sliver of hope was now in her voice. That hope was what Faith lived for—to know that she’d helped in some way, no matter how small.
“Thank you,Devastated in Denver. Please let us know how things work out. You’ve been listening to Dr. Faith Hartwell on WKTP’s national radio syndicate. This is Dr. Hartwell signing out until tomorrow night.”
Faith removed her headset and tried to straighten her haphazard ponytail. Her hair had a mind of its own, thick and rich, the true blue black of the Irish and all the unruliness of Little Orphan Annie. She went to great lengths at the beginning of the day to straighten and smooth, but in the end she always ended up with a ponytail that looked like it had been set with TNT.
“Great show tonight, Faith.”
“Thanks, Lucy.”
Lucy Potter was the producer for Faith’s show and her good friend. Everyone around the station called her Lucy the Destroyer. She was barely an inch over five feet tall, and she could cut a person off at the knees with her sharp tongue if something went wrong during one of her shows. Her dark corkscrew hair and bright blue eyes didn’t soften the blow any because it was like being scolded by Shirley Temple with fangs. Faith adored her. And she secretly admired the way Lucy wore leopard-print spandex on a size-fourteen frame with no doubts or self-consciousness at all.
“How’s Mark?” Faith asked, stretching her sore muscles after sitting in a chair for four hours. She bent over and touched her fingers flat to the floor, inciting a wolf whistle from someone walking by the glass-enclosed booth that she called her office for a few hours every night. Whoever the whistler was, their love life was sadly lacking if they found a woman in gray loungewear and white sneakers sexy. Faith was glad to be out of private practice just because she never had to wear pantyhose again if she didn’t want to. She had the perfect job.
“Mark’s fine. We’re still looking for a house that both of us can agree on. We both know exactly what we want and we both have a vision. The problem is that our vision is completely different.”
Faith smiled sympathetically. “You’ll find something. You’ll compromise and both get exactly what you want. Don’t worry, house hunting takes time. Look how long it took me to find my house.”
