Dream Man by Judy Griffith Gill Page A

her strength and courage and her ability to recover from trauma. “Yes, I think definitely both,” she went on. “As to length, a couple of pages each, minimum. Maybe three or four, and he wants half a dozen of them. Maybe more, he said. It depends on how the first ones are received.”
    â€œFirst what?”
    Jeanie looked up at the ceiling, and then flashed him a twinkling smile. “Something I’m sure you’re well versed in, Mr. Mckenzie,” she said innocently. “Just a few little love letters.”

Chapter Four
    M AX SAT UP STRAIGHT . “Love letters?” He looked utterly disbelieving. “Some guy wants to hire someone else to write love letters? Why doesn’t he write them himself?”
    â€œI don’t know.” She was serious now. “And maybe it’s not even a man who wants them.”
    â€œNot a man? Why would a woman want to hire someone to write love letters? And would they be for her to receive, or to send?”
    â€œI don’t know for sure that it’s a woman, either.”
    His eyes went wide. “No! Don’t tell me it’s a caged chicken!”
    She laughed. “All I have is a letter signed with two initials and a surname, and a box number as an address. If my client’s a man, maybe he doesn’t feel he knows the right words or isn’t romantic enough for the woman he loves, and he really wants to impress her. If it’s a woman, maybe she’s in love and like many other people, admittedly mostly men, can’t put her feelings into words. Or, possibly, she intends to leave them around for a neglectful husband or lover to find, to shake him up or something. Or vice-versa if the client’s a man. Or maybe he or she just wants something romantic to read in a lonely room at night, to pretend. But whoever it is, what he or she is asking is neither illegal nor immoral, so I agreed to try to find someone to take on the task. And,” she added, with persuasive smile, “whoever it is, is willing to pay well.” She quoted him the price the client had offered per page, and he whistled loudly.
    â€œWow! When do I start?”
    Jeanie felt a moment’s disappointment. She had thought he would refuse at first, that she would have to persuade him. She hadn’t thought, by the way he dressed and the kind of car he drove, to say nothing of where he lived, that he was a hungry free-lance writer willing to take on any assignment at all as long as it paid a few dollars.
    â€œActually,” she said, “tonight would be best. The client is in a real hurry. The letter I received asking to have this set up said the first one was needed by the end of the week. Since the letters have to come to me, and I’m to send them on, the sooner the better. Could you have one on my desk by mid-afternoon tomorrow? And after that, he wants one a day until he says to stop. I told him it would be hard to find someone willing to write love letters and—”
    â€œAnd I was kidding when I said ‘when do I start, ” Max said with a grin. “I told you I write nonfiction. I’ve never been in love, let alone written a love letter, in my life!”
    Her breath caught in her throat. “Never?”
    â€œNever. And I don’t intend to start now, especially not when those letters are aimed at someone I don’t know and will never know. How could I possibly say anything that a strange woman—or man—would find interesting or even pertinent? How would I start each one? ‘To Whom it May Concern: This is to inform you that I love you dearly’?”
    Jeanie chuckled. “My client said ‘Darling’ or ‘Sweetheart’ would be an appropriate salutation. And he—she’s—Oh, let’s go with ‘he’ for now because we don’t know the gender of the client, provided me with a list of clues, to give to you—the writer, that is.” She