Her Fifth Husband? by Dixie Browning

the hell had she gotten hold of his number?
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    â€œDammit, Hack, you know better than to give out my number,” Jake said some forty-five minutes later as he slammed the door of his office. The whole damn place reeked of paint. No wonder Miss Martha found so many reasons to stay away. He’d have opened all the windows and cut off the air-conditioning, but Hack insisted the ever-present humidity was lethal to computers.
    â€œThe Lasiter woman? Hey, she called here and shotme this line of bull about leaving something in your car. How was I to know she wasn’t on the level?”
    â€œYou’re paid to know, dammit.”
    â€œWhoa, I’m paid to put together the stuff you design and then see that it works. Miss Martha’s supposed to handle the phone—that’s what you hired her for—only she left early today to go to a funeral. Where you been, anyhow? The Jamison woman called a few hours ago, said for you to call her right back. I tried to get you.”
    Jake expressed himself in a single succinct oath. A few hours ago he’d been on his way to the emergency room. Hack could have reached him easily…except that he’d left his cell phone in the car.
    He had already punched in the first three digits of the Jamison woman’s number when it hit him. He didn’t have a damn thing to report—at least nothing that was going to help her case.
    He replaced the phone without completing the call while Hack looked on, his thin face showing equal parts of amusement and curiosity. Without a word, Jake opened the door to his private office, which was roughly the size of three phone booths and was currently crowded with five phone-booths’ worth of stuff that had been shifted from room to room as the painting progressed. The entire duplex was undergoing repairs that had been put off too long. The roof had been damaged in last fall’s hurricane and a tree had damaged it further when it had fallen on one corner of the house during a hard northeaster. Things were generally in a mess.
    And so was he.
    Her shoe. When he’d carried her downstairs from the sundeck, he’d scooped it up and stuck it in his hippocket, then tossed it onto the back seat. No way was she going to get those straps around her ankle anytime soon, but if she wanted the thing, he could drop it off tomorrow. Or the next day. No hurry, he told himself as he reached for the Jamison file.
    On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to call and let her know he had it.
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    Sasha hobbled to the bedroom and changed into something more comfortable, then took out a bag of corn from the freezer and settled back on the couch to call her friend. Marty and Greg had just returned from honeymooning at a place called Isla Mujeres, otherwise known as the island of women, in the Mexican Caribbean. “Hi, you rested up from all those sleepless nights yet?”
    She switched the phone to the other ear and adjusted the cold pack on her ankle. Earlier she’d removed the bandage to see how bad it looked, as if she’d needed the reminder of just how stupid she could be when she put her mind to it. From now on whenever she had any more than three steps to climb, she would wear sensible shoes if it killed her—as it probably would. Anything labeled sensible was definitely lethal to the ego.
    â€œLook, I might have somebody for Lily,” Sasha said without preamble, and then had to wait through another rapturous description of everything from the Mexican cuisine to the music to the local legends. She’d heard it all yesterday. “About this man for Lily?” she said when her friend paused for breath. “I’m pretty sure he’s single. He’s about an eleven on a scale of ten, and—”
    She listened to a spate of questions and a recipe forhuevos rancheros, Isla-style. When she could squeeze in another word, she said, “Thanks, hon. Compared to Faylene I’m a regular