Women of a Certain Demographic

By Robynne Rand

After losing her job, apartment, and latest friend-with-benefits, prize-winning newspaper journalist Cathryn Parker returns home to Rhode Island and her domineering mother Rita, six Chihuahuas, and the old bedroom she slept in as a kid. Blacklisted for writing an expose on a philandering Senator, Cathryn takes the only job offered her at Providence Woman Monthly, if only to escape her mother's constant disapproval.

When asked to write a piece on the lack of love in the lives of women over a certain age, Cathryn is appalled, as she's part of that demography. To make things worse, the only way to ensure the magazine stays afloat and Cathryn keeps her job is if the article is a hit.

A chance meeting with her brother's best friend, Steve, finds Cathryn battling an emotional roller-coaster. Living under the Disney delusion that someday her prince would come—Steve is the perfect man, everything she's ever wanted—but he carries the physical scars of a bomb blast from Afghanistan and the emotional scars from a fiancée who left him because of it.
However, when she discovers the secret that her perfect Prince Charming has been hiding, Cathryn makes a life-changing decision, especially as she has her own secret to keep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robynne Rand
• Release date: Dec 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310946554

Robynne Rand

Robynne Rand grew up on the shores of Rhode Island. Now living in the Foothills of the Piedmont in North Carolina with her daughter, two dogs, and a cat named Henry David Thoreau, she writes about home and the people she misses.Rand also writes Regency romance under the pen name Anne Gallagher.

Book preview

Chapter One

As Cathryn Parker climbed from the cab, her black lace tights snagged on a tear in the Naugahyde seat. She didn’t need to look to know they had a mile-wide run in them.

Great, she said. She shot the cabbie a disgusted look, leaned in, and threw a ten-dollar bill through the window that separated the front and back. She mumbled, Keep the change, grabbed the handles of her leather bags, and pulled. Her laptop satchel caught on the seat belt clip and refused to budge. "Come on." She pulled again to no avail.

Lady, the cabbie said, you really should get a grip. It’s only quarter to eight in the morning.

She shot him another look of contempt. Yeah. And I haven’t had my coffee yet. She tugged on the satchel, which finally let go and smashed into her thigh. That would leave a nice bruise.

Cathryn slammed the cab door, turned and raced up the steps of the Waterston Building. Reaching for the door handle, a twenty-something with purple hair, body odor, and four nose rings opened it before her, stepped inside, and then let the door slam back in her face. Was it a woman or a man?

Jerk, she muttered, screaming epithets in her head even a truck driver wouldn’t say. She despised the punks that claimed the lower offices for their art. Crappy drawings that a five-year-old could paint. Why did they have the first floor? Shouldn’t the business that paid the most rent have the easiest access to the building?

Slugging her things up the stairs to the third floor because the elevator was out again, Cathryn arrived in her office ten minutes before the big meeting. Josh, Lewis, and Savannah were doling out pink slips. Knowing she wasn’t on their hit list allowed Cathryn to breathe a little easier, but something was up. At the last meeting, Lewis whined about revenue, Josh whined about content, and Savannah whined about everything else.

Well, what was she supposed to do about it? She was just a reporter, writing the human-interest stories and fluff they sent to her desk.

For the eight thousandth time, she thought about leaving, going to work for any rag in New York that would have her. She had the street creds—four years on the college paper, ten at the Des Moines Register, and the polish with six years at the Times in DC. Having left her high figure income to return to Providence was not something she’d wanted to do, but fate had conspired against her.

Sprung from obligation, necessity, and panic, she had come home to Rhode Island and her domineering mother Rita, her memories, and the house she had grown up in. Mitigating factors in her job search made it almost impossible to find a decent one, but an Internet query at the magazine Providence Woman Monthly had her employed within three days. It was far from perfect—not even close to the political intrigue and soap opera drama of DC or the salary, but she wouldn’t have to deal with the overwhelming insecurity her mother would infuse during a prolonged job hunt, Rita’s stupid little dogs, or the fact she missed her father desperately every time she stepped into the kitchen. She needed a job, any job, to preserve her sanity.

A quick knock on the door casing caused Cathryn to jump.

Debbie White, the magazine’s only photographer and sometime design editor, leaned in. You ready?

As I’ll ever be, Cathryn said. She picked up her favorite pen, notebook, and large bottle of water and followed the beautiful African-Asian thirty-something down the hall. Cathryn liked Debbie because she didn’t care about being politically correct. She told you how it was and if you didn’t like it, too bad.

What’d’ you do to yourself, honey? Rough night? Debbie gave her the once over.

This was Debbie’s only flaw—she’d been a fashion model before getting behind the camera—New York, Milan, Paris—and looked as if she’d just stepped off the runway, no matter if it was three in the afternoon or three in the morning. Cathryn always felt unkempt around her.

Stupid cab. Cathryn sighed. Stupid iron, stupid dogs, stupid mother who turned off my alarm.

Oh, honey, bless your heart. You have got to get out of there before Rita fries your very last nerve. Debbie flashed perfect white teeth. Raised in South Providence, then in Atlanta, Debbie’s wisdom was a mish-mash of euphemisms from two different sets of grandparents. Her accent, as well, flipped between dropping her Rs and Southern drawl.

The two women stepped into the long conference room that overlooked the Hurricane Barrier and the Providence River. Cathryn settled into a chair. Debbie sat next to her and tied her fuchsia-colored beaded braids into a large ponytail. Doug, the harried production manager, Louise, the snotty environmental writer, and Jack, the political intern filed in. They took their seats and smiled politely around the table as if they were at a funeral. No one said a word. Stephanie, Lori, and Bridget—otherwise known as Fashion, Social Scene, and Food—strode into the room looking like a small flock of sparrows. Cute, sweet, and in their twenties, they held idealized visions of their older selves. Cathryn knew the look. She’d worn it herself.

Josh, the managing editor, and Lewis, an equal partner who took care of circulation and ad revenue, entered the room and took respective places at the head of the table. Lewis spread out a slew of papers, and Josh pulled the ones he wanted in front of him. Savannah, who liked to introduce herself as the publisher of the magazine, but wasn’t, strolled in, paused for dramatic effect, and walked to the windows enveloping the room in a layer of Chanel No. 5. Her cream pencil skirt, matching twin-set, and pearls screamed 1950. Unfortunately, her lavender Manolo Blahnik’s ruined the outfit.

Cathryn took a sip of water to keep from choking on the cloying scent of perfume.

Josh cleared his throat and looked around the table. "As you know, we need to make some changes if we want to stay afloat. New England Woman is kicking our backside and they’ve only been running for six months. We need to do something, shake things up, find new avenues to explore. He took a deep breath and looked at Savannah. We’ve come up with a few ideas… He passed several sheets of paper down the long table. If you’d each take one and give it a good going over, and then pick the ones you think you’d like to tackle."

Debbie took a piece of paper and handed one to Cathryn. She raised her eyebrow before turning her attention to the list.

What is this? Louise asked. She pointed to a spot on the paper.

It’s just an idea, Louise, Josh said.

Cathryn smirked inwardly. Number four—working at a sustained fishery for two weeks. She’d love to see Louise hauling lines and cutting chum. Louise thought she was better than everyone else because, as she’d bragged to everyone, she’d been environmentally responsible since she was five. Cathryn wanted to ram Louise’s BPA-free water bottle down her throat. While at the Register, Cathryn had written several thought provoking articles on the use of pesticides on farms and how they impacted the state of the environment and water supply. One even fueled a member of Congress to debate it on the floor of the House.

Debbie elbowed her and pointed to number eight. A day with the elephants at the zoo.

Cathryn smiled. She could do that. Although what it had to do with being a Providence Woman was anyone’s guess. She looked at Josh. What’s the idea behind the elephants?

Josh nodded. A woman runs the African exhibit at Roger Williams Park. I thought an article on the plight of the elephants, where they come from, why they’re in zoos in the first place, and the larger question of how we can save them from extinction might be useful to the people who visit there.

Cathryn had covered enough animal plights to last her a lifetime. From pit bulls and puppy mills to aging racehorses killed for dog food, animal stories broke her heart. She returned to perusing the list.

Actually, Cate… Savannah said, using a nickname that startled Cathryn. No one ever called her Cate. No one except…

Actually, Cathryn. Josh cut her off, throwing Savannah a look of steel. There is something we’d like you to think about that isn’t on the list.

Cathryn glanced his way, her interest captured by number thirteen—Unusual occupations for women in Rhode Island. What did that mean? Cleaning the Independence Man on the top of the State House? Captaining a lobster boat? Taking over for Tony the dancing cop downtown at Christmastime?

We’d like you to do an expose on the love lives of certain women, Josh continued. "You know, how they meet men, if they meet men, what they do to keep them. Or not. Maybe where they meet them as well. Something to give the demographic a little hope."

Cathryn sucked in a breath. "And why do you think I would be the best candidate to write that article?"

Cate, Savannah said. "You are the demographic. Single, career-minded woman, no kids, between the ages of thirty-five and fifty. You would be writing from experience. You’ve been on the front lines for what, almost a decade? I’m sure it must be hard for a woman like you to find a single man."

Debbie patted Cathryn’s thigh under the table. Easy girl, she whispered.

Cathryn smiled. "Perhaps then you’d like to share your top ten best places to meet men, Savannah." It felt good to get one on Savannah. For reasons unbeknownst to anyone, Savannah had disliked Cathryn since the first day they met.

Savannah crossed her arms and walked toward Josh. "I don’t think we have to tell you we fired three people this morning, Cath-ryn."

Cathryn tried to keep the snarl out of her voice. "And I don’t think I have to tell you that New England Woman would hire me in a second."

Not without references and with your career already tanked, I’d say you were up the creek without a paddle. Savannah smirked.

Ladies, please, Josh said. Cathryn, it’s only an idea. Perhaps we went about explaining it the wrong way. Let’s just shelve the topic for now, okay. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. "Look, we need fresh ideas. This is just a brainstorming session. Look over the list. See if you can add something we might be interested in. Just make it pertinent to Providence Woman. And get it on my desk by Friday. I’d like to figure out the June issue before the end of the month."

Cathryn seethed and remained at the table until everyone else had left the room.

Debbie leaned against the door. Are you coming? We still have the architect to interview.

Cathryn whirled in the chair. I swear I’m going to kill that woman.

Don’t waste your time. God doesn’t want her. He’d only throw her back. And you’ll only end up at the correctional facility. Not a fun place.

Remembering a piece she did on female convicts, Cathryn shivered. Debbie was right. She couldn’t kill Savannah, but she wanted to.

Bleached blonde, imbuing a bimbelina air, Savannah Cruise was far from the Marilyn Monroe wannabe she appeared. At least Marilyn had an excuse to feign stupid. Devious and calculating, Savannah faked her way through interpersonal relationships, sizing up her opponents before skewering them for all the world to see. As an investment partner in the magazine, she led Josh and Lewis around by the nose because her husband’s money paid the bills when things were tight.

The reporter in her knew the witch was hiding something, and Cathryn would dig it up eventually, but right now, all she wanted was to punch Savannah in her pearly white veneers.

Let it go, honey, Debbie said. Won’t do any good to dwell.

No, it won’t, but, really? Picking me because I’m part of the demographic. That’s a cheap shot by anyone’s standards. Cathryn rose and slammed the chair back into place.

Well, I have kids and too much baggage so it’s not my cup of tea. Louise is married. Stephanie’s married, and Bridget and Lori are too young. And we both know Savannah couldn’t write a sentence without the help of an eight-year-old. Debbie smiled. Or a dictionary.

Cathryn returned Debbie’s smile. That was true. Savannah wasn’t all that bright. She followed Debbie down the hall and stepped into her office. Give me ten minutes, would you? I have a call I need to make before we take off. I’ll meet you at Mike’s. Mike’s was the deli on the corner where everyone but her parked their cars. She hadn’t gotten around to buying one yet.

Chapter Two

Driving away from Findley, Finch, and Webber, Cathryn turned off the car radio.

Well, Josh should be happy with that, Debbie said.

The article about Diane Webber, architect for the new battered women’s shelter in Pawtucket, brought into light everything that was good, bad, and ugly about their little state. But also, what some people were willing to do to change it for the better. Diane Webber had not only designed the new facility and drawn up the blueprints gratis, but had raised a million dollars in donations to fund the project.

As long as it keeps him out of my hair about that stupid idea, Cathryn mumbled. She was still reeling from his request that morning.

I think there’s a lot to be said about women of a certain age not finding Prince Charming.

Oh geez, not you too. Cathryn rummaged in her purse for a LifeSavers. Occasionally, she still had the urge to smoke, and she had quit nearly a decade earlier—LifeSavers had literally saved her life.

No, think about it, Debbie said. I mean, what could it hurt? You could go out on a manhunt and find the best places to meet men. You’d be doing the women of Rhode Island a service. Like a PSA.

Cathryn snorted. You forget one thing. I’m not in the market to meet a man. Her college sweetheart had negated her trust issues by knocking up a cheerleader after a drunken one-night stand. She lied to herself that she didn’t need a man, nor wanted one and meditated on the mantra that her career came first. But if the moon caught her just right, she cried herself to sleep over her lack of love.

No, you might not be in the market, Debbie said. "But other women are. You don’t have to necessarily meet the men, just find them. Like e-match-love-singles dot com, without the com. You know."

Cathryn shot her a glance. Are you out of your mind? What do I know about finding men? I’ve been here three months and the only man I’ve met so far is my mother’s mailman.

Is he nice? Debbie honked at the Chevy that had just cut her off.

I don’t know how you can navigate this, Cathryn said, waving her hand toward the highway. I’d be a mess and I’ve driven in DC.

This is nothing once you get used to it, honey. You just close your eyes and stay in the middle lane. Debbie clicked the turn signal to take the India Point exit. Hey, and don’t change the subject.

Cathryn shot her an oblique look. What subject was that?

The mailman? Is he nice?

Deb, he’s a hundred and three and wears support socks.

Debbie laughed. Okay, maybe a little too old for the demographic, but he’s a mailman. That’s a good start.

A good start for what?

To meet a man. Don’t you get it? She rounded the turn away from the park and crossed under the highway. She touched her brakes when she came to the stop sign, and pulled onto Gano Street without looking left. Mailmen, milk men, garbage men. She pointed up the street where three men in dirty blue uniforms hauled trashcans to the back of a Waste Management truck. There are men all over the place.

You want me to date a garbage man? Cathryn asked, incredulous.

Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Sanitation engineers make nice money. They’re home for dinner every night and they don’t work weekends. And once they shower, you would hardly know they sling trash for a living.

Cathryn looked at her friend. And you would know this because…

I dated one.

"You? Dated a garbage man? I find that hard to believe." Debbie had once shown Cathryn pictures of her former model’s life. In the nineties, Debbie had taken over where Iman left off.

Sanitation engineer, Debbie said. And Charles was good to me.

Then why aren’t you with him?

He died. Debbie turned up Wickenden Street.

Oh Deb, I’m sorry, Cathryn said.

It’s okay. It was a long time ago.

Can I ask how you met him?

At a club in New York. He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. All honey colored muscle with long blond dreads falling into steely blue eyes. He came up to me and said, ‘Girl, I just gotta’ know where you live.’ I thought he was crazy stalker. And when I asked him why, he said, ‘Because heaven is just a step away.’ Debbie cleared her throat. He was a good man. A hard working man. She cleared her throat again. I’m just saying, you never know. Prince Charming could be a garbage man.

"Okay, I’ll give you that, but I’m not interested in dating a sanitation engineer."

"No, you might not be, but that doesn’t mean another women wouldn’t. You could find out where they hang. Maybe they have a basketball team or something. Charles played b-ball in a Saturday morning league. You find out where it is, write the article and bam, a hundred and fifty women flock to the court. Your job is done. Everyone is happy."

Debbie pulled into the parking lot at Mike’s Deli. I’m starved. You want to grab a bite?

Yeah, sure.

They exited the car and walked into the crowded delicatessen. Two young girls took orders behind the registers while two older men made sandwiches. A cross between Starbucks and Subway, Mike’s was less pretentious than Panera Bread.

Waiting in line, Debbie tapped Cathryn’s arm. She whispered, Here’s another great spot. Look at the men who’re in here. White collar, blue collar, and everything in between. I’m sure you could meet somebody here.

Cathryn glanced around. The place was wall-to-wall men. They were the only two women, aside from an old lady and her husband, and the two girls behind the counter.

Cathryn said nothing, ordered pastrami on rye and a bottle of spring water, and waited for Debbie before finding a table. She settled herself in. You know I hate it when you’re right. She took a huge bite from her sandwich.

Debbie smiled through her Black Forest ham. I usually am. I wish you’d realize that.

Cathryn mused aloud. Josh wants something by Friday.

Debbie nodded and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

How many places do you think I’ll need? Cathryn asked.

I don’t know. How many towns are there in Rhode Island? Debbie nodded her head in the direction of a handsome lawyerly type.

Cathryn ignored the man, and took a sip of water. You think I need to find one for every town?

Okay, maybe not every town, but you’ll definitely have to do it by geography. You can’t expect a woman who lives in Woonsocket to travel to Newport. You know how people are.

Cathryn smiled. It was a well-known fact that living in the smallest state, people did not like to travel more than ten miles for anything, unless they were going to the beach or visiting relatives for Christmas dinner. Driving forty-minutes to meet a date was out of the question.

Okay, I’ll do this on one condition, Cathryn said.

Debbie raised a perfectly manicured brow.

You have to help me.

Debbie smiled. Fine. As long as you keep me off the fishing boat with Louise.

Chapter Three

Okay, so what do we have? Cathryn asked. She and Debbie sat in her office, the late-day sun slanting through the mini-blinds behind Cathryn’s desk. Everyone else except Lewis had left for the day.

Debbie outlined her lips with dark pink liner and then brushed a frosted pink lipstick over them. She gazed into her compact and smacked her lips. What do you think?

Cathryn rolled her eyes. I think whatever color you wear looks great and I hate you because of it. Can we return to the topic at hand?

Josh wanted a quick work-up on the article and Cathryn had no clue how she was going to write it. Debbie decided they should brainstorm.

Debbie looked at the bullet points on the computer screen. How to meet men. How to keep men. Where to meet men.

Cathryn scrunched her face. I can’t write this. Maybe I’ll trade with Louise. I’ll do the fish, she can do the men.

Debbie laughed. I doubt it. I think she’s a closet lesbian.

She’s married, Cathryn said.

That doesn’t mean anything. People get married for all kinds of reasons.

Cathryn rubbed her hands over her eyes. I can’t do this. I’ve either met men at work or at a bar. Where else do you meet them? I have no clue. As for keeping them, I’m hardly the person to ask.

Debbie took a sip of whatever was in her coffee mug. "Okay, I think we should just concentrate on where to meet men. Debbie tapped the keyboard with a perfectly manicured nail. Neither one of us has a clue how to keep one, and I don’t really think a bunch of research articles or Glamour quotes is going to impress the demographic. They want information they can act on."

And so? Cathryn asked. We just find a bunch of places where there are a ton of men and we list them out? Josh isn’t going to go for that.

Debbie nodded. "Yeah, you’re right. We need something more. How about unusual places to meet men?"

Like miniature golf? Cathryn asked. It’s filled with mommies and kids. And if there are men, they’re daddies with kids. We need to reach the demographic. Single, thirty-five to fifty, career minded, no kids.

Debbie shook her head. Look, I don’t care what Josh said. Those women don’t exist. Every woman I know has a kid except you. And if they do have a career, they’ve hit the glass ceiling or are on their way. If they’re at the top of their profession, men are afraid of them. So they have no chance…

Wait, that’s a good line. Write that down. Cathryn pointed to the computer.

What?

If women have hit the glass ceiling, men are afraid of them.

Debbie typed and then looked at Cathryn. And?

And, women of a certain age, a certain demographic are considered bee-yotches by the men who work with them.

That’s not true, Debbie said.

It most certainly is true, Cathryn said. "I’m the demographic remember? Every single male reporter I knew who worked with me hated my guts because I always got the better story. My byline was always above the fold. And I can tell you, every single one of them thought it was because I was sleeping with the boss."

Were you? Debbie raised her left eyebrow.

No! Cathryn lowered her gaze. "Okay, once. And only once. But then I quit that job. And I worked my butt off to get where I was after that. I took the crappy stories and turned them into great stories."

So, what you’re telling me is that women have to work twice as hard as men to get to the top, and once they’re there, men hate them.

Exactly! Cathryn slapped the table.

That story’s been told a billion times.

Cathryn slumped her shoulders. See, I told you I couldn’t write this.

Okay, okay, Debbie said. Maybe if we write it in a different way. Maybe instead of telling women they’re just a bunch of Cruellas, we find out what kind of men these women are looking for. Then we figure out where these men are.

That’s easy, Cathryn said. The country club. The higher the dues to join, the better. These women are all looking for the same thing—handsome, wealthy, intelligent, no baggage. She sighed. If she was looking for a man, that’s who she’d want.

Not necessarily, Debbie said. You can’t lump all women in the same category. Not all women are looking for wealthy, attractive, and intelligent. Most women I know are looking for stable, trustworthy, and reliable. They want a Chevy, not a Lexus. They want dependability, not high maintenance.

Cathryn snapped her fingers. Write that down. All of it. Starting with you can’t lump women…

Debbie typed.

When Debbie finished, Cathryn asked, Okay, how do we meet these women to find out if your theory is correct? She took a sip of water from her leftover lunch bottle.

Book clubs.

Cathryn almost spit out her water. Book clubs? Are you serious?

Debbie shook her head. Maybe. Maybe not. However, all my single friends are in a book club.

Why aren’t you? Cathryn asked.

Debbie rolled her eyes. Like I have time to read.

Okay, so round up your single demographic friends for a night of wine and interviews. We’ll ask them what they want in a man, how they’ve met men in the past, and figure out why it doesn’t work.

Debbie plugged that into the computer. And?

And what? Cathryn asked.

I don’t know. We need a hook for the article. Debbie tapped her fingers lightly on the keyboard. Women don’t want to read about other women looking for love. If the article is geared to finding men, this isn’t going to cut it.

Cathryn rolled her pencil between her fingers. "What did you say before? About Glamour quotes?"

I don’t remember.

"Glamour quotes and research articles, Cathryn said. Okay, how about this, we research the latest in-depth studies, we do the interviews, and then we choose a couple of quotes from the women about what they’re actually looking for in a man. Remember, like Glamour used to do in the seventies. How to make your man sing in the shower. And then a quote from Tiffany in italics. Give him a blow-job before breakfast."

Debbie smiled. "Yeah, yeah. Front load with research about how it’s easier for a woman over forty to be struck by lightning than find love, and then back fill with their quotes. We take a sympathetic slant so the average Providence Woman will think we’re all in the same boat."

Yes! Perfect.

And then what? Debbie asked.

Cathryn huffed. I don’t know. We need to find men, I guess.

No, Debbie said. We need something more. She drummed her fingers over the keyboard without typing. "How about this? We do a three part series. The first part is about what women want. The second part is about what men want. And the third part is about where these people can actually meet each other."

Cathryn smiled. That’s brilliant. Do you think it’ll work?

How do I know? You’re the one who’s going to write it.

Chapter Four

Blackstone Boulevard was still awash in joggers and pedestrian traffic though the sun had set. Did these people not have any fear of muggers? The cab dropped her off at her mother’s house on Laurel Avenue. All the lights were on. As Cathryn closed the cab door, her mother’s six Chihuahuas started yipping. She squared her shoulders as she walked up the stone steps, slipped the key into the lock, and then stepped inside.

Cathryn, is that you, her mother called.

Who else would it be? Yes, Mother. The dogs surrounded her feet, barking, and jostling each other to try to be the first one to receive a pat. Cathryn pushed them out of the way with her foot, dropped her purse and laptop bag on the floor in the foyer, and stepped into the sunken living room. They followed, yipping and sniffing Cathryn’s shoes. She exerted restraint not to kick any of the canine rats accidentally on purpose.

The starkness of the room still annoyed Cathryn. Five years before, her mother had decided to redo the room in white. White walls, curtains, furniture, carpet. All her father’s things were gone. The dining room, den, and kitchen had the same treatment except for the stainless steel appliances. How Rita managed to keep it clean was beyond Cathryn’s comprehension. Especially with the dogs.

Rita Parker peered out from the short hall to the kitchen. You’re late.

Yes, Mother, I am. Cathryn stopped in the middle of the room, kicked off her heels, and slid her ripped tights down her thighs.

Cathryn, really! Anyone can see you. Rita walked to the large picture window