Читать книгу The Matchmaker's Sister - Karen Whittenburg Toller - Страница 9

Nate snapped the front pages of the Providence Journal to a comfortable reading position and settled in to enjoy his morning coffee with the news. He got through the headlines and one paragraph of the lead article before getting up to top off the coffee and check the fridge for orange juice. Back to the table, he reread the paragraph, then decided a little toast would go well with the juice and tide him over until breakfast. Once the bread was in the toaster, he stood, somewhat impatiently, and waited for it to brown. He wondered what Miranda Danville was having for breakfast or if she ate breakfast at all. Lots of girls didn’t.

Not that Miranda was a girl.

Oh, no. She was a woman. Definitely. He could still feel the soft, very womanly curve of her in his arms.

Not that she’d really been in his arms.

The dance hadn’t lasted a minute. But the memory of her serious, somber expression as she’d watched him dab club soda onto his shirt stayed with him. She’d been so intent on the stain, so concerned about her part in ruining his shirt, that he wasn’t even startled when she’d grabbed the towel from his inept hands and worked diligently on blotting the stain herself.

Not that he hadn’t been startled.

The sheer force of the attraction that had cut through him at her touch was enough to scare any man. Any man with good sense, that is.

Not that standing here thinking about her like this showed particularly good sense.

She was too young for him. Or more aptly, he was too old for her. He was the father of two thirteen-year-olds and two seven-year-olds. He’d been several years into his career before she was out of braces. He’d been married since she was in grade school. If he were going to date—and he wasn’t sure as yet that he was ready—it ought to be with someone closer to his age and experience. A widow, maybe. A single mother. Someone who understood the intricacies of family life, the challenges of parenting. That couldn’t happen with someone like Miranda.

Not that it couldn’t happen. But it didn’t seem very likely.

Why was he even thinking about her? The truth was, she couldn’t be the least bit interested in dating someone with his experience. His years and years of experience.

Not that experience meant he had nothing to offer. He was, after all, a hell of a nice guy. Angie had told him that repeatedly and he had no reason to believe she’d lied about it. He had means, too—a decent retirement income on top of the substantial wealth he’d inherited by virtue of being born his father’s son. He had a Juris Doctorate, too, so he could practice law again, if he wanted. That wasn’t too shabby a list of qualifications, he thought, and then wondered why he was listing all he had to offer a woman when he’d already pretty much decided he wasn’t even ready to date.

The encounter with Miranda Danville had spooked him, that was it. He hadn’t expected to feel that sort of instantaneous, animal attraction, wouldn’t have thought he could feel it again. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to feel it. Attraction led to liking and liking led to intimacy and intimacy led to love and…well, loving someone again seemed like one hell of a commitment. It was one thing to think he might want to marry again someday but a whole other thing to realize love—and the inevitable possibility of losing that love—was part of the deal.

But he was getting way ahead of himself. Worrying about something so far-fetched seemed ridiculous. Well, not that far-fetched. His eyesight was still as keen as ever and he hadn’t imagined the look of awareness in Miranda’s lovely blue eyes. Nor had he invented the intriguing blush of color he’d seen on her pearly cheeks. The attraction he’d felt had been mutual. He knew that as well as he knew his name. It was the what-came-next that had him buffaloed.

The toast popped up, nutty brown and crisp, and he gingerly snatched it out and dropped it onto the counter as he searched through the cabinets for a plate. He wasn’t exactly at home in the kitchen, even though he’d grown up in this house and ought, at least, to remember where Maggie kept the dishes. But he wasn’t accustomed to fixing his own toast. Or being alone in the kitchen. His mother had left early, off on another of the day-long antique hunts she loved, dragging Maggie, the live-in housekeeper and cook, who was more friend than employee, more companion than help, along with her. The two women had waved a cheery goodbye to Nate, who had been intrigued by the novelty of a little Sunday-morning silence. With luck, Kali and Kori might sleep until he’d finished the paper. Will and Cate, being teenagers, invariably slept through the morning hours whenever possible.

Returning to the table with the toast, he took a sip of coffee and picked up the newspaper again. The coffee had cooled and he should have buttered the toast before sitting down again, but he was determined to read the newspaper before the children invaded his solitude. Even if he did find it difficult to concentrate.

It was too damn quiet, that was the problem…and his mind was more interested in going over and over the few insignificant minutes he’d spent with Miranda Danville than in focusing on the world’s myriad problems.

He needed noise, the shrill, rattling chaos his kids normally provided free of charge to keep his mind off an encounter that hadn’t amounted to much of anything. Miranda was too young and too beautiful to find him of interest. Unless he could manage to get a particularly heinous stain on his clothing just before he met up with her again.

“Hi, Dad!”

His wish for distraction was granted, the silence scuttled as Kali did the bunny hop past his chair, her dark brown ponytails—doggy ears?—he never could keep those straight—bouncing. Or maybe this was Kori. Even after seven years of practice, he still sometimes had trouble telling them apart. If they stood perfectly still, shoulder to shoulder, right in front of him, he could do it in a snap. But when in motion, as they usually were, or when he saw one without the other—like now—well, it wasn’t so easy. Since Angie died, they seemed to find comfort in looking as much alike as possible and Nate couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen them dressed in anything except matching outfits. He probably ought to do something about that. Suggest they wear matching outfits in different colors, maybe. Or stand still more often.

“What’s for breakfast?” She braced her feet on the black-and-white tile and tugged at the refrigerator door, opening it with a tremendous—mainly unnecessary—show of effort. “How ’bout we have your famous pancakes?”

Dad’s famous pancakes was family code for going out to breakfast. Angie had made a joke about the fact that anytime she suggested he cook, he suggested they go out to eat. The kids loved to tease him, made up all kinds of fictitious stories about his ineptitude in all matters domestic. He’d always played along because it made them laugh and he’d never felt any particular need to apologize for not knowing how to do the things Angie did so well. But suddenly he felt inadequate, as if his children might have to suffer through years on a psychiatrist’s couch because he didn’t know how to make pancakes. “I can fix you some toast,” he offered, taking a bite out of his own. “Pretty tasty.”

Kali—he was almost positive it was Kali and not Kori—looked at him with eyes like his own, but set into her mother’s heart-shaped face, with a handful of Angie’s freckles scattered across her pert little nose. “No, thank you,” she said, and turned back to studying the contents of the fridge. “Can I have a Popsicle, please?”

He knew sugar was probably the worst thing for a seven-year-old at this time of day. Or later, for that matter. On the other hand, she had said please. “Sure,” he answered, not seeing the harm. “Why not?”

Her smile, too, reminded him of Angie, in all its crinkly cuteness. But then, except for their eyes, his little daughters were their mother made over. Dark, brown hair, rusty freckles, sassy attitude, all born in them as if Mother Nature had wanted to ensure Angie wouldn’t be forgotten.

As if that were ever a possibility.

He watched Angie’s child assess the problem of retrieving the requested Popsicle. Chin up, she reached for the handle of the side-by-side freezer, approaching it as if she’d need eighty pounds of heft in order to pry it open. Nate was tempted to get up to help, but knew from experience she’d rather do it on her own. The door popped open easily, obviously a pleasant surprise, and she smiled while plunging her hand into the box of Popsicles and coming out with the treat successfully in her grasp. She closed the freezer door with her hip and bounced happily over to the table, where she pulled out a chair and sat down, apparently unconcerned about having left the refrigerator door wide-open.

He got up and closed it, warming up his coffee—again—before returning to his place at the table. He smiled across at her as she licked the orange ice and she smiled back. There was something different about her this morning. Her hair was pulled into two neat ponytails—doggy ears, he decided, was what Angie had called that particular hairstyle—which were each tied with two overlapping ribbons, one blue, one yellow. She was dressed in yellow shorts and a blue-and-yellow-striped T-shirt. A matching outfit. Hmm. “You look nice this morning,” he commented, wondering how she’d gotten her hair so neat.

“Thanks,” she said, her mouth full of Popsicle. “Cate did it for me. She’s doing Kori’s now.”

Aha. This was Kali. He should have trusted his instincts. But then the oddity of what she’d said registered. “Cate fixed your hair? This morning?”

Kali nodded, apparently seeing nothing unusual in the idea that her sister was up before…he glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall…nine-thirty—a.m.

“Did you wake her up?” he asked.

“Nooooo.” Kali stretched out the word, turning it into an I’m-not-stupid, Dad statement. “She’s got a date.”

“Oh,” Nate said, then frowned. “She isn’t old enough to date.”

Kali shrugged and Kori came into the kitchen, identical to her twin in every detail, right down to the coordinating ribbons in her hair. Nate decided he would definitely give some thought to suggestions he could make about emphasizing their individuality. “Hey,” she said. “Where’d you get a Popsicle?”

“From the freezer.”

Kori looked expectantly at Nate. “She’s got a Popsicle.”

“He said I could have it.” Kali gave the ice a smug swipe with her tongue.

“Dad!” Kori’s tone was egregiously offended. “How come she gets a Popsicle?”

“Because she asked?” Nate suggested, his mood perked by the level of distraction now percolating in the room.

“Can I have one?”

“Yes, you may have one.”

Kori’s smile flashed like neon and he was suddenly aware of a strange mix of color on her teeth. “What’s wrong with your teeth?” he asked, leaning forward for a better look.

“Don’t worry, Pops,” she said, sounding a lot like her older sister. “It’s just wax. Doesn’t it look like I have braces on?”

Before he could comment that it looked like just what it was—thin strips of green and pink orthodontic wax stuck across her front teeth—Cate walked in. She’d gotten tall over the last few months, and looked older even than she had yesterday. That could, of course, be the punk-funk style she’d been perfecting over the past couple of years. Her hair—today—was cranberry red with banana and blueberry streaks. At least she was sticking with healthy-fruit colors, he thought. She had a ring—fake, thankfully, as Angie had established a firm rule about no permanent holes in places where nature hadn’t seen fit to put one in the first place—clipped on one eyebrow and a silver stud, magnetically attached—he knew because he’d insisted she show him—at her navel. He would have preferred that the navel jewelry wasn’t visible, but at least her fringed crop top covered all of her except a three-inch band of skin at her waist.

Nate didn’t like her showing any skin, but Angie had warned him not to fuss about the way the kids dressed. She’d told him fashion was a subjective statement and he did not want to set himself up as the arbiter of what they wore. That, she’d told him, would result in endless, futile arguments over what was relatively unimportant. They were great kids, good students who had to wear school uniforms for the nine months they were in class, and should be allowed to dress the way they wanted during the summers. With, of course, a few nonnegotiable rules. No low-cut necklines. No see-through clothing unless something opaque was worn underneath. No piercings. No tattoos. No shorts or skirt lengths higher than midthigh. No more than three inches of midriff showing at any time. This morning, Cate met the three-inch rule and so Nate bit his tongue and gave her a smile. “Good morning, Sunshine,” he greeted her.

“Good morning, Dad.” She came straight over, looped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. A diversionary action, probably. But it worked.

“What got you up and going so early this morning?”

She moved to the refrigerator, sweeping the Popsicle twins with a glance, which changed her direction, sending her to the sink where she wet one corner of a towel and returned to the table to wipe identical Popsicle-streaked mouths. “Is that, like, all you could find for breakfast?” she asked, her tone suggesting someone should have been paying more attention. “Don’t you want, like, some cereal or something?”

Nate felt a sharp stab of guilt for her concern, knew Angie would never forgive him if he let Cate take on the maternal role in the family. The trouble was, he didn’t quite know how to stop her. Cate was a force unto herself, and despite her punk-rock style and the way she inserted like into practically every sentence, she was something of an old-fashioned girl. “I’ll get it, Dad,” she said when he made a move to rise. “You can finish your paper. They’re, like, old enough to fix their own breakfast.”

“Kali mentioned you had a date,” he said, rising to fetch the cereal despite her protest, hoping to save her from doing it. But she was, of course, a step ahead of him and already had the cereal box in her hand. Which meant he could, at least, get the bowls. “Funny thing is, I don’t remember your thirtieth birthday, and I’m pretty sure I said you weren’t allowed to date before then.”

She rolled her blue-green eyes, his mother’s eyes, a striking combination with her brightly colored hair. “I’m going with Ariel and her mom to the mall, Dad. I told you that, like, yesterday.”

He tried to remember, but a lot had happened since yesterday, and meeting Miranda seemed to have burned up a whole bunch of his memory cells. “You did?”

She lifted her eyebrows, resembling for a moment a badly colorized version of Angie. “Like, duh,” she said.

He set the cereal bowls on the table in front of the twins, who ignored both bowls and cereal box in favor of their frozen Sugar Pops, and resumed his seat. He was trying to phrase a courteous but firm objection to Cate’s attitude and her, like, plans, when Will came in, looking like something the cat had dragged out of the trash. If his twin sister’s style was punk, Will’s was grunge. His jeans were loose and baggy and Nate thought his son must have somehow outwitted gravity just to keep them from falling around his ankles. He had on a shirt that even a vagrant would have wanted to give away and his hair—although untouched by the wild witches of fruity colors—stuck up in odd peaks and valleys and appeared for all the world as if he’d stuck his finger into a light socket just before coming downstairs.

“Morning,” he mumbled, because lately his voice squeaked more often than not and he’d taken to covering the embarrassing unevenness by barely moving his lips.

“Want a Popsicle, Will?”

Kori and Kali adored their big brother, despite his appearance, and their affection spilled out in big smiles. Nate noted the orthodontic wax—Kali had some on her teeth, too—was now a brownish color, stained by the orange pops.

“Yeah.” Kori seconded Kali’s invitation. “Dad said we could eat Popsicles for breakfast.”

Will frowned and put a hand to his forehead, possibly shading his eyes from the wattage of their smiles. “What have you got on your teeth?” he wanted to know.

“Fake braces,” Kori announced proudly.

“Cate helped us put them on,” said Kali. “Don’t they look real? Just like yours and Cate’s.”

“That’s bogus,” Will replied. Which could have meant great or awful. Nate didn’t really care to know which.

Folding the paper into thirds, he laid it on the table and surveyed his children. Maybe he’d been too quick to wish away the morning quiet.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “you’re all up remarkably early this morning. Guess you’re excited about our plans for today, huh?”

“Huh?” Will looked at Nate as if he were a talking frog.

“What plans?” Cate asked, obviously horrified at the idea of a family outing.

“Are we going somewhere?” Kori asked as she tried to catch several fast-moving drips of Popsicle.

“If you’ll recall,” Nate said, “I told you guys I’d take you downtown this afternoon and show you the building we’re going to renovate for our coffeehouse. Since you’re all up and dressed already, I’ll take you out for brunch on the way.”

Cate and Will exchanged a look. Kali and Kori ducked their heads and popped what remained of their Popsicles into their mouths. Not exactly the eager response Nate had imagined.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun. The coffeehouse is gonna be great. You’ll be able to bring your friends and listen to music and drink sodas and eat muffins…and…” Truth was, Nate wasn’t entirely sure himself what exactly went on in a coffeehouse, but he’d imagined it as a good way to occupy his children, give them an insider’s view of entrepreneurship and a decent work ethic, provide him with a good excuse to spend lots of time with them, keep their hands busy and allow him to keep an eye on them and their friends. It was one thing for their mother to have granted them the freedom to be “who they are,” quite another for their father to be comfortable with their choices. “It’s really a cool place,” he said, coaxing, hopeful. “And I want your help in choosing paint and decorations and chairs and stuff. I need your help. This is a family project, remember?”

The ensuing silence told him what they thought of his idea. But he pretended not to notice anything out of the ordinary. Come to think of it, this behavior was pretty normal for them. But they’d come around. He was sure of it.

“But I told Ariel—” Cate began.

“Ariel can come with you,” Nate offered generously. “This will be a lot more fun than going to the mall. In fact, you can all bring a friend. The more the merrier.”

He could see they wanted to argue, probably would argue as soon as they figured out the best angle. But they were, as Angie had often remarked, great kids and they didn’t say anything. Not now, anyway. And not out loud.

“What time do we have to go?” That was Will asking. As if any time would be too soon.

“Eleven?” Nate suggested. “That gives you plenty of time to…uh, brush your teeth. And change your clothes. If you want. Or ask a friend to join us.” He smiled his broadest “Father-Knows-Best” smile. “We’re going to have a great time together.”

“Great. Just great.” Cate flounced toward the door on a sigh, her fringe fluttering with displeasure.

“Just great!” Taking their cue from her, the little girls pushed away from the table and stalked after their sister, carrying their sticky orange Popsicle sticks with them and leaving their sticky orange fingerprints on the table.

It was just the men then, father and son, and Nate looked at Will expectantly.

“Girls are stupid,” Will pronounced in his squeaky, changeable voice as he bypassed the freezer and the Popsicles and went straight for the refrigerator and the orange-juice carton. The whole carton, apparently, as he simply opened the spout and took a drink.

Nate would have protested both the observation and the action, except that at thirteen he’d found girls unfathomable, too. He’d also gotten drinks directly from the carton despite being chastised for it repeatedly. Which didn’t mean he shouldn’t make it an issue. Only now didn’t seem to be the prime time to make an issue out of orange juice. “I’ve been thinking,” he said conversationally. “Maybe we could paint the coffeehouse black and call it the Black Sheep? Do you think the girls would go for that?”

Will took another swig from the carton, his somber expression never altering, the traces of the precious little boy he used to be lingered despite the spiky hair and the low-riding denim. “I think we’re all pretty much going to hate it no matter what you call it, Dad.”

Then he put the orange-juice carton back in the refrigerator, grabbed the milk carton, hooked a bowl with one finger, tucked the cereal box into the crook of his arm and shuffled out of the kitchen.

Nate decided not to think about how his son would manage without a spoon and concentrated instead on his new appreciation for the silence. Taking a sip of his tepid coffee, he went back to wondering what Miranda Danville was having for breakfast.

“WHAT HAPPENED to you?” Ainsley asked, her voice sly with innocence.

Miranda didn’t even look up. She simply continued leafing through the wedding planner she’d bought on the way to her sister’s office. “Did you know,” she said in a very conversational tone of voice, “that the best photographers and videographers are booked over a year in advance? Same thing with the better florists and caterers. Hmm.” She smoothed her hand across the page, made a note in the right-hand corner. In pencil. “That does make sense, I suppose.”

“We’re not postponing the wedding,” Ainsley said firmly, although just as conversationally. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“About the caterer?”

“About what happened to you at Scott’s wedding.”

“Nothing happened to me at Scott’s wedding, except that I went home a bit hungry. We are definitely not using that caterer at your wedding.”

“You know what I meant,” Ainsley persisted.

Even as a tiny child, Ainsley had been persistent. Persistently happy. Persistently cute. Persistently persistent. She was the baby of the family, the last born, arriving over an hour after Andrew made his entrance, in no great hurry to dazzle the world with her impulsive presence. Baby, as the whole family sometimes called her, was everyone’s favorite. Even Miranda, who had borne the major responsibility for mothering all three of her siblings, had never been able to deny Ainsley much of anything.

Miranda still found it difficult to believe her sister had a real job. Of course, there was some credibility to the argument that matchmaking wasn’t a real occupation and being a matchmaker’s apprentice wasn’t a real career option. IF Enterprises didn’t front for an Internet service that put two people, who’d signed up to be matched with someone…anyone—in touch with each other. IF Enterprises didn’t advertise, didn’t videotape prospective singles and didn’t have a standard fill-in-the-blank questionnaire and application. Ilsa Fairchild, the founder and main matchmaker, was very careful about the clients she agreed to help. Her service was sophisticated, selective and involved in-depth research into each individual’s background, likes and dislikes, and romantic history. Research alone sometimes took months, but when Ilsa introduced a client to the possibilities of a romantic relationship, she knew what she was doing.

She had an unheralded record of success, despite the fact that her name was merely a reverent whisper in the ears of New England society. Parents or grandparents with independent-minded children came to Ilsa in private in the hope she could and would agree to arrange an introduction of possibilities for their offspring. Bachelors and debutantes, widowers and divorcées, came to her for advice and assistance in matters of the heart. IF Enterprises was the crème de la crème of matchmaking services and Miranda was still amazed that Ainsley had convinced Ilsa to take her on as an apprentice. And, despite having a little trouble with the discretion requirement, Ainsley seemed to be thriving in this fairy godmother kind of career.

Which was all the more reason for Miranda to keep her own counsel about Saturday night’s encounter with Nate Shepard.

So she merely poised her pen over the planner and looked at her sister over their narrow metal frame. “We have to make some decisions about your wedding, Ainsley. Let’s not get sidetracked by something you imagine happened to me at Scott’s wedding.”

“I saw you, Randa, so tell.”

“There is nothing to tell,” Miranda repeated because it was true. And because she wanted it to be true. “Nothing happened.”

Ainsley had a magnetic smile…lots of teeth, lots of gum, lots of sparkle…and she flashed it now, her blue eyes, so like their mother’s, so like Miranda’s own, shining and steady. “You are such a liar, and despite the fact you’ve been repeating for two whole days that nothing happened, I saw you dancing with him and I know something was going on.”

Miranda made another note in the margin of the planner. Just a squiggle, nothing she’d ever be able to make sense of later. But it was in pencil and could easily be erased. “You’re imagining things again, Ainsley, and frankly, I don’t have all day to spend nailing down some of these details.”

“I’ll nail down all the details you want as soon as you’ve answered my question. You know how curious I am. You know I can’t stand not knowing. You know I won’t be satisfied until you’ve told me the whole story.” She thrummed her fingers on her desktop…as patiently as she ever did anything. “I am your sister. You know you can trust me with the details.”

Miranda laughed, because Ainsley was not known for her discretion. Or her attention to detail. “Does Ivan know what a provoking child you can be?”

“Ivan knows I’m not a child,” Ainsley said. “Someday I hope you’ll figure that out, too. And you still didn’t answer my question.”

Miranda wasn’t altogether comfortable with her baby sister lately. Ainsley had always looked up to her, depended on her, and although Miranda had been anticipating the time when none of her siblings turned to her to solve their problems, now that the time had come, she was finding it a trifle unsettling. She closed the wedding planner with a sigh. “What exactly do you want to know?” she asked. “And I know you, Ainsley. You’ve been very busy the last two days, ferreting out all kinds of information about Nate, so let’s cut to the chase, all right?”

Ainsley’s smile swagged like the Cheshire cat’s. “I want to know what you thought about him. I mean, he’s handsome. Not like his brother, of course, who is matinee idol/Roman God/too-perfect-to-be-real handsome, but I thought your fella was…well, distinguished-looking. Very attractive in a…distinguished sort of way.”

“Yes,” Miranda said, wondering if she would have to actually say anything else or if Ainsley would do all the talking.

“His wife died, you know.”

“Yes.”

“He’s twelve years older than Nicky.”

Miranda merely arched an eyebrow at that. No point in acknowledging the obvious.

“I think older men are underrated.”

“That could be true.”

Ainsley’s forehead furrowed with curiosity. “So?”