“Collective magic of ours,” Cilia repeated, rolling the phrase over on her tongue and smiling.
“I like the sound of that,” Theresa said with an approving nod.
But Cilia was nothing if not all business, and she asked, “Why can’t this doctor friend of Nikki’s find someone on his own? What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him,” Maizie said, coming to the stranger’s defense as was her habit. “As a matter of fact, listening to Nikki, he sounds practically perfect. Once he was finished with medical school, his internship and his residency, becoming a general surgeon, he decided to offer his considerable services to a free clinic—which was when his fiancée of four years decided to dump him.”
“Dump him?” Theresa cried, the game they were supposedly playing completely abandoned now. “Why in heaven’s name would she do that?”
“She didn’t want to have to help him pay off his student loans?” Cilia guessed.
But Maizie shook her head. “According to Nikki, it seems that the fiancée was counting on the young doctor to be able to support her in the lifestyle she has become very accustomed to.” She could see that her friends weren’t seeing the connection. “Apparently her father runs a prestigious medical practice in Beverly Hills. Everything was in place for Ethan to join the practice once he was finished with his studies.”
“And he decided not to,” Theresa concluded.
“I like this boy already,” Cilia declared, nodding her head in approval.
Maizie’s smile was bright enough to rival the sun. “I knew you would,” she said. “Now,” she continued, clapping her hands together as she turned toward Cilia for confirmation, “if memory serves, didn’t Lizzie drive an independent cab service part-time? Chariot, right? Please tell me she still does,” she implored.
Cilia nodded. “As a matter of fact, she still does. According to Ruth, Howard’s bills are all paid off now, but Lizzie is still driving because now she’s using that to help pay for her college tuition while she’s taking her courses. Ruth said that Lizzie feels the Chariot job gives her flexibility.”
“Why do you care if she’s still a Chariot driver? He’s a doctor—surely he has his own car,” Theresa pointed out, not able to see how their friend’s daughter’s job made a difference in this scenario.
“Oh, he does,” Maizie assured the other woman. “Although it’s not exactly the latest word in automobiles. It’s secondhand. His pride prevented him from letting his fiancée buy him a car she told him she wanted to be seen in.”
“Better and better,” Cilia murmured, underscoring her approval.
“And we know how unreliable these used cars can be,” Maizie continued with a broad smile. “Anyway, long story short, Ethan and a couple of his friends are throwing a bachelor party for another friend who’s getting married very soon, according to Nikki.”
When Maizie paused to allow her words to sink in, Cilia urged, “Go on.”
“Well, we all know how especially strict the ‘don’t drink and drive’ laws are here, especially in Bedford. Landing in jail wouldn’t be an auspicious way to end a party or a notable way to begin anything else, either.” She smiled, seeing that her two friends looked as if they understood perfectly. “When she sees Ethan, Nikki is going to tell him to make sure that he calls a Chariot driver if he and his friends wind up inebriated and need a ride from the club.”
“Club?” Theresa questioned, the single word all but throbbing with interest.
Maizie nodded. “Yes, dear, it’s one of those places. Very popular with bachelors in search for a last hurrah before pledging their troth and undying love to their bride-to-be.”
Theresa laughed. “You don’t have to dress it up in fancy words, Maizie. I do know what bachelor parties are like these days,” she told the unofficial leader of their group.
“No disrespect was intended, dear,” Maizie replied, patting her fellow conspirator’s hand. “So, let’s get down to the particulars and make sure that we have a winning couple before we set these wheels in motion, shall we, ladies?” She glanced at her two best friends, waiting for a go-ahead signal, although she already sensed that they were both on board.
It was safe to say that while Maizie did have a remarkable ability to read the people she dealt with in her chosen line of work, the two people she knew best of all in the world were the two women who were sitting right here at her gaming table.
Their friendship dated back to the third grade, when she and Cilia came to a seven-year-old Theresa’s rescue in the schoolyard. At the time she was being bullied by a small circle of so-called popular girls who felt they had the right to make themselves feel superior by making the diminutive Theresa feel inferior.
Maizie, with Cilia backing her up, put them all in their place.
And so their lasting friendship was born. Over the years, they had seen one another through a few bumpy, nonproductive romances before they each found lasting love that led to marriages, the latter giving every indication of lasting forever. And they did to the very end.
Maizie, Theresa and Cilia were there for each other for the births of their children and all the joys and heroic acts of patience all that involved. They were also there to hold trembling hands when each of them went through what felt like the ultimate, unimaginable heartbreak when first Maizie, then Cilia and finally Theresa lost the men they had thought would be with them forever.
They were also there to bolster and support one another when each nervously started their very own businesses in order to provide monetary support for their individual families after their husbands had died.
Maizie could truly say that no one knew her better than Theresa and Cilia, and she felt that they could honestly say the same about her. While they weren’t actual sisters by virtue of blood, they were even closer than sisters because of everything they had gone through and weathered together.
“You know what’s necessary,” Maizie said rhetorically to Cilia. “We’ll need a list of interests, photos and assorted information to pull this off.”
Theresa nodded, the corners of her mouth curving. “In other words, the usual.”
Maizie’s smile was even wider. It was almost as if she didn’t really need to put things into words anymore. “The usual,” she echoed.
Their individual businesses reflected their personalities and their strong points. Maizie had gravitated to real estate, turning a one-woman office into a thriving business, while Theresa took her love of baking and expanded it, discovering to her delight that the public was more than willing to pay to sample her delicious baked goods. They were even more willing to pay to have her cater their parties and gatherings.
Cilia’s talent was a love of neatness and organization, which she perfected and brought to other people. Those businesses, in turn, provided food and shelter for their families. It also created a feeling of satisfaction for each of them.
But what provided food for all three of their souls—completely without any monetary compensation whatsoever—was what they had initially done for each of their children: finding a match for them when they were far too busy to do any sort of looking on their own.
Because each of these four matches had turned out so well and so incredibly satisfyingly, Maizie and company haltingly decided to expand their base of operation just a little—strictly as a hobby. A sideline to nurture their souls and make them feel good about themselves.
Little by little, word spread about the dedicated career women who also had some sort of special insight when it came to making lasting matches. It wasn’t long before concerned and worried mothers sought them out, as did the occasional father.
And the most amazing thing about this whole sideline hobby of theirs was that out of all the matches they had instigated, all the couples they had “magically” brought together while pulling strings from behind a curtain, not a single one of these
matches had faded away or fallen apart.
Each and every one of them had lasted.
And as Maizie talked with her friends, comparing details, making mental notes, maybe it was the euphoria of past victories that was infusing her now, but she had a good feeling about this match that was even now in the making. She just hoped that she wasn’t getting carried away by the moment and by the fact that her near-to-perfect daughter had actually come to her and asked for help with a match, of all things.
History, she thought, looking around at her friends, was repeating itself.
* * *
Dr. Ethan O’Neill fingered the small, laminated business card in the pocket of his sports jacket. He’d done it two, possibly three times already, just to assure himself that he still had the card with Chariot’s general number on it. He worried that it might have fallen out when he took out his wallet to pay for a round of drinks. Looking at his friends, he had a growing suspicion that they were going to need the number by the time the evening was finally over.
He wasn’t all that much of a drinker. Back in his undergraduate days, he’d learned how to really nurse a glass of beer, or the occasional glass of whiskey, for a good part of the evening.
However, Jimmy, Wayne and Pete each had their own brand of poison, and they were really knocking back those glasses. As for Joel, the almost bridegroom, it had turned out that he had a real fondness for tequila.
Ethan got the feeling that Joel was working up his nerve to walk down the aisle, even though the wedding was nearly three weeks away.
When it came time for yet another round, because he was the most sober one in his small group, he found that he wound up paying more often than the others did. But then, what did he have left to spend money on now that Catherine had terminated their engagement?
At least his friends were still with him. And, drunk or not, their values were a lot less shallow than Catherine’s had turned out to be.
He sighed as his hands tightened around his glass. Four years gone, just like that. He wondered if she even missed him.
“Sure I can’t talk you into having something with more of a kick to it, buddy?”
Ethan blinked and realized that the bartender, a bald, barrel-chested man in his forties or maybe fifties, was talking to him.
“On the house,” the man added with a smile that seemed oddly sunny.
“No, that’s okay,” Ethan answered. “I’m fine. But I think my friends could probably stand to get refills,” he said, nodding in the general direction of the rest of the bachelor party.
“I take it that you’re the designated driver?” the bartender asked as he began to refill the other four glasses. “I hate to tell you this, but if you get pulled over for some reason, I’m pretty sure that your blood alcohol level’s probably just a little over the legal limit if you get a particularly zealous police officer.”
“Not to worry, I’ve got it covered.” Ethan glanced at his friends, who were sounding progressively rowdier and louder. “I’ve got all of us covered.”
The bartender nodded. “You’re a good friend.”
“Not really. I’m just not in the mood to celebrate,” he confessed.
“Then, out of sheer curiosity—if you don’t mind my asking—what are you doing here tonight, raising a glass?” the bartender asked.
Ethan shrugged. The breakup was still very fresh in his mind. He knew that Catherine wasn’t exactly a selfless soul, but he hadn’t thought of her as being heartless. At least, not until recently.
“I gave my word I’d come,” he told the bartender. “Didn’t seem right not to. The bridegroom needs all the help being propped up as he can get.”
The bartender, Harry, nodded. “Like I said, you’re a good friend,” he declared as he went to fill another patron’s empty glass.
“Yeah, that’s me, all right,” Ethan murmured to himself under his breath as he raised his glass to his lips again. “Mr. Nice Guy.”
Chapter Two
If she didn’t know better, Liz Bellamy would have said she was sleepwalking, or rather, sleep driving—never a good idea, she mused philosophically.
It was either that or her body was somehow moving in slow motion through a tall vat of molasses. If it wouldn’t have created a problem, she would have been tempted to pull over to the side of the road and just grab at least a short catnap before she finally clocked out, turned her car north and headed back to her place for the night.
“Face it, Elizabeth Bellamy, you’re not as young and energetic as you used to be,” Liz muttered under her breath.
At almost thirty, she felt that was an exceedingly sad thing to admit to herself. She could remember a time when she used to have enough energy for at least two and a half people. These days there were times when she only had enough energy to sustain half a person—or at least it certainly felt that way to her.
Of course, on the other side of the coin, Liz consoled herself, most of the time she was adhering to a less than sedate pace, which involved going to school and holding down one job, and sometimes two, in order to make those proverbial ends meet.
And one of those so-called ends involved her college tuition, not exactly a small sum by anyone’s standards.
Looking back over her day, it had consisted of four classes, the last one of which had run almost twice as long as it was supposed to. Actually, all of the professors who taught classes she was required to take in order to earn her degree seemed to drone on and on endlessly today. After she had numbly stumbled out of her last class, her late afternoon and evening had been no better. This was one of the evenings that she drove for Chariot.
Most of the time she found driving people to their destinations at least passably interesting. Sometimes, depending on the personality of the fare she was driving, she even thought of it as fun. This evening’s passengers, however—if she was allowed to rate her fares—wouldn’t have even gotten three stars. Not a single one of them. For that matter, a couple of rather boisterous, highly critical fares wouldn’t have even received one star.
Especially not the one who had gotten sick in her car. Usually she considered herself to be a very sympathetic person, but this particular fare’s unceremonious parting with his meal wasn’t the result of the sudden onset of some sort of a flu or bug but the very real result of having just too much to drink, obviously too fast.
The man had been loud and possessed a cutting, viper-sharp tongue, which he only paused using long enough to clear out some apparently much-needed space in his stomach. She could only assume that he was making room for more alcohol. When she got the man to his destination, he grumbled over the charge, threw the money at her and finally piled out of her vehicle, mumbling something about her “doing something about that awful smell.” He wound up staggering into some waiting woman’s arms.
His wife, Liz guessed by the pained expression on the woman’s face. As she drove away, heading for a car wash to clean the mess out of her car, she felt nothing but pity for the poor woman in her rearview mirror.
Yes, Liz thought now with a sigh, she was definitely ready to call it a night and go home. Besides, she reminded herself, she had a test to study for. She needed to get home and to bed so she could get up early—and hopefully bright—in order to study the complex information so it was still fresh in her mind when she took the test.
With all this working and studying she was doing, Liz knew that by a lot of people’s standards she was trapped in a rat race. But this was a rat race of her own choosing, and in the end, it would all be worth it. Because she would have finally completed all her courses to get that precious degree she was after—and then she would be growing bleary-eyed putting in long hours in a science lab.
A science lab where she hoped one day, if she was good enough and diligent enough, she would finally be doing something beneficial for humanity. That, to her, meant that good people wouldn’t ha
ve to die from diseases like the one that had claimed her stepfather years before his time.
“See? You’ve got your priorities straight.” She paused as she came to a light and frowned slightly. “Okay, Lizzie, you’re talking to yourself again. Definitely time for you to go home.”
As if some unseen force had heard her, her cell phone, the one she kept exclusively for her Chariot job, began vibrating in her pocket. Because the last bunch of fares had been almost noisy enough to wake the dead, she had turned her ringer up to loud so she wouldn’t wind up missing a call from her next fare.
However, at this point, there wasn’t supposed to be a next fare.
“She’s not here,” Liz said to the ringing noise, aiming her words toward her pocket. “She went home. Better yet, she died. Let someone else pick up this fare.”
The cell phone continued ringing.
A feeling of guilt, possibly thanks to her strict parochial schooling, came out of nowhere and wrapped its tentacles around her so tightly, it began to interfere with her breathing.
“C’mon, give me a break,” she all but begged the ringing phone. “Finally!” she declared the second that the phone had stopped ringing.
But the next moment, as if to defy her, the cell began ringing again. Liz rolled her eyes.
“Okay, okay, you win,” she cried, pulling out the phone and putting it on speaker so she didn’t have to hold on to it. “Hello, this is Liz, your Chariot driver. Do you need a ride somewhere?” she asked, hoping against hope that this was a wrong number and not someone who needed a ride.
The person would probably ask her to drive them to somewhere in north LA County. With the exception of her last fare—a man who finally rated five stars—all the other fares had been a trial to her patience.
“Yes!” Ethan cried with enthusiasm, happy that the line had finally been picked up.
He had just about been ready to give up and try to call for a cab when the person on the other end had finally answered her phone. Dr. Connors had recommended taking Chariot, and he had found that it was always best to go with someone who had been recommended rather than to just approach this cold turkey. He had never had to use the services of a Chariot driver before.
Coming to a Crossroads Page 2