by Ava Miles
“Yay!” The little girl danced in a circle.
“You want to tell me what it’s about?” Arthur asked Amelia, stooping over and picking her up.
“Matchmaking,” she said, clapping her hands. “It’s where you help a guy and a girl find each other so they can live happily ever after.”
“Did you tell her about that?” Clara asked Arthur.
He shook his head. “Not me.”
“It was Hargreaves who told me,” Amelia said. “He said it’s a longstanding tradition. I think that’s right.”
“Hargreaves, eh?” Arthur asked. He shot Clara a look. “Your butler’s fingerprints are everywhere, from the holiday baskets to the flower arrangements for the wedding, I hear.”
She lifted her shoulder. “He’s a man of many talents.”
“Mr. Hale, will you dance with me? I want to twirl in my dress. It’s so pretty.”
“You bet.” He took Amelia’s hand, but he turned to wink at Clara. “Then I’m coming back for you, dear.”
She shivered at the promise in his gaze. “I can’t wait.”
Shawn waved at her as he danced past her with his wife, and she lifted a hand in return. Connor was laughing as Louisa did some terribly uncoordinated moves, much like a robot. Clara found herself chuckling as well.
But it was Becca swaying in her husband’s arms that made Clara feel a little emotional. Only six months ago, the poor woman had been in her own tower, and now here she was… Her very presence was a testimony to the tenacity of the human spirit. Clara thought about all the years she’d been like Becca. Those times were in the past, thank God. She was living life to its fullest, and she’d told Arthur he’d best prepare to go back to their village in Africa soon. They had things to do.
“Would you like more champagne, Madam?” Hargreaves asked, appearing with a fresh glass.
“I was just talking about some, actually.” She traded him the almost empty one in her hand. “Well, usually this is the time Arthur and I fall into conjecture about the next Merriam up for matchmaking. However, there is only one person left, and Arthur thinks Quinn is so beaten down with work there is no way we’ll be doing any matchmaking soon.”
Even the lovely Emily had failed to engage him in conversation. Clara had cornered him earlier, but he’d spoken only of work, although it had been downright satisfying to hear how many emails and personal thank yous Quinn had received praising Annie’s holiday baskets.
“Arthur went so far as to suggest we might not be matchmaking for some years now. His assertion was downright depressing, Hargreaves.”
If that were the case, she’d have to content herself with the upcoming weddings: Michaela and Boyd’s in February, Connor and Louisa’s in March, and Caitlyn and Beau’s in May. At least they had a full wedding season to look forward to.
“I imagine it was quite distressing, Madam,” her longtime friend said. “I, however, hold a different theory on Master Quinn’s predicament.”
She turned to her butler and regarded him with her full attention. When he sounded like this, she knew to pay attention. “What is it, Hargreaves?”
“Master Quinn is nearing his breaking point with work and, I believe, his life. They have been one and the same until now. I am not sure he will be able to continue it.”
Her eyes scanned the crowd until she spotted Quinn. He was standing alone next to a reception table, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Even from here she could make out the dark circles under his eyes. “He’s had a rough go of it lately, what with the negative press about the transition of leadership.”
“Yes, Madam,” Hargreaves said. “Somehow I don’t believe he’s faced the worst of it yet, but when he does, something will have to give, like the Americans are fond of saying.”
She loved it when Hargreaves talked like a good old-fashioned Brit. “I wouldn’t wish him any bad fortune. But sometimes it comes, and the only thing we can do is rise from the detritus. Do you have any idea what this bad fortune will look like, Hargreaves? The stock price? I know it’s down for Merriam Enterprises.”
He was quiet for a moment, and she was so attuned to him that she felt her heart start to thud in her chest. “Well, don’t mince words with me, Hargreaves. What is it?”
His gaze was steady when he looked her straight in the eye, something he’d only done less than a dozen times. “There’s a virus, Madam, starting to infect thousands of people in China right now. I fear it’s only the beginning. I’ve been following it as I do with all major world events. I fear it will continue to spread.”
She clutched her heart. “How bad is it?”
“There is a lot of differing information, Madam. The cases are rising exponentially, and the Chinese economy is in serious hardship with factories closing and people being told to stay home. From what I can glean, I fear it could come close to the Spanish flu of my father’s generation.”
Her gasp echoed across the courtyard. Even she’d heard the stories about that dark time from her parents and grandparents. They’d lost relatives and friends.
She looked over at her beloved family, all laughing and dancing before her. She’d been so long without them, and she’d only just gotten them back. “No, Hargreaves. No!”
She reached for his hand, and he took it, another rare gesture.
“What can we do?” she asked, not expecting an answer.
“We pray, Madam, and then we plan to fight.” His voice was steady. “And we make sure the family is safe. At all costs.”
Her mind spun at what he was saying. The implications suddenly hit her—if the issue became global, the family business would be hit hard. Ah, that’s what he meant by Quinn and his catalyst.
“I pray you are wrong, Hargreaves,” although he never was.
“So do I, Madam.”
Epilogue
He was the last Merriam standing.
If Quinn had to listen to one more joke from Trevor and J.T. about being next on the matchmakers’ schedule, he’d commit fratricide. Even Michaela had poked at him, saying it was past time for him to find his soulmate like the rest of them.
He’d already found his soulmate, and he’d lost her.
Correction: she’d turned down his proposal.
Oddly sad and not wanting to put a damper on the happy day, Quinn grabbed a whiskey and disappeared from the party, heading out to the vineyard on the west side of the property. The full moon kissed the vines, transforming the well-heeled earth golden.
For him, weddings were only a reminder of the happily ever after he’d never have.
He set his drink down and dug into his jacket for his wallet. Pulling out the photo he always carried, he held it up in the moonlight even though her every feature was carved into his heart.
Francesca.
They’d met at a party in London, both of them first year students in their respective master’s programs: he in the London Business School and she in the London School of Economics. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her thick black hair framed an oval face with high cheekbones, elegant brows, and violet eyes as exotic as her accent. Her gusty laugh, so full of life and depth of spirit, had drawn him across the room to introduce himself. But it was her full, rich mouth painted a deep carmine red that had made him ask her out.
She hadn’t agreed on the spot, and he’d loved knowing she planned to make him work for it. After two hours of questions about him, his family, and his interests, she’d told him when he could pick her up.
What had followed was the happiest time of his life, going from restaurant to restaurant, taking short getaways to the English countryside and the continent, pushing each other to excel in their subjects, and most of all finding the most intense and fun pleasure in each other’s arms.
He’d loved her with a clarity he’d never imagined, and after their third date he’d known she was the woman he wanted to marry. She’d loved him too, and they’d talked about the future not as a possibility but as a given.
But
it had all started coming apart after the July 7 bombings in London, the single worst terrorist attack on British soil, with fifty-two dead and hundreds injured. Francesca being Lebanese had never been an issue for him, although she’d told him how hard things had gotten for her in business school at Columbia University in New York City after 9/11. People had called her everything from turban head to a sandnigger, but it had jarred her more when a student in London had called her a terrorist and incited others to join in his hateful chant as she walked to class. Her school’s student body was highly international, which had made it all the more shocking. Days later, a group of schoolboys had thrown rocks at her as she walked home from the market, calling her an Arab and telling her to go home.
Her father—a prominent global businessman—had suggested Francesca come back to Lebanon for a while to help him with his company until the anti-Arab sentiment died down. Their company was still struggling in the wake of global events.
Part of Quinn understood the loyalty to the family business.
The other part of him, desperate not to lose her, had told her not to cave in to the bullies. The end had come when those same kids had thrown rocks at her again. Quinn had been with her the second time, and he’d taken the brunt of the attack by tucking her behind him, which had resulted in him needing stitches. Francesca had told him later she couldn’t put him at risk. She was going home. If they were meant to be, something would bring them back together.
He’d disagreed. The next day he’d done what would have been unthinkable only a year ago. Even though they were both young and in grad school with careers to consider—and they hadn’t met each other’s families—he’d gone to Cartier and bought an engagement ring. He’d proposed to her later that night, and she’d gone from shocked to stricken and then firmly told him no—it was too dangerous, too reactionary. Moments later, she’d kissed him on the mouth and walked out, leaving him on one knee, holding the ring in his hand.
He’d tried to love other women. But his heart had turned out to be a stubborn son of a bitch because it only loved her, only wanted her.
He caressed her amused smile in the photo he’d taken of her. She was wearing his white button-down shirt and nothing else, her face devoid of makeup. She was the sexiest woman in the world. Judging from a few pictures he’d seen online, she still was, but he hadn’t run into her in person once since the night of his marriage proposal. Fifteen years ago.
God, he missed her. Was still afraid she’d crush him again. Had she only turned him down because of the situation in London, or had she decided he wasn’t the one for her?
The older he became, the more risk averse he’d become. He couldn’t muster the courage to reach out personally. God knew he’d hoped to meet her again by accident—at a popular restaurant or maybe a posh bar. Hell, he’d even gone to a few conferences he’d thought she would attend.
Coward, he thought again. But that was the thing—to the world, he was Quinn Merriam, hard as tacks business CEO, but when it came to Francesca, he was a coward.
“I thought you might be out here.”
He swung his head to the right.
Connor had his hands tucked in his pants pockets as he strode forward. His brother gestured to the photo. “Thinking about Francesca?”
Quinn tucked the photo away. “It’s nothing.”
“I never said anything when you told me things were over with her, but maybe I should have.” Connor unbuttoned his suit jacket with an aggravated flick of his hand. “You know I approved your request to be based out of London because I suspected you had other motives for being there. I know she sometimes works there as a business consultant.”
“I’d wondered.” Usually the vice president of a company was based with the president. The thought that the former Big Bad Wolf had been that considerate of him choked him up. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be. I never met her in London. Not once.”
“Yet, you’re still out here alone, looking at her picture instead of celebrating with us at Flynn’s wedding.”
“Yeah, and that pisses me off, actually.”
Connor walked toward him and put his hand on his shoulder. “I want you to be happy. No one knows better than I do what your life has become as the CEO of Merriam Enterprises. If you blink, you’ll be sixty and still working like you are right now. Only you’ll look ten times older and have high blood pressure.”
“Thanks.” He held up his drink in salute. “That’s the most depressing thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Connor shoved him lightly. “Reach out to her, Quinn. Directly. You still love her, and she’s never been involved with anyone long term.”
Quinn took a few steps back, the ground uncertain under his feet. “How do you know that?”
“I kept tabs on her because of you.”
He choked on his sip. “Why would you do that?”
Connor shrugged. “I wanted to know what she was up to. Quinn, we both know she’s one of the smartest people in the industry and one of the top business consultants out there.”
He knew it. Her mind was one of the many things he loved about her. She could see things others couldn’t when it came to the market and people, but she could also build planning scenarios on a scale he’d never come across since. She’d always said it was because her father had helped rebuild war-torn Lebanon, but he’d thought she was giving the man too much credit. She was a genius on her own merits.
And wasn’t that the irony? Once she’d risen in stature in her father’s company, she’d struck out on her own. He didn’t know the reasons, but these days, no one seemed to much care that she was Arab, although he knew the stalwart set remained entrenched.
“It’s too late,” Quinn said, putting his empty glass down. “Con, it’s been fifteen years. She turned me down when I asked her to marry me. That should tell you something.”
“So? The bombing created a scary situation for her in London, and you were both young. Neither one of you has found anyone else, Quinn. Doesn’t that tell you something? Isn’t it worth finding out? Dammit, man, I want to dance with my wife at your wedding. We all do.” His brother gestured in the direction of the party, the music from the orchestra audible in the distance. “It’s not like you go around asking women to marry you all the time. When you find the one, you find her. That’s the Merriam way. You’re no different. So buck up and go after her.”
Damn if that didn’t choke him up. “How would I even approach her after all these years? You don’t just call up a woman like Francesca.”
Connor rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. Why don’t you hire her as a business consultant? We both know you need to restructure Merriam Enterprises after the shitshow I created. Stocks are down. Investors are worried. Bringing her in would do a hell of a lot to offset that. She’s highly respected.”
Would she do it? God, what if she turned him down? His fingers started to burn from where he’d held the photo. His heart began to burn as well. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Fine, but don’t think too long. It’s already been fifteen years.” His brother stared at him. “Quinn, it’s because I love you that I decided to say something tonight. Don’t let being the CEO of Merriam be the only thing in your life. Even Dad has his regrets about how much it took from him. Don’t let that be you. I’ll see you back at the party.”
With that, Connor started walking away, his shadow growing larger on the ground.
Francesca cast a large shadow in his life still even after all these years. Maybe his brother was right. He had to give it one more chance.
He wouldn’t know unless he tried, and maybe if it didn’t work, it would finally silence all the regret in his own heart.
But still he hoped with everything he was it would work.
He’d never wanted to live without her.
* * *
Will Quinn and Francesca find they’re happily ever after? Find out in A BREATH OF JASMINE… Treat yourself to this charming “stay up all night” re
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