“Nervous?” he asked me.
I’d known him since I was three years old. In some ways I thought he knew me better than my parents did. After all, he’d been the one playing marathon games of Monopoly with me while my father was off at the symphony or various other events.
True colors are often shown during high-stakes games of Monopoly.
“Yes.”
“It will be all right, Uva.”
He’d been calling me Uva, Spanish for “grape,” since the day, at five years old, I’d thrown a temper tantrum of epic proportions on the deck of the Mayflower II and turned myself as purple as a Concord grape.
It was okay. I had my own pet name for him.
“I know you wouldn’t lie to me, Pasa.”
Translated, Pasa was a raisin. Because when he yelled at me on the deck of the ship, his face all squished up, he looked like a raisin, dark and crinkly. And really, where else would a young grape worth her salt learn her ways?
His black eyes danced with mischief. “Never.”
The streets were busy. Mixed among the tourists in search of Cheers (where everybody knew your name) or the swan boats (which had long since been docked for the winter) most everyone else was seeking food.
The car inched along. My palms moistened.
4 plus 4 is 8.
102 times 3 is 306.
In times of high stress I found solving simple math problems in my head helped center my thoughts. It had become a habit over the years, one I’ve tried breaking, but it tended to be the only thing that worked to keep me calm.
Raphael searched the radio for a decent song, finally landing on “Rock the Casbah.” He was the biggest eighties music fan I knew.
“Perhaps I will become your first client,” he said, shocking me.
Raphael’s wife had died shortly after they married, years before I was born. As far as I knew, he’d never dated.
“Really?”
“It’s time, don’t you think?”
“Past time,” I agreed.
At sixty, he was a catch. Engaging smile, bright eyes, and possibly the most decent man I knew. I for one didn’t want to screw up his potential love life. “I think you should wait for Dad to come back.”
He laughed. “Believe in yourself, Uva, and others will believe also.”
“Don’t go sounding like Yoda on me.”
Undeterred, he continued. “Believe in what you’re saying and others will believe in it also.”
“So, basically you’re telling me to make my lies believable.”
“Now you’re learning.” Pulling to the curb, he parked the car. “See you at five, I will.”
Laughing, I kissed his smooth cheek and said good-bye, glad he hadn’t pursued me finding a match for him. On the sidewalk a stiff breeze stung my eyes and loosened my ponytail, blowing wavy strands of blonde into my face.
There were no media vans that I could see. That was good news—they’d been camped out front for nearly a week. I spotted a reporter lurking near the nondescript doorway leading to the upper floors and hoped she wouldn’t cause trouble.
My father owned the historic three-story building where the Valentine, Inc., offices were housed. The first floor held the Porcupine, a quaint restaurant, leased by Magdalena “Maggie” Constantine. The third floor belonged to SD Investigations, run by Sam Donahue, who had worked out a deal with my father to do background checks and investigative tasks for him for a break on the rent.
On the second level, with amazing views of the Public Garden, was Valentine, Inc. The building had been owned by my family for close to a hundred and fifty years. It currently was owned by my father and would someday belong to me.
What I would do with it was anyone’s guess.
I waved to Maggie inside the Porcupine. From the look of the crowd gathered, business was good.
As I neared the door discreetly nestled between storefronts, card key in hand, the reporter jumped forward. “Going up to Valentine?” she asked.
“Nope.” I pushed past her, relieved she had no idea who I was. It was only a matter of time before word leaked out about my taking over the family business while my dad was away, but I hoped by then the storm would have passed.
As I climbed the creaking cherrywood stairs to the second floor, nerves took over. Leaning against the crumbly brick wall, I took a moment to gather myself together.
“Fake it,” my father had said.
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t going to disappoint potential clients. Or his parents. Or his grandmother. Or the legacy of his ancestors.
It was me.
At the landing, the wood floor gleamed under my feet. I looked up the next flight of stairs and noticed Sam’s office door open. I wanted to go up and say hello, see how his wife and twin girls were doing. You know, hang out a little while.
Like a week or so.
Pulling in a deep breath, I gave myself a silent pep talk. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t inherently a matchmaker. But I was a Valentine, and I was bound and determined not to let anyone down—one way or another. It was time to get on with it.
Light spilled through the tempered patterned glass inset into the thick mahogany door. I couldn’t tell whether any clients were inside waiting for me or I’d have a few minutes to settle in before my first victim arrived.
The latch tended to stick, so I gave the door a good shove. After a slight hitch, it flew open, nearly banging the wall. Suzannah looked up from the TV in the corner of the room and beamed at me. No one else was there.
A reprieve, thank heavens.
“Lucy! It’s so good to see you.” Suzannah Ruggieri rushed over, gave me a big hug. A hug I found I’d desperately needed. She was a good two inches taller than my five-eight and was on the overweight side of chubby. She could easily work as a plus-sized model anywhere in the city if my father would let her go.
He wouldn’t. He adored her.
Taking one look at my face, she immediately said, “Don’t be nervous. We’ll get through this together. Except for three of your appointments today, the rest are follow-ups with people who’ve already been dating for a while. Oscar likes to gloat. I keep telling him it’s not attractive, especially since the clients have no idea about the auras and all, but he doesn’t listen to a word I say.” She took a breath. “You look great.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her exuberance. “Thanks, Suz. You, too.”
Suz was one of the trusted few who knew about my family’s aura-reading abilities. Over the years she’d become like family. My father paid her quite well, not only to keep our secrets but also because she was invaluable to the office.
“How’s Teddy?” I asked.
Her smooth alabaster complexion looked to be lit from within. “He’s all right.” Blue eyes twinkled. She playfully nudged me. “Unlike your father, I don’t like to gloat. Well, at least not in front of him since he’s the one who matched us. Someone has to keep his ego in check.”
“Is that possible?”
“I’m working on it.”
The office felt more like a home than a business. A fire crackled in the gas fireplace, its rustic mahogany mantel nearly an identical match to the carved door. Two suede russet-colored love seats had been angled to take advantage of both the fire and the view of the Public Garden. A beautifully detailed Kashan rug covered part of the floor. Suzannah sat at a small desk in the corner of the room. Bookcases stood proudly behind her featuring some of my father’s favorite art pieces—mostly stuff I’d made as a kid. A lot of primary-colored pinch pots and lopsided ceramics. A plasma TV hung on the wall in the far corner of the room, and though the sound had been muted, it captured my attention with the BREAKING NEWS banner at the top of the screen.
“What’s going on?” I motioned toward the News 5 coverage.
“Horrible story. A little boy, four years old, and his dad went fishing at Wompatuck State Park. They’d been picnicking on the shore when the dad had a seizure and passed out—when he woke up, the litt
le boy was gone. They’re searching now.”
This was one of those times I questioned the gift I had. Why be blessed with an ability that offered little help to those truly in need?
Over the years I’d been able to figure out how my gift worked. There were two basic rules. The first was that the person who owned the lost object was the only one I could get a reading from. The other was that the object couldn’t be human or animal. I couldn’t find lost dogs. And I couldn’t find lost people.
Just things. Useless, inanimate things.
Not precious little boys.
Suzannah swiped her eyes. “Just awful.”
It was. Sure, the sun had won the war, emerging from the clouds, but it was still chilly, in the mid-thirties. Come nightfall, temperatures would dip into the twenties. How long could a little boy survive the cold?
Anger simmered inside me because I couldn’t help. I fought to push it away. Being mad wouldn’t help the little boy, and it wouldn’t help me.
It was just so hard not to question my place here, to question the reason I’d been given this particular gift. Matching lovers benefited many, changed lives for the better. Finding my father’s thong bathing suit didn’t.
“We have a lot to do.” Suzannah sprinted to her desk. She rarely moved at any pace other than fast-forward. “There’s paperwork to fill out for the accountant—new-hire stuff—and you should look at these portfolios before your first clients arrive.” She strode through the arch leading to the rear offices.
I followed.
“Your father suggested you use his office, but I didn’t think that was a good idea. So manly in there, all those dark greens and heavy blues. I suggested you set up space in the smaller conference room.” She paused at the door. “There’s a desk, filing cabinets, computer, a phone—everything you should need. Feel free to make yourself at home. You know where the kitchen is and the copier.” As she tapped her chin I could almost see her mental wheels turning. “That should be about all. I’ll be out front if you need me. There’s the buzzer now. I hope that reporter’s not bothering our clients. I’ve tried getting rid of her, but she keeps turning up. I’d better go rescue Ms. Fellows. I’ll give you about five minutes . . . will that be enough time?”
I clutched the portfolios to my chest. “When do you breathe?”
She laughed. It echoed off the soft gray-green walls of the conference room—my new office—and filled the space with happiness. “Every now and again.”
“Five minutes will be plenty.”
I figured since I had no idea what I was doing, it didn’t matter whether I had thirty seconds or two hours.
For the first time I wondered if what I wore was appropriate, but Suzannah had already torn out of the room and it felt silly to call her back for a wardrobe check. The dark jeans, cream-colored tank top, and emerald green blazer would have to do.
5 times 5 is 25.
88 minus 11 is 77.
I settled behind the desk, took out the portfolio for Lola Fellows. My father required his clients to fill out long surveys of likes and dislikes, plus an additional personality test.
He never even glanced at them.
Stapled inside Lola’s folder, I found a small square of fabric in shimmery blue. It was my father’s method of filing. When he looked at Lola, he saw a shimmery blue aura surrounding her. In the past, Dad had used colored pencils to doodle on his clients’ files, and it had been Suz who had introduced him to the world of swatches. He’d been enthralled.
Lola’s first meeting with Dad had been right before his heart attack, so he probably wouldn’t have had time to go through his extensive files to find a match for her.
I heard Suzannah greet Lola. I dashed into my father’s office. From Dad’s filing cabinet I pulled portfolios, starting with the As. It amazed me, the variety of people looking for love. Rich, poor, old, young. My father didn’t charge a flat fee but rather adjusted his rates based on a person’s income. He felt that money should never stand in the way of true love but didn’t mind charging an outrageous fee to those who could afford it.
Ten minutes and almost two hundred files later, I found a match in Adam Atkinson—the identical shimmery blue swatch stapled to the inside of his file.
Breathing deep, I tried to catch a second wind as I headed for the door and called Lola Fellows back to my new office.
As she approached, she held out her hand.
This presented a new dilemma. I didn’t like shaking people’s hands. Hugs were okay, kisses fine. But my particular ability manifested itself through people’s palms. If someone was preoccupied with a belonging they’d lost and then touched my hand, then I’d see the object in an instant.
Hoping the lovely Lola hadn’t lost anything recently, I gave her hand a quick shake.
Nothing.
Thank goodness. It would have been hard to explain how I knew where her favorite pair of earrings had wandered off to.
As we sat, I glanced at Lola’s file. She was young, thirty-two, a financial planner who worked in the John Hancock building. Successful, smart, outgoing if her personality test was any indication.
On paper, it looked as though she had it all.
Except for love.
Sorting through all the frogs in the world to find that one prince was next to impossible. If only everyone could read auras.
Luckily, I had the name of her prince and was ready to pass that information along.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” Lola said, crossing her legs. “I don’t for a second believe what the papers are saying. Oscar is a good man.”
I decided the truth would only hurt, so I kept mum on the fact that my dad was guilty as charged in the pages of the Boston Herald. “Thank you. He’s doing much better now.”
“Will he be back soon?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let me be frank, Ms. Valentine. What qualifies you to find a man for me? Where did you go to school?”
I thought about being sassy and answering, “Pequot Elementary,” but decided that wouldn’t make a good first impression. “I graduated from Bridgewater State.”
She pursed her lips in distaste. Sure, it wasn’t Harvard, but it was a great school—one that I’d worked two jobs to put myself through.
“With a degree in?”
“Business. A minor in English.” I left out my stints as a barista, day-care worker, and dog walker. They probably wouldn’t garner any confidence. Though I had to admit if I could handle walking ten dogs at once, then I could handle just about anything.
This reminded me that I hadn’t been able to handle ten dogs. My dog-walking career had been short-lived.
Lola Fellows had reason to worry.
Her dark eyebrows dipped and unattractive creases formed at the corners of her mouth. “How is that going to help me?”
Perhaps if she wasn’t so bitchy she’d have found a man by now. I almost felt guilty siccing her on poor Adam.
I straightened in my chair. “My qualifications for this job are my genes. Plain and simple. I’m a Valentine. Matching lovers is what we do.”
Raphael would have been proud of me. I almost believed myself.
She drew her crimson bottom lip into her mouth, released it. “All right then. What have you found?”
I spent the next thirty minutes with Lola and the next two hours with various other clients looking for love. The tough ones were the new clients, who didn’t have swatches. I tucked their portfolios away to be studied at home.
I wondered if I earned overtime for homework.
By the time Michael Lafferty sat down across from me, I was starting to believe I could be a decent matchmaker.
He had a swatch and everything. A bold orange color highlighted with shades of red. I hadn’t been able to find a similar swatch in the quick search of my father’s cabinet, which meant I’d need to have him come back. Until then: Stall.
I asked the prerequisite questions about background (Michael and two o
lder sisters were raised by single mom), his age (twenty-nine), his job (a mechanic), where he lived (in the blue-collar community of North Weymouth), and his religion (Catholic). He was tall, nearly six-two, and on the skinny side of healthy. He had bright blue eyes, dark hair, fair skin.
The type of guy girls tripped over themselves for.
Yet here he was.
“Have you been married before?” I asked.
“Nah. Engaged once.”
“How long ago?”
“Almost six years ago, and I’m going to be up front, Ms. Valentine. I still love her—the girl I was engaged to.”
“Ah. Might make matching you a challenge.”
“I certainly haven’t had any luck on my own, getting over her. That’s why I’m here.”
Curious, I set his portfolio down. His tone tugged at my sappy heartstrings. To still be in love with someone so many years later. “What happened?” My melodramatic mind was already playing “Love Story” in my head.
“Long, sad story.”
I could practically see Ryan O’Neal and Ali MacGraw.
Knowing wouldn’t help me find him a match—all I needed for that was more time in my father’s files. But I couldn’t help myself. “I’ve got time. It might help in the whole matching process,” I bluffed.
He shrugged. “Her name is Jennifer Thompson.”
The way he spoke, full of longing, made me wonder if another woman stood a chance against such strong memories. Would finding him a match be ethical on my part?
“Jennifer and me, well, we fell in love early on. We were high school sweethearts. Dated since tenth grade.”
“Wow. That’s really young.”
“Sometimes love is just right. You know?”
Nope. Not a clue. Thanks to Cupid’s Curse.
“We’d been together seven years. I proposed to her when we graduated high school—my mom gave me a family ring to give to her. It was an heirloom, passed down in my family for generations. We were planning to get married as soon as she finished college. You know how it goes.”
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