Make Me a Match

by Diana Holquist

  Amy dangled him from his right heel, his double-breasted jacket flapping helplessly. “Does Barbie know about this?”

  Jasmine sunk onto the couch opposite Amy. She ran her hand over the flannel throw she had tossed over the couch, sensing the red through her fingertips. “Oh! There he is! I was just, um, designing costumes for a new play. He’s a—prototype.” The lie tasted stale in her mouth. She shrugged, trying to hide her dismay.

  “Your cheeks match this throw cover, honey.” Amy leaned forward and studied Jasmine closely, as if noticing her for the first time, which was likely the case. “Look at you! What are you wearing? Under your robe? It looks like—” Amy poked and pulled at Jasmine. “Something sexy.”

  Jasmine scurried to the far end of the couch, pushing Amy away with her bare foot. Actually, she had made the teddy in anticipation of a blind date last Thursday that she fled from following a panic attack. Twenty dollars of black Italian lace, almost wasted, until she got to the interview exercise. She tried not to think about that awful almost-date—gasping for breath, her racing heart.

  Amy smoothed the creases in Ken’s slacks, her eyebrows raised, waiting.

  Jasmine took a deep breath. “Ken’s part of an exercise to help me get ready for an interview. I’m supposed to pretend he’s the interviewer. The teddy is to make me feel vulnerable.”

  Amy shoved Jasmine a touch too hard to be playful. “When will you stop reading those con-job self-help books and let me help you get over this stupid man thing?”

  “It’s not a man thing. It’s a job thing.” Jasmine rubbed her shoulder, easing out the sting of the shove. “It’s a shot at an assistant position with Arturo Mastriani, the top costume designer in New York. He’s—”

  “He’s a man.”

  Jasmine studied her beautiful sister. Smudged kohl rimmed her dark eyes. Her wild black hair, tangling into her legendary cleavage, seemed alive with her constant motion. Under her sheepskin coat, every inch of her clothes sparkled despite the dim light, as if lit by Amy’s excess energy. She was gypsy from headscarf to toe ring.

  Jasmine looked down at her own plain bathrobe wrapping her straight, thin body. The only thing gypsy about her was the blackness of her hair, as if every drop of her gypsy heritage were trying to escape through the top of her head to a more gypsy-worthy life in another body. The rest of her was pale and drained. “What’s going on?” Jasmine tried again to direct the conversation back to Amy.

  “Right. Okay. I’m gonna tell you straight. I need $2,000. By Wednesday.”

  That was just nine days away. “What about Cecelia?” Cecelia was their doctor sister who lived with Amy. The one with the cash.

  “She’s kinda the one I owe the money. We had a little, um, disagreement.”

  The sisters sat in silence. Amy surely owed Cecelia more than $2,000; she borrowed money from Cecelia all the time, with only the faintest notion of paying her back. This had to be about more than money.

  “I sort of pawned one of Cecelia’s rings,” Amy admitted. “How could I have known it was her engagement ring? She’s got so much jewelry, I thought she wouldn’t miss one little bauble. Just until I got back on my feet.”

  “Oh, Amy.” Jasmine was about to launch into a sermon on “borrowing” when she noticed Amy giving her a weird, sideways smile. “What?”

  “Forget it.”

  “What?” Jasmine knew that smile.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking. No.” She shook her head, but her smile was growing. She shrugged out of her coat and stretched her arms like a cat. A sparkly, satisfied cat. Her shirt was skin-tight sheer black rayon stitched through with multi-colored glittering thread. Her skirt was shiny, black, flowing, and to her ankles. An enormous silver belt cinched her waist.

  “Amy? What?”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you the Name of your One True Love for two thousand bucks.”

  A pulse of electricity shot through Jasmine. The thrill of finally knowing her One True Love’s name battled with anger and disgust. How could Amy have known all along, and not told her? “You can’t read the Names anymore,” Jasmine reminded her sister.

  “True. But I read yours two Thanksgivings ago. Cecelia had roasted that huge turkey, and you asked me to pass you the peas and—Bam!—there it was clear as day!”

  Jasmine’s whole body suddenly went cold. “You spilled those peas in my lap.” Was Amy telling the truth? “You heard the name of my One True Love as Destined by Fate and all I got was a lap full of peas?” Jasmine jumped off the couch. She paced, her arms crossed. Gypsy hospitality rules mandated that she not throw Amy out—but it was tempting.

  “Look, Jas, I promised Cecelia I would never, ever tell you your Named. But now that Cecelia’s cut me off—to hell with her!” Amy wagged her eyebrows. “I know you want to know. It was Cecelia who wouldn’t let me tell.”

  Jasmine considered her drunk sister. Her stomach churned with apprehension. “Why wouldn’t she let you tell?”

  “She thought you weren’t—um, ready.”

  Jasmine felt her anger build. Cecelia had no right to decide something like this for her. Or Amy. Her pacing became furious. How could she not be ready? This was the moment Jasmine had spent her life preparing for. The perfect man—quiet and kind. He’d want to stay in and watch old movies, eat microwave popcorn, make soft, quiet love. And maybe, just maybe, with this man at her side, she’d be freed of her disabling anxiety—

  No. Wait. Why would Cecelia have wanted to keep the truth a secret? Her One True Love was beyond awful. He was married to a woman named Melba and had seven tow-headed kids all under the age of ten. Okay. Stop pacing. Pull yourself together. Jasmine somehow made it to her kitchen—a counter, a tiny sink, a two-burner stove and a mini-fridge all shoved up against the wall.

  Her Named.

  Amy charging her for telling.

  She pushed aside the fashion magazines and remnant books stacked on the Formica counter until she found the bottle of Burgundy she had bought for her aborted date. She poured herself a generous glass, mesmerized momentarily by the deepness of its red. She got out a glass for Amy, considered the empty vodka bottle, then put the glass back.

  Jasmine took a swig of her wine. Yes, she had been waiting for this moment all her life, but now that it was here, she remembered how complicated it could be. She felt sick to her stomach. “My True Love is that awful?”

  “Forget the money,” Amy said suddenly. “I’m sorry. I’ll tell you the Name if you want to know. I should have told you before.”

  Jasmine let her eyes drift between Fashion Designer Ken and Lying Blackmailer Amy. Jasmine tried to stay focused. I want to know the name. That was the most important thing. Amy was Amy—impossible, rude, thoughtless. But the name was the thing. “I’ll find you the money if you need money. You could have just asked.” Jasmine thought of the $2,324 she had in the bank. It was every penny she had made this month and she stilled owed $1,721 rent. But if she got this job with Arturo—

  She was going to get the job with Arturo! If she gave Amy the money, then she’d really have to go through with the interview. She’d have to nail it. Going totally broke was the incentive she needed. Maybe Fate was trying to give her more than just True Love. Maybe Fate was offering up a whole new life. “Do you know him?” she blurted.

  “Sort of.”

  “Do I know him?” A lump formed in her throat.

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?” Pressure was building in Jasmine’s head. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Yes.” No.

  Amy knelt down regally in front of the coffee table her back upright, her head high, playing up the moment. “Your One True Love as destined by Fate. The one man on the planet destined to be your soul mate—”

  Jasmine leaned forward. A flutter ran through her. Okay, it was a man. That was good.

  Amy closed her eyes. “$2,000?”

  Get rid of my savings. Force myself into action. Be bold. Be brave. “$2,000. But you’ve g
ot to pay me back.”

  Amy opened her eyes. Two black coals blazed from her heart-shaped face. “Your One True Love—”

  Jasmine’s stomach clenched.

  Amy sighed, and then shrugged. “Josh Toby, Jas. That’s the thing. His name is Josh Toby.”

  Jasmine laughed. “Josh Toby?” Of all the men in the world, her True Love had the same name of the biggest movie star of the decade? It was absurd. Josh Toby, as any woman with a pulse knew, was the three-year-in-a-row Sexiest Man Alive according to People Magazine. His face was plastered on the wall of every thirteen-year-old girl’s bedroom in America. He was married to Julie Po, last year’s Sexiest Woman Alive and star of the Agent X HBO series that made her almost as famous as her husband.

  Jasmine got the shakes talking to a doll and she was supposed to go out and seduce Josh Toby?

  “It might not be that Josh Toby. There must be others,” Amy suggested.

  Right. Possibly. But what if it was that Josh Toby? Jasmine felt betrayed. How could her One True Love be someone so unattainable, so wrong? Hell, Jed the pig farmer looked good next to this guy. Jasmine didn’t have to follow the tabloids to know Josh Toby was not a stay-in-and-watch-DVD’s kind of guy.

  An image of Josh Toby’s blue-purple eyes flashed in her mind. It was from his last movie—the one with the terrorists. Jasmine’s stomach jumped. The guy is gorgeous.

  Amy stood. “I know. He doesn’t seem your type.”

  Could a man that sexy, practically feral, be her type?

  The possibility seeped through every pore of Jasmine’s body, and then drained right out. She was empty. She thought that everything would change once she knew her True Love’s Name. But everything was exactly the same. She had a Name, sure, but she was still her same old self. Going out and acting on the Name was impossible. Hell, she couldn’t even get up enough nerve for a job interview.

  Her job interview.

  What was she thinking? She couldn’t just run off looking for some famous movie star. She had to prepare for Arturo. “Well, so much for that.”

  Amy was back at the window, staring out into the black night. Her red fingernails tapped out Morse code for don’t be an idiot on the glass.

  “If he were the guy next door, I’d go to dinner with him,” Jasmine explained. “But Josh Toby?”

  Amy stopped tapping and spun around. “You wouldn’t, though. You wouldn’t go to dinner with the guy next door and you know it.” Her eyes were blazing with challenge.

  Jasmine thought of her last blind-date-turned-200-yard dash. “I would.” Cripes, her voice sounded so lame, she didn’t even believe herself.

  “Face it, Jas. You have a man problem.”

  Jasmine looked at Ken. Did a grown woman playing with dolls constitute a problem? “It’s just a little anxiety.”

  Amy put her hands firmly on her hips. “Can’t you for one minute stop thinking of yourself and think of poor Josh? That sweet guy has been through a lot and maybe you’re the one woman who could help him.”

  “Me, help him?” Jasmine was flabbergasted. “He doesn’t need me.” She pushed past Amy and yanked the curtains shut again. Maybe she could sew them shut until Amy left.

  “You don’t know that, Jas. The voice has spoken for the very last time. There must be a reason it came back one last time just for you.”

  Jasmine imagined meeting Josh. The lightning bolt of True Love would strike as they saw each other across a crowded, smoky ballroom. They would hurry out of the ballroom and onto the moon-dark balcony where they would swear their eternal, passionate love.

  Okay, it was a little corny, but it wasn’t so far-fetched. Jasmine believed deep down that she was meant for bigger things than cuffs on her neighbors’ pants. Somewhere in a hidden part of her soul, she believed that if she had her chance, she could be loved by a man like Josh Toby.

  Or could she? What if she couldn’t? What if she were just exactly what she seemed to be? A scared, timid person afraid to leave her apartment and go after her dreams?

  THE DISH

  Where authors give you the inside scoop!

  From the desks of Diana Holquist and Kelley St. John

  Dear Readers,

  Pirates and gypsies, swords and prophecies, ruffled shirts and peasant skirts—all in present-day America! It is so cool that we get to write this letter about two books with so much in common. So gather up your eye patch, your crystal ball, and your handsome hero and settle in to learn what happens when two authors discuss their unique book pairing in this author-to-author interview.

  Diana: So, Kelley, some scenes from your book Real Women Don’t Wear Size 2 (on sale now) take place at Gasparilla. What the heck is that? And what do your characters do there?

  Kelley: You don’t know what Gasparilla is? Where are you from?

  Diana: I’m a northener. Hey, you thought my book took place in Boston. It’s Baltimore.

  Kelley: B-cities. Whatever. They’re all cold. But to answer your question, Gasparilla is a festival that takes place every year in Tampa, where prominent businessmen dress up as pirates, board the Jose Gasparilla ship, and storm Tampa (even requiring the mayor to surrender the city each year). My heroine, Clarise, is a curvy lady who has no trouble helping other ladies embrace their voluptuous figures, but has never completely ventured out of her own shell. She heads to Gasparilla to find her wild side amid the adventurous pirates.

  Diana: I love pirates! I mean, I love my husband, but I love reading about pirates. My book is full of gypsies. Kelley: Gypsies and pirates are always getting mixed up. (Sort of like, you know, Boston and Baltimore . . . ) Diana: Exactly. Put on an eyepatch and a ruffled shirt, and what’s the difference? (Oooh, my heroine would be mad if she heard me say that!) But the point is, pirates and gypsies can really set a modern woman free.

  Kelley: Mmmmm . . . I certainly like a ruffled shirt. Though Seinfeld’s puffy shirt didn’t do a thing for me. Does your hero wear one? (A ruffled shirt, that is, not a puffy one.)

  Diana: My hero is a carpenter, so he’s a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy. But Cecelia, my heroine, is on the cover of Make Me a Match (on sale now) in full gypsy regalia. Although she could be a pirate, if you squinted. Kelley: Love that cover! And your gypsy can tell the name of a person’s One True Love?

  Diana: Exactly. Imagine what would happen if you really did have One True Love on this earth—and a gypsy psychic could tell you his name. Of course, he might be your worst nightmare. Or maybe, like Cecelia in my book, you’re already engaged to someone else and you don’t want anything to do with your One True Love—or your gypsy heritage.

  Kelley: Or what if you weren’t sure your One True Love would appreciate your abundance of, er, curves. My heroine, Clarise, is finally going to let her curves shine for her friend/boss/fantasy, Ethan Eubanks, at Gasparilla. Did I mention Gasparilla is like Mardi Gras, but with pirates and swords? Clarise wants to set her inhibitions, and her Robinson Treasures, free. (I’ll let you guess about those Robinson Treasures.) So tell me, can your gypsy really know Cecelia’s One True Love? Or is that something I get to learn when I read your fabulous book?

  Diana: What? Sorry, I was busy wondering about those Treasures . . . You know, I think I’ve had enough of this chatting. I’ve got to get reading.

  Kelley: Sounds like a great idea. Judging from your feisty cover, I can tell that Cecelia is ready to have a whole lot of fun and find a whole lot of love. Her One True Love, right?

  Diana: Exactly. Well, maybe. Sometimes, you know, gypsies lie.

  So readers, we’re giving you a taste of pirates and gypsies, shapely women and psychics, and that ideal (and sometimes, not so ideal) situation when you meet that One True Love. Read them and let us know what you think! We’d love to hear from you!

  Sincerely,

  Diana Holquist

  Make Me A Match

  www.dianaholquist.com

  Kelley St. John

  Real Women Don’t Wear Size 2

  www.kelleystjohn.com
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