Somebody to Love

by Unknown

  Jericho already knew that.

  “Because you did some of your undergraduate course work at Sul Ross and served as an intern here at the center, that gives you another leg up.” Dr. Sinton tapped his desk with an index finger, pounding out a slow, steady beat.

  He knew that too.

  “And hell, I’m just going to say it. I like you, Jericho.”

  He knew that as well.

  “But …”

  Yep, here it came.

  “You’ve got the stink of that mess at the University of Utah on you, son.”

  “It was a personal matter that leached into the professional arena when it shouldn’t have,” Jericho said. “I regret that.”

  “I’m all for giving a man a chance,” Dr. Sinton said. “But I’ve got a stack of qualified applicants and a board that prefers to walk the path of least resistance. I can’t make you any promises.”

  “I don’t expect any favors, sir. I just asked to be judged on my professional merits.”

  “As you are well aware, academic politics just doesn’t work that way.”

  Jericho nodded. “Is this an outright rejection?”

  “No, no. I’m going to bat for you with the board. I’m simply preparing you for the reality of what you’re up against.”

  “I appreciate your candor.”

  Dr. Sinton stood up. Jericho followed suit.

  “The board meets on Friday morning. You’ll have our answer by noon.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dr. Sinton reached across the desk to shake his hand. “On future applications, feel free to put down my name. I’ll give you a good reference.”

  Was that code for you-don’t-stand-achance-in-hell-of-getting-this-job? If he couldn’t get a job on hometown turf, where could he get one?

  “I appreciate that.” He headed for the door.

  “Jericho?”

  He stopped, turned back.

  “You’ll get past this. Don’t beat yourself up too hard. We’ve all been there in one way or another.”

  Yeah, maybe so, but I bet you never slugged your dean.

  “I DESPAIR THAT Zoey is ever going to grow up. She turns twenty-four in two months and she still can’t manage to show up on time.”

  At the sound of her name, Zoey screeched to a halt in the hallway of the Cupid Community Center outside the open door leading to the room where the love letter volunteers gathered. It was Natalie’s voice.

  Way to stab your only sibling in the back, sis.

  The kitten squirmed inside the backpack that she carried in front of her. Zoey stuck her hand through the open zipper to stroke Eggy’s fur. He popped his head out and licked the back of her hand with his rough little tongue.

  Aww. She was already incautiously in love with the little guy. Bad idea to get too attached too soon, he probably belonged to someone.

  “Zoey’s still young. Some of us are late bloomers.” Aunt Sandra’s voice drifted out into the corridor.

  “I read where chronic tardiness is a control mechanism,” added Aunt Carol Ann. If anyone knew about control mechanisms it was she.

  “Control mechanism? How is tardiness a control mechanism?” Natalie asked. “To me it shows a clear lack of control.”

  “No, no,” Carol Ann said. “You misunderstand. Zoey’s tardiness isn’t about her self-control. Subconsciously, she does it to control us.”

  Zoey bit her bottom lip. What a load of hockey pucks and for that matter, a bit narcissistic on Carol Ann’s part.

  “We gotta face the fact that Zoey is probably never going to change,” said Great-Aunt Delia. “And simply love her for who she is, just as we forgive you, Carol Ann, for sometimes being a tight ass.”

  Zoey snickered. That was sweet. She wanted to kiss Great-Aunt Delia’s wrinkled cheek.

  Natalie’s sigh was audible, even from where Zoey was standing. “I just wished she could commit to something. Most people could have gotten two undergraduate degrees in the amount of time it’s taking her to get one.”

  “Be fair. She has stuck with archaeology for over a year now,” Junie Mae Prufrock contributed. Junie Mae ran the LaDeDa Day Spa and Hair Salon next door to Natalie’s B&B. She was the only one of the eight regular members of the volunteers that Zoey wasn’t related to and she was also Jericho’s stepgrandmother. “That’s an improvement.”

  “Yes, but I’ve been braced for that to come to an end,” Natalie said. “She is finishing up all the courses she can take at Sul Ross and I have a feeling she only went into archaeology to impress Jericho. If she’s serious she’s going to have to transfer out of the area to finish her degree. I’m wondering if maybe that is why she’s dragging her feet. Fear of leaving her plushly feathered nest and not being able to make it on her own.”

  Zoey puffed out her cheeks with air. That wasn’t the reason. Was it?

  “Malheureusement, I suppose it’s our fault,” came the dulcet tones of Mignon Martin, a distant cousin by marriage. While Mignon spoke impeccable English, she still punctuated her sentences with French words. She’d been born and raised in Loire, France. She and her husband, Michael, ran Mon Amour, one of three local vineyards. “Zoey was only two when your parents died and we pampered her.” She pronounced her name Zoo-ee.

  “Plus, she’s the youngest of all you girls, spoiling her was our pleasure,” Great-Aunt Delia pointed out.

  “It’s true,” Natalie said. “We’ve never demanded anything of her.”

  “It was easy to let her slide,” Sandra added. “She has such a sunny personality and she’s never down in the dumps.”

  Zoey shifted the backpack to the crook of her arm. Well, maybe not never, but true enough she rarely battled bouts of the blues.

  “She’s too impulsive,” Carol Ann said.

  “Spontaneous to a fault,” Sandra agreed.

  “That’s the main thing that trips her up in life,” Carol Ann continued. “We should have made her stick with a few things. How many activities was she involved in as a kid?”

  “Ballet, softball, soccer, Girl Scouts, volleyball, golf, track, choir, science camp, piano lessons, drum lessons, saxophone. You name it, Zoey tried it.” That was from Junie Mae. “None of which she stuck with for more than a couple of weeks.”

  What was this? Kick-Zoey-in-the-teeth-for-no-good-reason day? This was where eavesdropping got you, finding out things you really didn’t want to hear. She should stroll right in there, head held high, and act like they had not been bashing her nine ways to Sunday.

  Natalie cleared her throat. “We’re blaming ourselves for the way Zoey has turned out. We might have influenced her behavior, yes, but at some point she has to assume responsibility for her actions.”

  “Maybe we should hold an intervention,” Sandra said. “You know, like they do for alcoholics and drug addicts and gamblers.”

  Say what? Zoey felt sick to her stomach. She shouldn’t have stopped for that Taco Bell burrito. Uh-huh, go ahead and convince yourself it’s the burrito and not the fact your family is dissing you for being an impulsive slacker.

  “Do you think she might have attention deficit disorder or something?” Junie Mae asked.

  “I’ve always thought so,” Carol Ann said. “But she made straight A’s in school so they never had her tested for it.”

  “She’s dead good at puzzles,” Sandra said. “She can take one overview glance and see where pieces belong and solve them lickety-split. She’s a sharp girl, even if she’s restless.”

  “Zoey’s issue is more impulse control than anything else,” Natalie said. “She can’t seem to stop herself from acting on whatever random thought pops into her head.”

  Mignon clucked her tongue. “Dommage, she can’t seem to live up to her potential.”

  Zoey blinked against the sudden moisture clinging to her lashes. Damn, she must have gotten something in her eye.

  At that moment, the door to the ladies’ restroom opened and her first cousin Melody exited, pushing a sweep of thick, golden blond
hair from her forehead. She dressed simply but elegantly, in pressed khaki capri pants, a black scoop neck T-shirt, strappy black sandals, and a gold cuff bracelet on her wrist.

  Melody, who was the oldest of Carol Ann’s three children and her only daughter, was a Madison Avenue advertising executive home on vacation. She was substituting on the volunteer committee for their cousin Lace, the curator of the Cupid Botanical Gardens, who was on her honeymoon in Costa Rica with her new husband, ex-quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, Pierce Hollister.

  Growing up, Melody had been Zoey’s role model. The one who got away and made good in the big city. But Zoey’s interest in archaeology had gradually sapped her cravings for city life. While she did like fashion and makeup and going to parties and those kinds of things, she was at heart a simple country girl. She’d rather dig in the dirt than go shopping—most of the time, anyway.

  “Hey cuz, what are you doing lurking out here?”

  “Just heading in.” Zoey forced a bright smile and followed her cousin into the room.

  The women gathered around the oblong table spread with stacks of love letters, turned to look at her, and for the first time, she didn’t see their familiar faces, but instead saw them through the dispassionate lens of a detached observer—noticing, listening, honing her new anthropological skills.

  It was the little things that spoke loudest: Mignon’s vintage Pelikan fountain pen with the gold nib illustrating her flair for both the romantic and the finer things in life. The gentle way Natalie rested a protective hand on her belly, already madly in love with the baby boy who wouldn’t be born for another four months. Carol Ann’s flawlessly ironed crisp white blouse, refined gray pencil skirt, and black boots polished to a reflective shine. The neon yellow tennis balls cut to fit the bottom of Great-Aunt Delia’s aluminum walker so she could push it across the floor instead of having to lift the walker with each step. Junie Mae’s blond hair teased so high that if she were to dye it blue she could pass for Marge Simpson. The easygoing dark freckles dotting Sandra’s caramel-colored nose and the intricate stitching of Melody’s stylish designer handbag. Each detail told her something about them.

  What would an anthropologist deduce about her clothes, hairstyles, and possessions? Did she really want to know?

  “What on earth is that moving around in your backpack?” Carol Ann asked.

  Eggy popped his head out.

  “A kitten?” Natalie said in that I-know-best, big-sister tone of hers. “Do not tell me you’ve adopted a kitten.”

  “Okay.” Zoey took Eggy out of the backpack and plunked down at the table with him in her lap. “I won’t tell you.”

  The Siamese curled up into a ball and started purring. She didn’t have to tell how she and Eggy had gotten off to a rocky start. Things were copacetic between them now.

  “Zoey, really.” Her sister shook her head.

  “What?” Okay, so maybe her nose was out of joint over the conversation she’d overheard. “Why can’t I adopt a cat?”

  The women sitting around the table exchanged glances. The looks on their faces said, Maybe this is a prime time for that intervention.

  “Honey,” Sandra said. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

  “What’s the big deal? So I’m adopting a cat.” She shrugged. “People do it all the time.”

  “A pet is a big responsibility.” Junie Mae fondled her blow-dryer earrings.

  Zoey looked around the table. First Jericho and now her family and friends? Sheesh. Was that how people truly saw her? As flighty and incompetent? She thought of herself as bubbly and outgoing. “You guys don’t think I can take care of a cat.”

  “It’s not that,” Mignon placated, her numerous bracelets jangling when she waved her hand. “You’re just so busy.”

  “Let’s not pussyfoot around this,” Great-Aunt Delia said. “You’re too unreliable for a pet. They need to be fed and taken to the vet and cleaned up after.”

  “I can do that.” Zoey stroked the kitten’s fur.

  “You don’t have the best track record when it comes to long-term commitment,” Melody chimed in.

  “First time for everything,” Zoey said blithely against the sting of their criticism.

  “What’s the longest time you’ve kept a boyfriend?” Melody prodded. “Four months?”

  “Twenty years.”

  Melody’s perfectly arched eyebrows shot up. “Who is that?”

  “Jericho.”

  “Oh him.” Melody waved a hand. “He’s just a friend. That doesn’t count.”

  “Why not?”

  “It takes a lot more to maintain a romantic relationship than a friendship.” Melody picked up a Cupid letter from the stack in the middle of the table. “Should we get back to work?”

  The older women exchanged glances again.

  “Miss Melody,” Junie Mae said stiffly. “Friendships take just as much TLC as romantic relationships.”

  Melody’s mouth dropped open, but before she could retaliate, bare knuckles rapped against the open door.

  “Good afternoon, ladies!” Walker McCleary boomed.

  Walker was Zoey and Natalie’s father’s first cousin and patriarch of the Cupid McClearys. He wore his salt and pepper hair parted straight down the middle, round wire-frame glasses, and a bristly mustache. Cookie duster, he called it. He was built like a rain barrel, round and stout, and wore colorful suspenders to keep his pants up. He looked quite a bit like Teddy Roosevelt. Today, he sported hunter green suspenders over a sage-colored Oxford shirt with white cuffs and collars, and his white pharmacist lab coat was thrown over the ensemble.

  How cool was that? Just when she wanted to speak to Walker about money for the summer field school, he appeared.

  Everyone greeted him with hearty hellos.

  Zoey pushed back her chair, the metal legs scraping loudly against the tile floor because she moved so fast, and she almost hopped to her feet, but a pair of tiny claws dug into her skin. Oops, that was right, she had a cat in her lap. She was a pet owner now—well, maybe, if Eggy didn’t belong to someone else—and she had to be more careful.

  “What brings you to our little klatch, Walker?” Carol Ann asked.

  Walker’s eyes were bright and his face flushed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. For a big man, he was entertainingly nimble. He paused for a moment, swept his gaze around the room. “Exciting news.”

  “Well?” Great-Aunt Delia said. “Spit it out, man. Some of us are living on borrowed time.”

  Walker rubbed his palms together like he was trying to start a fire. “My book about August McCleary has hit the New York Times bestseller list!”

  Everyone clapped and cheered.

  Walker raised a silencing palm, his grin spreading opossum-eating big. “But that’s not the best part.”

  The other women all leaned forward in their chairs.

  “Universal Studios wants to option A Time to Heal. It’s going to be a movie!”

  That brought them all to their feet. Congratulating him effusively, they shook his hand, pounded him on the back, and asked a hundred questions. How much money would he get? Would they film any of the scenes in Cupid? What actor would play August McCleary? That last question had them off and running.

  “I think they should cast Sam Elliot.” Junie Mae sighed. “What a voice.”

  “George Clooney.” Carol Ann swooned.

  “Vincent Cassel.” Mignon smiled.

  “Denzel Washington,” Sandra opined.

  “He’s African American,” Carol Ann pointed out.

  “So?” Sandra sank her hands on her hips. “Denzel’s got the acting chops to pull it off.”

  Everyone nodded over that. Denzel could pull off just about anything.

  “Sean Connery,” Great-Aunt Delia suggested.

  “He’s Scottish,” Natalie said. “The McClearys are Irish.”

  “And he’s far too old,” Melody insisted. “All those actors you guys are naming are too old. August was onl
y thirty-nine when he compounded the medication that stopped the Spanish flu in its track here in the Trans-Pecos. Colin Farrell is perfect for the job.”

  “He is Irish,” Natalie conceded.

  Carol Ann nodded. “And quite handsome.”

  “Not to mention a very good actor,” Junie Mae added.

  “Clearly you ladies don’t understand anything about moviemaking,” Walker said, as if he knew everything there was to know about the art. “Less than ten percent of movies that are optioned actually end up getting made.”

  Everyone looked crestfallen over that news.

  “Well,” Natalie said. “You did make the New York Times list. That’s something.”

  That stirred another mob of questions.

  Zoey tucked Eggy into the crook of her arm. Since Walker was walking on air, it was the perfect time to hit him up for money. “Cousin Walker,” she called over the noise, and waved her hand like she was signaling an airplane in for landing.

  “Wait, wait.” Walker raised stop-sign palms. “All the details will be discussed at my private party tonight at Chantilly’s. Open bar.”

  That brought more cheering and applause.

  “Woot!” Zoey exclaimed. “But there’s something important I have to ask you, it’s not about your book or the movie—”

  Hold up, Miss Spontaneous-to-a-Fault. Is this really the right time and way to ask? Why not save it for the party after Walker has a few drinks in him and you’ve got Jericho as backup? C’mon, prove to yourself, if not to everyone else, that you can control your impulsiveness.

  “What is it, Zoey?” Walker asked.

  Proudly, she held her tongue, and instead of bugging him about paying for her field school, she asked, “May I bring a friend?”

  Chapter 3

  Flint: A hard, brittle stone, usually a type of chalk or limestone that can be flaked in any direction and easily shaped.

  “I WISH people would quit fawning over Walker and give someone else a chance at him.” Zoey tossed a peanut into the air and with an upturned face, caught it smoothly in her open mouth.