Hell, I might even have been devastated.
Chapter Four
Verda squinted at the space her grandson had just vacated, confusion paling her rosy pink complexion to a pasty white. She jiggled her head and wispy strands of lemon yellow hair tousled forward. I wanted to leave. I also wanted to offer comfort.
Which was nuts. Sure, Verda seemed like a nice enough lady, but come on. I needed a shower. I needed to brush my teeth. I needed to get to work. More than anything, though, I yearned to be alone. I didn’t know Scot all that well, so his comments and behavior were highly uncalled-for. They also hurt and more than made sense. Far more than I cared to admit.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I really have to get going.” I winced at my harsher-than-intended tone. Softening it, I said, “Thanks for everything, but I—”
“This isn’t supposed to happen this way,” Verda said, her voice one notch above a whisper. Her lips screwed into a pucker and she twisted her fingers together. “I’ve been planning this for months. I wrote everything down, every little detail, just so . . .”
“Okay. Well.” I edged closer to the hallway. “Thank you for not having me arrested. And for the coffee. Oh, and for . . . um . . . trying to fix me up with Scot. I don’t understand why. We have nothing in common, but thanks.”
This snagged Verda’s attention. Focusing on me, she frowned. “Do you know my grandson?”
Oh. Why’d I open my big mouth? “Sort of. He dated a friend for a while.” And because Leslie always shared pretty much everything about the men she went out with, I had zero doubts about my lack of compatibility with Scot. “We’ve met a few times.”
Myriad tiny lines in Verda’s forehead deepened. “Is this one of the friends you mentioned earlier?”
“Leslie Meyers,” I confirmed, happy to pass on any information that might divert Verda’s concentration from me. “She and Kara Lysecki are clients of yours.” I backed up another step. Maybe I could slip away without Verda noticing?
No. Fate wasn’t going to be so kind.” This is the man whom Leslie wishes she’d handled things differently with?” Verda asked. “My grandson?”
I nodded. “But this isn’t really my business. You should talk to Leslie about it.” Maybe, with Verda’s help, Leslie would get her second chance with Scot. My heart skipped a beat at that thought. Out of happiness for Leslie, of course.
“Was I wrong?” Verda’s shoulders slumped. “I was so sure you were the one.”
“Why?” I demanded. I shouldn’t have asked. I mean, Verda believed in soul mates. I didn’t. What else was there? “Why were you so sure? You’ve never met me before today!”
“I suppose it’s possible I misinterpreted the signs,” she said, mostly to herself. Then she shook herself, as if waking up from a dream. “But you said the front door was unlocked last night, and when you tried to leave, it wouldn’t open.”
I reined in my frustration. “Yes. I don’t know why the door was open, but I figured the lock broke. But that doesn’t seem to be the case.” Since, you know, Scot breezed in and out in under ten minutes flat. Ugh. Why did that hurt? I hated that it hurt. Verda’s question replayed in my mind, and suddenly, I understood her madness. Or I thought I did. “Wait a minute. You thought because I was stuck here, that was some sort of a sign?”
Verda huffed out a tiny breath. “I believe in signs, Julia. I believe in a lot of things.”
“But that doesn’t mean—”
“I didn’t fib to you earlier, young lady. I opened Magical Matchups with the primary purpose of finding Scot’s soul mate. When I discovered you here this morning, on the heels of Miranda insisting I get here quickly, I believed you were that woman.”
“Uh-uh. Not me. Sorry.” Could crazy be compelling? Because I had to admit, Verda talked a little—okay, a lot—loony, but somehow I was also weirdly drawn to her. “Listen. Last night wasn’t a sign. Sometimes, things that seemingly don’t make any sense just happen. An unusual conglomeration of coincidences. That’s all last night was.”
“Hm. Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll have to give this . . . predicament . . . more thought.” Verda collapsed into her seat. Wrapping her hands around her teacup, she asked, “But neither your phone nor mine worked?”
I sighed but kept my voice even. “Correct. May I leave now?” Okay, technically I didn’t have to ask for Verda’s permission to leave, but she looked shaken and wasn’t exactly young. Every good manner I’d ever learned prevented me from walking away.
“Please humor an old lady for a few more minutes. I’m feeling a bit . . .” She blinked several times and fanned her face. “Faint.”
I narrowed my eyes. She’d grinned for a split second. I was sure of it. Mostly sure, anyway, but what if I was wrong? “A few more minutes,” I agreed, joining her at the table. “Do you need anything? Can I call someone for you? This Miranda person you keep mentioning, perhaps?”
“Call Miranda? What a delightful idea.” Verda chuckled, more amused than seemed warranted. “No, dear. Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be fine shortly.”
Patience is not a strong suit of mine, but I tried. I really did. I picked at a raspberry and chocolate pastry while waiting for Verda to give some type of indication that she was feeling better, so I could escape and carry on with my day. After a while, though—probably no more than ten minutes—the quiet unnerved me. “Um . . . what time do you normally open for business?”
My voice startled her enough that she flinched. “Oh, I operate by appointment only. I don’t have anyone coming in today until early afternoon.”
“That’s . . . nice.” Wow. Walk-ins were a large part of my business. How could she be so successful with an appointment-only process? I so wanted to pick her brain, but doing so would open up questions I’d rather avoid. Like, why was I so interested?
Verda sipped more of her tea, her expression vacant, already lost in thought. I fidgeted, looked at my watch, and fidgeted some more. A shiver skittered down my spine at the same instant something pulled Verda out of her haze. Her blue eyes darkened a shade. A rush of pink returned to her cheeks. Angling her neck, she centered her gaze to the right of me and nodded. The corners of her mouth bowed upward in a slight smile—but I’d have bet every dollar in my bank account that she wasn’t smiling at me.
I swiveled in my seat, my heart in my mouth, somehow thinking that I’d find someone standing behind me. Scot, maybe. Why that thought was so appealing, I didn’t know. But no. Verda and I were still alone. The faintest whiff of a fragrance floated by. Roses. Again.
“What is that?” I asked Verda, immediately reminded of last night’s bone-chilling, inexplicable fear. “What is that smell? Do you have one of those scented furnace filters or something?” Please, please let that be the case.
“Wh-What?” Verda asked, nearly spilling tea in her shock. “What’s that, dear?”
“The roses, Verda. I noticed the scent last night, and again just now, but I haven’t seen flowers anywhere.” I came off like an idiot. I knew it, but so what? “What is it from?”
“Oh, the roses?” Excitement pitched Verda’s voice higher. “You can smell them?”
“Yes! How could I not?”
Verda exhaled a breath—if I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn in relief. She jiggled in her seat and mirth danced in her eyes. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it? You can smell the flowers!” Leaping to her feet, she grabbed my hands and squeezed. “Isn’t this wonderful?”
I wouldn’t go quite that far. “Um. Sure. I suppose.” I pulled out of her grip. “But where are the roses?”
“Oh, they’re not real.” Calmer now, she stared at me a few seconds longer. Her lips did that twitchy, almost-a-grin-but-not-quite thing. “Exactly as you said. Special furnace filters. We started using them to . . . ah . . . cover the nasty odor of exhaust fumes that come in from the street.” She winked. “Forgive my excitement, Julia. I wasn’t sure if they were working.”
There it was
. The perfectly sane and reasonable explanation I wanted to hear. So why didn’t I believe her? “I see. Well, that’s good. That they’re doing the trick, I mean.”
She cleared her throat. “You’ve been so sweet to stay here with me, but I’m feeling so much better now.”
Yay! Escape. “Oh, it was nothing.” I pushed away from the table. “Glad to help.”
She gestured for me to follow and then scurried out of the break room. She moved fast. When I caught up with her, she was already dragging documents out of the file cabinet in the lobby.
“As an apology for delaying you for so long, and to make up for your . . . um . . . inability to leave, I’m offering you a free membership to my services,” she said, continuing to stack papers at an alarming rate. “I’m very good at what I do. We’ll find you your soul mate, mark my words.”
“No! That is so not necessary,” my voice rang out—too loudly, so I lowered it. “I’m fine, and—no offense—but I consider soul mates to be nothing more than a fairy tale. I don’t believe in either, so really—”
She waved away my arguments. “It doesn’t matter what you believe. Besides, we’ll cover all of this later, after you’ve filled everything out.”
“Um, excuse me? It does so matter what I believe.”
Verda’s shoulders quaked in silent laughter. Tilting her chin up, she looked directly at me. “But don’t you see? You came to me. I didn’t come to you. That’s reason enough for me to help you.” Whisking the many papers together, she shoved them in a manila envelope, along with a book of some sort. “You are a special girl, Julia. You deserve a special partner. Let me use my abilities and Magical Matchups to find that partner for you. What do you say?”
I hesitated. This was difficult to pass up. Here she was, offering me everything that had led me here to begin with. But after spending the morning with her, that inner moral voice of mine screamed louder than ever. Finally, I shrugged. “I—I don’t know.”
Razor-sharp eyes bored into me. “I don’t take ‘no’ easily. All of this will be much easier on you if nod your head and agree.”
And this was the point I should have walked—no, run—away. But in her hands was the information that might help me save my company. I had been stuck here for hours and scared out of my wits. Right? Besides which, I had the sinking feeling that no matter what I said, she’d find a way to convince me otherwise. Or maybe I was using that as an excuse. Regardless, I found myself nodding in agreement. “If you insist.”
“Oh, I do!” She passed me the thick envelope and then patted my cheek. “I know you’re late for work, dear. So why don’t we plan on getting together after you have time to go through all of this?”
Was it my imagination, or was she making this really, really easy? “Yeah. That would be terrific.”
Verda beamed. Her smile virtually sparkled. “Do you think you’ll be ready by tomorrow evening? I’d like to get moving as soon as we can, but the paperwork is quite extensive, so if you need a bit more time, then I suppose next week will have to do.”
I swallowed. Chances were high that I wouldn’t be returning, but she didn’t have to know that quite yet. I’d call her tomorrow, tell her I’d changed my mind, and that would be that.
“Absolutely,” I said, matching Verda’s enthusiasm with my own, albeit fake, version. “Tomorrow evening is ideal.”
Two mad-dash drives later—one to my apartment for a quickie shower and a fresh change of clothes, and the other from my place to work—found me at my desk slightly before eleven o’clock. Not so bad, if I did say so myself.
I’d purposely left Verda’s envelope at home, so I wouldn’t be tempted to go through her client paperwork immediately. Right now, I needed to focus on my one and only appointment for the day. Normally, my prep time extended well beyond an hour. I was very careful in putting together my recommendations, and that began with understanding as much as possible about the client, or prospective client, before we ever met face-to-face.
Not only did I read their responses from their profile questionnaire, but I read between the lines to develop a fuller picture of their needs versus their wants. This was easier with women. Partially because I understood women more, but also because women tended to give complete, detailed responses.
Men, on the other hand, at least the men I’d come across at Introductions, were very spare in detail. Though they had one thing going for them: honesty. They rarely tried to cover anything up. Maybe it was because they were generally more confident than women, or maybe they didn’t view their weaknesses as weaknesses, or perhaps it simply didn’t occur to them to care. Or, you know, that whole “Man is King” attitude.
These one-on-one interviews were essential in digging out the rest of the picture. I had a lot of faith in my compatibility program, which was based on a series of yes/no and true/false questions, but relying on it completely would be foolhardy.
Today’s appointment was with a man who’d electronically sent his profile information in the day before and had immediately set an appointment. That gave me hope he was serious. But I only had about fifteen minutes to get everything together.
I hurriedly clicked on the link my assistant Diane had embedded in my e-calendar and waited for his profile to open on my screen. Diane had worked as a temporary employee off and on my first year. I’d hired her permanently the second year as a part-time employee. My hope had been to make her full-time this year, but unless things picked up, I’d have to let her go. I hated that thought. I needed this appointment to go well.
I ran the man’s compatibility numbers and printed off the profiles of the three highest probable matches. All were in the mid-60 percent range. Not great. Not by a long shot. But I didn’t have time to go over them in depth, so I tucked them into a folder and moved on. Next, I skimmed through the questions he’d answered, searching for anything that might jump out as unique, especially interesting, or flat-out weird. Interesting was good. Weird was not.
I’d barely started my perusal when Diane knocked on the door and stuck her head in. “Your eleven fifteen is here, Julia.” She pursed her lips in a silent whistle. “I might be willing to date this one. He’s a doll.”
“That’s good to know, though your husband might not be so pleased,” I joked.
“I’m allowed to look. So, are you ready for him?”
“Not even close, but send him in anyway.” I’d have to wing it. I drank some water to moisten my mouth before putting on my most professional smile.
A man in his midthirties entered my office. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Probably, he just had one of those faces. His top-of-the-line charcoal suit fit him in a way that bespoke a professional tailor. Which meant money. He stood average height, around five foot ten, and his dark hair had the tiniest amount of salt dotting his temples. His chin was more soft than hard, but not enough to detract from his appeal, and he had the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. So green, my guess was on colored contacts.
That, and the fact he wore a matching green tie to show off those emerald peepers, told me he put a lot of stock in appearances. Diane was right, though. Doll described him well.
I held out my hand and he shook it with a firm grip. I liked that. Glancing at my monitor, I said, “Nice to meet you Mr. Johnson. I’m Julia Collins, the owner of Introductions.” I nodded toward the twin chairs in front of my desk. “Please take a seat.”
“Thanks. I’m happy to be here.” Settling himself, he tossed me a grin that turned him from doll to debonair. Wow.
“May I get you some coffee, water, tea?” I asked, slipping into flight-attendant mode.
“Nope. I’d rather get right to it.” He had this slow, lazy way of talking that oozed charm. I wondered how many hours he’d spent practicing to get the perfect cadence. My guess was most of his twenties. “I’m rather anxious to get started.”
Just what I wanted to hear. “Why don’t we start informally? In your own words, what brought you to Introductions?�
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“I’m tired of the dating scene. It gets old, especially when you’re as busy as I am.” He steepled long, tapered fingers under his chin. “Saw one of your ads, I don’t recall where at the moment, but figured, why not? Created an account, filled everything out, and here I am.”
A quick decision maker. Something else I liked. I filed that away for future reference. “I was hoping we could go through your profile together. That way, I can ask questions as we go along to deepen my understanding of the type of woman you’re looking for.”
“So you don’t prescreen before meetings?”
Of course he’d ask that. “Normally, I do. But your profile just came in yesterday and I was running late today. I’m sure we can get through everything relatively quickly.”
I expected him to be annoyed. This wasn’t the most professional way to run a first-time meeting, and this guy hadn’t fallen off the turnip truck. Instead, though, a pleased expression darted over him. He rubbed his hands together. “Perfect. Let’s get started.”
I gotta say that I was feeling really positive about this guy. If the rest of the appointment went well, I’d have a check in my hand and a match for him in no time. Turning my attention to the computer screen, I read, “You’re thirty-five, have lived in Chicago your entire life, you’re a . . . monster-truck driver?” Okay, I’d never met one of those before. I sifted this new information in with what I’d already gathered. “Is that your only line of work?”
“Oh, no. It’s not even my most exciting line of work, but it gets my adrenaline going. Really more of a pastime.” Leaning forward, he squared his elbows on my desk. “I think . . . yes, go down a few more questions.”
My gaze traveled down. “Oh. You . . . recycle cans and bottles to earn money? And . . . make ‘special’ videos?” My voice squeaked. Seriously? “What kind of videos, Mr. Johnson?”
“All types of videos. You wouldn’t believe the market for a camera guy who will shoot just about anything.”
“Weddings? Graduations? Things like that?” Oh, God, let him say yes. “Birthdays and anniversaries?”
By Magic Alone Page 6