Betwixt Two Hearts (Crossroads Collection)

by Amanda Tru

  “Well, ignorant pessimists might say the graveyard.” As Heath winked, he added, “And that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

  Watching her process the semi-riddle might have made a braver man snicker, but one didn’t mock Selby Karras. Then, as if she hadn’t been confused a moment before, she made a beeline for the bookcase, not stopping for breath as she laid out her plan. “It’s all in the act. You go into it as someone else. You’re not Heath Karras the Miserable. You’re cool Heath who isn’t nervous around beautiful women—especially not ones with freckles—and who knows how to set them at ease by controlling the conversation with questions and insightful observations about everything except animals.”

  “So, be fake.”

  Selby jerked a book of fairy tales from the shelf—the one his grandmother had given him when he was four—and flipped through the pages. When it ended up empty, she shoved it back on the shelf and turned to look around the room again. Then his words registered, if the indignant look on her face meant anything.

  Before she could object, he continued. “Because all dating advice out there says the same thing, right? To be an interesting date, just pretend you’re someone you’re not because that is what girls really like.”

  “No…” she whirled to face him, hands on her hips. “I don’t mean that. I just mean that you know who you are with everyone else. And with practice, you would be with freckle-faced women, too, right? So, you’re going into your next date with the mindset that this is who you are. It’s not something you’re telling yourself to do. It’s who you already are. See?”

  “I see that you’re trying to mortify me even more than I thought.”

  “I’m trying—” There, Selby cut off her own words. “Wait. Forest. Graveyard…” A smile formed as she rushed back to the bookshelf. “Tree carcasses. Only you….” One finger flipped along the titles until she saw it. A moment later, the wrapped book lay on the soon-to-be-ousted Formica table, and she peeled the wrapper off in one motion.

  “Happy Christmas.”

  “November…” She read the gold imprint on the leather cover of the journal. “Gratitude—thanksgiving.” The hug she gave him almost soothed her next words. “You promised, Heath. You said you’d try.”

  Of course, he had. Refusing Selby? Impossible. So, he’d just agreed, sure she couldn’t come up with anything more miserable than what he’d already endured. Do not ever underestimate her skills again.

  “Heath?”

  “I’ll do it, of course. Well…” She fired a look at him—one daring him to back out now, but he wouldn’t. “I should amend that. I’ll try. We both know I’m not likely to succeed.”

  Her fingers flipped through page after blank page as if between those lines of nothingness she’d find the perfect idea. When she stopped turning, unease churned in his gut. She had.

  “I’ve got it. It’s kind of silly, but it’ll work.” At his, “gimme your worst” look she grinned. “It’s so simple, too. We don’t expect you to do great with any of them up front. It’s about practicing, not about finding the one. Not yet.”

  Maybe I should have stayed on the mission field. Seems easier than the dating minefield, anyway.

  The call came at ten-thirty. Arnie Holtz. Jordan tapped the screen and answered while trying to keep the sigh from coming through in her voice. “What’s up with the mail, Arnie?”

  “How’d you know it was the mail?”

  “It’s ten-thirty. Dickie just finished your street.”

  The grumbles, half-hearted as they were, ranged from her being a smart-aleck to spying on him. But eventually, he got to the point. “Don’t like to bug you on a Saturday—day off and all…”

  “That’s a lie, and you know it. You’d bug me every day and twice on holidays if I’d let you get away with it.”

  “Fine. Glad for an excuse to bug you,” he groused. “Is that better?”

  Jordan decided that the cat and mouse routine had gone on long enough, so tossing aside her novel, she sat up, leaned forward, and grabbed her coffee as she asked again, “What’s up?”

  “Got a letter. From a law office. Don’t know what it is, but it’s um… will you come? Just for a minute?”

  A last longing look at the novel she’d waited months to have time to read almost stopped her from asking the question he knew she would. “Can I bring you anything on my way?”

  “Well, I heard The Deli has Rubens again…”

  “With extra kraut?” Why she bothered asking, Jordan didn’t know. “And a bottle of that fizzy lemonade?”

  “Well…”

  Her heart softened at the half-crack she heard in Arnie’s voice. “Be there in twenty.”

  As expected, he stood there on his porch on Dogwood, hands stuffed in the pockets. Waiting. A smile formed as she pulled into the drive. Lord, help me remember that he’s just lonely. I need to remember that.

  Arnie came to “help” her inside, as if he were the overpaid, every-other-weekday caregiver. He carried her purse and bag of food and insisted that she hold onto his elbow as he led her up the treacherous, ice- and snow-free walk. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  “It’s freezing, you ornery old coot, and you know it.”

  “You only call me that when you don’t think you should tell me you love me.”

  And of course, you know that. Still…

  “Mind if we read the letter first? I don’t want to eat if that thing’s going to upset my innards.”

  Unease crept closer to her own heart as she settled everything inside and flipped through the mail. Three letters, she filed in the “to be paid” slot of the 80’s reproduction rolltop desk he used. Well, she used for him. The last was from Roth, Jothikumar, & Sylmer, in Rockland—family law. “Family law? Do they handle estates?”

  He shook his head. “Roth handled adoptions back in the day.”

  Something in his voice made her send a sharp look his way. “Um…”

  “It’s not good. I know it. I just don’t know how. Do they give you death announcements for adopted kids?”

  It didn’t sound like anything she’d ever heard of, but Jordan couldn’t say. For the millionth time, she gazed around the room—exactly as it had been decorated by his wife, Helen, back in the eighties. The neo-Victorian wallpaper, lace curtains, and Home Interiors wall decor placed exactly as the demonstrator had probably suggested, complete with wall sconces on either side. Their wedding photo flanked by their last couple portrait.

  And not a single photo of a child anywhere. They hadn’t been able to have any.

  “Jordan?”

  “Are you sure you want me—?”

  “I can’t do it, but I didn’t think I should throw it away—not that.”

  I knew you threw away some of your mail. Time to have important stuff sent to a PO box and to get you on some shut-in mail lists so you get real mail.

  The once-overstuffed couch swallowed her as she seated herself and peeled back the envelope flap. Creamy letterhead from the firm with Roth’s contact information hinted that Arnie had guessed right. “Do you want me to read it aloud or…”

  “Read it first. Then tell me.”

  The letter looked as generic as possible—on page one. Flipping it to the next page, the paper changed to inexpensive computer printer paper and only a hand signature at the bottom. Floyd Brighton. “Do you know a Floyd Brighton?”

  Arnie shook his head. Anyone watching him would have assumed he was as calm as could be, but that twitch below his eye gave him away. “Someone from the law office?”

  “No…” Jordan held up the first paper. “This is from Roth’s legal assistant. She says that a man contacted them about an adoption fifty-one years ago. They believe you are the man that this guy’s looking for. This…” She shook the second letter. “It’s from the Floyd Brighton. Want me to read it?”

  “Is it bad?”

  Jordan just smiled and began.

  Hello,

  My name is Floyd Brighton. When m
y biological mother was pregnant, she arranged for the offices of Joshua Roth to find adoptive parents for me. I was adopted and never had any interest in finding my biological parents. I had friends over the years who had also been adopted, and I never understood why they wanted contact with the people who had either selfishly or selflessly relinquished their parental rights. The former were people I didn’t want to be associated with. The latter deserved the privacy they’d asked for.

  Then my parents were killed in an accident a couple of years ago. I was their only child. Most of the rest of my family is on the west coast, so family became a priority in a new way. My letter to my birth mother was returned with a handwritten, “deceased” on it.

  Arnie groaned. “Barbara? Dead? Everyone’s dying.” She’d have gotten up to hug him, but he pressed her to continue. “Please.”

  I didn’t think the agency knew my father’s name, but when I asked if I could send a letter to him, they said they would forward anything I sent. So, I’m sending this letter. If you are the father of a baby boy born May 4, 1967, at Brunswick Community Hospital, and if you would consider meeting me, I’m sending my number.

  I don’t want anything from you—not anything like money or help. I’m doing well. Have my own drywall business. Have a great wife, three kids, and my first grandchild due any day now.

  I don’t expect explanations. I just want to know you if you’re out there. I was too late for my biological mother. I hope I’m not too late, in any respect, for you.

  Floyd Brighton

  (930) 555-9035

  Arnie sat, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “I wanted to marry her—Barbara. I wanted to raise that baby together, but she said no. Back then, a father couldn’t get custody if he wasn’t married. So, I said goodbye and that was it. Met my Helen…” His voice cracked. “We couldn’t have children. I even tried to contact Roth and see if they could tell me if the child had been adopted. I never knew if it was a boy or girl. The secretary did tell me that they had placed the child.”

  “Do you want to call?”

  The man’s head wagged like a puppy’s tail. “No… no. But if you would… Tell him you’ll meet him? See if he’s okay? Do a search on the Giggle? See if he seems legit?”

  “It’s Google. Not ‘The Giggle.’”

  “Google, giggle. Same difference. Can you do that?” He reached for his wallet. “I’ll pay extra.” Her piercing glare worked. With a sheepish expression, Arnie scratched his back and assured her he just had a pinch back there. “But you’ll vet him for me?” He frowned. “That’s what they call it, right? Vet?”

  “I’ll cyber-stalk him until I can tell you what size shoes he wears and where he stands on immigration.”

  That worked—just as she’d known it would. A tirade on the evils of modern immigration practices filled the room as Arnie unfolded the paper wrapping of his Ruben and spread it out on a tray in his lap. If she hadn’t been there, he’d have leaned his recliner back, but he’d have paid for it later, too. So, with the corned beef, it’s best that she was there. The heartburn…

  Neither of them spoke until Arnie balled up the paper wrapping and tried to make a basket into the brown paper bag on the coffee table. And missed. As usual. “There goes—”

  “Your NBA career.” Jordan grinned at him. “I know.”

  “And you’ll look him up… Floyd?” Arnie’s nose wrinkled. “Unfortunate name.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He grinned at her. “I won Barbara away from Floyd Oberon. He treated her bad. I told her she deserved better. She agreed.” A softer quality entered his tone as Arnie continued. “Then she agreed too well—she deserved better than me, too.”

  That, Jordan couldn’t ignore. “Not true, Arnie. She just got a big head.”

  A call from The Pettler startled Selby right out of her organic chemistry assignment. “Hello?”

  Heath looked up from where he prepped food for the week and gave her that, “What’s up?” look.

  “Wayne here—we talked the other day?”

  “Yeah…”

  The man plunged onward as if he hadn’t noticed her panic. “Got Kelsey to give me your number. Hope that’s okay…”

  “Sure. Fine. What’s up?”

  “Well, I was talking to my sister and learned that my nephew is starting up this online dating thing—”

  “You told me—snail mail and—”

  “No, no. That was the one I recommended, yes. But this is new. Online. They have an app for security and everything. There’s a lot of people already signed up in the Rockland area—which is what gave me the idea. You could sign up your brother for it. That’d be a good way to meet folks. Maybe get to know them first…”

  The temptation to brush off that idea fizzled in the wake of the realization that it wouldn’t have to work that way. That’s where she could find lots of people for Heath to practice on. “What’s the name of the site?”

  “Okay, it’s betwixt-2—like the numb—uh—numeral, hearts-dot-com. I can text it to you. Just send a message and tell Camden that I sent you. I should get good uncle points for this or something.”

  True to his word, the website, betwixt2hearts.com, showed up in a text message a minute later. Trading textbook organic chemistry for creating a little for Heath, Selby opened a new tab in her browser and typed it in. With one click on a heart labeled, “Join to find your heart-mate,” an application process began. But as each screen passed, one after the other—not showing what kinds of questions he’d need to answer, of course—she deleted the profile and started again.

  Fifteen minutes into it, Heath came and hovered over her shoulder. “What’re you doing?”

  “Filling out this online profile for this site—Betwixt. If they aren’t too weird, we’ll fill one out for you, but you have to give them all kinds of information first.”

  “Like what?”

  “Employment history, residence history—that’ll be a fun one for them—and stuff like that. It’s like a credit application or something.”

  He squeezed her shoulder and went back to packaging his weeks’ worth of food. “More like a background check. It’s probably some kind of safety measure to make sure you don’t have a felony or something.”

  “Probably…” the reply spilled out, and Selby hoped she said what she thought she did. “Didn’t read the fine print…”

  After twenty minutes, the actual profile questions appeared. One by one, she plowed through them with a lack of thoroughness that would ensure a terrible match if she actually intended to go through with it. But the site offered a fourteen-day money-back guarantee. She’d request it the minute she was done.

  At “What is your most bizarre quirk or talent?” she winced. Selby leaned back in her chair and eyed her brother with as much nonchalance as she could muster. “How truthful do we have to be with these things?”

  Heath leaned against the counter and returned her gaze. “Like what? Don’t say you’re thirty if you’re fifty. Don’t say you love hiking if you are allergic to fresh air. But I can’t see you doing those. So… like I asked. Like what?”

  “It wants to know your most bizarre quirk or talent.”

  Her heart constricted at the agony on his face. “Well, I think we just ensured that I don’t have an excess of women beating down the door to meet me.”

  “Do we have to put your most? What about the fact you can whistle ‘Jesus Loves Me’ through your nose?”

  “Because that’s so much less disgusting than dung beetles.”

  Selby leaned back in the chair, profile abandoned, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Trust me, my brother, it is.” Head cocked, she tried to think of the perfect answer. “I think I’ll put down that I first got married when I was nine. It’s true…”

  “And Dad annulled it within half an hour.”

  “Still, it was legal.”

  “To Johanny, anyway.” Heath began covering containers again. “I nearly got into a fight over that
one. I was so mad at him.”

  She typed in her marriage answer before protesting. “He proposed, I accepted, we gathered our bridesmaids and groomsmen. I even had my white Easter dress to wear.”

  “And Mom’s sheer curtain to cut up into your veil.”

  She couldn’t help but grin at him as the memory of her mother’s ire over that curtain. “If Eimy hadn’t told Mom about the curtain, no one would have known until I was fifteen and Johanny’s priest blessed it.”

  “Which is why I gave Eimy candy every week for a year.”

  “I would have confessed in six years…” Selby winced. “Wouldn’t I?”

  “Who knows? Just finish that thing and tell me how bad it’s going to be.”

  He had a point. But by the time she got through the first twenty questions, she didn’t know if it ever would end. At, “Describe your perfect date,” she quoted Miss Rhode Island from Miss Congeniality instead of something more original. Besides. Who else will be quoting movies with their answers?

  And with that, the rest of her answers were just that—movie quotes. Life motto? The one about hairy legs, courtesy of Return to Me. For her life’s priorities, she said the world would be a better place if everyone valued cannoli over guns—courtesy of The Godfather, of course.

  “So glad I watched You’ve Got Mail.”

  “Do I want to know?” Heath started across the room, but she waved him off. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to answer half of these if Mom hadn’t done those cultural literacy classes. This is so much fun now.”

  Heath settled himself into place next to her and smiled. “So… fake answers?”

  “For a fake profile, yes.” She hit “next” and a final summary of herself popped up. “Okay… we’ve got this. I’ll request a refund later.” After flexing her fingers and tapping a new window, Selby was ready to begin. “Card?”

  Though Heath made a show of exaggerated reluctance, Selby thought she caught a hint of excitement in him, too. Still, he asked, “Do you really think this’ll work?” as he slid the card across the table.”