Miss Match: a Lauren Holbrook novel

by Erynn Mangum

“I just think that Stephen and Hannah wanted to talk privately for a few minutes.” I set the brownie knife in the near-empty pan. “Stephen went to school in California for a few years. They can talk tourist talk.”

  Brandon swallows. “Laurie.”

  “Don’t say it, Brandon. I know what you are thinking.”

  He takes another bite. Swallows. “Did you make these brownies?”

  “Yep.”

  He licks his lips. “They’re good.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “I mean it. What did you put in them? These aren’t your normal brownies.”

  I cut another square for him. “You’re right.”

  Brandon’s eyes widen. “Let me guess. Cyanide?”

  “Nutmeg, you idiot. You would all be dead now if it were cyanide.”

  “Hmm.” He finishes the brownie. “Good decision. Okay. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. I’m taking Hannah home.”

  “How did she get here?” I set the knife in the pan and cross my arms over my chest.

  He pauses. “I have no idea.”

  “Well, unless she broke her foot sometime between verses three and four, I think she can safely drive herself home. She’s not a little kid, Brandon.”

  He makes a noise deep in his throat. I’ve known him long enough to know it means, You’re perfectly right, Lauren Holbrook; I just don’t want to admit it.

  Nick and Ruby are sitting at the kitchen table eating brownies. Ping! Cupid: 4. The other team doesn’t count since the only one who scored is me.

  She laughs at something he says.

  This is not a Normal Occurrence.

  Brandon apparently follows my gaze because he gasps. “Is that Ruby Palmer over there?”

  I “mm-hmm” sappily. “Yep.”

  “The same one who works with us?”

  “Yep.” I can’t keep a proud smile off my face.

  “Laughing?” His tone gives away what he thinks. He stares at me for a second. “Laurie.” Now his tone is accusing.

  “Yes, dear Brandon? Would you like another brownie?”

  He just shakes his head at me.

  “Give it seven months,” I say. “Seven months and we’ll hear the bells tolling for Mr. and Mrs. Nicolas Amery.”

  I smile at them like the proud matchmaker I am. Nick and Ruby Amery.

  I like the sound of that!

  Chapter Five

  “All right. Hold a second, don’t move! Good! Now, say ‘spaghetti!’”

  Three voices mutter “spaghetti” through clinched smiles. Father, mother, fifteen-year-old daughter.

  “Say, ‘Dad, I’m eloping with Dave from chemistry class!’”

  The girl bursts out laughing. Click goes the camera.

  I love being a photographer. You get to make people say stupid things for a living.

  “And you’re done.” I pull the computer mouse from the ledge beneath the camera, click the close and send buttons, and get the computer ready for a new family.

  The dad stretches. “Thanks, Laurie.”

  “You’re welcome. Hannah can get you situated in a viewing room and you can pick the poses and we’ll have the prints done by tomorrow at four.” The speech rolls off my tongue as naturally as possible. “See you tomorrow!”

  The door closes after them. It is ten minutes until three, and I still have four appointments left.

  I pick up the props in the studio and go to find a Dr. Pepper before the Fentons show up.

  “Laurie, come here for a sec,” Brandon calls from his office.

  Reverse my steps. Slink into his office. Flop into chair.

  “Cut with the drama, Laur.” Brandon sits on his desk. “I need you to do me a favor. Hannah’s car is in the shop, and I picked her up for work. Nick called; he needs help moving a neighbor’s furniture, and I have to leave early.”

  I can hear the favor before he says it. “And you want me to take her home.” I bite my bottom lip. “Fine.” Better me than Brandon anyway.

  “Good! Thanks.”

  “I’d better get time and a half for this. You made me miss my caffeine break.” Brandon’s neon clock shouts “Three o’clock!”

  He points at me with his pen. “Caffeine has been said to shorten life spans.”

  “If I’m going to die, Brandon, I want to die happy.” I close the door on his laugh.

  Four families crowd the waiting room. Two have sobbing babies. Five kids under the age of five run wildly around in circles. Eight adults yell simultaneously: “Sit down! Be quiet! Behave!”

  Hannah’s perfect blonde hair is beginning to frazzle. For the tiniest minute, I feel sorry for her.

  “Fentons!” I yell, the minute of pity over.

  A brown-haired couple stands, grabs three of the little kids by the arms, and drags them kicking and screaming over to me.

  “Hi.” Fake smile. “I’m Laurie.”

  “We’re the Fentons,” the man says, breathing hard.

  “We’ll be in Studio Two. Follow me, please.”

  I pray the entire distance to the studio.

  Six o’clock does not come soon enough. I stare with Hannah at the wreck compromising the waiting room.

  We keep a few toys on hand to distract the kids. They are strewn over the entire room: On the chairs, on the tables, on Hannah’s desk. A quite distinct jelly-coated handprint mars the front of it.

  Hannah looks at it, exhaustion written on her beautiful face. “Should we make a copy for the police?”

  Humor. Bubblegum Barbie has a sense of humor?

  “A copy!” I start laughing hysterically.

  Hannah giggles.

  I am laughing so hard I have to sit down. Then I can’t breathe, so I stretch out on my back, tears rolling down my face.

  I calm somewhat and roll to my side. Hannah is on the floor as well, wiping mascara-coated tears from her cheeks.

  We make eye contact.

  She grins.

  Bad move.

  We both start wheezing, crying, choking on the bubbles of mirth overriding our systems. “A copy!” I gasp for breath. “For the police! Look out, Hannah! We’ve been jammed!”

  Hannah whoops. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Police Searching for Jelly-Fingered Mobster.’”

  “In diapers!”

  “The Jelly-Fingered Rugrat!”

  It is in this state Ty, Newton, and Ruby find us. Ty and Newton merely mutter under their breaths, step over us, and walk out.

  Ruby stops. “What on earth?”

  I roll to my stomach, inhaling the musty scent from the carpet. “Hi, Ruby.” My body convulses in half breaths, half laughs.

  Hannah snorts, breathes hard, and giggles again. “Hi, Ruby.”

  Ruby smiles at us.

  Miracles never cease.

  “What is going on?” The bark is gone from Ruby’s voice.

  “We’re just . . . we’re just . . . haaaaaww!”

  I can’t help it. Tears fill my eyes again; my lungs sear with every breath. Hannah joins me. Ten seconds later, Ruby kneels beside me on the floor without a clue what she is laughing about.

  After another fifteen minutes, we peel ourselves off the floor and decide the mess can wait until tomorrow.

  Then we go to dinner.

  Here’s what I think: Hannah Curtis and Ruby Palmer make very good dinner dates.

  I suggest Vizzini’s, an Italian place just a few blocks away. We are stuffing our faces with breadsticks twenty minutes later.

  “So.” Ruby twirls her fork in her spaghetti. “How old are you, Hannah?”

  “Twenty-one.” Hannah smiles at me. She’s cried all the mascara off her lashes and yanked her hair back in a half-hearted knot, and though she still wears her chopstick heels, I can’t see them under the table. Plus, either my nose has grown accustomed to her perfume, or she’s wearing a lot less.

  She seems almost . . . normal.

  I never thought I’d say that about Preppie Barbie.

  Ruby grins as well. Her brown hair
has fallen from the perfectionist waves she creases it in every day and is now soft and accessible around her cheeks. Her eyes are bright, her movements not dictated by the clock for once.

  Ruby Palmer seems almost normal too. I figure it’s Nick in her case, though. Love tends to make normal people crazy and crazy people normal.

  “You’re twenty-three, right?” Ruby directs the question to me.

  “Yep.”

  “You and Brandon seem pretty close,” Hannah says.

  Ruby answers for me. “They’ve been best friends since they were babies.”

  “Well, second grade anyway,” I correct.

  “Must be neat to be that close with a guy and still be just friends,” Hannah says.

  I hear something more than just speculation in her voice, but I don’t push it. “Yes and no. Guys are weird.”

  Ruby chokes on her spaghetti. “You’ve got that right.” Her eyes spark with glee. “Weird and uncanny.”

  “And smelly,” Hannah says.

  I snort loudly. I don’t usually snort when I laugh, but when it comes to either snorting or spitting a big mouthful of ravioli at Ruby, I decide to go with the snort.

  Ruby’s eyes twinkle. She is enjoying this far too much. “And unclean.”

  “Sloppy.”

  “Primitive.”

  “They’re just weird,” I declare. Ruby and Hannah voice their agreement.

  “I’m glad you came to Bible study,” I tell Hannah. “Are you going to come again?”

  “Um. Sure. Probably. I don’t know.”

  Ruby starts laughing. “Oh, very decisive, Hannah.”

  Hannah grins. “Okay. I’ll go.”

  When I went to work this morning, Hannah and I weren’t really even on speaking terms, and I didn’t know Ruby could talk about anything other than tardiness.

  When we leave the restaurant at eleven thirty, we leave friends.

  I like having friends.

  I arrive home to a cop car with its lights flashing.

  Oh no. My mood goes south immediately. I throw down the emergency brake, jump from the car, and run inside.

  “What’s going on?” I yell the minute I open the door.

  “Laurie!” Dad grabs my shoulders and presses me to his chest. “Laurie, Laurie, thank God!”

  A uniformed cop shuts his notebook. “Well, guess that’s that.” He leaves.

  Dad pushes me back to arm’s length. “Where in the world were you? I called and I called and I called, and you never answered.”

  Guiltily, I look at my cell phone. Yep, it is still in silent mode from Bible study last night. “17 MISSED CALLS” shouts from the screen.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. Ruby and Hannah and I went to dinner.”

  “You and who?”

  There is no mistaking the incredulous gasp in Brandon’s voice. He stands from where I didn’t see him on the couch.

  “You went to dinner with the human stopwatch and Princess Barbie?” His mouth is wide.

  “Yes, I did.” I have to admit I feel proud I put that expression on Brandon’s usually blasé face.

  Dad’s shoulders slump and his wrinkles show more tonight than I’ve ever seen them. “You okay, Dad?” I wrap an arm around him.

  “I’m stressed from the evening’s events.”

  I pat his shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after changing into my pajamas, I go downstairs and Brandon is still here. It is now twelve fifteen in the morning.

  “Go home, Brandon.”

  “Let’s talk for a few minutes.” He points to the seat beside him.

  I sit grudgingly. “What?”

  “Did you learn anything today?”

  This is what Brandon thinks he is: My conscience.

  “No.” I do not feel cooperative at the moment. I am tired, my ribs are sore from laughing, and I do not want to hear from Jiminy Cricket.

  “Laurie.”

  I hate it when he draws my name out like that.

  “I stereotyped Hannah and Ruby. But so did you. I’ve confessed and moved on.”

  He smiles. “I’m glad you had a good time.”

  I send him a small grin. “Thanks, Brandon.”

  He smiles again, stands, and pats my head like the collie I guess I look like. “Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

  I climb into bed, exhausted, at ten until one. And I have to work tomorrow! I promise myself this will not become a routine and collapse on the fluffy mattress.

  My alarm goes off at 4:20 a.m.

  I jump out of bed like my sheets have turned into a sea of shrieking eels. Once my heart stops pounding in my ears, I realize it isn’t a man shrouded in black holding a knife over my bed who spoke; it’s Dan Jenkins, the early morning deejay for KGHT, the local soft rock station.

  I didn’t set my alarm for 4:20.

  I turn off the radio and flop back on the bed.

  But sleep eludes me.

  Here’s what I am going to do: Build a bonfire and sacrifice my alarm clock.

  Three sleepless hours later, I roll off the bed and stumble into the bathroom. A ghost of a woman meets me in the mirror, and I nod hello before brushing my teeth.

  At ten until eight, I fall down the stairs and collapse at the breakfast table.

  “Laurie? Honey, are you okay?”

  “Coffee.” My voice is rasping like an eighty-five-year-old. “I need coffee.”

  Dad pours the coffee like he works in a New York City Starbucks at rush hour. “Here. Drink.”

  I slurp the thick black drink down to the bottom in one breath.

  “More?”

  “Please.”

  By the third cup, I’m beginning to regain my strength. Dad stares at me like I’m the Spirit of Christmas Present as I unglue my head from the table and get it firmly attached to my shoulders again.

  “Much better. Now for breakfast. Sorry, Dad. I had a rough night. Dan Jenkins woke me up at 4:20.”

  “Funny. I don’t remember hearing the phone ring.”

  “He wasn’t on the phone, he was on my alarm. Long story.” I slap two slices into the toaster.

  “How late are you working tonight, Laurie?”

  I stop spreading peanut butter on the toast. “Same as usual, I think. Six.”

  Dad takes a sip of his lemongrass tea. Blegh. “Would you like to go on a dinner date? Just the two of us?”

  I almost point out it is just the two of us every night until I see the hope in his eyes. Poor Dad. I get so busy with work and friends I don’t give him enough attention.

  “Sure.” I smile. “I’d love to, Dad. Wow! A real date. This is the first in a long time.”

  Dad’s eyes light up. “Wonderful. This will be fun, Laurie-girl. I have something to tell you, anyhow.”

  Now I am curious. “What?”

  “Dinner, Honey. I’ll tell you at dinner. You’d better eat quick if you want to make it to work on time.”

  I walk through the doors of The Brandon Knox Photography Studio at exactly 8:59 and twenty-seven seconds. Ruby will be proud.

  But Ruby isn’t at her usual post.

  “Ruby?” I yell.

  Hannah’s head pops out from under the desk. “She took the day off.”

  “No, I mean Ruby Palmer.”

  Hannah grins. “That’s what I said. Brandon told me this morning. Ruby wanted the day off for something or another. A Nuggets game?”

  “I wouldn’t have put Ruby in the basketball fan category.” I walk around the desk to shove my beat-up backpack in the cubby. My backpack is my one possession I’m rarely without. I got it in the ninth grade, and it used to be a dusky gray, but I’d call it more of a splotchy gray now. Nine years of rain, sun, and that time I accidentally went through the car wash with the back windows open have left their mark on it.

  I get a big surprise when I turn from wrestling the bag into the cubby.

  “Hannah!”

  She blinks those beautiful blue eyes. “What?”

 
; “You’re wearing jeans!” I am flabbergasted. Completely.

  She flips her pony-tailed head. “I didn’t think you should be the only one who gets away with it.”

  I congratulate her. “You have broken through the Career Woman Mold.”

  Hannah sits in her swivel chair. “I got asked out on a date tonight.”

  “Oh yeah?” I love the conspiratorial feeling. “So did I! Who is yours with?”

  She gives me a strange look. “Brandon.”

  This rocks me back on my heels. Brandon asked her out? On a date? Just the two of them?

  What is Brandon thinking? Sure, I like Hannah well enough . . . as a friend. She isn’t a Christian, for Pete’s sake!

  I sit right there on the floor behind her desk. Maybe we aren’t talking about the same Brandon.

  Fat chance.

  She rubs her hands together, a worried expression on her gorgeous face. “I haven’t told him yes or no yet. I don’t know what to do, Laurie. Who is your date with?”

  “My dad.” I rub my thumbnail. “About Brandon.”

  Her eyes round in worry. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings, Laurie. I like Brandon. A lot.”

  So far it sounds like a winning combination to me.

  “So what’s the problem?” I ask.

  She twists her hands around and around each other before finally throwing them in her lap. “He’s my boss!” It comes out as a moan.

  I blink. Then blink again.

  Whoa.

  Brandon Knox picked a girl with sense.

  Never thought I’d say that about Gold-Plated Barbie, either.

  I push myself to my knees and pat her shoulder. “Gotcha. Want to know what I think?”

  She nods miserably.

  “I think he’s a first-class, grade-A, no-doubt-about-it idiot.”

  Her mouth drops. She covers it. Then she giggles.

  “He should know better than that. First, because the Bible clearly states that Christians and non-Christians should not be dating. Second, because he is your boss. And third because . . .” I whirl my hand in the air, at a loss for words.

  “Because just because.” She hugs me. Hugs me! “Thanks, Laurie. I’m glad you work here.”

  I stand purposefully. “Mr. Goodness-Gracious-I-Live-in-an-Empty-Bachelor-Pad and I are going to have a serious heart-to-heart. Excuse me, Hannah.”