Once Upon a Matchmaker

by Marie Ferrarella

  He received a sleepy smile in response.

  “Well, I’m going to take our boy up to his room and get him ready for bed,” Sheila informed both father and son. Very gently, she extricated Greg out of his father’s arms.

  Micah was about to ask his aunt about the car parked at the curb, but as she stepped away, he found he didn’t have to. Tracy Ryan had been standing behind his aunt, silently observing. The moment Sheila took the boy, she stepped forward.

  “So, I’m guessing that Greg didn’t ingest any of the fertilizer?” she asked.

  “No, thank God.” His voice all but vibrated with palpable relief. And then, because she had seriously aroused his curiosity—no easy feat these days—he had to ask, “What are you still doing here, if you don’t mind my asking?” And then an answer occurred to him. “Did my aunt just get home now?”

  “No,” Tracy assured him, “your aunt got home a few minutes after you left.” She saw the question in his eyes. “I thought I’d just stick around for a while to find out how Greg was—I didn’t think you’d mind,” she added.

  “Of course I don’t,” Micah assured her quickly. “I was just surprised that you stayed after my aunt got home, that’s all.”

  He would have thought she’d be eager to get home. Because she seemed genuinely nice, he felt he owed it to her to be completely honest. Even if it wasn’t easy.

  “Look, I have to tell you right up front that I’m not going to be able to pay you right away. Or after a little while, actually.” He looked at her face, searching for a telltale sign that she’d suddenly changed her mind about being his attorney. So far, there didn’t seem to be any indication that she was thinking any such thing. “If you’re not averse to getting the money in installments—lots of installments,” he emphasized, “then I’d be more than happy to have you represent me.”

  She waited until he was finished, sensing that he’d gotten a full head of steam up and wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted. But now it was her turn to talk. “Didn’t your aunt tell you?”

  All his aunt had said was that Tracy Ryan was a friend of one of her friend’s daughters. He had a feeling that wasn’t what the woman was referring to. “Tell me what?”

  “This case is pro bono.” When Micah said nothing, Tracy tactfully began to explain, “That means that there’s no charge to—”

  “I know what the term means,” he told her, sounding a great deal more formal than he had a moment ago. “And if it’s all the same to you, Ms. Ryan, I like to pay for what I get.” He drew himself up a little straighter, as if wrapping his dignity around himself. “I’m not a charity case.”

  Ah, there it is. Pride, she thought. Replaying her words in her head, she decided that she could have stated her offer a little better.

  “No one said you were, Micah. It’s just that legal representation is rather pricy these days—especially legal representation from my firm. They have an excellent reputation,” she told him matter-of-factly. “An excellent track record. And for that, they feel justified in charging an excellent fee.” The smile on her lips was a self-deprecating one. “Actually, a prohibitive fee for the average citizen,” she pointed out. “In order to give a little back to the community, so to speak, on occasion my firm agrees to do a few pro bono cases.”

  He held up his hand to stop her before she could go on. “I understand all that,” he told Tracy. “But I’m not going to fill that requirement for your firm. I pay all my bills no matter how long it takes.”

  “Yes, I know you do.” She saw him raise an eyebrow quizzically. “I always do my homework before I agree to undertake any case,” she informed him. “I looked into your background.”

  His life, he had begun to believe, seemed to be a matter of record. Not an easy fact for a man who valued his privacy. But then, he reasoned, he’d given up all claim to privacy when he signed the papers agreeing to go into the black programs. He had given them permission to turn his life into an open book.

  “Thorough,” he acknowledged. “That’s very admirable.”

  “Thank you. Now, you’re probably too exhausted to talk about the case tonight, so why don’t you come by my office tomorrow, say around lunchtime, and tell me your version of the story?”

  Her choice of words, intentionally or not, had his back going up. “It’s not a ‘version,’ it’s the truth.” Even as he said the words, Micah knew he was being testy, but then given the circumstances, he felt he had a right to be.

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Tracy pointed out calmly. “But trust me, there are always different versions of the same story out there. It’s my job to prove that the true version is the true one. And also yours,” she concluded with a smile. “So, tomorrow at lunchtime?” she asked.

  Somehow in the past five seconds, he’d gotten a second wind. Feeling a little more like himself, Micah made her a counter offer.

  “If you’re not in a hurry, I’d rather get this out in the open now.” He saw her hesitate for a moment and guessed at why. She was probably hungry. “I can feed you,” he offered. Realizing that hadn’t exactly come out right, he tried again. “I know you haven’t had dinner and there’s lasagna in the refrigerator that I just have to heat up—unless you’re a vegetarian,” he said as the thought suddenly occurred to him.

  “Nope, not a vegetarian,” she assured him, and then she asked, “Your aunt made lasagna? What was the occasion?”

  “No occasion,” he told her. Beckoning for her to follow him, Micah led the way to his kitchen. “And actually, she didn’t make it.” He stopped by the refrigerator and opened it. “I did.”

  She stared at him. “You?”

  “Why is that so surprising?” he asked.

  Taking out a large, rectangular pan from the refrigerator, he placed it on the counter and removed the foil from the top. Micah cut two healthy-sized portions and placed them on a plate. He brought that over to the microwave and pressed the appropriate numbers on the keypad.

  “Because to most of the men that I know—make that all the men I know,” she amended, silently including her ex amid that number, “cooking means putting something frozen into the microwave and making it hot.”

  Well, that wasn’t the case with him, Micah thought, amused. As he waited for the microwave to go off, he gave her a thumbnail sketch of his background.

  “My mother liked to cook. I used to spend time hanging around in the kitchen, watching her make these fantastic meals. When I cook, it makes me feel like she’s still around.”

  She knew he was an orphan, that he’d lost both parents in a car accident when he was twelve. A lot of people would have closed up emotionally because of that—especially if their wife had died on top of that. But he obviously hadn’t.

  She liked the fact that he didn’t seem embarrassed by the admission. Here was a man who was obviously secure in his identity. Had she not made up her mind to represent him already, this would have easily pushed her to making that decision.

  The microwave bell went off. Opening the door, he gingerly removed the plate then divided the two pieces, placing each on a separate dish.

  Tracy could feel her taste buds arousing in anticipation of the meal that accompanied the sumptuous aroma. Her stomach was already pinching her in protest for having been neglected. Lunch had been a highly unsatisfying protein bar.

  “Well, if the aroma is any indication of your culinary abilities,” Tracy told him, “you might have a whole new career opening up for you if you decide you want to leave the engineering world behind you.”

  It wasn’t engineering he wanted to leave behind, but there would be very little arm twisting involved to get him to leave the black world. There was still a great deal of defense system work available that didn’t involve taking his computer hard drive out every night and having it locked up in a vault until he retrieved it the following morning.

  All in all, he’d had more than his fill of paranoia. A man could only live so long with that sort of specter hovering over his
shoulder before it started infiltrating and affecting every aspect of his life.

  He smiled at the compliment she’d given him. “Why don’t you wait until you’ve tasted it before you have me wearing an apron full-time?”

  Tracy inclined her head. “Fair enough.”

  Using her fork, she cut off a piece and slid it into her mouth, aware that he was watching her and waiting for a reaction. Her taste buds were greeted with a combination of hot, spicy and sweet as well as savory. She said nothing as she took a second bite, discovering it to be even more flavorful that the first. The entire experience was a revelation to her.

  Ordinarily, most of the time she ate merely to sustain herself. The only simple requirement she had was that the food not be spoiled or foul tasting. Beyond that, she was fairly easy to please and definitely not demanding or discerning. This, however, felt like a carnival was going on in her mouth.

  After her fourth forkful, she paused long enough to look at him in unabashed admiration. “And you actually made this?”

  He already knew her reaction to the meal. He wondered if she was aware of the fact that she’d made a little noise of pleasure between the second and third forkful. A completely stray thought floated through his head, wondering if she did the same when she made love. Startled at the sexual thought, his first about another woman since he’d first met Ella, he shut it down. It was almost too much for him to handle.

  Clearing his throat, he replied, “Yes.”

  She knew there were male chefs around. The cable channels were full of them. But she herself had never met an ordinary male who was any better at boiling water than she was. As far as she could ascertain, this meal was beyond perfect.

  “Without help?” she pressed.

  “Well, I didn’t make my own ricotta cheese, if that’s what you mean,” he told her, amused rather than annoyed or insulted by her skepticism. “I bought it in a container at the supermarket. But I did make my own sauce and grate my own parmesan cheese.”

  “I’m not an expert,” Tracy freely admitted—life, and her vocation, had taught her to be cautious in the way she worded her statements, “but this has got to be the best lasagna I’ve ever had.” She began to eat with gusto, something she was quite unaccustomed to doing. “Forget about pro bono or monthly installments, just pay me in lasagna and we’ll call it more than even.” She paused for a second, not wanting to talk with her mouth full. “Do you make anything else?”

  He had a fairly diverse list of meals he made, but for the most part, he tended to favor meals with an Italian flavor. Rather than launch into a long explanation, he answered her question simply.

  “Yes.”

  The one thing she did have was a sweet tooth, hence the chocolate-covered protein bar for lunch rather than grabbing a sandwich from the vending machine. “Desserts, too?” she asked.

  He could tell by the way she asked that she’d just revealed her weakness. He nodded in response to her question, then told her, “There’s some leftover tiramisu—that was what Aunt Sheila wanted as her cake for Mother’s Day.”

  “Tiramisu?” she repeated. She could almost feel her mouth begin to water.

  Tiramisu was one of the very few things she actually went out of her way to order whenever she could. Done correctly, it was a sinfully delicious, light delicacy that felt as if the calories were floating just above her tongue whenever she had a slice.

  This man could actually make that?

  He picked up on the wistful note in her voice. “Would you like a slice when you’re finished with that?” he asked, nodding at her plate.

  “I wouldn’t want to take any away from your aunt and the boys,” she told him, but even as she said it, she hoped that he would offer her a piece despite her polite protest.

  “No worries,” he assured her. “I made a very large cake.”

  Feeding her was the least he could do, Micah thought, seeing as how she was apparently taking on his case. He wondered if she knew what she was getting into.

  Micah continued to watch her, enjoying her simply enjoy her dinner. Most women her age picked at their food, determined to remain some absurdly small size. It was obvious to him that his lawyer wasn’t a slave to being a stick figure.

  They were going to get along. He found the thought reassuring as well as oddly comforting. He couldn’t really explain the latter reaction, but for now, he didn’t even try.

  Chapter Six

  Tracy couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this full. Her usual habit was to eat only until the empty feeling in her stomach was no longer a problem, and then stop.

  Tonight, she’d eaten well beyond that point.

  Even now, filled to capacity and feeling somewhat drowsy, to boot, she could have still slipped in another few mouthfuls of the sinfully delicious dessert.

  Putting her fork down, she gave her full attention to Micah. “I suggest you tell me what you want to tell me before I wind up curling up in front of your fireplace and purring like a contented kitten.” When she saw the surprised expression in his eyes, Tracy realized that he might be misconstruing what she’d just said to him. “Between the lasagna and the tiramisu, I think I just ate enough to sustain me for an entire week. You know how old men usually fall asleep after eating too much turkey at Thanksgiving? Well, I’m very close to reaching that point.”

  He laughed. A dozen ways to describe her occurred to him. Not one involved likening her to an old man. “You’re not an old man,” he pointed out, “and you didn’t just take in an inordinate amount of tryptophan.”

  Okay, now her brain was going to sleep. She looked at him, confused. “Excuse me?”

  He grinned at her. This had been nice. He’d forgotten what it felt like just to have dinner with a woman his own age, never mind that it was at his kitchen counter and that he had made the meal. Some of his best memories of Ella involved this exact same scenario.

  The thought startled him, and he immediately pulled back, his feelings jumbled and confused.

  “Which part is giving you trouble?” he asked. “The old man part or the tryptophan part?”

  She nodded when he mentioned tryptophan. “The second part. What is that?” she asked, referring to what she assumed was a strange ingredient.

  “Tryptophan is what puts people to sleep,” he told her simply. “It’s a natural calming agent and turkey is absolutely loaded with it. Hence, people who eat a large portion of turkey tend to feel very sleepy.”

  “And here I thought it was just because they stuffed themselves,” she quipped. Was it her imagination, or had he somehow gotten physically closer? Neither one of them had moved off the stools or drawn them in nearer. Maybe it was just getting warm in here, and her mind was playing tricks on her.

  In either case, she didn’t draw away from him but remained sitting exactly where she was, just possibly a little more erect.

  “Well, that helps, too,” Micah allowed. She was telling him she was sleepy. He could take a hint. “Maybe I should just take you up on coming over tomorrow at lunch.”

  She couldn’t pay him back like this after he’d gone out of his way and made her dinner. Tracy took a deep breath, trying to wake herself up.

  “No, no, you said you wanted to get this out on the table tonight and we’re not going to postpone anything on my account.” She had to pause to stifle a yawn. She really was tired. One glance at his face and she could see he was aware of it, too. “Okay, I tell you what, just give me the highlights and you can fill in between the lines tomorrow, how’s that?”

  “Sounds like a reasonable compromise,” he answered. And, if he was being honest, he did feel rather tired himself. Or maybe drained was a better word for it. God knew he certainly felt drained. Worrying about his sick son had worn Micah out clear down to the bone.

  Between that and agonizing about what would happen to the boys if he was found guilty of selling secrets to a foreign power, Micah felt as if he’d been turned inside out, and then used to mop up all the floors
at John Wayne Airport.

  “Because of the nature of the work—” He paused for a moment, then interjected, “and you know I can’t tell you what that is.”

  “I don’t need to know specifics for this,” she told him complacently. “Go on,” she urged.

  It was all such a jumble—and it had been ever since he’d been placed on restricted duty—that he wasn’t all that sure just exactly where to begin. So he started with his daily routine—beginning with the end of it.

  “Every night,” he told her, “I need to take out my hard drive and have it locked up in the department’s vault.”

  She stopped him. “Do you know the combination to the vault?”

  “No.” They’d asked him if he wanted to be part of a select few who had access to the ever changing combination and he’d turned them down. That responsibility was above his pay grade. “Only Justin Reed does at the moment—and they make a point of having him change it at the beginning of each month.” His eyes narrowed. She had taken out a pen and was jotting things down on the napkin he’d given her. “Are you taking notes on a napkin?” he asked.

  “It was handy,” Tracy answered.

  “I’ll get you some paper,” he offered. Turning his stool away from her, Micah was about to get up.

  “No need,” she told him. When he turned back to look at her, he saw that she’d opened up the napkin to show him how much writing space she actually had. “Go on.”

  Whatever works, he thought, shrugging. “Anyway, I pick up my hard drive every morning and put it back into the computer. The software and everything I work on is completely encrypted. As is the information on my laptop,” he added.

  She raised her eyes to his. “Your laptop?”

  He nodded. “They issued me one so that I can work from home if I have to. For when Greg gets sick,” he explained.

  Professionally, she was far more interested in the fact that his company had issued him a laptop than why they’d issued it to him. But personally, she found the thought of his caring so much about his younger son endearing.