Cupid's Daughter (Cupid's Daughter #1)

by Krumbine, Jason

  "Anna and I were very much in love when we first met," he said. "It was what some people might call a whirlwind romance. We met and less than two weeks later we were married. That's how much in love we were. That's how sure we were perfect for each other. There were no regrets. Just excitement, hope and love. What more could you possibly need? And, in fact, that's all we really did need for many years after that. It seemed as though our love would never fade, that our love could weather anything. I believe that we believed ourselves to be invincible.

  "But then one day, without either of us noticing, our love began to wane. And it kept waning a little more every day after that. Neither one of us ever noticed. I don't know why. Probably out of arrogance. Or maybe we simply didn't want to notice.

  "And then one day Anna came to me and asked for a divorce." He paused again and shrugged. "And I said yes, because what else could I say? The damage, whatever it was, had already been done. She asked me and I said yes.

  "That, Ms. Valentine, is why we got a divorce."

  I didn't know what to say. It seemed too honest, too personal to share with somebody like me. Why would he tell me any of this?

  "I'm sorry," I whispered.

  Mr. Draper got to his feet and for the first time I noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Don't be. It's not your fault." He rested his hand atop of mine for a brief moment.

  "Mr. Draper," I said. It sounded like my voice was hardly more than a whisper, but I knew that couldn't be the case. "Why did you buy me this coffee?"

  "Because I felt as though I should thank you," he replied.

  Okay, I really didn't expect that.

  "You took excellent care of my wife," Mr. Draper continued. "Perhaps that was something I should have been doing more of." He squeezed my hand gently. "So, thank you, Ms. Valentine. Thank you. I wish you well."

  I watched Mr. Draper step out of the coffee shop and I felt like a total heel.

  That man was still one hundred percent in love with his wife.

  Chapter Twelve

  I made it to the lobby of Forty-Second and Sixth, but I didn't make it to the office. My Dad was waiting for me.

  The minute I saw him, I knew.

  Whatever I had been feeling after meeting with Mr. Draper, was swept away by the raw irritating anger I felt towards my Father.

  I stomped across the lobby and waved my finger at him. "You did this," I snapped. My voice was just loud enough to attract a few stares.

  Dad was sitting on the bench near the elevators. He looked at me, lowering his copy of the New York Times. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Don't play dumb with me." I glared at him. "I got your little matchmaking package last night and if that wasn't enough, you did this." I shook my head. "This is low, even for you, Dad."

  He quietly folded up his paper, tucking it under his arm. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a plaid button down shirt. I was taken aback for a second. It was remarkably underdressed for Dad.

  Dad started to speak and then paused, wrinkling his nose. "What is that smell?" He leaned forward and sniffed the air cautiously. "It smells like soured rose petals."

  I took a step back.

  Dad regarded me with a raised eyebrow.

  "That's the smell of you messing with my life," I said self-consciously. "I woke up four hours late."

  "How exactly does that translate into you smelling like soured rose petals?" Dad asked.

  I felt my cheeks burning. "I didn't have time to take a shower. In fact," I said, focusing on my anger to get me through my embarrassment. "I really didn't have time to do anything."

  Dad wrinkled his nose again. "I'm pretty sure one always has time for a shower, sweetheart."

  "Not when you're four hours late!" I snapped. "I don't even think my brain was fully awake until about fifteen minutes ago. That's what you did. I actually left my apartment half asleep. Do you know how dangerous that is?"

  "You're making a scene, Emma," he said in a calm tone that just managed to irritate me even more. He got to his feet.

  I folded my arms. "I wouldn't have to be making a scene if you hadn't shut off my phone and alarm clock this morning. I've lost half a day of work! They're probably going to fire me, you know."

  "They're not going to fire you."

  "You don't know that," I said. "I'm the one that works there. They're my bosses. You don't know them. I know them."

  Dad looked at me patiently. "And are they going to fire you for being tardy?"

  I sighed. It was so much harder to be insanely crazy angry when I had caffeine in me and my brain was one hundred percent awake. "No," I muttered. "They're not going to fire me."

  "Of course they aren't."

  I jabbed a finger at him. "But your dirty little plan isn't going to work."

  "And yet," Dad spread out his hands. "Here you are."

  "You can't trick me into coming back to work for you," I said.

  Dad gave me a half shrug. "Who's tricking you? You clearly knew it was me. How have I been deceptive?"

  I gaped at him. "Two minutes ago you were flat out denying it. How is that not deceptive?"

  "That was two minutes ago," Dad said, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and steering me back out towards Forty-Second Street. "This is now."

  "I feel as though I should warn you that in terms of defenses, that one's pretty weak."

  "You didn't let me finish," he continued.

  "Oh, by all means," I said, rolling my eyes. "Please. Continue. I'd love to see how you plan on digging yourself out of this one."

  "You know, as my daughter, you should be a little more respectful," Dad chastised me.

  I stopped us at the doors. "This is me being more respectful, Dad."

  "Seriously, you didn't think you had time to take a shower?" Dad asked. "You were already four hours late. What was another twenty minutes going to harm you?"

  I rubbed my eyes. "I wasn't exactly thinking clearly. Basically, I was operating in a foggy state of panic."

  "That doesn't sound very safe," Dad observed.

  "Maybe you should have thought about that before you shut off my alarm clock." I shook my head. "I can't believe this. You're the parent here. I'm not supposed to be yelling at you."

  "I agree," Dad said. "That's why I mentioned that you should be more respectful."

  "Maybe you should stop stooping to college dorm room pranks, Dad." I threw some extra emphasis on the last word, hoping that it'd make him feel guilty.

  But, if he felt any guilt, Dad didn't show it. He just stroked his chin, almost absently, really, as though he wasn't even giving his actions a second thought. Great, my father, Cupid, was basically a sociopath. This did not bode well for the rest of my life and the world in general.

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself back down. "Look, it doesn't matter what stupid pranks you pull, I'm not doing this."

  "If you don't do this, who will?"

  "You know, it feels like people keep asking me that question, but it's not like the fate of the world hangs in the balance," I pointed out. "It's just a broken marriage. Maybe it wasn't meant to be."

  Dad frowned. "Now who's being deceptive."

  I pointed to the elevators. "Do you know how much work I've probably lost today? Because I don't. I woke up in such a panic, I completely forgot what's on my schedule and I'm too afraid to find out what the damage is. This is what you have done to me."

  Dad completely ignored my point and asked, "You spoke with Mr. Draper?"

  I pinched my lips together. "Yes. I spoke with him."

  "And?" Dad prompted.

  "And, what?" I asked.

  Dad just waited.

  I sighed. "Obviously the guy's still in love with his wife."

  Dad smiled. "Exactly."

  I held up a hand. "Not my problem."

  "Of course, it's your problem," Dad replied.

  "Only because you keep trying to make it my problem." I waved my hands around. "Other than that, it's really not my problem. Yo
u know, Luke told me all about the Drapers and you."

  Dad just raised an eyebrow, but he didn't say anything.

  I nodded. "Who's problem is this now? I am not cleaning up your mess."

  "This isn’t about cleaning up anyone's mess, Emma," Dad said.

  "Funny, because it kind of looks like it. A ninety-five compatibility rating and now thirty years later their marriage is in the dumps? It certainly sounds like somebody screwed up somewhere."

  "Mistakes are made every day," Dad said. "Everybody makes mistakes every day. We as a human race are not perfect."

  "You realize that after what I said, what you just said sounds like a copout."

  Dad sighed. "So you feel nothing for the Drapers?"

  I rubbed my forehead. "Do I feel sad for them? Of course, I do. You know what? Most divorces are sad. A few have been super happy affairs. But usually, at some point in time, there's some sadness that settles in. Feeling something for them doesn't make their broken marriage my problem. It just makes me human."

  "But you're not," Dad said, "just human."

  I frowned. "You know, you're right. Why don't you just use some fairy dust." I snapped my fingers with a theatrical flair. "Just magic them back together."

  Dad looked at me with disappointment in his eyes. "Because you know that's not how it works."

  I looked away from my Dad. My jaw clenched. "Yeah. Free will. I remember."

  "Everybody makes mistakes," Dad continued. "And the Draper's have made their fair share as well."

  "Then maybe they need to learn from their mistakes," I suggested. "Isn't that usually what follows the speech about making mistakes?"

  "Sometimes when we make a mistake, we don't realize it," Dad said. "Everybody needs a little help." He paused and then added, "Love is something that must be nurtured and cared for. Like a plant, it must be watered every day. Sometimes we just need to be reminded of that."

  I sighed again. "Oh my goodness," I muttered. "You are not going to let this drop, are you?"

  "Of course not," Dad replied. "I'm Cupid. It's my job."

  I leaned against the wall, tilting my head back. My shoulders sagged. "But it's not my job, Dad."

  He cupped my chin, leveling my gaze with his. "But it will be some day."

  "No, it won't," I said and I immediately regretted it.

  The hurt passed across his face in the proverbial blink of an eye. But I hadn't been the one blinking and I saw it all.

  I closed my eyes. I hated this. I hated it, I hated it, I hated it. This wasn't fair. It was never fair and it was probably never going to be fair.

  But I couldn't take my grief out on my Dad. I wasn't sixteen years old anymore.

  "Fine." I looked at him and took a deep breath. "I'll do this. But you have to promise that this is it. Once I've reunited the Drapers, that's it. You'll stop trying to bring me back into the business. Okay?"

  Dad hesitated, torn between being happy and disappointed all at once.

  "I swear, Dad, this is the only way it's going to happen," I said firmly. "I have a job and I like it. I'm not going to go back to matchmaking. It's this or nothing."

  Okay, so I probably could have used softer language. But hey, I think I managed to get my point across and earn a few brownie points for helping Dad. I mean, I hope I did, at least.

  Dad thought it over for a second and then slowly nodded his head. "Very well." He held up his hand solemnly. "Scout's honor."

  I took his hand and we shook on it.

  "Okay," I said. "Let's get the Drapers back together."

  "Actually," Dad said. "First, I need to borrow you in more of a legal capacity."

  Chapter Thirteen

  After calling in sick to work, heading back to my apartment for a shower and clothes that actually matched, Dad took me to a small restaurant adjacent to Central Park. It was one of those tiny, fresh food places. Lots of salads, fruits and other things that looked quite yummy. Looking at the prices on the menu, I decided that this wasn't a bad way to get Dad to pay me back for this morning. However, I doubted I was going to get the chance to eat anything.

  Harry Burkle, the singer's manager, was already waiting for us when we arrive at the restaurant. In his forties, with obviously dyed black hair, slicked back so heavily with hairspray, he was pretty much the embodiment of the worse music manager ever. His suit looked so cheap, I half expected it to fall apart every time he moved.

  "Mr. Valentine," Burkle said. His voice grated on my ears. It was high pitched and heavily accented with a Boston flavor. I hated the Boston accent. It was irrational hate, I admit that. But it was a burning hate nonetheless. And every time he said my Dad's name, it sounded like it was going through an audible meat-grinder. "Mr. Valentine, you have caused my client great pain and embarrassment. This will not stand."

  I looked up from my menu. Who talked like that? 'This will not stand'? Are we in the mob now? Did I miss some kind of initiation ceremony? I glanced at my Dad, but he seemed unfazed by Burkle's voice or attitude. He also hadn't looked at the menu once since we got here. I don't think I was going to get a free meal.

  "Mr. Burkle," Dad said, folding his hands casually on the table. "Harry. May I call you Harry?" Dad didn't wait for an answer. "Harry, no one here is denying that what happened to your client was unfortunate."

  Burkle snorted. "Unfortunate? Have you been following the news outlets over the last day? Saying it's unfortunate is like saying that the sinking of the Titanic was unfortunate."

  I'm glad I wasn't drinking anything because I think I would have done a full-on spit take.

  Dad maintained his composure and simply said, "Agree to disagree."

  "There ain't nothing to disagree over." Burkle jabbed a finger at my Dad. "This is all your fault."

  I really wanted to reach across the table and smack this guy.

  "Affairs of the heart are always complicated, Harry," Dad continued, as unflappable as always. "No one is at fault here."

  "I wonder how a jury might see it."

  I glanced at my Dad. To the untrained eye, he seemed unbothered by Burkle's attitude. But I knew him a little better than the untrained eye and I could see the weasel was starting to get under Dad's skin.

  Dad said, "What happened to your client was, indeed, embarrassing."

  "And painful," Burkle interjected.

  "It was whipped cream," I said. "I can't remember the last time whipped cream hurt anybody. I mean, unless, of course, they're lactose intolerant."

  Burkle shot me a dirty look. "I thought we were going to handle this like gentlemen, Mr. Valentine. I don't appreciate you bringing a lawyer to this meeting."

  Okay. That was it. I set my menu down and went into full lawyer mode. "Like gentlemen? Are you familiar with the definition of that word? What exactly did you expect was going to happen when you started throwing around the word lawsuit? Perhaps you thought that Mr. Valentine here, the head of an international matchmaking organization worth billions of dollars, was just going to rollover and cut you a blank check? Maybe even offer you some more free publicity, because that's what this is all about, isn't it? You're either looking for a quick buck or your client has an album coming out in a few months. Which one is it, Mr. Burkle? Because this certainly has nothing to with your client's emotional state. If it did, she would be the one sitting here, discussing the issue with Mr. Valentine. You want to take us to court over a bad date? Be my guest. The judge will kick this case out so fast that you'll get permanent motion sickness from how fast your head'll be spinning."

  "I," Burkle stuttered and stammered, looking back and forth between us, his face growing progressively redder.

  I sat back in my seat, feeling more than a little proud of myself. I looked at my Dad, expecting to see him beaming at me with pride. Instead, he was looking over my shoulder with a huge grin. "Cheryl, dear, so good to see you!"

  Cheryl? Who the heck was Cheryl?

  I twisted my head to see who Dad was addressing.

  Cheryl
was apparently a woman in her forties who liked to wear tight dresses that weren't very flattering. She wore a lot of heavy makeup and, even though she was a good five feet away, I could smell her perfume all around me. Of course, I'm the last person that should be criticizing somebody about wearing too much perfume today...

  Dad got up and gave Cheryl a hug and they exchanged cheek kisses. What was going on?

  Then I looked at Burkle.

  Oh.

  Harry Burkle had gone from embarrassed anger to smitten in a matter of seconds.

  "Where are my manners?" Dad said, shaking his head like he was embarrassed with himself. He gestured to Burkle. "Harry Burkle, Cheryl Hines."

  "Enchanted," Cheryl said in a high pitched voice that made me yearn for nails on a chalkboard.

  Burkle got to his feet, as though in a daze. He took Cheryl's hand, bringing it up to his lips and graced it a soft kiss. "The pleasure is all mine."

  Cheryl giggled like a schoolgirl and my Dad stepped from between them. He snapped his fingers. "Harry, I just realized that I have another pressing appointment to attend to. Perhaps we can continue this at a later date?"

  Burkle nodded absently. "Sure, sure. Whatever."

  "Excellent. It was a pleasure seeing you again, Cheryl," Dad said.

  I got up from my seat and followed him up to the counter.

  As Dad paid for a small basket of fresh strawberries, I glanced back at our table. Burkle and Cheryl had sat down and were already engaged in an animated and passionate discussion.

  "I don't believe this," I muttered. I looked at Dad. "You planned this?" I waved a hand at the couple.

  Dad pushed my hand down and steered me outside. "You make it sound like I'm some kind of evil mastermind."

  "It certainly feels like it," I said.

  "Mr. Harry Burkle was bound to run into Cheryl in the next few weeks or so anyway," Dad explained. "Her profile on the website had already come up several times in connection with his."

  "He has a profile on the site?"

  "Of course, how do you think his client found out about us?"

  "So, this meeting was, what, just an excuse to get him off your back?"