Perfect Match

by Fern Michaels

  While he waited, he spent his days singing inside the empty building. He recorded all his songs, which no one would ever hear but himself, and through the years played them over and over. Some of the recordings he redid because, as he believed, everything in life was a learning experience, and he was learning every day how to make things better, even his old recordings.

  As time went on, and nothing happened to improve his life, Arnold realized he had to take the bull by the horns and wrestle it to the ground. He went looking for people to help. Many, because of who he was and what he looked like, turned him down, but he didn’t allow himself to get discouraged. Gradually over time, people did find him, kind people who thanked him for helping them and getting them back on their feet. Before he knew it, word had spread, and he had more on his plate than he could handle. That’s when the idea to open Rootie Tootie’s as a club came to him. Musicians always needed a helping hand because Nashville was cold and cruel to newcomers. He joyously became the helping hand. The only thing he ever asked of anyone that he helped was if they made it in the music world, to come back and give back. To pay it forward, as they say nowadays. They all did. Every single one. And every year at Christmastime, more checks arrived. That’s when Arnold Stonebridge knew he had been blessed beyond anything he could have ever imagined. Some nights, with no fanfare, a big-time celebrity would take the stage and blow everyone’s socks off. They never failed to thank the little man who gave them their start just the way they never left without leaving a check for those who were still struggling. Arnold called these people his true treasures, and the reason he was put on earth was to take care of them.

  Arnold Stonebridge hopped out of his specially equipped car and walked around to the back of the building. It was still early, six o’clock, to be precise. He hadn’t been able to sleep, so he’d gotten up early, a little after four, and decided to go for an early-morning drive. He liked driving through the city before it came alive. For some strange reason, it always seemed to fortify him to get on with the day. The sun wasn’t quite over the horizon yet. As always, he was the first one in to get ready for the breakfast rush. He looked up at the bulletin board to see what was on the menu. Blueberry pancakes, sausage, and bacon, along with scrambled eggs. All the orange juice and coffee a person could drink, and one to go if the person wanted it. Especially in this cold weather.

  Everything in the kitchen was made to order for him, including the special pad that looked like a mat with an attached automobile jack, which would, with a few quick pumps, elevate him to worktable height. As long as he was standing on the pad, he could wheel it about to open the giant refrigerator, reach the monster coffee urns and the machine that crushed oranges for the pitchers of juice that appeared on every table, and the huge deep freeze. Over the years, he had discovered that it paid to buy in bulk.

  One by one, his help trickled in, always with smiles on their faces. What was better than getting fed prime food and being paid to prepare it? It was win-win for everyone. Arnold’s only rule was everyone had to smile. He absolutely would not tolerate frowns, moaning, and groaning. No one ever disappointed Arnold. And yet Arnold had no idea how much he was loved and adored. No idea at all.

  While they all worked in harmony, laughing and talking, the food was always ready sharply at eight o’clock, when the first guest arrived. Today, the talk was about the newest member of the band. Arnold’s ears perked up. He’d listened to the young man for the past few days and decided that with the proper guidance, the boy would make it.

  “Word got out about the new guy and how good he is. You all must have noticed we were packed to the walls these past few nights. They’re coming to see and hear him,” a chubby redhead giggled. “The guy is a real hunk, and he can sing. What do you think, Arnold?”

  Everyone stopped what they were doing for a moment to hear the wise one’s opinion. The whole world knew Arnold was stingy with his praise. If he said you were good, then you were damned good. If he said something vague, like “I think he or she has a little way to go,” or “in time he or she might get up there,” then that meant the person had a lot of work to do.

  “Two nights, and he had the whole room on their feet. That young man has a humbleness to him. I like that. I heard he’s an ex-marine, did two tours of duty in Iraq. I take that to mean he’s seen more in his young life than most people, and most of what he’s seen hasn’t been good. He’s got charisma. He’s also got a set of lungs on him, and a smile that makes you want to hug him. And, he has a pretty little gal who appears to be crazy about him. She sits ringside and has the nicest smile. It’s easy to tell they’re in love.” Among other things, Arnold Stonebridge was a romantic.

  And with those kind words, John Rossmon’s career was on its way. He just didn’t know it.

  The club doors opened for the evening the moment the dinner hour was over and everything put back to where it belonged. Now the interior looked like what it was, a nightclub and not a soup kitchen. The lights came on—subdued, of course. The little vases of fresh flowers along with small candles were distributed to each of the tables by one of the waitresses. Snacks were served, free, of course—pretzels, chips, nuts, candies. Drinks were a dollar each. The limit was three to a customer. Arnold’s other rule was no one left his establishment inebriated. No one. His patrons knew a good thing when they saw it and monitored each other. It all worked. That’s why the line all the way out to the alley was the same every night, even in the rain and the snow.

  Arnold was always on hand when the doors opened after the dinner hour. He shook hands, smiled, asked after families, congratulated and commiserated with his guests for a solid hour; and then he disappeared to his quarters on the second floor. The only access to his private quarters was an elevator that stayed in the locked position once he was in residence.

  Here, in his private sanctuary, everything was built to accommodate him and his height. It wasn’t lavish, but it was on the high side of comfortable. He’d told the architects, a firm from out of state because he didn’t want the locals knowing his business, that he wanted warm and cozy, a nest. The project had taken a little over two months, with the architects and their young son staying in a rental apartment a mile away. A strange young boy he had never warmed up to, as Arnold recalled. His only special request aside from warm and cozy was that he have floor-to-ceiling bookshelves to hold all his treasured books, which numbered in the thousands. The contractors had to reinforce all the walls as well as the floors to hold the weight of the books. His true treasures, and he’d read each and every book on the shelves. Some of them, like the classics, more than once.

  It was the architects’ suggestion to put in a one-way mirrored window similar to the ones used in Las Vegas casinos, so Arnold could observe what was going on down below. He’d demurred at first, then finally agreed. In the end, it turned out to be just perfect. Some nights, when the band was in superior form, he would sit in his chair and watch and listen and dream that he was on the small stage with them, singing his heart out.

  Something was off tonight. He could feel a different kind of energy. He likened it to one other time in his life, when he was sitting right where he was sitting and watching the happy customers until an entourage walked in and headed for a reserved table. Governor and Mrs. Able Stonebrook—his parents—and his siblings. He remembered how his little heart had started to pound in his chest. What were they doing here? Had they called for a reservation? If so, no one had told him. But, then, why would they? His parents had changed his name, not their own. Still, having the governor and his family show up was something that would make the morning papers. Stonebridge, Stonebrook. No reason for anyone to link the two together.

  Arnold watched as the mood in the room, which was always electric, fizzled. It took only an hour before people started to leave, and the band took a half-hour break. He watched as his mother looked around with disdain, while his father tried to question one waitress after another. Finally, one of his tall, handsome brothe
rs got up and stomped his way to the door. The others followed him, all regal in stature, all of them looking embarrassed that no one cared about their appearance. A note was left behind, which was given to him the next day. He still had the tattered piece of paper locked away. Just a little scrap of paper that read:

  Dear Arnold,

  I brought the family here tonight to see you. I’m sorry you were indisposed. Please, call me at this number.

  Love,

  Dad

  Well, Dad, aren’t you like sixty-five years too late?

  Arnold remembered how he’d cried so hard he made himself sick. He never called the number and left strict orders with all his employees never to allow the governor or any member of his family to get to the entrance of the alley, much less into the building. Because if they did, they would be on the unemployment line the very next day. As far as he knew, none of his family had ever returned to Rootie Tootie’s.

  Arnold shook his head to clear away his ugly thoughts and concentrated on what was going on down below. It took him only a second to realize it wasn’t the guests, it was the band. No, not the band, it was John Rossmon. His beat was off. Only someone like himself or the other members of the band would pick up on it. No one else seemed to notice. Arnold slid off his chair and went to find his glasses. Ah, now he could see all the way to China. He homed in on Rossmon. He looked normal. Clean-cut, freshly shaved, recent haircut. Pressed khakis, white shirt, sleeves rolled up. No tie. No wrinkles on the shirt, which had been ironed; he could see the creases on the sleeves. He was smiling but it wasn’t the same smile he’d seen the past few days. The man was worried. Arnold could tell. Maybe he was behind in his rent. Maybe he couldn’t make his car payment. He hadn’t showed up for breakfast or dinner, so that told him he had enough money to eat.

  Arnold did notice that Rossmon’s gaze kept going to ringside, to the table where his blond friend had sat earlier in the week. She wasn’t here tonight. A spat of some kind? Maybe she was sick. The flu had been going around early this year. He shook his head. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to find out sitting here watching. When you wanted to know something, the best way to find out was to ask. He hated doing that. He’d always tried not to get involved in his guests’ lives. If they approached him and asked for help, that was okay. He never turned anyone away. He also hated gossip of any kind. Consequently, his employees shared very little of what was actually going on, and that was fine with him. He had eyes and ears.

  Arnold frowned when he saw Dick Breme, the leader of the band, give Rossmon a sour look. He himself had winced at a sour, off-key note. Even from up here, Arnold could see that Rossmon was aware of his shortcomings tonight. He could see the apology in his eyes when he nodded at Breme.

  At eleven o’clock, Arnold couldn’t stand it a second longer. He’d go sit ringside in the hopes that Rossmon would shake whatever it was that was bothering him. He couldn’t explain why, even to himself, he’d taken such an instant liking to the ex-marine. Maybe it was because when they had met, Rossmon hadn’t given any kind of sign that Arnold was other than just a man he was shaking hands with. This was a man who was not judgmental. He had kind, gentle eyes and a smile that lit up the room. Just a regular all-around good guy had been his final decision. Someone he might want to get to know better.

  When he hit the main floor, Arnold signaled to one of the waiters and told him he wanted the ringside table. With five minutes to go till the band broke for a fifteen-minute intermission, Arnold felt confident Rossmon would join him.

  When the stage lights dimmed, and the band laid aside their instruments, Arnold raised an arm at Rossmon and pointed to the chair next to him. John hopped off the stage, walked over to the table, and held out his hand to shake Arnold’s. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m having an off night. It’s personal, and I won’t let it happen again. It’s just . . . it’s not me . . . well, it is me, but it’s . . . Oh, hell, I shouldn’t be unloading on you like this. Sorry, Mr. Stonebridge.”

  Arnold did something then that he’d never done before, and he wasn’t even sure why he did it at that moment. “Call me Arnold. Can I call you John?”

  “Um . . . sure. I mean great. I’ve only been here a few days, but everyone calls you Mr. Stonebridge. I thought . . . I guess I don’t know what I thought. But okay, I’m a pretty informal person myself.”

  “Can I buy you a beer, John?”

  John almost fell off his chair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see people watching him and the little man, especially Dick Breme. He wondered if he was going to get fired. The first thing Breme had told him was that Stonebridge did not socialize with the help and that he never, as in never, drank with them. For sure, he was going to get fired. God, with all that was going on with Beth, how could he tell her he got fired after only a few days? “I’d like that, Mr. . . . Arnold.”

  Arnold held up his hand. He called over his shoulder, “Two Bud Lights. Make sure they’re ice cold.”

  When the beer arrived, Arnold held his out and clinked it against John’s. “Let’s drink to your future success.”

  John thought he was going to faint. Maybe he wasn’t going to get fired after all.

  “Let’s talk about it. That means you talk, and I listen,” Arnold said. “Even upstairs, I could hear that you were off. You also look off. Talk to me, son.”

  Son. John started to feel warm all over. And to his own surprise and chagrin, he began to talk. He spoke bullet fast as he related his life with Beth, the marines, Jake Masters, coming here, and Beth’s immediate problem. He wound down with, “And the private detective arrived this evening and will be staying with us. He’ll be with Beth when I can’t be.”

  Arnold listened attentively as he tried to make sense out of what he’d just heard. No wonder the young man was off. Before Arnold could even think about what he was going to say, the words tumbled out of his mouth. “I have all kinds of top-notch security here even though you can’t see it. I also have a spare bedroom if you think your young lady would consider using it. If that’s not something that works for you, then how about this? I have extra security that I can loan out to your private detective. All you have to do is ask. Tomorrow, have your detective stop by here so we can have a chat. He doesn’t know this town like I do. I’ll be glad to do whatever I can do to help.”

  John was flabbergasted. “Why, sir? You just met me. Why would you do this—go out of your way for someone you barely know?”

  Arnold chuckled. A pleasant sound to John’s ears. A welcome, pleasant sound.

  “As strange and as hokey as it may sound to you, I believe I was put on this earth to help people. The truth is, it’s all I know how to do. So you see, you aren’t putting me out, and I’m not going out of my way. I’m simply doing what I always do. Think about it. Now, I want you back up on that stage, and I want you to perform like you did the first night you were here. Pretend I’m Beth cheering you on. Can you do that, John?”

  “You bet, Arnold. Listen, about what I just—”

  “Your business will never leave my lips. Go on, get up there; your fans are waiting.” John laughed out loud before he extended his hand again. Arnold placed his own tiny hand in John’s, then felt John’s other hand clamp down. In that moment in time, Arnold Stonebridge knew he’d made a friend for life. A true friend.

  Dick Breme looked at John and grinned. “You back on track, kid?”

  Kid. Well, he supposed he was a kid compared to Dick and his guys, who were in their late forties. “Yeah. Let’s have some fun. This crowd looks like it’s about to go to sleep. Can I use that sax over there?” Dick nodded. “Let’s wake them up with ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’! I know it’s not your thing, but I think the little man will get a kick out of it!”

  “Well, in that case, hit it, boys!”

  Arnold laughed so hard he cried as he clapped his tiny hands in a show of appreciation. He knew he was right about the kid. Knew it in his gut, his heart, and in his mind.

  When
the band called it a night a little after 1:00 A.M., John packed up, his spirits so high nothing could have dampened them. He struggled to find the right word to describe how he felt, and the only thing that came to mind was euphoric.

  “See ya tomorrow, kid,” Dick called out as he led the parade into the hall and the service entrance all the help used.

  “Yeah, see you tomorrow. And, Dick, sorry about the poor start tonight. It won’t happen again.”

  “Don’t sweat it, kid. We all have an off night from time to time.”

  John reached for his down jacket, slipped into it, then zipped it up. He reached into the pocket and pulled out a bright red watch cap that Beth had knitted for him a few years ago. He settled it on his head and looked around to make sure he had all his gear. He did. Still, he lingered. He walked back into the main room, just off the edge of the stage, and looked upward. He had no idea if his new best friend could see him or not, but he offered up a salute and a big smile.

  Arnold Stonebridge stood behind the two-way mirror and clapped his tiny hands and smiled. This was what he called the perfect ending to a long night. He continued to watch as the cleanup crew went about its business of righting the room so it would be ready for breakfast. He was still smiling when he made his way to his bedroom. He knew he was going to sleep like a baby tonight, and he wouldn’t be doing any four A.M. drives through the city.

  Downstairs, John Rossmon opened the door to a blast of arctic air and a swirl of snowflakes. Snow. He loved snow. He laughed out loud as he made his way to his SUV. If he hadn’t been so in tune with the events of the past hour and the swirling snowflakes, he might have noticed the parked car, the exhaust pluming backward. But his eyes were on his own Ford Ranger, and the falling snow.