So if all these nice people of average attractiveness can find love and get married, why does Bobby think he’s my only hope?
The worst thing about it is that he knows me better than almost anyone.
Which means he might be right.
Which is more depressing than all the memories of how I’ve behaved with Mason combined.
“The matchmaker can’t make her own match. That must be awkward for business.”
Over the next few days, Mason’s words come back to haunt me with such irritating frequency, I start to wonder if he had a point.
I’m at my desk late on Friday afternoon, having spent most of the day in meetings with new clients, when Auntie Waldine wanders in, eating a dill pickle. She settles into the chair opposite my desk and smiles.
“How you doin’, child?”
“Peachy keen, thanks for asking.”
Staring at me with an air of contemplation, she crunches on her pickle while I tap on the keyboard, trying to will her away. The woman has to be the world’s loudest eater. She could be snacking on a marshmallow and somehow make it sound like she’s grinding her molars on a mouthful of rocks.
Finally, she says lightly, “Oh, I nearly forgot.”
It sounds like she really means, “I’ve been thinking for days of exactly the right way to say this.” With a sigh, I settle back into my chair and wait.
Smacking her lips, she swallows the last bite of pickle. “Did you see there’s a Harry Potter marathon goin’ on over at the AMC?”
I jolt upright, almost knocking the jar of pens off my desk in the process. “No, I didn’t see that! When does it start?”
“Tonight, I think.” She licks pickle juice from her fingers, one by one, then sits there with her hands in the air like she’s waiting for a genie to appear and blow dry them.
I hand her a tissue. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll go online right now and buy tickets. Would you like to join me?”
She gives me a look like I need to seek medical attention. “No, thank you. I’ve already seen every one of them blasted movies a million times. If I have to hear the name Hermione again, my brain will turn to jelly.”
“You’re assuming it hasn’t already.”
She tuts. “Careful, now. I’ve still got a key to your house. I’ll de-militarize your pantry and rearrange everything by calorie content instead of size, shape, and color.”
I think about that for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea.”
She crosses herself then beseeches the ceiling. “Heavenly Father, where did I go wrong?”
My parents took me to see the Harry Potter movies when they first came out when I was a kid. But after they died and Auntie Waldine moved in to take care of me and my two brothers who were still living at home, I played the videos on TV in what she complained was a continuous loop.
I know now that my obsession with those characters is part of how I dealt with my parents’ death, that in some dark room of my adolescent subconscious I believed watching the movies religiously might bring them back. But over the years Harry, Hermione, and Ron became my closest friends. I cheered their victories and agonized with them in their defeats.
I loved them more than most people made of flesh and bone.
Especially Hermione. I still think she’s the real hero of the story. Without her fearlessness, brilliant mind, and loyal companionship, Harry would’ve never defeated Voldemort. He probably would’ve been killed off in the first book.
As I go onto the movie site to buy a ticket, Auntie Waldine asks how my meetings went.
“Really well. All three of the ladies were referrals from past clients, and the older gentleman found us from that ad you placed in the American Airlines magazine.”
“Did they all sign up?”
I nod, clicking on show times. “I was thinking the tall blonde, Stephanie, might be a good match for Mason Spark.”
“Did you now.”
Her tone is oddly indulgent, a verbal pat on the head, but I’m too busy selecting my seat in the theater to give it more than a passing thought.
“Yes. She ticks most of the boxes on his list, but more importantly, she seems patient and kind. And down to earth, which is a non-negotiable. He needs someone with real values, not a Bettina clone. And in Stephanie’s job as an independent mediator, she’s also got a lot of experience in conflict resolution.”
I smile, thinking of the sound of Mason’s growly voice. “I’m sure that skill will come in handy.”
“Oh, yes, I reckon that boy’ll be mighty impressed with her work experience.”
I can hear the eye roll in my aunt’s voice. A twinge of irritation tightens my stomach. “Don’t mock him.”
She chuckles. “I wasn’t, child. I was mocking you.”
I look askance at her. “Why?”
But just then the phone rings. She rises from her chair and saunters out of my office to answer it at her desk, whistling “Witchcraft” by Sinatra as she goes.
I complete the ticket purchase and get back to work, wondering if everyone has relatives as strange as mine.
Four hours later, I’m happily munching on buttered popcorn in a dark theater. It’s only one quarter full, which is nice because I don’t have to shush people around me or tell them to stop texting like I usually do. By the time the credits roll, I’ve got a happy buzz from the supersized soda I drank and the company of my dear friends at Hogwarts.
I’m gathering up my coat and purse when I spot a familiar figure walking up the aisle.
I’d recognize those broad shoulders and bulging biceps anywhere.
Almost simultaneously, Mason recognizes me. He stops dead a few rows down and stares at me.
I recover first. Making my way slowly out of my aisle, I pause at the last seat and wait for him to stop looking like he’s been hit in the face with a shovel. Then he shoves his hands into the front pocket of his jeans and says gruffly, “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” I look past him, expecting to see a woman walking up, but everyone else has already filed out. He’s alone.
“What’re you doing here?”
I’m irritated by his tone, which seems to indicate he thinks I’m stalking him. “Watching a movie. You?”
“Same. What’re the odds?”
“Pretty good, considering movie theaters are where they usually show movies.”
A corner of his mouth quirks. “Smartass.”
“Yes, but you have to take some responsibility. You make it so easy for me.”
The quirk turns into a full-blown smile. I try not to notice how handsome he looks with a few day’s scruff darkening his jaw, his hair in need of the attention of a comb, and wearing a grayish T-shirt that could pass for a dishrag, but fail.
The man could be naked and covered in motor oil and still look incredible.
Now that I think of it, that’s a bad example.
He walks closer with his long, easy stride, still smiling. “Are you in the wrong theater? I think Cats is playing next door.”
“Very funny. You missed your true calling as a comedian.” My tone is sour, but I’m not mad. In fact, the irritation has vanished and suddenly I’m so happy I could burst into hysterical giggles.
Lord, this is so bad.