Match Me If You Can

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “And put Phoebe on guard? I don’t think so.”

  “I’m guessing she already will be.”

  Another lazy smile. “Not if I play my cards right.”

  Fresh gravel pinged against the undercarriage of the car, and a few minutes later, the campground came into sight. She took in the shady commons, where a group of kids were playing softball. Gingerbread cottages with tiny eaves that dripped wooden lace surrounded the grassy rectangle. Each house looked as though it had been painted with brushes dipped in sherbet cartons: one lime green with root beer and cantaloupe trim, another raspberry with touches of lemon and almond. Through the trees she glimpsed a slice of sandy beach and the bright blue water of Wind Lake.

  “No wonder Kevin likes it here so much,” Heath said.

  “It’s exactly like Nightingale Woods in Molly’s Daphne books. I’m so glad she talked Kevin out of selling it.” The campground had been in Kevin’s family since his great-grandfather, an itinerant Methodist minister, had founded it for summer religious revivals. Eventually, it had passed to Kevin’s father, then Kevin’s aunt, and finally to Kevin.

  “The upkeep on the place is unbelievable,” Heath said. “I’ve always wondered why he kept it.”

  “Now you know.”

  “Now I know.” He slipped off his sunglasses. “I miss not being outdoors more. I grew up banging around in the woods.”

  “Huntin’ and trappin’?”

  “Not too much. I never got into killing things.”

  “Preferring slow torture.”

  “You know me so well.”

  They followed the road that looped around the common. Each cottage bore a neatly painted sign over the door: GREEN

  PASTURES, MILK AND HONEY, LAMB OF GOD, JACOB’S LADDER. She slowed to admire the bed-and-breakfast, a stately, turreted Queen Anne with sweeping porches; lush, hanging ferns; and wooden rockers where two women sat chatting. Heath checked the directions and pointed toward a narrow lane that ran parallel to the lake. “Take a left.”

  She did as he said. They passed an elderly woman with binoculars and a walking stick, then two teenagers on bikes. Finally, they reached the end of the lane, and she pulled up in front of the last of the cottages, a doll’s house with a sign above the door that read LILIES OF THE FIELD. Painted a creamy yellow with dusty pink and pale blue accents, the house looked as though it had tumbled out of a child’s nursery tale. Annabelle was captivated. At the same time, she found herself wishing it weren’t quite so isolated from the other cottages.

  Heath bounded from the car and unloaded their suitcases. The screen door squeaked as she followed him into the cottage’s main living area. Everything was worn, chipped, and homey, authentic shabby chic instead of the overpriced decorator variety. Off-white walls, a cozy couch with a faded floral print, battered brass lamps, a scrubbed pine chest…She poked her head into a tiny kitchen with an old-fashioned gas stove. A door next to the refrigerator led to a shady, screened-in porch. She walked outside and saw a glider, bent willow chairs, and an ancient drop-leaf table with two painted wooden chairs.

  Heath came up behind her. “No sirens, no garbage trucks, no car alarms. I’ve forgotten what real quiet sounds like.”

  She drew in the damp, cool smell of vegetation. “It’s so private. It feels like a nest.”

  “It’s nice.”

  This was too much coziness for her, and she slipped back inside. The rest of the cottage consisted of an old-fashioned bathroom along with two bedrooms, the largest of which held a double bed with an iron headboard. And two suitcases…“Heath?”

  He poked his head through the door. “Yeah?”

  She gestured toward his suitcase. “You left something in here.”

  “Just until we flip for the big bed.”

  “Nice try. It’s my party. You get the kiddy bedroom.”

  “I’m the client, and this one looks more comfortable.”

  “I know. Which is why I’m taking it.”

  “Fine,” he said with a surprising display of good humor. “I’ll drag that other mattress onto the porch. I can’t remember the last time I slept outside.” He tossed her suitcase up on the bed then handed her an envelope with her name on it in Molly’s handwriting. “I found this in the kitchen.”

  She pulled out a note written on Molly’s new line of Nightingale Woods stationery. “Molly says this is one of her favorite cottages and she hopes we like it. The refrigerator’s stocked with necessities, and there’s a cookout on the beach at six o’clock.” The P.S. Annabelle kept to herself.

  Do not do anything stupid!

  “Fill me in on this book club.” He moved his suitcase out of the way and set a shoulder against the doorjamb as she slipped the note inside the pocket of her slacks. “How did you get involved?”

  “Through Molly.” She unzipped her suitcase. “We’ve been meeting once a month for the past two years. Last year Phoebe said she thought it would be fun if we all went away for a weekend. I think she had a spa in mind, but Janine and I couldn’t afford it—Janine writes young adult books—so Molly jumped in and said we should all come to the campground. Before long, the men were involved.”

  Annabelle and Janine were two of only three book club members not directly associated with the Stars. The other was Heath’s dream woman, Gwen. Fortunately, she and Ian were closing on their new house this weekend and couldn’t come.

  Heath gave a soft whistle. “This is one hell of a book club. Phoebe and Molly. Didn’t you mention Ron McDermitt’s wife?”

  She nodded and flipped open her suitcase. “Sharon used to teach nursery school. She keeps us in line.”

  “And now she’s married to the Stars’ general manager. I’ve met her.” He gazed directly at the bras and panties lying on top, but his mind was on business, not underwear. “At the party, Phoebe mentioned Darnell. That can only be Darnell Pruitt.”

  “His wife’s name is Charmaine.” She surreptitiously slipped a T-shirt over her lingerie pile

  “The greatest D.T. the Stars ever had.”

  “Charmaine played football?”

  But he was a John Deere on his way to a tractor-pulling contest, and she couldn’t distract him. “Who else?”

  “Krystal Greer.” She pulled out her toiletry case and set it on the dresser’s cracked white marble top.

  “Webster Greer’s wife. Unbelievable. He went to the Pro Bowl nine years in a row.”

  “It’s the women who are members, not the men. Try not to embarrass me.”

  He snorted and picked up his suitcase but paused at the door. “Did anybody bring their kids?”

  “Adults only.”

  He smiled. “Excellent.”

  “Except for Pippi and Danny. They’re too young to leave behind.”

  “Shit.”

  She frowned at him. “What’s wrong with you? They’re adorable children.”

  “One of them’s adorable. I’d sign him right now if I could.”

  “The road trips might be a challenge, since he’s still nursing. And Pippi’s just as cute as Danny. That little girl is precious.”

  “She’ll be in prison before she makes it to first grade.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just rambling.” He headed out the door only to poke his head back in. “Good taste in panties, Tinker Bell.” Then he was gone.

  She sank down on the side of the bed. The man didn’t miss anything. What else about her might he notice that she didn’t want him to see? With a sense of foreboding, she traded in her new slacks for biscuit-colored shorts but left the flirty bronze top on. After running her fingers through her hair, she headed for the porch. Heath was already there. He’d also changed into shorts, along with a light gray T-shirt that curled like pipe smoke around the contours of his chest. A blade of light angling through the screen caught one cheekbone, etching its tough, uncompromising contour. “Are you going to sabotage me this weekend?” he asked quietly.

  He had grounds for being s
uspicious, so she shouldn’t have been offended, but she was. “Is that what you think of me?”

  “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

  “Your page.”

  “All I’m asking is that you don’t undermine me. I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will,” she said, sarcastic as all hell.

  “What’s your beef, anyway? You’ve been marginally bitchy all afternoon.”

  She was pleased that he’d noticed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “And not just this afternoon. You’re taking potshots at me whenever you see the opportunity. Is it personal or symbolic of your feelings toward men in general? It’s not my fault your last boyfriend decided to play for the same team you’re on.”

  Okay. Now she was mad. “Who told you that?”

  “I didn’t know it was a secret.”

  “It’s not exactly.” Molly wouldn’t have said anything, but Kevin still had trouble accepting what Rob had done, which made him the likely culprit. She shoved one of the chairs back under the table. She wouldn’t talk about Rob to Heath. “I’m sorry if I’ve been testy,” she said, still sounding testy, “but I have a hard time understanding people who make work the center of their lives to the exclusion of personal relationships.”

  “Which is exactly why you brought me here. To fix that.”

  He had her there.

  “Shall we?” He gestured toward the porch door.

  “Why not?” She tossed her hair and marched past him. “Time to get Operation Suck Up off and running.”

  “Now, that’s the kind of can-do attitude I like to hear.”

  The fire popped and sparks shot into the sky. Only the platter of chocolate brownies Molly had baked for them in the B&B’s kitchen that afternoon remained on the picnic table. A young couple took care of the everyday operation of the campground, but Molly and Kevin always pitched in when they were here. The meal had been delicious: grilled steaks, baked potatoes with plenty of toppings, sweet onions perfectly charred at the edges, and a salad laced with juicy slices of ripe pear. Kevin and Molly had left their children with the couple who ran the campground, nobody had to drive home, and the wine and beer flowed. Heath was in his element, friendly and charming with the women, perfectly at home with the men. He was a chameleon, Annabelle thought, subtly adjusting his behavior to suit his audience. Tonight, everyone except Phoebe was enjoying his company, and even she hadn’t done much worse than shoot him a few poisonous glares.

  As the music from the boom box began to crank up, Annabelle wandered out onto the deserted dock, but just as she’d begun to enjoy the solitude, she heard the purposeful tap of a pair of sandals coming her way and turned to see Molly approaching. With the exception of the more generous bust-line that nursing Danny had given her, she looked like the same studious girl Annabelle had first met more than a decade ago in a comparative lit class. Tonight she’d pulled her straight brown hair back from her face with a barrette, and a tiny pair of silver sea turtles bobbed at her earlobes. She wore purple capris with a matching top and a necklace made out of elbow macaroni.

  “Why haven’t you returned my calls?” she demanded.

  “Sorry. Things got totally crazy.” Maybe she could distract her. “Remember I told you I have a client who’s a hypochondriac? I set him up with a woman who’s—”

  “Never mind that. What’s going on with you and Heath?”

  Annabelle pulled a little wide-eyed innocence out of her rusty bag of college acting skills. “What do you mean? Business.”

  “Don’t give me that. We’ve been friends too long.”

  She switched to a furrowed brow. “He’s my most important client. You know how much this means to me.”

  Molly wasn’t buying it. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. Like he was a slot machine with triple sevens tattooed on his forehead. If you fall in love with him, I swear I’ll never speak to you again.”

  Annabelle nearly choked. She’d known Molly would be suspicious, but she hadn’t expected an outright confrontation. “Are you nuts? Setting aside the fact that he treats me like a flunky, I’d never fall for a workaholic after what I’ve had to go through with my family.” Falling in lust, however, was an entirely different matter.

  “He has a calculator for a heart,” Molly said.

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I love him. He handled Kevin’s negotiations brilliantly, and, believe me, my sister can be a real cheapo. Heath’s smart, I’ve never met anybody who works so hard, he’ll do anything for his clients, and he’s as ethical as any agent’s ever going to get. But he’s the worst candidate for a love match I’ve ever met.”

  “You think I don’t know that? This weekend is business. He’s rejected everybody Powers and I set him up with. There’s something we’re both missing, and I can’t figure out what that is during those stingy slivers of time he gives me.” She was speaking the truth. This was exactly where she needed to concentrate her attention this weekend, looking into his psyche instead of noticing how good he smelled or how gorgeous his stupid green eyes were.

  Molly still looked worried. “I’d like to believe you, but I’ve got a weird feeling that—”

  What kind of feeling she had was lost as more footsteps sounded on the dock. They turned to see Krystal Greer and Charmaine Pruitt joining them. Krystal looked like a younger Diana Ross. Tonight, she’d tied her long, curly hair up with a red ribbon that matched her bandanna top. She was tiny, but she carried herself like a queen, and entering her forties hadn’t altered either her model’s cheekbones or her take-no-prisoners attitude.

  Despite their diametrical personalities, she and Charmaine had been best friends for years. Charmaine, conservatively dressed in a cranberry cotton twin set and twill walking shorts, was curvy, sweet, and serious. A former librarian and current church organist, she centered her life around her husband and two little boys. The first time Annabelle had met Charmaine’s husband, Darnell, she’d been struck speechless by what seemed the mismatch of the century. Although Annabelle knew Darnell had once played for the Stars, she hadn’t paid much attention to football in those days, and she’d imagined someone as conservative as Charmaine. Instead, Darnell had a diamond-embedded gold front tooth, a seemingly endless collection of dark glasses, and a penchant for bling-bling that rivaled a hip-hop headliner. Appearances, however, were deceiving. Over half their book club selections were based on his recommendations.

  “I can’t get over the way the sky looks up here.” Charmaine wrapped her arms around herself and gazed at the stars. “Living in the city, you forget.”

  “You’re going to have a bigger surprise this weekend than a sky full of pretty stars,” Krystal said smugly.

  “Either spill your big secret or keep quiet about it,” Charmaine retorted. She turned to Annabelle and Molly. “Krystal keeps dropping hints about some big surprise she has planned. Do either of you know what it is?”

  Annabelle and Molly shook their heads.

  Krystal slipped her thumbs in the front pockets of her shorts and stuck out a set of still perky breasts. “I’ll just say this…Our Miss Charmaine might need a little therapy after I’m done with her. As for the rest of you…Just be prepared.”

  “For what?” Janine approached with Sharon McDermitt and Phoebe, who’d pulled on a pink zippered hoodie with matching sweatpants and held a glass of chardonnay. Janine, with her prematurely gray pixie, artisan’s jewelry, and ankle-length block-print sundress, was coming off a bad year: the death of her mother, breast cancer, and a bad bout of writer’s block. The friendship of the book club meant everything to her. When she’d been sick, Annabelle and Charmaine had brought her meals and run errands, Phoebe had arranged for regular massages and called her daily, Krystal tended her garden, and Molly nagged her into starting to write again. Sharon McDermitt, the best listener in the group, had been her confidante. Next to Molly, Sharon was Phoebe’s best friend, and she heade
d the Stars’ charity foundation.

  “Apparently Krystal has a secret,” Molly said, “which, as usual, she’ll reveal when she’s good and ready.”

  While the rest of them speculated over what Krystal’s secret might be, Annabelle tried to figure out the best way to broach a perilous subject. Although she’d been lucky so far, she couldn’t count on her luck lasting forever, and when there was a lull in the conversation, she plunged in. “I might need a little help this weekend.”

  She knew by their expectant expressions that they wanted her to explain why she’d shown up with Heath, but she wasn’t volunteering any more than she already had. She toyed with the yellow band of her Swatch daisy watch. “All of you know how much Perfect for You means to me. If I don’t make a success of this, it’ll basically prove my mother’s right about everything. And I really don’t want to be an accountant.”

  “Kate puts too much pressure on you,” Sharon said, not for the first time.

  Annabelle shot her a grateful smile. “Thanks to Molly, I had an interview with Heath. But the thing is, I needed to engage in a small act of subterfuge to get his name on my contract.”

  “What kind of subterfuge?” Janine asked.

  She took a deep breath and told them how she’d fixed him up with Gwen.

  Molly gasped. “He’s going to kill you. I mean it, Annabelle. When he finds out you deceived him—and he will find out—he’ll go ballistic.”

  “He boxed me into a corner.” Annabelle hunched her shoulders and rubbed her arm. “I admit it was a crappy thing to do, but I only had twenty-four hours to come up with a knockout candidate, or I was going to lose him.”

  “That is not a man to mess with,” Sharon said. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stories I’ve heard from Ron.”

  Annabelle gnawed her bottom lip. “I know I have to tell him the truth. I just need to find the right moment.”

  Krystal cocked her hip. “Girl, there is no right moment to die.”

  Charmaine clucked her tongue. “You are going straight to the top on my prayer list.”