“Dear, Maya,” he read out loud. His stomach twisted. Who was this woman and why did she know his daughter? This is what happened when you had a latchkey kid who brought in the mail herself. Damn, she needed a mother. Or, a granny. He shook the thought from his mind. We’re doing just fine the two of us.
He read: “Your letters bring me such pleasure. I do wish that this summer, when you’re done with third grade, you and your daddy could come and visit me. I could take you to the aquarium and the zoo and on a boat ride around the harbor. And I promise I’ll teach you to cook my special crab cakes—”
Finn lowered the letter. So, he couldn’t cook. Regret tugged at his gut. He wanted to give Maya everything her mom was supposed to, but how could he? He made a mental note to go and buy a cookbook. “How did you find this granny?”
“An ad. In Happy Family magazine.”
“Happy Family—?”
“When we were at the dentist. I memorized the number, and I called and they sent me Granny Trudy. So, can we go? Can we? Please? She really wants us to come and it’s summer and school’s done and she’s old and she could be dead any minute.”
Finn closed his eyes. Steady. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“’Cause it would make you sad.”
Oh, hell.
But the kid was right. It did make him sad. Jump-off-a-bridge distraught, even. Poor kid with no women in her life had to go out and rent a granny like a car. Finn pushed his hand through his brown hair, which was too long again. It was so hard to remember the things that Sally had always remembered, like haircuts.
He looked at his daughter. Haircuts, ponytails, crab cakes—and then the real stuff: how do you tell a kid that this is a dangerous world, full of not-so-sweet grannies?
Leslie, their orange cat, pushed through the rickety screen door and rubbed against Maya’s leg.
“What about Leslie?” he asked.
“She’d come too!” Maya insisted, scooping Leslie onto her lap. An edge of fear had crept into Maya’s voice and she held the cat defensively, as if Finn were the one insisting she leave her cat and schlep one thousand miles to visit a stranger.
“What if this Granny Trudy isn’t a cat person? What if she’s a dog person?”
Maya’s eyes got wide. She held the cat closer.
“I’m not saying she is a dog person,” Finn backtracked. Maya looked as if a snarling Doberman were about to push through the screen door. “I’m just saying that there are cat people and dog people and we’re cat people. See? Strangers can be nice, but sometimes nice isn’t enough to travel halfway across the country.”
“Call her. And ask if she has a dog and see if we can bring Leslie. Call her. Please? See her number there? I really, really, really want to go.”
“Even without Leslie?”
Maya considered. “She’s a cat person. I just know it. You’ll see. My granny wouldn’t be any other way.”
Chapter 3
The morning after the party, Cecelia sat at the small table in her kitchen, nursing a cup of steaming coffee. Amy was crashed in the guest bedroom, but it was just a matter of time before she got up and they had their inevitable confrontation. Cecelia had followed Amy around the party all night, watching her every move. Luckily, most of her moves involved enormous quantities of smoked fish and caviar and a forty-five-minute inspection of their engagement gifts.
Cecelia would have to check what was missing as soon as the coffee took hold. She glanced over at the table laden with gifts. Eggshell blue Tiffany boxes wrapped in white bows dominated.
“Nice haul,” Amy said. She plodded into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her plaid, man’s bathrobe—Jack’s old one—hung open to reveal a threadbare T-shirt and a pair of worn boxers—thankfully, not Jack’s old ones.
Cecelia opened the morning paper and held it in front of her, blocking out her view of her sister.
“I really appreciate the bed,” Amy said. She rummaged through the freezer, then the fridge, then the cabinets. It felt to Cecelia as if she were rummaging through her head. Amy clunked down, followed by an armful of food.
Cecelia willed herself not to look at the avalanche. Couldn’t Amy just have a bowl of cereal like a normal person?
“Still not talking to me?” Amy pulled down a corner of the paper and peered over it at Cecelia. She put on her lost puppy-dog face.
Cecelia yanked the paper back into position.
“Where’s your not-so-true love?” Amy asked.
Cecelia banged the paper shut. Amy had arrayed two pints of Ben & Jerry’s, the peanut butter, and the seven-dollars-a-bottle gourmet chocolate sauce in front of her. Good. Amy was going to die of a massive coronary. That would solve a few problems. Cecelia went back to her paper. She tried to read the comics. They weren’t funny.
“I got a postcard from Mom last month.”
Cecelia tried not to flinch. “Oh.” Her gut twisted and she struggled not to say, Well, she always did like you better.
“She’s still with Emeril.”
“Of course she is.” Emeril was the first Name Amy had heard. She was five years old. At first, everyone thought Amy was adorable, making up random, pretend names in her head, assembling first, last, and middle names like normal children assembled towers out of blocks. Then, a month later, in a roadside diner on their way to a rented beach house on the North Carolina shore, Amy put her hand on the arm of their run-down waitress, closed her eyes, and said, “Joey Morris.”
Cecelia still remembered that day as if it were yesterday. She was eight years old, wearing a new pair of jeans that cut her in the waist. The pink flowered embroidery circled the hems so delicately, she just couldn’t let her mother take them back to JCPenney’s. She was eating a grilled cheese sandwich and french fries. Her mother was scolding her for putting on too much ketchup when the waitress came with their drinks.
“Joey Morris!” Amy sang.
The waitress went white. “What did you say?” the waitress whispered. Cecelia wanted her Coke, but the waitress was frozen. Cecelia wondered if she could grab it without upsetting the whole tray.
“Joey Morris. Joey Morris. Joey Morris,” Amy sang.
“How do you know Joey Morris?”
“Stop it, Amy,” her father scolded. “I’m so sorry. She’s just like this sometimes.”
“But how does she know Joey Morris? I haven’t heard that name in years.”
“Who’s Joey Morris?” Cecelia’s mother asked.
A chill went up Cecelia’s spine. Her little sister was weird. But this was different. This was spooky.
“Dun’ know.” Amy shrugged. She stuffed a french fry into her mouth. “I just know her name.”
“That’s not her name,” her mother corrected, looking at the name tag on the woman’s uniform. “Her name’s Jenny.”
“Jus’ the name I hear when I touch her arm,” Amy said.
“It’s the name of my high school steady,” the waitress said. “How could she look at me and know the name of the boy I dated all through high school?”
“Dun’ know,” Amy said. “I’m thirsty.” She looked at the Cokes still on the tray.
“I’ve always thought,” the waitress said, more to herself than to them, “that I should have married him. I always thought—oh, forget it. It’s too dumb.”
“What?” Her father leaned forward. It seemed to Cecelia that he had instantly understood Amy’s odd power. Later, Cecelia saw that it took almost two years for him to form the insane plan that caused their lives to fall apart.
“No matter who I met after Joey, it was never the same,” the waitress said. Tears formed in her eyes. “I’ve always believed that he was my One True Love.”
“Joey Morris!” sang Amy. “Joey, Joey, Joey!”
“Your One True Love,” their father repeated, as if it were the name of a song that he loved years ago, and had just now remembered.
After they ate, he left an enormous tip.
Cecelia hadn’t touc
hed a grilled cheese sandwich for twenty-three years.
Cecelia dumped her coffee into the sink. Its pale caramel matched the color of her silk robe, which matched the color of the highlights in her hair, which matched the granite of the counters. She watched the liquid disappear down the drain.
Amy had snatched the comics and was chuckling.
“Good morning!” Jack appeared in the kitchen doorway dressed for work. In his dark black suit, blue shirt, and shiny blue tie, he could have stepped out of the pages of GQ. Cecelia’s eyes, though, were always drawn to his square, powerful hands.
“Good morning yourself!” Amy scanned him with undisguised female appreciation.
Cecelia stiffened. Couldn’t Amy keep any information to herself? She could almost hear Amy saying, Well, it’s not like he’s your True Love or anything.
But Jack was too much the gentleman to notice. Or maybe, after last night, he was too tired. Cecelia had planned to tell Jack the truth about Amy and her family after the party. But as the last guests lingered, out came the cigars and the single malts and four of Jack’s senior partners decided to stay on.
Cecelia had eventually gone to bed. Alone. The silk of the new nightgown she had bought for the evening brushed against her thighs, a small consolation for another wasted night.
Now, Jack leaned over and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I’m off to the office. Won’t be home for dinner. The Attala case is coming to a head. Then I fly out for L.A. at eight.”
Cecelia gave him a sympathetic hug and planted a kiss on his cheek. He smelled like citrus. She had forgotten his trip to L.A., but it was perfect. When he came back, Amy would be gone and they’d put the entire episode behind them.
“Geez, you kids never stop working, do you? What’ll you do when the babies start coming?” Amy asked.
Neither of them said a word. Jack wanted Cecelia to consider a less demanding specialty than cardiology once they were married. Maybe pediatrics, he had suggested.
Pediatricians were the lowest-paid doctors in medicine.
“Ooh, sore spot, huh?” Amy asked into the silence. “Of course, to have kids, you’d have to have sex, which would mean spending time together—”
“Amy!” Cecelia gasped.
Jack stared wide-eyed at Amy. Then, as if detecting a comrade, he sat down at the table next to her. “So, tell me about your commune.” He glanced at Amy’s odd breakfast, but maintained his lawyer face, designed to lead the witness down a perilous slope.
Amy’s eyes opened wide.
Cecelia jumped in. “Yeah, how come you left the Sufi compound? Is everything okay there? They can’t have let you go for more than a few days, right? All that communal laundry to get done!” Cecelia shoved her chair into the too narrow gap between them and thrust her way into the space.
“The communal laundry can wait,” Amy said, winking at Cecelia. “After all, I may be here more than a few days at the rate we’re going,”
“It may be less than an hour at the rate we’re going.” Cecelia crossed her arms. She and Jack had sex. Maybe not as often as some people, but they were busy professionals at the beginning of their careers.
“So, is it weird to be back in society?” Jack asked Amy.
Amy grinned. “Actually, the truth is—”
“That she loves to get away from the commune once in a while!” Cecelia cried. She kicked Amy under the table. “Dress with a little flair again, do the worldly thing.”
“Ouch. Why’d you kick me?” Amy inspected her shin, giving full display to her shapely bare leg and its Celtic-knot ankle tattoo. Good thing Jack didn’t know anything about Sufis.
Jack looked up from his paper, his eyes pointedly directed away from Amy’s bare limb. Then he checked his watch and jumped up. “Oh, hell. I’ve got to go. Maybe we can all have dinner later this week? I’ll be back on the red-eye Friday night.”
“Have your secretary call mine,” Amy said.
“Good idea.” He jumped up, kissed Cecelia on the cheek, and was gone.
Silence filled the space where Jack had been. Cecelia dried her mug, then poured herself more coffee.
Amy licked at the remains of the butter pecan. Finally, she said quietly, “What an easy mark.”
“What did you say?” Cecelia had heard Amy, but she wanted to give her sister a chance to back off. What a breezy lark! What a sneazy snark!
“You really got him where you want him. Good work.” She tapped her long, red fingernails on the table.
Cecelia felt insanely tired. “This is not a con. This is my life, Ames.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not conning him. Just because you’re not in a bad part of town dressed up like a gypsy doesn’t mean you’re not conning that man. You’re lying to him.”
“I love him.”
“Great. Then you’re conning yourself too.”
Cecelia suddenly was twenty years old again, in a dark, incense-filled room in San Francisco. She and Amy sat on the floor around a low, round table, scamming a guy who looked a lot like Jack, only with soft blue eyes and gentle, shapely hands. He was opening his wallet, pulling out bill after bill while they watched hungrily. The big mark. The one who made it possible for her to afford medical school.
“Cel? You okay?” Amy asked, her tone softened.
“Fine.” She shook the memory out of her head. They had pulled the big con, each taken their cut, and gone their own ways. That Amy had obviously blown her share wasn’t Cecelia’s fault. Cecelia had worked like a dog to get where she was. She had invested the money in her education, and it had paid off. Now she was in a half-million-dollar co-op high in the sky. She was a cardiologist for God’s sake. She didn’t ever have to go back.
“Finn Franklin Concord,” Amy said.
“No!” Cecelia commanded. “Look, I have every intention of telling Jack the truth about our family before I marry him. But until then, it’s none of your business. You’re a Sufi faithful, on a short worldly vacation to see your lapsed sister.”
“Hey, you picked the mark; you pick the con. That’s the way it’s always worked and it’s fine with me.”
Cecelia felt the balance of love and hatred for her sister tip toward hatred, at first slowly, then gathering force. She didn’t want to hate Amy. But if Amy came between her and Jack, then she chose Jack. “I love you, Amy, but you have to leave.”
Amy shrugged. “I can’t leave, Cel. See, the thing is, I don’t have anywhere to go.”
Chapter 4
Baltimore’s Penn Station opened onto a desolate parking lot. Finn shouldered their duffel bag, hoisted the cat box (ignoring the protest of its mewing occupant), and guided a sleepy Maya through the blowing garbage. The hot, dry northern air felt good after the thirty-two-hour train ride (unexplained delays in Georgia, then a track fire in North Carolina, had held them up). Now, they were late, and Finn hurried.
After a few blocks, he stopped and put down the cat. From the pocket of his jeans, he pulled out a crumpled piece of hydrangea stationery and rechecked the address. Ten blocks from the station, she had said. Straight north four blocks, then right for six. Well, ten blocks seemed pretty far in a strange town late at night. He rehoisted the box, and started up again, Maya falling into step beside him.
He looked around warily. The only sound was the muffled footsteps of his work boots against the broken pavement. Maya’s feet glided silently, as if she were not only half asleep, but also half floating.
Why had he thought this was a good idea? Right—Trudy had sounded like exactly what Maya needed. A woman who cared, who took an interest, who would be there for her. Four good solid weeks of female companionship for Maya. Plus, Trudy had found Finn work with one of her restaurant’s regulars—good work renovating a house at big-city, northern wages, while Trudy babysat Maya. It was almost twice what he made in Florida—almost too good to be true. Maya would get a granny, not have to go to camp (the horror!), and he could work without feeling guilty.
Plus, Finn liked Gra
nny Trudy. She had explained over the phone that she ran a lively restaurant. “Lively” was her word, and Finn had liked the way it sounded in her odd Baltimore twang. They could stay free in the small apartment upstairs, all meals covered. They would have their own place—a place where they could escape the memories of Sally’s sickness—a cash job, and a granny. Plus some good, hot food, which would be a welcome change from Finn’s four dishes—spaghetti, hot dogs, mac-and-cheese, and grilled cheese—the red and orange food groups.
Read Street. This was it. He looked down the curving, dark road. There was no restaurant here. There must be some mistake. Row houses lined the street, curving into oblivion. Steep stairs led up to their front doors. The houses were covered in some kind of fake stone that came in all different shades, making them look like playhouses, even in the dark.
Suddenly a door opened toward the middle of the block and a man stumbled out, framed by a triangle of light. An old woman’s voice shouted, “And don’t come back, ya rangy bum!”
The door slammed shut. The man stumbled down the small staircase to the street, found his feet, and, to Finn’s dismay, rambled toward them.
“Think that was Granny Trudy yelling?” Maya asked. Her tiny hand pulsed in his. Her voice was light as a ghost’s.
He gripped her hand harder. “Nah.” They started down the street. The man stumbled closer. Then, just as Finn put himself in front of Maya, the drunk lurched forward. “Whoa there.” Finn easily caught and straightened the smaller man.
“Mister.” Maya was at the man’s side. She tugged at his coat. “We’re looking for Trudy’s Restaurant.”
“Restaurant! Hah!” the man bellowed, looking around to determine who had spoken. He didn’t seem to notice Maya below him. “Trudy ain’t got no stinking restaurant,” he said to Finn. “She’s got a—a—” The man began to tip over again until he noticed Maya with a startled jump. Leslie growled low and fierce from deep in her box. The man regrouped and started again. “What Trudy’s got is a foul temper and a boot like a rock and if you take my advice, you go find yourself a nice McDonald’s, missy, far, far away from that evil woman. Get yourself a Happy Meal.” The man stared at them, one after the other. Then he stumbled away.
Make Me a Match Page 3
