Finn’s insides hardened into a solid block of cement. But they couldn’t turn back. He had canceled Maya’s gymnastics camp back in Florida. Plus, he had promised Maya a granny and he wasn’t going to let her down based on the boozy opinions of a drunk. “That guy was a mess. We’re not going to believe anything he says, are we?”
Maya stared after the man, her mouth hanging open.
Finn tried again. “Heck, Maya, if I knew my grandkid was coming, and some guy was being drunk and sloppy in my restaurant, I’d have kicked him out too. That Granny Trudy is my kind of woman.”
Maya straightened a little.
“And she hates cats!” the man shouted over his shoulder. “Despises them. Shoots ’em with her BB gun then drowns them in a bucket!”
They stood frozen in a pool of dim lamplight. The man disappeared around a corner. The street was deserted except for them and the blowing garbage.
Maya grabbed the cat box from Finn and started back toward the station.
“Wait, Maya.” Finn tried to stop her but she twisted out of his grip. “Listen. This is important.”
“Let’s go home.” She stared down the block.
“No way. We are not listening to that guy.” Finn caught up with her and she stopped. “He deserved to be yelled at. I talked to Trudy—to Granny—about the cat. She knows Leslie is coming. Would a granny hurt her grandkid’s cat?”
Maya got a hard look in her eyes. “God killed my mommy, so who knows what Granny might do to my cat.”
Every cell in Finn’s body snapped to attention. He’d follow this kid anywhere, to the edge of the earth and over it. Or at least back to Florida. Hell, they’d take off the whole summer. Go to the beach. She deserved that.
A knife twisted in his side. No, he couldn’t follow her. He was her dad. He had to lead. “Look, we are not quitters! If Granny Trudy even looks at Leslie wrong, you give the signal, and we’re out of there.”
“What’s the signal?”
Finn thought. “This.” He tapped two fingers on his right cheek.
Maya mimicked the action. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Okay.” She held her fingers at the ready.
They approached the door slowly, house by tiny, narrow house, until they saw the small sign, “Trudy’s.”
No one looked up when they pushed through the door and into the half-empty, narrow space, which was good, because although Finn tried to hide the look of horror on his face, he didn’t succeed. The place was a bar. A dark-shadowed, adult-filled bar. Luckily, Maya was too short to see his shocked expression in the dim light.
A twenty-something blonde behind the bar yelled, “No kids after ten.”
Finn was preparing to speak, when he heard Maya’s voice clear and strong. “I’m not a kid. I’m a grandkid. Trudy’s grandkid.”
The bartender and most of the dozen or so patrons stopped what they were doing and turned toward Maya and Finn.
“No shit,” said a huge man who was balanced precariously on a bar stool that looked about to snap under his ample weight. “I didn’t even know Trudy had a kid, much less a grandkid.”
Finn realized with a start that Maya had left his side and was heading fearlessly for the bar. Two men, who probably belonged to the Harleys parked out front, watched her as if she were a small animal with potentially sharp claws. Finn hurried to catch up. She climbed up on a stool—actually climbed, using her whole body, as if she were rappelling onto a cliff ledge—and then, triumphant, smiled at the bartender. “I’m Maya.” She spun around on the stool, delighted.
The bikers nodded their approval. Finn had the feeling they might start spinning too.
A chill ran down Finn’s spine. He felt like someone was watching him. His eyes were growing accustomed to the dim light, and now he could make out some details: the faded pictures of baseball players from floor to ceiling in dusty frames, the boxed bats and balls on every surface.
“Two Cokes,” Maya said to the bartender. “On the house!”
“She doesn’t know what that means,” Finn explained, putting down a five-dollar bill. Why did he feel so creepy? It was like someone was looking down on him. He tried to shake the feeling, but it was so odd.
Then he looked up. The entire ceiling was covered with a replica of the Sistine Chapel.
“Starving artists,” the bartender explained, putting down two Cokes. “They’ll do anything for free beer.”
“Wow!” Maya looked seriously in danger of toppling backward off her stool as she gazed skyward. “It’s like a church.”
Finn looked around at the ragtag crowd. “Yeah, pretty much.” He braced Maya so she wouldn’t fall. “See, it’s a copy of a famous ceiling in the Vatican. The hand of God touches the hand of man—”
“God’s a lady.”
Finn looked closely. Sure enough, a woman who looked a whole lot like Bette Midler was emerging from the billowing clouds, reaching her hand out to a reclining Adam.
“Looking for me?”
Finn looked down and there stood Bette Midler. Well, at least a woman who looked an awful lot like her, only she was at least seventy years old and eighty pounds heavier than the she-god above. The woman smiled. She didn’t have any teeth.
“Granny!” Maya gave her a bear hug that Trudy returned warmly, inhaling the child like a woman who hadn’t been hugged in a long time.
Finn checked the ceiling, but the she-god’s mouth was closed. When he looked back, Trudy was behind the bar, rummaging under it.
“Maya, it is so good to finally meet you, honey. Your dad looks perfect. Just like you said.” Trudy’s voice emerged, muffled, from somewhere behind the bar.
“Perfect for the job we talked about?” Finn tried not to let his apprehension show. He squinted at Maya who shrugged in overfaked innocence. He had a bad feeling about this.
“No, no, no, no. The other job.” Trudy came back, carrying something white. “Didn’t Maya tell you?”
Maya swung her feet, her black Converse sneakers thumping against the bar. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Other job?” Finn braced himself.
Trudy unfurled—a baseball jersey. “Maya told me you’re a mean shortstop with a slugger’s bat,” Trudy said. “So I left a place for you on our roster.” Trudy motioned at the row of trophies over the bar. Each one shined as if it were recently polished. They all read, “Trudy’s Tipplers, B-team, Baltimore Recreational Baseball League.” They had won ten years in a row.
“You want me to play baseball?” He could feel his muscles relax one by one. Despite himself, he liked this lady. He caught the jersey Trudy tossed him and examined the back. “Concord” was spelled out in block, black letters, like the old days. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad. He’d have to talk to Maya about her not telling him about this. But that could wait until later.
“I told Granny Trudy that you used to play for the triple-A league and she said—”
“I said that’s just exactly what we need for the next four games.” She held the jersey up to him. “Competition’s gonna be tough. First a few whacks at the yuppies. Then the firemen.” She lifted Finn’s arm and tested his bicep. She nodded in approval. “If we win these games, you can go back to Florida knowing that you did Maya’s Granny a great favor. I’m the coach.” She said the last words like a threat. “And we don’t like to lose.”
“And I’m the water girl,” Maya said, mimicking Trudy’s tough-guy tone and Baltimore twang. “Plus I packed your mitt and stuff.”
“Just for the month you’re here,” Trudy added. “Unless of course, you decide to stay. If you’re as good as Maya says you are.”
“He won’t stay,” Maya said. “Daddy thinks it’s kind of scary in here and that you’re going to drown Leslie with a BB gun.”
“Maya! What stories are you making up?” Finn asked, amazed at Maya’s unfailing ability to know exactly—well, except for a little confusion around the BB gun part—what he was thinking.
&
nbsp; Maya shrugged.
Granny Trudy shook her head. “Oh, we’re family here. Just because we’re part bar doesn’t mean anything bad goes on. We’re a restaurant too. Full menu. Families until ten.” She looked right at Finn. “I just really wanted Maya to come and I was afraid she wouldn’t if I told you it’s also a bar. I don’t let nobody get out of control. I rule this place with an iron fist.”
Finn didn’t doubt that.
“Let me see your kitty,” Trudy said.
“No.” Maya stood in front of Leslie’s box, which Finn had set on the sticky floor.
Trudy raised her eyebrows. “You know, I was just saying that we needed a good mouse-catcher around here.”
“I bet.” Finn tried not to shudder.
“Oh, Leslie’s the best mouse-catcher ever. Rats even, I think. Daddy, has Leslie ever caught a rat?”
“Sure. Lots.” Only in this town, the rats are probably bigger than she is.
“Well, there we have it. She can stay. I’ll even pay a dollar a mouse.”
“Deal!” Maya said happily. “Only I get the money ’cause she’s just a cat.”
“That’s my girl!” Trudy proclaimed. “Now, let’s learn you your first lesson from Grandma. C’mon, your daddy looks like he could use a drink. I’ll teach you how to pull a perfect draft.”
Chapter 5
Two days later, Cecelia sat alone in the hospital cafeteria, her laptop open on the table before her. The cavernous room was almost empty, just a smattering of hospital staff, two droopy-eyed interns, and a huddled family, whispering in the far corner. Cecelia wore her usual hospital garb: a black Armani pants suit with a white lab coat over top, a strand of pearls, and simple gold hoops.
A woman dressed like her shouldn’t do a thing like this.
After all, she was getting engaged. She didn’t want to know about some stranger who was dying.
She looked down at the hospital ID tag hanging on a chain around her neck. She was a doctor. She saved people. She might have information to save this Finn, whoever he was. The future wasn’t set. She could intervene.
She had taken an oath when she became a doctor to do no harm. Was erupting into some poor guy’s life to tell him he was about to bite the big one doing more harm than good? After all, Amy could be wrong.
She stared at the black screen of her computer.
Amy was a lot of things, but when it came to the Names, she was never wrong.
Cecelia hit a key, and the computer flickered to life. She clicked open Google. Then, looking to either side, she quickly typed “Finn Franklin Concord” into the search engine.
Nothing.
She blinked at the “no entries found” message. Okay, so whoever Finn was, he wasn’t the kind of guy who had a presence on the Web.
She typed her own name in. Seventeen entries appeared. She flashed a private smile. The Yale Bulldog Alumni newsletter, The Johns Hopkins Medical School News, The American Scientist Journal March edition, the Baltimore Tulip and Philanthropic Society.
Fortified, she returned to the task at hand.
She typed in “Finn Concord.” Instantly, over six hundred entries appeared, most of them dealing with the town of Concord and two men, Finn Smith and Joe Marks. They were engaged in a ferocious battle over sewer funding.
No good.
She clicked off her computer and shut the top. After all, what was she going to do if she found the guy? Write him a letter? Dear Finn, you ought to know that you might be dying. Please go see a doctor. Sincerely, A Concerned Party.
That was it. A spark of hope flashed inside her.
She opened her computer again and turned it back on.
She’d write a letter, but to whom?
The screen flickered to life. This time in Google, she typed “Finn Concord” with quotation marks around the name.
Four entries appeared.
She held her breath as she read them through.
The first three concerned a lawyer in Palo Alto, California. He was listed on his law firm’s web site, then again on the site of a California Bar organization, then once more in a community newspaper. He had written an editorial about how a person should be able to build as big a house as he pleased on his own land, zoning laws be damned.
Hmmm.
The fourth entry took her to a messy, long-to-load site with no graphics. She studied the screen, with its list of men’s names and the odd symbols next to them. It took her a minute to realize that she was looking at the roster of a baseball team: Trudy’s Tipplers. The symbols were positions: 1B, RF, C.
There he was—Finn Concord, SS. A flutter ran through her, but she shook it off. This Finn is probably twelve years old. She tried to follow the link back to a home page, but the site was too messy, and it wouldn’t go.
She went back to Google and typed in the team’s name. One hit. She fell back in her chair, closed her eyes, and tried to breathe. “Damn, damn, damn it,” she whispered to herself. Damn Amy. Damn Finn. Damn Google.
Icy fear began to fill her veins like an IV. Even if I never left this cold, hard, orange plastic cafeteria seat, Finn Concord would find me. He’d walk by the hospital and have a sudden, inexplicable urge for green Jell-O. Then he’d think, hospital cafeteria, and before I knew it, he’d be sitting across from me, ruining my life.
Fate was a sadistic jerk.
She checked the screen again to make sure she hadn’t misread: Finn Concord, shortstop for Trudy’s Tipplers, a B-team in the Adult Baltimore Recreational Baseball League.
This was the kind of coincidence that happened all the time with Amy’s Names. A person’s True Love was never totally out of reach. Her mother’s lover, Emeril, in Bombay had been a rare exception, although he and her mother were born in the same hometown.
Amy believed coincidences happened because Fate would never give every person just One True Love and then make it impossible for the lovers to meet. That would be cruel.
Cecelia believed in the cruelty of Fate and Love. For every coincidence, there were ten instances where coincidences led lovers in the wrong direction, to the wrong person with the right name. Or the right person who is a nightmare.
She shivered. She scanned down the page. He was playing across town tomorrow afternoon.
Oh, God. She felt weak. I am not destined to love this stranger. I have Jack. She fiddled with her long-empty coffee cup. Why didn’t this place sell whiskey? If any restaurant needed a full bar, a hospital cafeteria was it. Off-limits to the surgeons, of course.
Jack. She had to keep her mind on what was important. She loved him and he loved her. Not everything had to be a drama. Searching for a dying True Love made a good story, but a lousy life. She had seen it over and over. Okay, so maybe she was a little lonely tonight. But Jack would be back from L.A. by midnight. It wasn’t so bad. I control my life.
She opened her word-processing program and composed her simple, to the point letter. With every efficient, crisp stroke on her keyboard, she felt a little better.
None of this was a problem.
She’d write the letters, mail them off, and make sure that she was as far away from that field as she could get tomorrow.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one in Baltimore with that name.”
“There has to be,” Cecelia told the operator. “Try F. Concord.” It was late and Cecelia had just gotten home from the hospital, grateful for the silent apartment. But Jack would be back from L.A. any minute, and she needed to get this done. She paced the formal dining room, around and around its enormous table, bare except for two white envelopes.
“I have a Danielle Concord on Charles Street.”
“No. How about outside of Baltimore?”
“I’m looking at all the listings from here to D.C.”
“Try Virginia.” Cecelia heard the front door open and close. “Jack?” she called tentatively in what she hoped was a friendly voice, not at all tinged with terror and despair.
“Ma’am, I don’t see an F. Concord. I�
��m sorry.”
“Right. Okay. Sorry.” Cecelia quickly hung up the phone. It seemed that except for playing baseball, Finn Concord of Baltimore didn’t exist. The letters were typed, printed, and sealed. But one wasn’t addressed.
The footsteps came closer.
She needed somewhere to hide the letters, but it was too late.
She whisked them behind her back just as Amy appeared in the doorway.
Relief washed over Cecelia. She let her hands fall to her side. “I thought you were Jack.”
“Oooh, writing to your beloved?” Amy darted at Cecelia and grabbed at the letters.
“What were you doing out so late?” Cecelia evaded her little sister. How had she seen what Cecelia was holding?
“Love letters really don’t seem your style,” Amy said. She faked left, then grabbed them.
“Give those back.”
“Do you notice that every time we’re together, we start acting like five year olds?” Amy asked. She waved the letters above her head. She was wearing a pair of Cecelia’s low-rise jeans and her sky blue oxford, which she had cinched under her breasts so that her belly-button ring showed. Her black lace bra—wait, the bra was Cecelia’s too—peered proudly out from behind the three undone buttons at the neck. She belted the pants with a flowing macramé cord that went below her knees. As usual, she didn’t wear shoes, and Cecelia wondered if she had kicked them off at the door or if she had gone out without them.
“Yes. And I always win.” Cecelia snatched back the letters. “You’re in my clothes. Where were you?”
“You wrote to all the Finn Franklin Concords you could find to tell them that they’re dying, didn’t you?” Amy asked. “I was just checking out the town. Man, it sure hasn’t changed much since the old days. Have you been to that dive two streets over? Vintage pinball. James Bond machine—”
“Of course not.”
“Do you have any fun? I mean, besides being pen pals with dying guys?”
No. Cecelia stared icily at her sister. “It’s none of your business and those are my favorite jeans. You smell like a bar.”
Make Me a Match Page 4
