Make Me a Match

by Diana Holquist

  “No better place to catch up on a town. Anyway, letters won’t get you off the hook, you know. How’d you find these Finns?”

  “Google. And there’s no hook to get off of. I can do whatever I please.” Then pointing at Amy’s attire she added, “I want those washed, dried, folded, and put away!” Cecelia knew that it wouldn’t matter. The cigarette smoke and stale beer would come out, but her clothes would forever be imprinted with cinnamon and clove no matter how many times she ran them through the machine.

  “Oh, for crying out loud. The Internet is totally random. You’ll never find the right guy that way.”

  “I found two, not that it’s any of your business. And one is right here in Baltimore.”

  Amy’s eyes went wide. “No kidding?”

  “He plays baseball.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Professionally?”

  “No. Not professionally. In a rec league. And that’s all I know about him. I can’t mail the letter because I can’t find his address.”

  Amy sat down at the table and slung her feet onto its waxed, glowing surface. The bottoms of her feet were black. She had been walking around downtown Baltimore barefoot.

  “The other Finn’s a lawyer in California who thinks McMansions are every American’s God-given right, damn the neighbors. It’s filthy not to wear your shoes in the city.”

  “Did he really say ‘damn the neighbors’? That sounds like your man.” Amy inspected the soles of her feet and shrugged.

  “My man is Jack.”

  “Your man is never here.”

  Cecelia resisted the urge to get a bucket and sponge and scrub Amy’s feet. “I don’t have the slightest idea what these Finns’ middle names are.”

  Amy snatched the envelopes. She put one envelope to her forehead and closed her eyes. “California’s no good. It just doesn’t feel right.” She switched envelopes. “But this Baltimore guy—”

  Cecelia grabbed the envelopes. “Cut it out. I’m just warning them—by mail—that they might be sick. That’s all. I’m not meeting them.”

  “Sick, or hit by a truck, or struck dead by lightning, or having a heart attack in front of their mailbox as they read a stranger’s terrifying letter.” Amy drummed her fingers on the table. “But how will you warn him without an address?”

  “I don’t know.” Cecelia tried to hide her consternation.

  “I do.”

  “Yeah?” Cecelia braced for the worst.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I think it’s about time you and me got out more. I was thinking, we could go and catch a little of America’s favorite pastime.” Amy jumped up and pretended to swing a bat. She had never swung a bat in her life and she looked like a drunken tennis player.

  “I thought you were leaving.” Cecelia braced herself for a disappointing answer.

  Amy shrugged and put down her invisible bat. “I went to check out Grandma Molly’s old house.”

  Cecelia gasped.

  “Hey, it’s my house too.”

  “It’s boarded up!” No one had lived in that house, their childhood home, since Molly died six years ago.

  “Well, the guy who’s looking after the place let me in. He thought I was you!”

  Cecelia was going to kill Mario.

  “I could fix it up.”

  “And stay in Baltimore?” A cold dread flowed into Cecelia’s veins.

  “Yeah, and see a ball game with my big sis. We could buy some popcorn and Cracker Jack, slip the note into his bag, and never look back.” Amy was dancing and singing, her bangles jangling.

  “What you really mean is I could meet this Finn and fall in love with him.”

  “You’re already in love with him, remember? Destiny has ordained it—”

  “If he’s the right Finn. After all, a guy with no address, no phone number, nothing except a position on a ball team is not my kind of guy.”

  “Is it a good position?”

  “Shortstop. Although why that matters—”

  “Oh, very nice. You don’t want one of those right fielders. What’s his team called?”

  Cecelia felt dizzy. Amy was peppering her with too many random questions for so late at night. “Trudy’s Tipplers.”

  “Did you look up Trudy’s?”

  Cecelia brightened for the first time in what seemed like forever. “No.”

  “You’re a lousy detective,” Amy said. She danced into the kitchen and found the phone book. She flipped through its pages. “Ah-ha. How about this? Trudy’s Bar and Grill. It’s just north of the train station. We could go right now.”

  Cecelia grabbed the book out of her sister’s hands. “I’m sending the letter to the bar.”

  “No!” Amy cried. “You can’t.”

  Cecelia picked up an odd note in Amy’s voice. Her instincts told her something was wrong. But that was crazy. After all, Amy just wanted her to meet Finn.

  “It’s too risky,” Amy explained. “If you send it to a bar, some drunk’ll just throw it away.”

  Cecelia shook off the chill that crept up the back of her neck. Was there something Amy wasn’t telling her? “Okay. You’re right. After all, it’s probably a dive.”

  “Well, it has a grill.”

  “My True Love is a drunk with no address who lives on frozen burgers cooked on a grimy grill. No wonder he’s dying. He’s going to get E. coli poisoning and with his alcohol-induced diabetes, he’s a goner.”

  “This might not be the guy,” Amy reminded her. “You need to meet him to know if he’s The One.” Amy was drumming her fingers again, waiting for the more cautious Cecelia to catch up with her. “Actually, forget you. I just need to meet him. I’ll read his Named and let you know—”

  “No!” Cecelia put her head down on the table, her forehead hot against the cool wood. Amy was taking over her life again. If Amy went alone to the ball field, she’d tell this Finn character straight out about True Love and Cecelia. It would be a mess. “Okay, I’ll go. But I’m not talking to him. I’m slipping him a note.”

  “Whoo-hoo!” Amy slapped the table with her free hand, causing Cecelia’s head to bounce. “Oh, baby. Get out the pom-poms.”

  “Those are for football.”

  Amy patted Cecelia on the back. “Oh, no. The pom-poms aren’t for any game. They’re to cheer you on, baby. You and Finn. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  Chapter 6

  Thankfully, Amy didn’t have any pom-poms; they were too crinkly to shoplift and Amy was so broke, she didn’t have the $4.99 to buy them. Cecelia refused to contribute, using the money instead for a pair of flip-flops for Amy, in the hope she might actually wear them.

  She didn’t.

  Cecelia’s other hopes for Amy were also becoming less and less likely. Amy had latched on to the idea of fixing up Molly’s row house. Amy did own half the house—possibly the only worldly possession Amy had—so Cecelia didn’t feel right trying to stop her. Amy had no money, no skills, and a temperament not at all suited to hard physical labor. So Cecelia hoped she’d give up soon.

  Another hope.

  At least where Finn was concerned, she could act. She would get rid of him in a matter of moments.

  The day was clear and bright—perfect for baseball in the park. Cecelia hadn’t been to the park on a Saturday afternoon in months. In fact, she hadn’t been anywhere relaxing for months. She was amazed by the carefree people around her: mothers pushing strollers, couples jogging, old ladies feeding the birds. Had she really been working so hard that a Saturday in the park was shocking?

  Amy had pulled one of Cecelia’s old baseball caps backward over her flowing hair. Cecelia wore her oldest sweatshirt and paint-stained jeans and a ragged pair of flip-flops that had seen better days. Amy carried her new flip-flops in her hand.

  The stands were empty except for an old man reading the paper and a small girl listening to headphones. Amy and Cecelia climbed to the top row.

  “There he is,” Amy said, yanking Cecelia’s arm.

 
“Which one?”

  “The one with ‘Concord’ on his uniform, dummy. You want me to go down there and read him? See if I hear your Name?”

  “No! Don’t you dare move from these bleachers!”

  A little girl turned to stare, obviously alarmed at Cecelia’s tone. Cecelia smiled sweetly at her, then strained her eyes to read the uniforms.

  Amy whispered, “Everything would be so much easier if I just went down there and read his Name.”

  “I said no.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why not?”

  “Because my fiancé is waiting for me at home. The man I am going to marry. The man I love. I’m not screwing it up with some meathead from nowhere. I already told you.”

  The little girl turned around again and scowled. Cecelia smiled.

  There he was. “Concord” was spelled out on his uniform in black, block letters.

  Cecelia watched as Finn swung a bat over his head in even, powerful circles. His arms stretched and tensed rhythmically with every circuit. “Good Lord in heaven.”

  “Oh, please. That man and his shoulders have nothing to do with the Lord, although they might have quite a bit to do with heaven,” Amy said.

  Finn Concord had light brown hair and dark eyes and a jawline just right for a ballplayer. His body was solid and muscled. Amid his bungling, mismatched, slack-bellied team he stood out like a god. Cecelia tried to find her voice. “I was just momentarily a little shocked, that’s all. By his—form.”

  “Mmmmmm. Me too.”

  “His baseball form. Oh, forget it. It doesn’t change anything just because he’s gorgeous. I’m not getting involved with him. I’m going to slip him this note, and then I’m gone.”

  “This is what we romantics call love at first sight,” Amy said.

  “This is what we cynics call lust at first sight. You can’t fall in love across a ball field. That’s nuts.”

  “What’s nuts is if you let that guy go,” Amy observed. “Look, if he’s your True Love, he’s about to die. And you’re about to get married—like death. So why not experience your One True Love of a lifetime, then he’ll croak, and you can marry your lawyer. No one will ever know.”

  “Amy!”

  Amy crossed her hands over her chest. “It sounds perfectly logical to me.”

  “That’s because you’re insane. Look, there’s his gym bag.” They watched Finn unzipper a tattered red duffel bag and pull out a pair of worn batting gloves. “I’m going to slip the note in there.”

  Finn pushed the bag under his bench.

  “Yeah, if his teammates catch you, they’ll probably just use you for batting practice.”

  Cecelia surveyed the ragtag team. Even the lone woman, an eighty-year-old Bette Midler, looked scary. “I’m not going to hand the letter to him. The bag’s the only way.” She paused. “Damn, this is starting to feel like a scam.”

  “I know! Isn’t it fun?” Amy leaned back, closed her eyes, and let the sun bathe her face. “Anyway, what was so bad about our scams? Those guys deserved them. They were not good people and we made them better.”

  “We made them poorer.”

  “Poorer was better. It was what they deserved.”

  The third inning began and Finn’s team was in the field. Amy and Cecelia, with two brand new, stiff gloves and a gleaming white ball that they had bought to get them near Finn’s bag, were playing a not very skillful game of catch behind the bench of Trudy’s Tipplers. They watched the action on the field, waiting for a batter to send the ball Finn’s way.

  The first batter struck out in three pitches.

  Amy shook her head, disgustedly.

  Players from Finn’s bench began eyeing them suspiciously.

  They continued to toss their ball, while the next batter sent a dribbler up the first baseline. The fielder scooped it easily and tagged the runner out.

  Great. Two out. They were going to be there all afternoon at this rate. That, Cecelia supposed, was the idea behind baseball. But really, she had other things to get to today.

  Another batter was up.

  The pitcher nodded off a few signals, then began his windup. Cecelia said a little prayer.

  The echoing crack of the bat surprised Cecelia as much as anyone else. The ball sailed into center field. The infielders turned, and Amy tossed her ball under the Tipplers’ bench. It rolled to a stop alongside Finn’s bag. Cecelia raced after it, knelt down, undid the bag’s zipper, and shoved the letter inside just as the center fielder caught the ball on one hop and threw it to the second baseman.

  She did it. She pulled her hand out of his bag, but it wouldn’t come. Her ring was stuck on a tear in the canvas. She yanked at it as the second baseman tagged the runner out. Finn and his teammates began their slow jog toward the bench. She struggled with the threads, considering what would happen if she just left Jack’s grandmother’s antique 2.5-carat diamond ring behind.

  Finn’s teammates congratulated each other, except for a toothless woman who spat out a stream of cursing criticism.

  Cecelia gave a mighty yank, and her ring broke free.

  There, she had done it. She hadn’t done it particularly well, but now Finn was out of her life forever.

  Except that he was staring right at her.

  Chapter 7

  Cecelia turned her back on Finn and called out loudly, “I got the ball!” She looked around for Amy, but she was gone.

  “Ames?” Cecelia hustled away from the bench, but Amy was nowhere to be seen. She risked a glance back at Finn, who was down on one knee, reading her letter.

  Oh, hell. She had to get out of there. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of life anymore. Next to the field was a grove of trees split by meandering paths. Panicking, she took off down a path. She ran until she couldn’t see the field anymore, then she ducked behind a giant maple tree.

  Okay, she was on her butt in the dirt, behind a tree, hiding from some beefy stranger in tight pants who may or may not be wielding a bat.

  “A concerned party, I presume?”

  Cecelia nearly jumped out of her skin. There was Finn, leaning against the tree, staring down at her. How had he gotten there so silently? That was all she needed, a True Love who was also a Ninja warrior.

  “Me?” she peeped. Oh, geez. She cleared her throat. He looked even better up close—were those green eyes for real? Not that it mattered. But still, it was hard not to feel his formidable presence, especially when she was crouched at his feet. The guy was six-foot-two at least.

  “I just got the strangest letter, hand-delivered from ‘A Concerned Party.’ I assume that’s you.”

  “No. What? No. I’m just—”

  “Just hiding behind a tree?”

  She stood up. “No. I’m resting. From my jog.”

  He hadn’t shaved and the dark stubble on his jaw made his eyes seem dark as they focused on her flip-flops. “Look. I don’t have a lot of time. I need to get back on the field or a lady with no teeth is going to gum me to death. Tell me who you are and what this is all about.” He waved the letter at her.

  “Oh. Well. I’m a doctor.”

  “I didn’t ask what you do. I asked who you are.” He moved a step toward her.

  His simple distinction gave her pause. She hadn’t thought of herself as separate from her career in ten years. Who was she? She searched her brain for a suitable response. I’m an engaged woman who is extremely turned on by the way you wear that uniform. Oh, and I just might be destined to be your True Love. She shook her head. “I’m Cecelia Burns, M.D. I happen to be in the possession of some pertinent information regarding your health—”

  She stopped. He had gone completely white. He blinked at her. For a long moment he didn’t say a word. Finally, he said, “You’re a doctor?” with such horror on his face, it was as if she had just told him that she was an assassin. He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned his body against the tree. He chewed on his lower lip and Cecelia tried not to notice how enticing that looked. What was hap
pening to her? She did not pick up jocks in the park.

  She was about to make up a story about seeing something medically suspect in his behavior on the field, but she couldn’t escape how deadly serious his face had become, every muscle taut. “This has nothing to do with medicine,” she began to explain. “That is, I think you should get a checkup. Right away.” The gravity of her inane letter-writing plan began to sink in. He was worried. Really concerned. Of course he was; a doctor had just told him he might be dying.

  He stared at her with an intensity that made her feel every inch of her skin. “Why should I get a checkup, Dr. Burns?”

  “Because. I can’t tell you. But it has nothing to do with me being a doctor.”

  A moment passed. He rubbed his neck some more, then nodded. “Did we sleep together sometime, and then you recognized me on the field and now you have some awful, contagious disease you need to tell me about?”

  “No! I can’t believe—” Her face went hot. The indecency of his suggestion mixed with the indecency of her thoughts. Oh, to go to bed with a man like this.

  “Good. I didn’t think so. I wouldn’t forget a woman like you.”

  She blushed.

  “I meant a woman so friggin’ odd.”

  Now she really blushed.

  “So, if we don’t know each other, the only other option I can think of is that you need a lesson in how to pick up men.”

  Cecelia’s hands flew to her hips. “Pick up men? You think I’m trying to pick you up?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t know me. You slipped a note into my bag; you got yourself caught; and now you’re looking at me like I’m dinner. Your M.O. is weird, I admit, but it sure did get us alone in the park.” His green eyes danced over her with open intent, pausing at strategic points of interest.

  “It wasn’t exactly a love letter,” Cecelia protested. She crossed her arms over her chest. No one had looked at her like that in a long time. It wasn’t allowed. Not in her world.

  His eyes washed over her again. She had the distinct impression she had left her world behind.

  “No. Not exactly a love letter. But heck, if I’m sick, then I think that a doctor is just exactly what I might need. Don’t you?” He smiled at her and leaned closer. “And there you are—a doctor! What a coincidence.”