The Matchmaker

by Pamela DuMond

  “It’s different these days, Florentina,” Violet said. She pulled away from me. My heart sank.

  “It’s only different if there’s a legitimate exception to the rule,” Florentina said.

  “What do you mean, a ‘legitimate exception’?” Violet asked.

  “You have to tame the patriarchal beast. Subdue the one-eyed monster. You can only do that if you truly love him.”

  “What are you talking about, Florentina?” Mrs. Accardi asked.

  “Marriage,” she said. “Only then can you can earn a well-deserved marriage of equals. Enjoy home cooked meals, mutual respect, night after night of fabulous sex, day time quickies, weekend noon-ers, switch off on the blow jobs, and live out your happily-ever-after.”

  “TMI, Florentina,” Vincent said.

  “Sounds good to me.” I stared at Violet and bit back a smile.

  The plane jolted, more lightly this time, but she grasped my arm again, tighter this time. Her touch felt warm. Needed. Wanted. Necessary.

  “But only if you truly love your fiancé, this man you plan to marry,” Florentina said. “Do you, Violet? Do you truly love Aiden?”

  “Um,” Violet gazed up at me and blinked.

  “Do you?” Mom asked. “Because marriage isn’t just the act of falling in love. It’s hard work. It’s shared goals. It’s partnership.”

  “Do you love him?” Uncle Vincent asked.

  I couldn’t help myself. “Do you, Grande Formaggio?”

  Chapter Eight

  Aiden

  “Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been five years since my last confession. My sins are…”

  My parents had met at a Christian Fitness Singles bicycle trip. John and Agnes Black were both in their forties, loved the outdoors, camping, and hiking. They’d spent decades toiling in corporate America and had reached the point where they wanted to find a spouse to share a life of love, laughter, similar interests, and family. Both were open-minded Christians. John Black converted from Episcopalian to Catholicism to make Agnes happy.

  Church was a significant part of my parents’ lives and it became a big part of mine. Proper Catholic baptism. Catechism classes. Catholic school. I hated it at first. So much memorization. Procedure. Prayer. Chant. Stand. Kneel. Sit. Make the sign of the cross. What Saints Day was it again? Mass. Always mass. I was either coming from church or going back to it. Eventually I found solace in the ritual, the prayers, the chanting, the liturgy. It was a meditation of sorts, calming the chatter in my mind, soothing my nightmares.

  I was a junior at Blessed Name high school when Sydney moved out of the house and went to Smith College a few hours away. My parents were in their sixties and began indulging themselves, taking weekend trips with friends to places they’d researched on ancestry and historical sites. I was old enough and ‘responsible enough’ to stay by myself and hold down the fort.

  Life was good. I was a starter on the basketball team. I was getting mostly B’s. Bonus, my hormones had kicked in fifteen months prior. My voice dropped. I grew six inches taller practically overnight, developed scruff on my face and muscles that miraculously had definition when I flexed my arms in front of a mirror. I started attracting female attention and when the shock of that calmed down, I found myself with a steady girlfriend.

  Mary Margaret Murphy was a senior, a straight-A student in the Honor Society, and a cheerleader. Bonus: her favorite new after school activity was sex. She was a driven girl and decided she wanted to be really good at sex by the time she went to college. She studied positions on the Internet and scored a used paperback copy of the Karma Sutra at a local yoga studio.

  She tutored me on giving clitoral orgasms and how to find G-spots, while I gave her feedback on blow jobs and how it felt when she circled her tongue around my dick before she took me deep in her mouth to finish me off. We were perfect together.

  Young.

  Mutually attracted.

  Shared no illusions about plans for a romantic future. Here and now was all that mattered.

  One rainy Saturday afternoon I held down the fort otherwise known as a completely naked, sweaty, and enthusiastic Mary Margaret Murphy on my double-sized mattress, her knees spread, my head buried deep in the v between her legs.

  “For God’s sakes, Aiden Black! What are you doing with your tongue? A walk-about through the neighborhood? You’re not even close to my clit.”

  I lifted my head and swiped the back of my hand across my mouth. “Then you need to give better directions, Smarty Pants.”

  She laughed. “That’s Ms. Valedictorian Smarty Pants to you.”

  “Oh my God, I’m fucking a smart girl. Will it rub off on me?”

  “I pray it does, Aiden. I pray it goes directly from my pussy to your big dick.”

  “Ha!” I said, and we were back at it.

  My parents’ weekend getaways turned into my own house of sin. But somewhere between the mutual blow jobs, Karma Sutra position numbers seventeen, fifty-two, and sixty-nine I felt twinges of Catholic guilt. I decided to go to confession to be absolved of my pre-marital sexual sins and picked a low traffic time. Late Saturday afternoon. During a Patriot’s game.

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

  “That’s a good start,” the priest said.

  I knew from his voice that I was confessing to Father Ed McKenna. The middle-aged parish priest who was cool and popular with the high school kids because he was non-judgmental and easy to talk with. And yet, I still had a tough time composing my words. Twenty uncomfortable seconds of silence passed.

  He cleared his throat. “Do you need prompting?”

  “I’ve got this. Father, it’s been a month since my last confession. My sins are I didn’t study hard enough for the World History Test and got a B minus.”

  “What else?”

  “I used the Lord’s name in vain on multiple occasions during the last basketball game.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “I’ve been having sex with my girlfriend, a lot, which I think is frowned upon. I don’t know if the oral sex is as mortal a sin as full penetration. Perhaps missionary position is considered more venial than taking her from behind when she’s on her knees. I’ve researched online but haven’t found a lot about where the line falls in terms of how sinful I have been. That’s all I remember, Father.”

  “Aha. Let’s deal with the mortal versus the venial later. Did you use protection?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Are you prepared to be a parent if she gets pregnant?”

  “Um, yes, Father.”

  Er, no, I was not.

  My sins were multiplying. Sex before marriage was a sin. Lying was a sin. And lying during confession most likely made this a triple sin. This couldn’t be good. I hoped God wasn’t in a ‘smite’ kind of mood.

  “Have you both been tested for STDs?” Father McKenna asked.

  “Jeez, what happened to young love?”

  He stifled a laugh. “Young love in the real world often has ramifications. It’s a little different in the Catholic Church. Penance is five Hail Mary’s for the lack of sufficient studying and the profanity. Regarding the other—go to your local clinic and ask them to run an STD panel.”

  “Lord Jesus, have mercy on me a sinner,” I said and crossed myself in the dim light of the confessional “Thanks, Father.”

  “Report back when you get your results. Any chance you and your girlfriend, what’s her name again?”

  “Mary Margaret Murphy. Oh, crap. She might not want me telling you that.”

  “No worries, son. I won’t share. The sanctity of the confessional. Any chance you and Mary Margaret can go back to regular heavy petting? Abstain on the marital sacrament?”

  “The horse has left the barn, Father,”

  “Got it. Good luck with the tests. Get back to me with your results, yes?”

  “Will do, Father.”

  I might have been getting B’s in high school, but I got a perfect
scorecard on my STD panel. Clean as a whistle. I reported back to confession and told Father McKenna the good news. A month later I was promoted to the starting line up in Varsity Basketball, and was getting laid at least twenty times a week. Life was fucking good.

  That’s why it threw me the day I was called to the principal’s office. I hadn’t paid the principal a visit since freshman year, and as I paced the corridors I racked my brain trying to figure out what I’d done to merit this action. I pushed the door open, announced myself to the secretary, and was admitted to her private office.

  Sydney was slumped in the chair in front of the desk, her eyes red and her eyelids swollen.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Did you get an unexpected break from school?”

  She stood up, unable to articulate, a sob bursting from her twisted lips.

  I moved the few feet toward her, took her hand, and squeezed it. “Syd?”

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” the headmistress said. She crossed herself and left the room.

  “There’s been an accident,” Sydney said, gripping my hand.

  “What accident? What happened?”

  “The tour bus Mom and Dad were on was in a crash. The truck driver had a heart attack, lost control of the semi, hit two cars, then plowed into the bus on a stretch of highway in Pennsylvania.”

  “Fuck,” I said. “They’re in a hospital in Pennsylvania? You drove here, right? We’ve gotta go. Now.” I was already halfway out the door.

  “Not the hospital, Aiden. The cops told me that they think it was instantaneous. They didn’t make it. It’s just you and me now.” She broke out sobbing again.

  Ice water stabbed into my heart and squirted through my veins. I pulled her to me and held her tight. I hugged her because she was my sister, because I loved her, and because the Earth no longer felt like safe ground to walk upon. Once again, I would have to tread lightly.

  I went numb.

  Didn’t know what to feel.

  Couldn’t feel.

  I didn’t see this coming.

  I wasn’t prepared.

  A turn of the wheel.

  The luck of the draw.

  Family was given.

  Family was taken away.

  Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

  Chapter Nine

  Violet

  “Do you, Violet? Do you truly love Aiden?” Florentina’s question hung in the air like a leg of lamb hanging from hook in the front window of a butcher shop.

  Did I really love Aiden Black, my fake ‘fiancé’?

  He stared at me, the intensity of his gaze penetrating my brain, and alerting me to the possibilities of us being together. Kissing. Touching. Taking each other’s clothes off. Naked together. I broke out in goosebumps. His dimples were impossibly cute and I could swear he ran his tongue over his lower lip. Most likely nerves. I had to look away before I revealed what I was fantasizing about, and like an idiot, I focused my attention on my feet. “Of course, I love him, Florentina. Why else would I agree to marry him?”

  “Wait, wait,” Mom said. “I need to know the important part.”

  “That is the important part. What could be more important than announcing my engagement to the man I love?”

  “Is Aiden Catholic?”

  “Of course not. You know I would never marry a Catholic.”

  “That’s silly, Violet,” Uncle Vincent said. “You’re Catholic.”

  What kind of family hurtles through the air in a private luxury jet on Christmas Eve having a discussion this ridiculous? Did Santa have to put up with this shit with his helpers? Was he tempted to toss his minions from the sleigh or had he gone so far as to put them on his personal ‘No Fly’ list? Did he say, ‘Fuck you, helper elves. Get your own reindeer-driven sleigh that travels magically through the air because I am done hauling your negative nosy asses around for free?’

  “Thank you,” I said and accepted a sparkling water from the flight attendant. “It’s absolutely fine if women are Catholic. For the most part women are able to separate devotional beliefs and practices from dogma that could box in their personal lives. But that dynamic doesn’t work all that well if they marry Catholic men. Catholic men are a different breed. Somewhat repressed.”

  “That’s not fair,” Mom said. “Uncle Vincent’s Catholic.”

  “Exactly. Repressed. Controlling. He makes everyone in the family do everything that he wants. People bow and scrape and suck up to him because he has power and money. I despise what he represents. Excuse me,” I said to the flight attendant, “might I have a glass of cabernet?”

  “Yes, Miss Accardi,” he said.

  “Ms. Accardi.” I frowned.

  “There’s nothing wrong with power or money,” Uncle Vincent said.

  “I believe people should govern with an open hand, not a closed fist,” I said.

  “I hear you, sister,” Florentina said. “My hand is wide open, just waiting and willing for a glass of wine to fill it. It’s five o’clock somewhere. Excuse me, Mr. Flight Attendant?” She waved a hand in the air.

  “Yes, Ma’am. Can I get you something?”

  “That’s Ms.,” Florentina said. “A nice glass of Vino Rosso, my friend. Don’t skimp on the pouring.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “You’ve got a point, Violet, on the open hand,” Uncle Vincent said. “Join my organization. Give up that little venture of yours. I have the perfect position for you in the family business. Head of marketing.”

  “Thank you, no. I already have a job. CEO of Accardiwear. My company’s building every year it’s on the market.”

  “An adorable hobby for a young woman from a privileged background,” he said. “You should be very proud. Having said that, I still encourage you to change your mind about my job offer.”

  “Patronizing much, Uncle Vincent?”

  “The patriarchy has existed forever for a reason. Come back to the family business. Shake things up a bit.”

  “Fuck the patriarchy.” I downed my glass of wine.

  “Right,” he said. “Are you interested, Aiden? I took the liberty of checking out White Glove Agency’s financial stats. You’ve done quite well growing this company in the last five years.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I’m good.”

  “Where are my manners?” Mom said. “Welcome to the family, Aiden. Please call me Jeanie.”

  “Thank you for your kindness, Jeanie.”

  “I know Violet has most likely painted a dreary picture of the Accardi family. Undoubtedly she told you that we are bigoted and provincial. But as long as my daughter is marrying someone who loves her for exactly who she is, I for one am ecstatic. I hope you don’t mind if I ask you something personal.” Mom squeezed her hands together as her knuckles blanched white.

  “Of course not.”

  “What religion are you?” She crossed herself.

  He sighed, turned toward me and smiled ruefully. “I’m Catholic.”

  “Fuck me,” I said.

  “Don’t swear,” Mom said then clapped her hands in delight.

  “I’ll stop swearing when someone tells me where we’re going.” I stomped my foot on the thinly carpeted airplane floor, and cringed when the harshness from the underlying cold metal reverberated up my leg.

  “Traveling to the motherland for Catholics,” Uncle Vincent said.

  “Heaven?” Florentina looked toward the ceiling and crossed herself.

  He threw his head back and laughed like the devil. “Close, Florentina. We’re flying to Italy. Sicily to be precise.”

  How do you kill ten hours with the hottest guy in the world whose bones you are dying to jump but you can’t because you’re in close confines with your family on a small jet? This was definitely not heaven. Rather, I suspected I’d landed in Christmas from hell.

  My mom stared at us and smiled knowingly. Rosalia shot vindictive looks in my direction as she paged through a copy of Italia Weddings. Auntie Florentina drank wine, ate a
ppetizers and played games on her tablet. Uncle Vincent was absorbed in his laptop. Salvatore the Meatloaf slept the entire time, his chin resting on his thick chest, snores rumbling from his open mouth.

  Being that Aiden was poof, like magic, my pretend fiancé, I figured some closeness and occasional displays of PDA were expected. But I’d never been ‘engaged’ before, so what did I know about this kind of stuff?

  “How do you want to play this?” I leaned in and asked him. “A little smoochie? Or reserved and old fashioned? You know—here’s the bad example—we share the occasional longing look.”

  “How do you want to play it?”

  I turned to the back of the plane and thought of the Mile High Club. I was not yet a member of this exclusive alliance. I’d wait until all the ‘adults’ in my family were snoozing, quietly make my way to the back of the plane and enter the cubicle. A minute later Aiden would squeeze inside and lock the door. He’d kiss me. His lips would be delicious and soft, unlike the hardness of his arms that I brushed my hands over. I’d unbutton his shirt, run my hands over his muscular chest, grab his tight ass with one hand and pull him against me.

  He’d slip one hand under my top, trace his fingers across my stomach’s bare skin, and unhook my front clasp bra with a flick of his fingers. He’d move up my breast with one hand, kneading it, rubbing his thumb across my nipple, and it would harden under his attention. I’d moan. He’d lean down and kiss me ravenously, his mouth claiming mine, the stubble from his skin scraping across my face. I’d sigh and lose my breath.

  I’d unzip his pants and watch his cock spring free and bump against me. It would be big and thick and just as beautiful as him. There would be no way in the tight confines of the bathroom that I could pleasure him with my mouth, but there would be plenty of other fun things I could do with his beautiful dick. And then, just when things were getting good, no doubt there’d be a knock on the door.