The Matchmaker

by Pamela DuMond

  I didn’t know how things could get any better. I wanted to freeze this moment in time.

  Funny how sex can change things.

  The Accardi clan – which now temporarily included Aiden, his sister, her wife, Flavio, and various thugs and bodyguards - took a few golf carts into town. The drivers dropped us at the outskirts of the piazza, which was outfitted for the Erice Food Fest.

  Aiden and I sat next to each other saying nothing, our hands loosely touching.

  Flavio stared at us and frowned. “Something’s different between the two of you,” he said.

  “It’s how it was always meant to be, buddy,” Aiden said.

  “Violet Accardi is still mine—”

  “Whatever.”

  Multi-colored umbrellas topped food booths. A stage was set up to accommodate a variety of bands. A choral group singing Pink songs was rocking out, even though it was only 11 a.m.

  Rosalia and her brothers met up with us.

  “Ciao bella,” Rosalia said and kissed both my cheeks. “I’m so happy to be home! Who is this gorgeous man?” She stared up at Flavio like he was sliced pastrami, and batted her eyelashes.

  “Oh,” he said, his eyes widening, his gaze torn between the two of us.

  “Where’s Papa?” I asked.

  Mom looked down at a printed flier. “At his booth. It’s number twenty-five. Let’s go cheer on his almond biscotti and his almond butter cookies.”

  “Aiden?” I took his arm and whispered to him.

  “Yes?”

  “How soon before we can sneak back to the place?”

  “An hour.”

  “Good. Did I tell you I love fucking you?”

  He smiled. “You did. Did I tell you that you’re the smartest girl I’ve ever crushed on?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “You’re the smartest girl I’ve ever crushed on.”

  “Aiden?” Vincent said, “A word in private.”

  “Do you have to?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Uncle Vincent said.

  “I’m sorry,” Aiden said. “Back to your side in a heartbeat.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aiden

  “Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. My sins are anger, inability to cope with conflict, and fear. Fear that if I speak out I will upturn people’s lives. Fear that if I don’t, I will ruin them…”

  Everything was going great. My studies at seminary were finishing up. I’d be taking vows next year. I had friends from school who would go off to parishes all over the country, possibly even the world. The only sad part was having to say farewell to Father McKenna who was reassigned to Rome on some kind of sabbatical. I had friends in the Blessed Name community. And yet something didn’t feel right.

  Something nagged at me.

  Bridget Murphy.

  I’d see her in the hallway at school during break. Occasionally I’d spot her sitting on the curb outside school waiting to be picked up. Her friends from months before seemed to have deserted her. She no longer played on the basketball team. I checked the sports teams’ rosters.

  No Bridget Murphy.

  I wandered down to the gym one Saturday to talk to Coach Bill Peterson who was a pal. “Is there something up with the Murphy girl?”

  He shrugged. “They all get a little moody around that age.”

  “What’s the ‘moody’ age?”

  “Fourteen to eighteen.”

  I helped him stash the balls in a locker.

  “Is there something I should be worried about? Are her parents going through a rough time?”

  “Not that I know of. I think she had a breakup a few months ago. She missed practice sessions and I noticed a lot of mascara-ringed tear stains.”

  “Did you talk to her folks?”

  “No one’s called me. No one’s mentioned anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Do you think I should reach out?”

  He secured the lock on the gate that housed the sports gear. “Look. If I thought there was more than high school drama, I’d say, yes. It’s a fine line between being there for these kids and hovering. Your call.”

  My call. I thought about it. I prayed about it. I just didn’t know. So I let it slide.

  Thy will be done.

  A week rolled by and I still didn’t see her. Then a second week.

  “Have you heard anything?” I asked Coach again.

  “Nope. Didn’t you used to date her sister?”

  “A million years ago.”

  “Find her on social media. You could always reach out to her.”

  “My parents transferred her,” Mary Margaret Murphy-Fischer said over the phone. “Crest Point. It’s a private girls’ school in Vermont.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “Look, Aiden. I feel bad that I didn’t warn her. I didn’t see it coming. I’ve cried a thousand tears. I pray every day she’ll get past this.”

  “Get past what? I’m sure there’s nothing you could have done.”

  “But I could have. Remember the cool priest from our high school? Father Ed McKenna? The one who helped you get over the death of your parents?”

  “Yes,” I said, nausea growing inside me.

  “He counseled me after we broke up. I slept with him for a few months. I thought I was the only one he slept with. I thought I was special.”

  “You are,” I said, feeling like my head was going to explode. “Father McKenna slept with you?”

  “I thought it was consensual,” she said. “I figured out that it wasn’t. I was teenager. He was in a position of authority.”

  “He’s a goddamn priest! He’s the person folks trusted,” I said. “I know I did.”

  How was this possible?

  “But it turns out, I’m not special, Aiden. It turns out he’s been sleeping with more than a few of the pretty young girls who get their hearts broken at Blessed Name High School. Or at least he’s tried. I’ve personally talked to at least ten other women he violated at Blessed Name after Bridget told me that he’d seduced her.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me and maybe I could have done something.”

  “Could you, Aiden? You saw the church as your healing. You saw it as your redemption. How could I take that away from you?”

  “I could have helped.”

  “The damage is done. Bridget’s getting counseling. The family’s suing. We’re handling it,” she said. “This isn’t about you, Aiden. This one’s about us.”

  Five years ago I’d left my old life behind.

  I left the church.

  I dropped out of seminary.

  I moved to Chicago and spent half a year slumming in dark bars, drowning myself in the frenetic energy of nightclubs, and playing all night poker games. Anything to distract me from my guilt. The memories of how I’d screwed things up in a spectacular way.

  Anything to distract me from the pain.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Aiden

  I walked away from the Accardi family toward the church in the distance.

  “Look,” Vincent said. “My people have asked around back in Chicago. You’re not engaged to Violet. You haven’t dated anyone in five years. So while I think the gallant flirtation you have going on is quite commendable, I don’t believe you have my niece’s best interests at heart.”

  The gig was up.

  “Right. You caught us,” I said. “We’re not really engaged. But in regards to Violet’s best interests, I’m crazy about your niece. I have genuine feelings for her. There’s nothing fake.”

  “That’s great, Aiden. One tiny problem.” He pulled a pamphlet from his pocket. It was Violet’s contract with White Glove Agency. “It says here on page seven that at no time will a White Glove employee date or have relations with a client. It’s a violation of company policy.”

  “That’s usually the rule, sir.”

  “Is
that usually the rule, Aiden? Or is that always the rule? You’re sleeping with my niece. What’s next? Breaking her heart? Setting her up with the wrong man after that? Someone who is a throw away so you can earn the payout that she brings you as a client? I’m not the most moral man in the world, but when it comes to family I am fiercely loyal. I hate to appeal to your morals, Aiden but in this case I have to. You need to leave Violet alone. Let her find a mate who is part of who she is. We can do that. You cannot. And you’re certainly not that guy.”

  I built White Glove Agency as a way to help people. And in this process I’d found some redemption. But now here I was, sleeping with Violet Accardi, when I’d vowed to never get involved with one of my clients.

  Was I that horrible person that Vincent made me feel like? I couldn’t stay here at Violet’s grandfather’s house surrounded by her family. I couldn’t stay here in Sicily.

  I left the fair and hopped the funicular down the mountain to Trapani. I caught a taxi to the airport and booked the first flight out to Rome and then flew home to Chicago.

  Sydney texted me when I arrived at Leonardo da Vinci airport.

  Sydney: Where are you? Are you okay?

  Aiden: Rome. Kind of. Tell Violet I’m truly sorry.

  Sydney: Will do. But I think that would mean more coming from you.

  I returned to White Glove Agency to check up on everything but it was a holiday and not much had happened in the last week. I walked the streets of Chicago for hours every day trying to clear my head.

  Today was New Year’s Eve. I walked past bars and restaurants that were decked out, gearing up for late night celebrations. My phone buzzed a few times and I finally checked it.

  Sydney: I’m in Chicago. Text me.

  Sydney: I used the spare key to your place. I’m here.

  Aiden: Running errands. Make yourself at home.

  People looked so happy, ready for the New Year and the fresh start it signified.

  I found myself back outside Cathedral Basilica where I’d been just a week before. It had been five years since I’d set foot in a church. It felt like it was time. My phone buzzed.

  Sydney: Where are you?

  Aiden: Cathedral Basilica.

  Sydney: But you never go to church anymore.

  Aiden: Everything changes.

  I climbed the steps and entered the sanctuary. Rich tapestries hung from the walls. Murals depicting Christ and his apostles were painted on the domed ceiling. Thick, old wooden pews lined the church. Statues of saints rested in alcoves tucked into walls fronted by rows of votive candles. The main altar was adorned with gold-plated candelabras and religious ornaments.

  The confessional booth beckoned. I entered and had a long talk with a kind priest. He told me to say five Hail Mary’s and make things right with everyone involved. On the way out of the booth I spotted a statue of St. Jude tucked in a corner. The Saint of Lost Causes felt like the perfect Saint for me.

  I made my way to the alcove, crossed myself, and slipped some cash in the donation slot. I lit a candle and stared up at the Saint with the flames around his head. “I screwed up. I’m awfully sorry.”

  “But you didn’t,” a woman’s voice said from behind me.

  I turned and saw Violet Accardi.

  Beautiful Violet.

  Violet who had cracked open my cold, cold heart.

  Violet whom I had left without saying a word.

  “You probably hate me and frankly I don’t blame you,” I said.

  “I’m pissed off at you, that’s for sure,” she said. “You left me high and dry with my crazy family over the holidays. That’s almost unforgiveable.”

  “I should never have kissed you or made to love to you. I screwed up, Violet. I owe you the biggest apology in the world. I am so sorry.”

  “I forgive you. Stop beating yourself up. Besides, Flavio’s taken up with Rosalia, who happens to be the second daughter on her side of the Accardi family. The blood pact is handled.”

  “Thank God for that.” This woman made me laugh.

  “There’s still two problems, Cuoco,” she said. “And I know you. You’re a problem solver.”

  “What are they?” I stared at her, taking in that gorgeous face. Full lips. Chocolate eyes. Dark silky hair sweeping over the collar of her warm winter coat. My pulse quickened.

  “One. I went from having two fiancés to having none,” she said, her lips quirking up in a smile. “This does not make a girl feel special.”

  I looked up at the Statue of St. Jude and I could almost see the flames around his head glowing a little brighter. “I see. What’s your second problem?”

  She walked toward me. “I’ve fallen completely and utterly under the spell of one man and I fear I’m off the market. I already told my matchmaker Charlotte that I won’t be needing White Glove’s services anymore.”

  She held out her hand and I took it.

  “At least not anyone associated with White Glove whose name isn’t Aiden Black.”

  “You would give me another chance? You would date me for real?”

  “We’d have to break your antiquated rules.”

  I took her into my arms. “I’ve decided, Violet, that in this very specific case between you and me, this rule needs to be broken.”

  And then I kissed her.

  Home.

  Violet Accardi was my home.

  I had finally come home.

  Epilogue

  Violet

  New Year’s Eve. One year later…

  The library on the first floor of Papa Giuseppe’s Pasticcerie castle in Erice was lined with bookcases, and the glow from the fire smoldered in the hearth. I smoothed my dress down my hips, adjusted my bodice, and checked my reflection in the full-length mirror.

  My cream-colored silk wedding gown was simple with three-quarter length sleeves, a boat neck and a plunging back. It had a full skirt and a fitted bodice with clusters of seeded pearls embedded in delicate floral patterns.

  Something old: Aiden’s mother’s engagement ring sparkled in the firelight. It was a one- and-a half-carat emerald cut diamond in a platinum setting with yellow diamond baguettes. It made me smile every time I looked at it.

  Something new: Yellow diamond drop earrings that Uncle Vincent had given me as a wedding present along with an apology for all his meddling in my life.

  Something borrowed: Florentina’s pearls circled my neck.

  Something blue: Papa Giuseppe had given me one of the silken buds from the blue ribbon he won for his almond biscotti cookies at the Agrigento Almond Blossom Festival. I wore it on a satin ribbon tied around my wrist.

  “You’re a beautiful bride,” Nolan said, fussing with the train of my dress.

  “You’re tearing up Nolan,” Florentina said. She was wearing a purple vintage lace dress with a fitted bodice, V-neck, three-quarter length sleeves and a full skirt that swished with every step she took. “Don’t cry or you’re going to ruin your makeup.”

  “I’m not wearing makeup,” Nolan said. “Okay, fine. Just a pinch of color on my cheeks and a swipe of Adam Lambert eye liner because that shit’s the bomb and makes my eyes pop.”

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Showtime.”

  “You know this is an Accardi event, right?” Florentina asked.

  “Feelings hurt, disaster imminent, and a high probability of bloodshed—right? Am I forgetting something?” I asked.

  “A feud is averted. A new fight might be picked,” Florentina said.

  “God, I love you people,” Nolan said. “Please adopt me, pronto.”

  “I’ve always wanted a son,” Florentina said.

  “Mama,” Nolan said.

  We made our way through a small wooden door leading from the library outside to a semi-private alcove with views of the backyard terrace. People mingling on the patio couldn’t see me tucked away here but I could see almost everything.

  It was my wedding day and I took a moment just to breathe it all in. Stars were already twinkli
ng in the night sky. I could see the lights from Trapani and smelled a hint of salt in the crisp Mediterranean air.

  Garlands of white roses mixed with sprigs of rosemary and entwined with Italian lights were wrapped around the pergola’s bare vines. Heat lamps positioned around the patio. White folding chairs were lined up in rows on either side of the pergola, creating an aisle.

  Rosalia was standing among the guests, wearing a faux fur pastel wrap over her massively pregnant belly. She rubbed her baby bump as Flavio stared at her as if she was the first person to ever get pregnant.

  And there was Aiden, dressed in a crisp black suit and a white shirt with cufflinks. His black hair was immaculate and he had a white rose buttoniere on his lapel. He was so hot.

  Sydney was his best lady. She was rocking an elegant poppy-colored silk, tea-length dress with matching low-heeled pumps.

  Nora was wearing a similar outfit and seated in the front row on the groom’s side with White Glove Matchmaking Agency employees, including my former matchmaker Charlotte. Charlotte was now engaged to Joe Delacroix of the Delacroix Hotel fortune.

  It was a pretty crowd. It was a happy crowd. It was my crowd.

  I stepped out from the privacy of the alcove.

  Aiden spotted me and smiled.

  I smiled back.

  “Gorgeous,” he mouthed.

  “Hot,” I mouthed back.

  “You two need to get married, pronto,” Nolan said. “The hormones are flying through the air so fast and furious they could take someone’s eye out.”