Wish Upon a Matchmaker

by Marie Ferrarella

  “I can just hear the sound of bills getting paid,” she answered cheerfully.

  “Well, don’t count your checks before they’re written,” he cautioned, thinking of the job that had just fallen through earlier. “You never know how these things can turn out.”

  “Sorry,” Virginia murmured. “Don’t know what came over me.” There was a time, Virginia couldn’t help remembering, when her brother was just as optimistic as she was. She missed those times.

  I hope you’re as good as Ginny thinks you are, Maizie Sommers, Virginia said silently. I can’t wait for my brother to fall in love again and become human, like he was with Eva.

  Chapter Two

  Sometimes, when Danielle Everett thought about it, it still took her breath away.

  Three years ago, she was living in Atlanta, struggling to pay off not just her student loans but also the mountain of medical bills her father had left in his wake. At the time, she was working at an insurance company, living on a shoestring and feeling her soul being sucked away, bit by bit, with every passing day.

  Back then, Danni was vainly trying to keep her head above water and wondering if her utterly unfounded optimism would eventually erode because from any angle she looked at it, her optimism had absolutely nothing to hook on to.

  All she wanted back then was to wake up in the morning and not feel as if she were struggling against an oppressive feeling. She didn’t want to feel that if she ever let her guard down, she’d be a victim of the dark, bottomless depression whispering along the perimeter of her very being.

  Back then she’d never dreamed that she could actually wake up grinning from ear to ear—the way she did these days.

  Granted she was as exhausted now as she had been back then, but then the exhaustion had come from trying to keep her footing on the treadmill she was running on—the treadmill that threatened, at any moment, to pull her under. Now she was exhausted from trying to do ten things at once. The difference being was that these were ten things she loved doing.

  Back then she’d been a company drone, an anonymous, tiny cog in a huge machine, expected to perform and make no waves. These days she was her own person. And, in many ways, her own boss as well. She took suggestions, not orders. Which made a world of difference to her everyday existence.

  And all because of a skill, a talent she’d never even thought twice about.

  Danni cooked like a dream and baked like a celestial being.

  It all started innocently enough. She began by cooking for friends, then for friends of friends. Friends of friends who insisted on paying her for her time and skill. Before Danni knew it, she had branched out to catering full-time. There was no room left to squeeze in her day job.

  The happiest day of her life was the day Danni handed in her resignation to Roosevelt Life Insurance’s actuarial department. Her second-happiest day was the day she paid off the last of her late father’s medical bills. Her last student loan payment followed a year later.

  She was finally solvent and didn’t owe anyone anything!

  By then Danni realized that she was doing far more baking than cooking. A few heady connections later and she found herself being courted to star in a brand-new cooking show.

  Initially, Danni had some serious doubts about going in that direction and she hesitated about making the commitment, which also meant relocating cross-country. After all, weren’t there more than enough cooking shows already all over the airwaves? Their life expectancy was projected to be somewhere a little longer than that of a common fruit fly—but not by all that much.

  By then Danni had become too successful catering parties for an established clientele to want to set herself up for failure again.

  She had no gimmick, she protested to the agent who had approached her with the idea of cooking before a live audience. She had nothing to set her apart from all the other chefs on TV.

  “I think you’re selling yourself short, Danielle,” the agent, a thin, diminutive man named Baxter Warren told her with more than a little conviction. “A lot of people—the right people,” he emphasized dramatically, “think you make desserts to die for.”

  As the words came out of his mouth, the agent paused for a moment, looking as if he had just had a world-altering epiphany. And then his thin lips split into a wide smile.

  “That’s what we’ll call the show. Danielle’s Desserts to Die For.”

  “Most people call me Danni,” she’d told him.

  “Danni’s Desserts to Die For,” he amended, then nodded his head. “Even better.” Baxter gave her a penetrating, almost mesmerizing look. It was easy to see that he was exceedingly pleased with himself. “You can’t say no.”

  She didn’t.

  Danni had packed up her pots—Baxter told her she could buy a complete designer set of new ones once she landed in Southern California, but she’d insisted on bringing the ones that she’d been using. The ones her father had given her before she’d even hit her teens. They had belonged to her grandmother and to Danni the pots were the very embodiment of family history. They represented who and what she was.

  She’d also brought along a box full of recipes. Recipes that she habitually—and unconsciously—augmented each time she prepared them.

  With her prized possessions safely packed away, Danni had flown from Atlanta to begin a new life in the land of endless summers and endless beaches: Southern California. The cable station where her half-hour program was scheduled to be filmed was located in Burbank. Baxter had encouraged her to find either an apartment or a house in the area.

  But the pace in Burbank was too frantic for her and she longed for something a little more sedate and laid-back, as well as a town that was a little less populated. What she was looking for was something to remind her of the Atlanta suburb that she’d left behind.

  She was searching for a little bit of home in a completely unfamiliar environment.

  She found what she was looking for in Bedford, with the help of a Realtor one of the cameramen working on her new show had recommended.

  Maizie Sommers.

  Moreover, Maizie, with her low key approach, her soft voice and especially her kind smile, reminded her a great deal of the mother she’d lost years ago.

  What Danni appreciated most of all was that her association with Maizie was not terminated when escrow closed. When the woman urged her to call if she ever had a problem or needed anything—or just to talk, Danni believed her.

  As a matter of fact, they’d talked several times since Danni had sent out her change-of-address postcards to the people back in Atlanta and Danni had even dropped by the woman’s office a couple of times, always bearing some sort of new dessert she was currently trying out.

  For her part, Maizie never put her off or told her she’d come at a bad time. On the contrary, she’d greeted her like a long-lost, beloved family member—like a daughter.

  “You do realize that just the pleasure of your company would be more than enough,” Maizie told her when she’d dropped by a week ago. “You really don’t need to bribe me—although, I must say, you really outdid yourself this time with these little glazed Bundt cakes.” Maizie had sat at her desk, examining the mini cake in her hand from all angles. It appeared perfect from all sides. “Have you thought about either writing a cookbook or marketing these? You’ll make a fortune,” Maizie prophesized.

  Danni had modestly demurred, but the idea about writing a cookbook remained in the recesses of her brain. Maybe someday.

  Each time she reflected on the changes that had come into her life in such a short amount of time, it always astounded her. She could hardly believe that at long last, there was enough money in both her savings and her checking account for her to be a little—hell, a lot extravagant if she wanted to be, instead of always having to count pennies, constantly be vigilant and deny herself even the smallest of indulgences.

  Danni almost gave in to the cliché to pinch herself. Life was that perfect. For the first time in her life, she
was living in her own house, a house she’d paid for, not a house she was merely renting and that belonged to someone else.

  The rush she felt when she put the key into the lock of her own front door for the very first time was one she couldn’t even begin to describe. It was unequal to anything else she’d ever felt.

  But Danni wasn’t so enamored with the idea of ownership that she was blind to the house’s flaws. She wasn’t. She was very aware that the house came with warts. Quite a few warts.

  The two-story building, built somewhere around the early 1970s, was in need of a new roof, new windows that kept the air out, not invited it in, and the three bathrooms were all but literally begging to be remodeled. The kitchen, which to her had always been the heart of the house, needed a complete makeover as well. To anyone else, these might have been a deal breaker, but Danni had fallen in love with the layout and had bought the house for an exceptionally good price. So she’d signed on the dotted line, promising herself that if and when her show’s option was picked up and renewed, and if it subsequently took off, she would give the house a much-needed facelift.

  That day had come.

  Her last visit to Maizie had been to tell the helpful Realtor that she was finally at a place where she could afford all those renovations they had talked about.

  “What I need now,” she’d said over an enticing small pyramid of a dozen glazed wine cupcakes, “is for you to recommend a reliable general contractor who can do it all. I really don’t want to have to deal with a half a dozen or more men, all at odds with one another.”

  There’d been a slight problem with her request. The man Maizie had been sending people to for the last eight years had recently relocated to Nevada to be closer to his daughter and her family. Consequently, Maizie had told her she’d be on the look-out for someone reliable and that she would get back to her as quickly as she could.

  Danni had no doubts that the woman would find someone.

  And Maizie had.

  When she came home yesterday, bone weary after a marathon taping session, the first thing she’d seen was the red light on her answering machine blinking rhythmically as if it was flirting with her. Danni had stopped only long enough to drop her purse and step out of her shoes before listening to the message.

  She waited less than that to call Maizie back. Five minutes after that, she was on the phone, dialing the number that Maizie had given her.

  Danni wanted to call while her lucky streak was still riding high. There was a part of her—a diminishing but still-present part—that expected she would wake from this wonderful dream, her alarm clock shattering the stillness and calling her to work at the insurance company back in Atlanta.

  Before that happened, she wanted to take full advantage of this magic-carpet ride she found herself on.

  * * *

  The man who Maizie had recommended sounded nice on the phone. He had a deep, rich baritone voice that was made for long walks on the beach beneath velvety, dark, star-lit skies.

  He looked even better, Danni thought as she brought her vehicle to a squealing stop in her driveway and all but leaped out of her car. He was on time, she noted ruefully. And she was not.

  “Sorry,” Danni declared, approaching the man who looked as if the stereotypical description of “tall, dark and handsome” had been coined exclusively for him. She put her hand out. “Traffic from Burbank was a bear,” she apologized.

  His fingers closed around her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Stone had been all set to leave.

  He absolutely hated being kept waiting and felt that the people who were late had no regard for anyone else’s time and no respect for them, either.

  But the attractive, bubbly blonde’s apology sounded genuine enough rather than just perfunctory and it wasn’t as if he were awash in projects and could turn his back and walk away from this one.

  So far, it had been a very lean year for him and the savings he’d put aside to see himself and his daughter—and sister if need be—through were just about gone.

  Danni suddenly paused just as she was about to unlock her door. She half turned and looked at him over her shoulder as a thought occurred to her that she had just taken his identity for granted.

  “You are Mr. Scarborough, right?” she asked belatedly, punctuating her question with a warm, hopeful smile.

  Even if he wasn’t, Stone caught himself thinking, he would have temporarily changed his name just to be on the receiving end of that smile. But, with a clear conscience, he could nod and say his full name, just in case the woman had any lingering doubts.

  “Call me Stone,” he told her. There, that should set her mind at ease about his identity. After all, he reasoned, how many men were there with that first name?

  “I’m Danni,” she said, her smile all but branding him. “But then, you already know that.” There was just the slightest hint of pink tint on her cheek as she turned away.

  She opened the front door and despite the fact that it was July and the sun had yet to go down, the interior of the house was all but utterly enshrouded in darkness.

  “The first thing I’m going to need is light,” she told him.

  “That usually happens when you turn up the switch,” he pointed out dryly, indicating the one that was on the wall right next to the doorjamb.

  Danni laughed then, even as she did exactly as he’d suggested. “I mean light from above.” She pointed toward the roof, which was some eighteen feet up, thanks to cathedral ceilings. “Like a skylight. This room appears incredibly gloomy in the winter, even when the drapes are opened. And I’d really rather not have to leave the lights on all day long.”

  As she spoke, Danni dropped her purse near the front door and saw him looking. “I could use a small table there,” she admitted. “Haven’t gotten around to that, yet. Haven’t gotten around to a lot of things yet,” she admitted ruefully in a moment of truth. “They said the pace here in Southern California is laid-back.” Danni just shook her head about that. “They lied.”

  “They?” he asked, curious.

  “The people back East.”

  There it was again, that accent he couldn’t quite pin down. This was probably his one chance to ask her the question.

  “How far back East?” he asked.

  “Atlanta.” She saw the look that came over his face. He assumed a triumphant air, as if he was congratulating himself on a guess well played. “Is it that obvious?”

  “No, not that obvious,” he told her. “Just that you weren’t from around here.”

  She laughed shortly, thinking of the people she’d been interacting with since she’d transplanted herself. She had the kind of face and manner that drew people to her. Not only that, but it drew them out as well. People would find themselves telling her things they wouldn’t even whisper into their priest’s ear.

  “Is anyone from around here?” It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but obviously, not for Stone.

  “My wife was,” he told her, then added, “and my daughter is.”

  Is and was.

  Danni was instantly aware of the switch in tense.

  He mentioned his daughter in the present tense, but not his wife. Did that mean he was divorced, or—?

  She’d always been interested in people, in the way they felt, thought, what their background was, but she also knew that men didn’t like having to answer too many questions at any given time, so she let the questions bubbling up within her all go for now.

  Except for one.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked Stone. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’m fine,” he assured her.

  Yes, you certainly are, she couldn’t help thinking. But her Southern training couldn’t accept no for an answer. It wasn’t in her DNA.

  “No coffee? Tea?” He shook his head at each suggestion. “How about water?” she coaxed. “Everyone likes water.”

  He laughed at her comment and decided he was waging a losing battle. The w
oman would obviously remain uneasy until she’d given him something.

  “All right. I’ll take some water,” he told her, all but raising his hands over his head like a prisoner being taken into custody.

  “Great,” Danni declared. “Water it is. And dessert,” she added in a lowered voice, talking quickly. So quickly that he had to replay the words in his head in order to realize what she’d just said. “Kitchen’s this way,” she told him, leading the way to the rear of the house.

  “I don’t need dessert,” Stone told the back of her head. At the moment, it was the safest place to look. If he lowered his eyes for even a second, he knew he’d regret it. The view was far too tempting. Her hips were moving at a tempo that was all but synchronized with the beating of his heart.

  “Sure you do. Everyone needs dessert,” she assured him.

  Reaching her final destination, Danni went straight for the refrigerator and the secret weapon she used to win everyone over.

  Her dessert.

  Chapter Three

  This was obviously a man who did not like being told what to do, Danni decided as she placed the large plate of freshly made dessert on the table. When he was growing up, his mother probably had to suggest that he drink his milk, otherwise, she was willing to bet, he went out of his way not to touch it just to prove his independence.

  In some ways, she supposed she could relate to that. While she liked being polite, she was never anyone’s pushover.

  Maizie Sommers had sung this man’s praises, which meant that in the Realtor’s experience, the contractor got an overall A rating for both the quality of his work and the prices he charged. That was certainly more than good enough for her, Danni thought. There was no way she wanted to antagonize the man on top of already being late for their appointment and having kept him waiting.

  So Danni put on her very best smile and graciously accepted his refusal of her dessert.