Blue Heron [2] The Perfect Match

by Kristan Higgins

  “Fingers crossed, then.”

  “So what should our story be?” Honor asked. Her cheeks warmed again. Everyone in the universe had a better story than this. Even the people who met online had cute stories about how their emails had sparked something, or how they met for the first time, smiled and bada-bing, they were in love. eCommitment was much more romantic than a contract negotiated in a stone basement, like some illicit agreement between two shady government agencies.

  “Why don’t we just stick as close to the truth as possible?” Tom asked. “You picked me up in a bar, we shagged, you’re getting older, we figured what the hell? Let’s do it.”

  She stiffened. “You know what I did this afternoon? I watched YouTube interviews about convincing INS that you’re actually in love. That’s the only reason you can marry someone seeking a green card. It has to be a love match.”

  He smiled again. “Sorry. I love you, Honor. Will you marry me?”

  Her jaw clenched. “This is your ass on the line, Tom. And your relationship with Charlie. So try to be serious, okay? What do you love about me?”

  “It’s not your sense of humor.”

  Had she thought he was charming? Lonely? Adorable? When was that again?

  “Sorry,” he said. “I appreciate this. It’s just...I’m nervous. Not just about getting caught, but about what you’re offering.” He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck, then looked back at her. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

  Oh, yeah, that’s what it was.

  Sincerity.

  “Well,” she said, and her voice was a little husky. “Let’s give it a shot.” She paused. “But, um, I don’t think we should sleep together. Again. I mean, you know. Until we get a sense of whether or not this is going to work.”

  Now why’d you say that, dummy? her eggs asked. We just opened that special anti-sag moisturizer.

  Because. She was already risking an awful lot. She’d be lying to her family, linking her life with a virtual stranger, committing a felony.

  She wasn’t going to risk her heart, too. Not yet. And if last night was any indication, her heart would be following her body and opening right up to him.

  “That sounds wise,” Tom said, and yes, she was a little disappointed.

  “I’ll need some information on you. Your family and where you went to school.”

  “Very well.”

  “And you need to meet my family. I thought Wednesday would be good. I can tell them we’ve been seeing each other for about a month. I don’t think I can stretch it further than that.”

  “You’re a bit terrifying, you know that?” She gave him a pointed look. “Fine. Wednesday works for me, I’m sure.”

  “And then we’ll move in together.”

  “And then we’ll move in together.”

  They looked at each other from across the table. Then Tom reached out, and they shook on it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TOM WAITED UNTIL the last school bus had gone before he went into the school. Much brighter and bigger than his own high school. Smelled better, too, as there was no tire factory down the block.

  “Can I help you?” asked the secretary in the front office.

  “Yes, thank you. I need a word with the principal.”

  “Are you a parent here?” the woman asked.

  “No. But I think there may be a bullying problem with one of your students.”

  She gave him a dead-eyed stare and, without looking away, picked up her phone and pushed a button. “Bullying complaint,” she said. A second later, another woman came into the office. She was short and squat with graying hair and an ill-fitting suit.

  “Hey,” she said. “I know you, dude. You box at my gym.”

  “Hello,” he said. “Tom Barlow.”

  “Dr. Didier. Call me Ellen. I was gonna ask you to spot me the other day. I lift weights. Tournaments, stuff like that. I’m a little old to go pro at this point, but I love it. I can press about two-fifty at this point. How about you?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure.”

  “We should be spotting partners!” She flashed him a broad smile. “So what can I do for you? You said bullying? Come into my office.”

  She certainly seemed cheerful, he had to give her that. Her office was typically crowded, and she whipped off her suit jacket, revealing massive shoulders. Flexed her biceps. “Not bad, right?”

  “Very impressive,” he said. “Anyway, I’m here because I’m concerned about Charlie Kellogg.”

  Dr. Didier sat down and tapped a few keys on her computer, then frowned. “I don’t see you listed here under contacts. What’s your relationship to Charlie?” she asked.

  “I was engaged to his mother. She died several years ago.”

  Dr. Didier gave a nod, then stretched her hands over her head, cracking her knuckles. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I won’t be able to discuss anything with you.”

  “I realize that. I’m a professor over at Wickham.”

  “Cool beans!”

  “But I did want you to be aware of the fact that I think Charlie’s being bullied.”

  Dr. Didier sighed. “So you’re still in touch with this kid?” she asked. “Even though his mom died, what...three years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do his guardians know you’re still involved? Because when an adult not related to a child expresses an interest, you know...the bells, they go a little crazy.”

  Tom blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Are you a pedophile, in other words?”

  “Christ! No!”

  “I’m just gonna put in a request with the police to check you out, okay? It’s routine.”

  “I’m not a child molester! Besides, the police have already talked to the Kelloggs about me.” And didn’t that sound damning. “Look,” he said more calmly, “I lived with the boy and his mum. His grandparents are...distracted, and his dad is barely in the picture. I’m just trying to look after the kid.”

  “And by look after, what do you mean?” Dr. Didier asked. “Because it sounds creepy, Mr. Barlow.”

  Oh, now he was Mr. Barlow? He was Tom when he was going to be her weight-lifting partner. “What I mean is, I think I should report it to his fucking school when I think he’s getting roughed up!”

  “All right, all right, settle down,” the principal said, holding up her hands. “I appreciate your concern, and I’d ask that you appreciate mine. You can’t be too careful these days. I will be calling Charlie’s grandparents to tell them that you came by, for the record.”

  “Fine.” Great. Janice would tell Charlie, and Charlie would be furious.

  But still.

  “So why do you think Charlie’s been bullied?” Dr. Didier asked.

  “I picked him up from a party a couple of weeks ago, and his ear was bleeding. He says he’s fine, but he’s not very talkative.”

  “Did he tell you why his ear was bleeding?”

  “No. He said he got it caught. It’s a piercing. Nasty thing.” Tom swallowed.

  “So it could’ve been that.”

  “It could’ve been, yes. It also could’ve been some prat who smacked him or yanked his earring or—”

  “Look, Tom, our school has a no-tolerance policy on bullying. If it was witnessed, our students have been told since they were in kindergarten that they are not to stand for such behavior, and saying nothing is akin to bullying itself.” She rolled her eyes. “And we all know how well that works. Kids still get bullied. It’s just more subtle these days.”

  “So what will you do?”

  She pulled a face. “We’ll do everything we can. If you have a name, if Charlie would like to talk to a staff member or the guidance office, if anyone comes forward, or i
f there’s a witnessed event, we’ll aggressively investigate. We don’t tolerate bullying. But we also can’t control what those little shits do on their own time, forgive the language. And frankly, I can’t do anything with some vague complaint from a person who’s not even involved in Charlie’s custody. I’m sorry. I’ll keep an eye out, and I’ll tell the teachers to do the same thing, but that’s all I can do.”

  Shit.

  “Is he doing all right here?” Tom asked, unable to help himself.

  She gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry. I can’t discuss it.” She sighed. “Do you talk to Charlie’s grandparents?”

  “Yes.” And they’d been as receptive as two fat bricks—Janice staring at his crotch, Walter nursing a drink, both of them feeling sorry for themselves for having to deal with their recalcitrant grandson.

  “Wish I could do more.”

  “Right. Thanks for your time, Dr. Didier,” he said, standing up and shaking her hand.

  “You’re welcome. See you at the gym.” She held up a fist for a knuckle-bump, and he complied.

  Walking out into the rain, Tom remembered how, back in the day, fights were held in the schoolyard or on the streets in his run-down neighborhood. At least it was out in the open and done with. Now, in this day and age, when kids seemed smarter and crueler, where half the parents didn’t pay attention or wouldn’t believe that their precious little Sam or Taylor could possibly be anything other than a perfect angel, because to admit such would be to have to spend more than ten minutes a day with the creature. No, today, bullying was a casual sport, and if a kid killed himself over it, ah, well, he must’ve been really fucked up, and little Sam or Taylor wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

  In other words, Charlie was on his own.

  But he had Tom. And, whether he liked it or not, soon Charlie would have the Holland family, as well. Honor’s dossier included a niece and a nephew, the girl in high school. And, please God, that might help.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Tom had managed to get Charlie out of his room at the Kelloggs’ and into the car.

  The kid looked like a vampire, with his dark hair and eyes, white skin and Goth clothing and general exhaustion. “You eating all right these days?” Tom asked as they drove to the lake.

  Charlie grunted.

  “I thought a bit of fresh air would do us both some good. We could take a hike if you want.”

  “I don’t.”

  Of course. “Okay, we can just sit and breathe, then.”

  Tom pulled into a parking area at the edge of an abandoned train track, and they got out. He’d read about the town’s plans to develop a bike trail along here, and wouldn’t that be splendid, being able to cycle through the farmlands and forests? Across the way and up the hill a bit, he could see a red kite against the gray sky. “Look there,” he said, pointing.

  Charlie barely glanced. If the kite reminded him of what they used to do together, he said nothing, and though Tom was used to such reactions these past three years, he nonetheless felt his throat tighten.

  “So, Charlie, it’s been a while since your mum died. I was wondering how things are for you.”

  Charlie shrugged and made a trisyllabic grunt, which Tom took to mean, I don’t know.

  “Right. Well, if you ever want to talk about things, I’m always here.”

  An eye roll. Charlie looked exhausted from having to deal with the idiocy of adults; Tom half worried he was about to pass out from boredom.

  “Listen, I’ve got some news.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m seeing someone.”

  Charlie, who was not moving to begin with, seemed to freeze nonetheless.

  “She’s really nice.”

  No reaction.

  “She’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  And still nothing. There was maybe a quiver around his mouth.

  “Her name’s Honor Holland. She’s Abby Vanderbeek’s aunt. Do you know Abby?”

  No answer.

  “She’s a couple years ahead of you. A junior this year.”

  Nothing.

  “I wanted to let you know. And it’s not like I’ll forget your mum—”

  “I have homework. Can we go?” Without waiting for an answer, Charlie pushed himself up and trudged to the car, his mood as black as his clothes, a stark contrast to the dancing kite across the hill.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I TOLD YOU he was perfect,” Goggy crowed. “Finally, someone listened to me!”

  “You can’t go around bragging about it, Goggy,” Honor warned. “I’m only telling you because...you know...you mentioned the green card issue, and I don’t want anyone to have the wrong impression. Because that would be illegal, Goggy. And I’d be in big trouble.”

  “Of course I won’t tell! You think I can’t keep a secret? I can keep a secret. Your grandfather lost ten thousand dollars in the stock market last year, and did I tell anyone? No. I didn’t. When I walked in on Prudence and Carl doing it on their kitchen table, did I mention it to anyone? Not a soul!”

  Honor rubbed her forehead. “Wow. Okay. So this time, you really, really can’t tell. And we’re, um, we’re in love. It was fast, but we, uh, we love each other.” Four more hours on YouTube had stressed that little nugget to the thousandth degree. The only reason to marry a non–U.S. citizen is for love, attorney after attorney had warned. And here are some of the questions you might be asked. Who made dinner last night? What did you do last weekend? What is your spouse’s favorite dessert?

  “I knew it! I knew you’d love him! He’s wonderful. And so handsome.”

  “You still haven’t met him.”

  “I don’t need to.” Goggy folded her arms and smiled. “Oh, you’re getting married! I want more great-grandchildren, pronto.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Thank you, Goggy. I have to go tell Dad now, so don’t call him, okay?” She glanced around her grandparents’ cluttered living room. Like so many colonials, it had several doors—to the kitchen, the front stairs, the dining room. “Your heating bill will be a lot less if you close those doors.” She paused. “I sure would love to see you in a new place. Or, at least, on one floor, Goggy. I hate having you go up and down those stairs all day long.”

  “Oh, pooh. That’s my exercise. Go. Get out of here. You want some cookies? I baked today.”

  She wanted them, all right. Any fortification for her talk with Dad, because she sensed this wasn’t going to go well.

  * * *

  SHE WAS RIGHT. Dad was in the living room, nursing a glass of dry Riesling and waiting for Mrs. Johnson to allow him into the kitchen to eat.

  “Petunia!” he said as if it had been weeks since they’d seen each other and not two hours. “How’s my girl?”

  “I’m great, Dad. Um, how are you? Excited about the wedding?”

  Dad and Mrs. J. wanted to get married fast “in case either of us dies first,” Mrs. J. had said, and so the wedding would be in six weeks, just after the Black and White Ball.

  “Very,” he said. “What’s new with you, baby?”

  “Um, well, funny that you asked.” She cleared her throat, trying to remember a time when she’d lied to her dad. It had been a few decades. Possibly never. “You know that guy I’ve been seeing?” Sorry, Daddy.

  “No. What guy?” He frowned.

  “Um, the guy I told you about?”

  The kitchen door banged open. “Jackie!” Mrs. Johnson said from her domain. “Are you hungry, dear boy?”

  “Mrs. Johnson, you get more beautiful every week.” Honor rolled her eyes, but sure enough, her brother came into the living room a second later, holding a piece of the lemon pound cake Honor had been told she couldn’t touch. “Hey, Dad. What’s up, sis?”

  Right. Well, bet
ter to have an ally (sort of) in the form of her big brother. “I was telling Dad about a guy I’ve been seeing.” She fixed Jack with a stern gaze.

  “Really? I thought you were headed for the convent.”

  “Oh, Jack. Don’t make me hurt you again.”

  Dad put down his newspaper. “Getting back to this person...what’s his name, anyway?”

  “Tom. Tom Barlow. The mechanical engineer, remember?” Best to feed Dad information as if he already knew it.

  Dad frowned. “Huh. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, what about him? You want to have him up for dinner?”

  “Oh, sure. But, uh, the bigger news is, um, we’re moving in together.”

  For a second, Honor thought her father might clutch his chest and drop stone-cold dead. Silence filled the room, thick and ominous. The mantel clock ticked loudly.

  “No, you’re not,” Dad said loudly. “I don’t even know this Tom person. Who’s Tom? You’re not moving in with a stranger I’ve never even met. Why on earth would you do that? Is this about Mrs. Johnson and me?”

  “Shouldn’t you be allowed to call her by her first name, Dad?” Jack asked around a mouthful of cake. “Since you’re sleeping with her?”

  “Jackie! Don’t you dare discuss this!” Mrs. Johnson banged a pot down in the kitchen, then stomped out to the living room. “This is your fault, John Holland,” she declared. “You and this silly marriage idea. Honor, you’re not going anywhere. John, I refuse to come between you and your children.”

  “Now look what you’ve done, sis,” Jack said. “Can I have another piece of cake, Mrs. J.?”

  “Jack, shut up. And Mrs. J., please,” Honor said. “You are so going to marry Dad. Just calm down. I’m thirty-five years old.”

  “That is getting up there,” Jack murmured.

  Honor shot him a murderous glance. “I can move in with someone if I want to, and I do. I’d like to live somewhere other than the house where I was born.”

  “You were born in the hospital,” Dad said sharply.

  “You can’t move in with some stranger,” Mrs. Johnson said. “I don’t condone living in sin.”