Badly Done, Emma Lee

by Leah Marie Brown

  When I was a little girl, I struggled in the pronouncing of my aunt’s name. I took to calling her Aunt Pattycake instead of Aunt Patricia. My sisters still use the name when they talk to me, as if they are reluctant or incapable of letting me grow up.

  Tara turns into the airport and drives slower than molasses. She pulls up to the curb outside the ticketing and check-in terminal and turns on her hazard lights.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you, just in case you have any problems at the ticket counter or with security?” She snatches her press pass and station badge out of the cup holder and fiddles with the lanyard, anxiously weaving it around her fingers. “I don’t mind.”

  “I’ll be okay, Tara,” I say, holding her hand. “I promise.”

  She looks at me with teary eyes.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am mighty sure.” I give her hand a little squeeze. “Are you going to be okay? You seem sad.”

  Part of me wishes she would break down in tears and beg me not to go, even as another part is itching to get out of the car and head in the direction of my future.

  “Don’t worry about me. I am just fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Now who’s being momma hen?”

  We laugh. I open the door and climb out. I walk to the back of the car, lift my suitcase out of the trunk, and am waiting on the sidewalk when Tara joins me, holding a big shiny black box.

  “Here,” she says, handing me the box.

  “What’s this?”

  “A proper going-away present.”

  I squeal because I know what is inside the big shiny black box with the red bow. The pair of glossy Hunter Wellington rain boots I might have mentioned wanting.

  “Ooooo!” I lift one of the boots out of the box. “Military red wellies! How did you know this is the color I wanted?”

  “Hmmm, let’s see,” she says, laughing. “Maybe I saw something on your Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook feeds. Or was it your Pinterest board? Wait! I think I might have figured it out when you changed the screen saver on my computer to a collage of red rain boots.”

  “You’re the best, Tara. The best!”

  I kick off my heels, shove them into my carry-on, and slide my feet into the boots. The bright red rubber looks lit as hell with my dark skinny jeans.

  “Your Mrs. Nickerson said you needed proper raingear. Well, I couldn’t have you showing up at Northam-on-the-Water in your six-inch red suede Louboutins, now could I?”

  I laugh and throw my arms around her, squeezing her real hard, as hard as when she let me borrow her J.Crew twinset on my first day of high school.

  “I love you more than my Kappa Kappa Gamma ring, Tara.”

  “Really?” She pulls away, a surprised look on her face. “You love me more than your sorority president’s ring? And all it took was a pair of overpriced rain boots? Sweet!”

  I smile.

  “It’s not just the boots,” I say, even though there’s a big old lump of emotion clogging my throat. “I love you because you are supporting me in my dream to become a matchmaker, even though, deep down, you think it is the silliest idea ever.”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s the silliest idea you’ve ever had,” she says, grinning. “Perming your hair the day before your senior prom was a much sillier decision. Shoot! Letting that no-good, faithless, dirty-dog Jake Churchill take your virginity was a sillier decision.”

  “Tara Faith Maxwell!” I look around to see if anyone heard, my cheeks flushing with heat. “Hush your mouth. A lady never discusses her intimate relations in public. Didn’t you learn a thing from Miss Belle?”

  Tara rolls her eyes. You know how well-bred Southern girls are raised to be quiet and pleasing? Well, Tara decided early on she would be the opposite of the well-bred Southern lady. In high school, she had a reputation for scandalous behavior. She danced with boys outside her social circle, went to subversive political meetings, and thought for herself. She did just about everything Miss Belle told her students not to do.

  “Fiddle-faddle!” Tara says. “Miss Belle was a priggish old dinosaur in polka-dot dresses and pearls.”

  “God rest her soul,” I whisper.

  “God rest her raised-pinkie, cucumber-sandwich-eating soul!” Tara laughs. “I hope she’s sipping unsweetened tea with Jesus at the big cotillion in the sky.”

  I imagine Miss Belle correcting St. Margaret’s poor posture and chastising St. Paul for wearing a hair shirt, and I can’t help but laugh out loud.

  Another car pulls up to the curb. The moment when I will have to say good-bye to my sister and walk into the terminal, away from the familiars of my old life, is approaching, and I still have something else to say to her.

  “Tara?”

  “Yes, Ems?”

  “I know you’re worried I haven’t thought this plan through, that I am oblivious to the practicalities involved in moving to a different country and starting a new business.” She opens her mouth, but I hold up my hand to stop her. “How many lonely singles does Emma Lee think there are in the Cotswolds? What makes her think they will want to hire an amateur matchmaker from America? Did she apply for a work visa? What if the business is a bust? How will she pay the inheritance tax on Aunt Patricia’s cottage?”

  “Well,” Tara says, smiling, “I might have thought a few of those things.”

  “Aunt Patricia left just enough money to cover the inheritance tax, so that’s settled. I don’t know how many singles there are in the Cotswolds and I don’t know if they are going to want some strange American meddling in their love matters. Maybe I am crazier than Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball, but I would rather spend my life saying oops than what if.” I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. “A little voice is whispering at me to take this risk, Tara. Maybe it’s God. Maybe it’s Aunt Patricia’s spirit.”

  “Sweet Jesus! You’re hearing voices?”

  I am about to stomp my foot and pitch a big old hissy fit when Tara starts laughing. I stick out my tongue. She laughs harder.

  “Stop fretting about my future, you old mother hen, and start fretting about your own!” I grab my carry-on in one hand and my suitcase in the other. “I’m gonna be just fine. You’ll see.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I got this one, girl! I got this like Jay-Z’s got ninety-nine problems, like Lily Pulitzer’s got shift dresses, like—”

  “Okay, okay.” She laughs. “You’ve got it, but if you don’t get going, you’re going to miss it.”

  “’Bye,” I say, raising my hand and blowing her a kiss.

  I walk through the sliding doors, rolling my suitcases behind me, my shoulders back and head held high, feeling more confident with each step.

  A woman toting a covet-worthy patent leather Lady Dior breezes by me and I suddenly realize I forgot my purse in Tara’s car. I turn around and hightail it out of the terminal and, sure enough, Tara is still sitting in her car, staring out the windshield like she knew I would be coming back.

  I wrench open the passenger door and duck my head inside the compartment.

  “Oh, sweet baby Jesus!” I reach down and lift my purse out of the passenger footwell. “Can you believe I almost forgot my purse?”

  Purse. Passport. Tickets. Money. Pretty much every damned thing required for a transatlantic flight. No wonder Tara has been clucking like a mother hen!

  “Can I believe you almost forgot your purse?” she says, looking at me over the tops of her sunglasses. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  Chapter Five

  Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:

  At JFK International Airport, y’all! Two-hour layover and then I am on my way to London Town! I’ll be in the Cotswolds by teatime tomorrow. Get ready Northam-on-the-Water singletons, you’re about to meet your match!

  I snap a selfie beneath the yellow neon gate sign displaying my flight’s information and post it along with my Facebook update, before taking a seat facing the people mover
s. My Kindle is loaded with reading material—funny rom-coms by Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk, historical romances by Sophie St. Laurent, a creepy vampire romance by Elle Jasper—and I have the latest People, Vogue, and Tatler, a British magazine that focuses on high society, but I would rather people watch. I like creating love stories for the people I see when I am crowd watching. I imagine where they are going and who they are going to meet. Sometimes, I match a stranger with another stranger and create a story for them. An hour later, I have made two dozen successful matches and imagined all sorts of happy endings (the PG kind, y’all). So, I pull my iPhone out of my pocket and scroll through my notifications and texts.

  Text from Madison Van Doren:

  I hooked up with that Barton boy after you left the party. It was incredible, but he hasn’t returned any of my texts. What should I do?

  Text to Madison Van Doren:

  My daddy used to say, “A girl should be like a butterfly: pretty to see, but hard to catch.” Be a butterfly, Maddie. Make him work to catch you.

  Text from Alexandra Armistead:

  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Everything was perfect last night, Emma Lee! The toast. The food. The fairy lights. Everything, except . . . NM.

  Text to Alexandra Armistead:

  I don’t think so! Don’t you try that never-mind business on me, Alexandra Armistead-soon-to-be-Aiken. Except what?

  Text from Alexandra Armistead:

  You’re going to think I am silly, but I’m still a little hurt Cash didn’t like my dress. It seems like ever since we got engaged, he’s stopped giving me compliments. Tell me I am being a ridiculous, clingy fool.

  Text to Alexandra Armistead:

  Girl, please! You need to grab him by his ears and shake him like he’s a new bottle of OPI nail lacquer. Southern boys can be as backward as an unbuttered biscuit sometimes. Just tell him how you’re feeling, Lex. Smooch.

  Text from Savannah Warren:

  Did you know the government funded a study on the impact of marriage on poverty and illness? Turns out married people are wealthier and live healthier. Who knew?

  Text from Manderley de Maloret:

  Bon voyage, darling Emma Lee! I am proud of you for having the courage to take this big step.

  I snap a selfie with the collar of my Burberry trench flipped up and my lips puckered together and send it to my big sister with a sincere message of gratitude—for her generous gift and her emotional support.

  Text from Truman Barton:

  Your girl, Maddie, is hot, but she’s gone all Lisa on me, and shit. Can you tell her to chill?

  Text to Truman Barton:

  Lisa? The crazy-ass woman who stalked Idris Elba in Obsessed?

  Text from Truman Barton:

  Yaaas!

  Text to Truman Barton:

  So, you don’t like her?

  Truman texts back to tell me he does, in fact, like Maddie, but she’s been blowing up his phone with lovey-dovey messages ever since they hooked up. So, I text Maddie and tell her to stop being a Lisa. She promises she will take my daddy’s advice and play hard to get. I suspect that will be mighty difficult because she’s already slept with, and stalked, Truman.

  I send Tara a text letting her know I am safe and relatively sound in the JFK international departures terminal and then send Roberta a mess of pictures I snapped at Lexi’s engagement party.

  Roberta Hearst—Bertie to her friends—is a Kappa Kappa Gamma big sister; she was in a class ahead of the rest of us. She married her college sweetheart the week after graduation and moved to his hometown, Guyton, Georgia. She’s on bed rest because she’s pregnant with twins.

  “You’re a busy young lady.”

  I was so caught up in my messages, I didn’t notice when an older gentleman in a supernatty tweed blazer took the seat next to me. I slide my phone back into my pocket and smile.

  “Not too busy to get to know my neighbor,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Emma Lee Maxwell.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma Lee Maxwell.” He has a strong British accent and an even stronger grip. “William Amor, at your service.”

  “Amor? As in, the Spanish word for love?”

  “Yes.”

  “How romantic!”

  “You think?” He laughs. “My ancestor was Robert de Almore, a Breton soldier who fought alongside William the Conqueror. Robert married a Scottish lass named Fiona, who bore him twelve children. They lived near the village of Aviemore, in the Scottish Highlands. Robert, it seems, was a wee bit of a lothario, though. He was rumored to have fathered more than fifty children with women from local villages and even a nearby convent.”

  “He sounds like a modern-day Casanova!”

  “Quite right.” He chuckles. “I suspect the surname was changed from de Almore to Amor because of Robert’s numerous romantic peccadillos.”

  A chime sounds over the loud speaker, and a woman with a posh British accent begins speaking. Good Afternoon. This announcement is for passengers traveling on flight BA723 to London Heathrow. We will begin boarding in twenty minutes. Please have your boarding pass and passport ready for boarding at gate 75. Thank you.

  I reach into my purse, pull out my boarding pass and passport, and double check my flight number.

  “Are you on flight BA723?”

  “Yes.”

  “Headed to London?”

  I slip the boarding pass and my passport back into my purse and smile at my inquisitive, nattily dressed friend.

  “I am going to the Cotswolds, actually.”

  “The Cotswolds, you say? Ah, but that is an area of particular charm and beauty, a splendid choice for a holiday.”

  “I’m not on holiday,” I say. “I am moving to Northam-on-the-Water to start a business.”

  “That sounds rather exciting. What sort of business?”

  “Matchmaking.”

  “Matchmaking? I didn’t know young people still used matchmakers. I thought they used Timber.”

  “Timber?”

  “My grandson uses a dating application on his smartphone called Timber. He looks at pictures of potential dates and swipes his finger across the screen to let them know he fancies them.”

  “Tinder! You’re talking about Tinder.”

  “Tinder? Is that what it’s called?” He shakes his head. “Timber. Tinder. It’s quite sad, really. I tell Johnny that he can’t judge someone’s character by glancing at their photograph. To dismiss someone solely because of their appearance, it’s a shallow approach to something that is meant to be meaningful.”

  “Johnny is your grandson?”

  “Grandson and bane of my existence.” He sighs. “He dropped out of Oxford a few credits shy of a degree in English language and literature because he said music was his true passion. Now, he spends his days helping his friend launch an indie book business and his nights singing in pubs in pants that are too tight and a velvet jacket that is entirely too pink.”

  “He sounds like my kind of friend.”

  “Hmmm. Does he, indeed?”

  “Sure,” I say. “You’ve described someone who is artistic, passionate, courageous, and loyal. It takes a lot of courage to leave a straight, secure path in pursuit of a passion.”

  His face softens.

  “He is a good lad. He just needs a nice girl like you, to focus him. I don’t see a wedding band on your finger,” he says, nodding at my hand. “Is there a Mr. Maxwell pining for you somewhere?”

  “No.” I laugh. “The longest and most affectionate relationship I’ve had was with my hairstylist: six years and one regretful flirtation with red lowlights.”

  He chuckles. “Why is that?”

  “I have commitment issues.”

  He laughs.

  I laugh, too, even though I’m dead serious. You don’t know the mental distress I suffer when I am faced with situations that require dedication to a long-term goal, like dieting or saving money. Shoot, I couldn’t commit to raising a stray dog, let alone m
arrying a man. Kristen, the psych major, said commitment issues have psychological underpinnings, usually caused by a traumatic event or early childhood stress. I reckon losing my momma when I was a baby was the traumatic event, and growing up watching my daddy struggle with his grief was probably the early childhood stress.

  “Why don’t I give you my grandson’s contact information? Maybe you could meet for tea. Who knows, maybe you could even find him a wife.” His cheeks flush with color and he clears his throat. “Was that too forward of me? I suppose it was. I suppose a pretty girl like you doesn’t need an old man introducing her to his grandson. I am sure you have plenty of friends already.”

  “Friends are like fabulous shoes, Mr. Amor; you can never have too many.”

  The chimes sound again and the woman with the posh British accent invites all Executive Club and Business Class passengers to form a queue. Mr. Amor reaches into his suitcoat pocket and removes a pen and small spiral notebook. He opens the notebook, writes on a blank page, and tears the page from the book. Then, he puts the notebook and pen back in his pocket, lifts a leather weekender off the ground, and stands.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Maxwell,” he says, handing me the slip of paper. “Call Johnny, won’t you, dear?”

  “Definitely.”

  He shuffles away, taking his place at the back of the queue.

  I stick the folded paper in my pocket and grab my carry-on. I can’t help but feel Aunt Patricia’s hand in my meeting Mr. Amor. Amor. Love! And he has a grandson he wants me to meet and match. Thanks a mil, Aunt Pattycake.