The Husband Maker Boxed Set

by White, Karey

  Jayne humphed. “Yeah, and when you’re seventy, he’ll be seventy-nine. Big deal.”

  I knew it sounded better the older we got, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her. “I’ve got to get to work. These logos don’t design themselves.”

  After Jane left my office, the horror of what I’d agreed to smacked me in the side of the head. I covered my face with my hands. I recalled a picture of Anna Nicole Smith smiling beside her ancient husband in his wheelchair and imagined me with my arm draped around an old man, dabbing at his drool with a handkerchief. I knew it was an exaggeration, but the reality didn’t feel much better.

  My apartment intercom buzzed. “Yes?” I answered.

  “It’s Kyle Aldsworth.” He had a deep, rich voice in spite of the static that accompanied it.

  “Great. I’ll be right down.” I ran to the window that overlooked the sidewalk in front of my apartment. I didn’t have a great angle. The door to our building was narrow and sat behind a wrought iron gate between Cuddy’s Clip Shop and Grandpa Guo’s Shoe Repair. Cuddy’s was two floors below us, and if guests were standing too close to the door, they were blocked from view by the barber pole attached to the side of the building.

  Kyle stood a few feet from the door, allowing me a birds-eye view of dark, thick hair and a navy suit. If he looked up, I’d be able to see his face, which Jayne had compared to a clean-shaven Jake Gyllenhaal. Of course, if he looked up, he’d probably see I was spying out my window instead of coming to the door. I took one last look at my gray and white striped dress, grabbed my yellow cardigan, and headed down.

  “You must be Charlotte,” he said when I opened the door. I smiled and looked up—yes up—at one of the most incredible faces I’d ever gone on a date with. Jayne had been wrong. He wasn’t a beardless Jake Gyllenhaal. He was Jake plus Cary Grant plus Captain VonTrapp, with a little of Jonny Lee Miller’s Mr. Knightley thrown in for good measure. Perhaps that sounds ridiculous, but you weren’t looking at him.

  All intelligent thought abandoned me, leaving me unable to remember for sure what my name was.

  What kind of game was Jayne playing with me? Kyle was much too beautiful for me. He’d have probably been too beautiful for Grace Kelly.

  “You are Charlotte Emerson, right?”

  How long had I been standing there gawping at him?

  “Yes. I’m Charlotte.”

  “Whew! You had me worried for a second. I’m Kyle. It’s good to meet you.” He extended his hand and shook mine. His hand was perfect—good size, warm and dry, nice grip without too much enthusiasm. He was a hand-shaking artist. Great. He’d stopped shaking my hand and I hadn’t relinquished my grip. I quickly withdrew mine and turned to lock the iron gate. My face burned, and I fidgeted with the key for a few extra seconds to give my cheeks a chance to return to their normally fair complexion.

  Kyle was smiling when I turned back around. “My car’s around the corner.”

  Grandpa Guo was sitting on a stool in front of the shoe shop, leaned over a laptop. He glanced up as we approached. “Ah, Charlotte, all dressed up for a night on the town?”

  “Hi, Grandpa. We’re going to a play tonight.”

  I liked our little apartment. I loved the tiny garage in the alley. I loved that it didn’t have the fried food smell from a downstairs burger joint that Aleena’s had. I loved our old-fashioned bathtub. But my favorite things about our apartment were Grandpa Guo and Cuddy, the barber. They were both over seventy, but they were as different as chocolate and licorice, and I loved them both. Where Grandpa Guo was a short, stooped, Chinese man, Cuddy was a long, graceful Jimmy Stewart. Cuddy still cut a couple dozen heads of hair each day. Grandpa Guo had turned the business over to his two sons and now spent his days taking long walks around the neighborhood and chatting with people on the street.

  “This is Kyle. Kyle, this is Grandpa Guo, my neighbor.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Guo.” Kyle shook Grandpa’s hand.

  “Yes, yes. So honored to meet you.” Grandpa looked back at me and pointed at his laptop. “I’m googling best price for sports car.”

  “Are you buying a car?” Kyle asked.

  Grandpa threw back his head and laughed. “No, no, no. I don’t need a car. I live there.” He pointed above the shoe shop. “And I’m here every day. I just like to look. But maybe someday I test drive. You enjoy your play. I’m going to watch this Bentley Continental on Youtube. It goes so fast I hope they don’t wreck it.”

  “Have a good night, Grandpa.”

  “He’s got good taste in cars, that’s for sure,” Kyle said as we walked away.

  “I don’t even know what a Bentley Constitution is,” I said.

  Kyle laughed. “Continental. It’s a Bentley Continental.”

  I laughed too. “I’m not much of a car girl, I guess.”

  I stole as many glances in his direction as I dared on our walk to the car. Jayne was right. He carried his age well. There was no gray mixed in with his dark, wavy hair and his face was smooth and free of any noticeable wrinkles, except when he laughed. The wrinkles that sprung up around his eyes when that happened were just plain fantastic.

  The biggest clue he had me by nine years and at least seven figures was the way he was accessorized. His suit looked like it cost more than my car, and although I don’t usually take note of watches, his was a sleek, brushed platinum.

  And his car! It was the color of the lead in a graphite pencil and looked like something James Bond would drive. I imagined it throwing poisoned arrows or sprouting wings if we found ourselves confronted by an arms dealer or an international drug lord during the course of the evening.

  “Is this what a Bentley Continental looks like?” I asked.

  Kyle smiled. “No, this is what a Porche Panamera looks like.” He opened my door and I slid into the plush, beige leather seats.

  “I made us reservations at Urban Table,” Kyle said after he turned on the ignition. “It’s only a few blocks from the Curran, so I thought if you were wearing sensible shoes, we could walk.” He glanced down at my yellow flats.

  “Sensible shoes is my middle name.” I cringed at my clumsy joke and reminded myself I wasn’t very funny. Wait. He was laughing. “Anyway, I’m pretty tall, so I find it more sensible to wear sensible shoes. That way I’m not towering over everyone. Although I wouldn’t be towering over you since you’re pretty tall, too.”

  Close your mouth, Charlotte! What is wrong with you?

  We pulled up to the curb in front of the restaurant, and Kyle got out, leaving the engine running. As he helped me out of the car, a valet hopped into the driver’s side. The young man drove responsibly and carefully around the corner, before shifting to a lower gear, revving the engine, and peeling out. I looked at Kyle to see if he was angry. He shrugged. “They do that all the time.”

  “It doesn’t upset you?” I asked.

  “It’s a fast car. They probably can’t help it.”

  Kyle was so good to look at, I had to force my eyes to take in my surroundings. The dimly-lit restaurant was mostly gray and stainless steel with yellow and red modern art on the walls and tiny, frosted vases on each table that held a single, red poppy.

  I watched him as he studied the menu. He was so smooth and polished and buffed that I wanted to be put off, but his smile was disarming, and he had enough of a Roman nose to avoid being pretty. Most of all though, he seemed genuinely nice.

  My dinner of maple glazed duck with herb-roasted potatoes was scrumptious and probably cost about the same amount as the GNP of Kiribati.

  “Can we offer you dessert?” The waiter handed me a gold-tassled card with the words “Dessert Offerings” at the top. One glance at the day’s offerings had me crossing my fingers he wasn’t one of those no-thank-you-to-dessert guys.

  “Do you like hazelnut?” Kyle asked, and I gave a mental fist pump. “Because they have a hazelnut and chocolate soufflé that is out of this world.”

  “
Mmm. That sounds delicious.”

  “We’ll take two of them.” Kyle said and handed the waiter his menu.

  We compared our educational background and jobs as we waited for dessert. It sounds boring, but it was actually quite a stimulating conversation. Twenty minutes later, the waiter brought us two of the fluffiest, richest desserts I’d ever tasted. Each bite dissolved in my mouth, before bursting into a chocolate and nut carnival. I’d never cried over food before, but I felt precariously close to tears as I slowly finished mine, grateful he’d ordered two of them so I didn’t have to share. With great effort, I resisted the urge to lick the dish.

  “You were right. That was perfect,” I said.

  The three-block walk to the Curran Theater was easy in my sensible shoes, and Kyle graciously removed the awkwardness of the usual do-we-hold-hands-or-not-and-if-not-how-do-we-keep-our-hands-from-bumping-into-each-other-in-an-embarrassing-way dilemma by taking my hand and placing it in the crook of his arm. It was a gesture he probably learned at prep school or a manners workshop, but I appreciated it, and the walk was comfortable and pleasant. The slanting evening lights sparkled off windows and gave the street a golden glow.

  The play was a little dull, but I didn’t care. I was much too focused on the part of our upper arms that touched most of the evening. Was he purposely leaning a little toward me, or was that how he filled out his seat? I hoped he didn’t catch me glancing at him and his ever-so-slightly imperfect, but exceptionally pleasing nose. His profile was an artist’s dream.

  His impeccable manners reappeared at my front door when Kyle took both my hands in his before I could even wonder how we’d end the date. “I think I owe Jayne a thank you. I had a great time.”

  I winced. “I probably owe her an apology.” Kyle gave me a questioning look. “I might have dragged my feet a little about being set up. No offense.”

  Kyle laughed. “None taken. But I’m glad you agreed.”

  “So am I. Thanks for a lovely evening. And the best dessert I’ve had in months.”

  He squeezed my hands and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. There was nothing romantic or passionate about the gesture, but it still managed to leave me short of breath and hoping I’d see Kyle Aldsworth again.

  It was my birthday. Which meant it was Will’s birthday. I’d worried this would be our first year celebrating separately, but fortunately, Will and Gina had returned from a job hunting trip on the east coast, and we’d be able to turn twenty-six in the same house. We were celebrating at Dad and Mom’s house in Fairfield. McKayla and Connor were coming down from Mill City for the occasion, and Angus had promised to stop in with his new girlfriend as soon as they finished a round of golf.

  Traffic was heavy, and what usually took about forty minutes was taking almost twice that. I didn’t mind. I was listening to good music and thinking about Kyle. I’d been sitting in my office this morning when my phone chimed. The incoming text came from a number I didn’t recognize.

  415-555-2338: IS IT TRUE TODAY IS YOUR BIRTHDAY?

  ME: WHO IS THIS?

  415-555-2338: YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU HAVEN’T SAVED MY NUMBER IN YOUR PHONE YET? OUCH! THIS IS KYLE.

  ME: SORRY. YES, IT’S TRUE THAT TODAY’S A SPECIAL DAY. IT’S THE DAY MY BROTHER WAS BORN. ☺ HOW DID YOU KNOW?

  KYLE: JAYNE TOLD ME. YOU’RE A TWIN? I ALWAYS WANTED A TWIN BROTHER. LUCKY YOU. ARE YOU DOING ANYTHING FUN TO CELEBRATE?

  ME: THIS AFTERNOON I’M DRIVING TO MY PARENTS’ HOUSE IN FAIRFIELD SO WE CAN ALL CELEBRATE TOGETHER.

  KYLE: THAT’S GREAT. MAYBE WE CAN CELEBRATE AGAIN THIS WEEKEND? IF YOU’RE NOT BUSY.

  ME: HMM. I HAD BIG PLANS TO CLEAN OUT THE FRIDGE, BUT I COULD BE PERSUADED TO CHANGE THOSE FOR THE RIGHT OFFER.

  KYLE: I’M FEELING A LOT OF PRESSURE, BUT I’LL DO MY BEST TO COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER THAN TOSSING OUT OLD FOOD.

  ME: I CAN’T WAIT TO HEAR WHAT YOU COME UP WITH.

  KYLE: I’LL CALL YOU WITH THE PLANS. HAPPY BIRTHDAY. EAT A PIECE OF CAKE FOR ME.

  ME: MAYBE I’LL SAVE YOU ONE. THANKS, KYLE.

  An hour later, a bouquet of flowers arrived. It was a lovely bouquet—purple and white daisies and button mums. The card simply read, “Happy birthday! Kyle.” The whole thing was small and sweet and not even a little pretentious.

  Since I now had Kyle’s number saved in my phone, I sent him a message.

  ME: OH MY GOODNESS. FORGET THE FRIDGE. I LOVE THE FLOWERS. THANK YOU.

  KYLE: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS WEEKEND.

  I glanced over at the bouquet barricaded in the passenger seat and beamed.

  About a mile before Dad and Mom’s house, I pulled into a supermarket. I had a birthday present for Will—concert tickets to Mumford and Sons—but I needed a card to put them in. As I passed the baby aisle, I stopped short. Was that CJ? I wasn’t sure because the man looking at diaper wipes had a beard, and CJ had been clean-shaven the whole time we dated. But the height and build were right. I darted around the corner when he tossed a package of wipes in the cart and made my way to the birthday cards.

  If it was CJ, I certainly had no desire for a reunion.

  CJ was my first fiancé. I should clarify. He never gave me a ring, but we were as good as engaged. He’d grown up in Vallejo, a few miles from Fairfield, so when we met the first week of my junior year at San Jose State, we had an easy connection. CJ was a senior and already had a job lined up in the office at a steel plant in Fairfield.

  He was a class clown with a brain and great style, and we laughed all the time. We fell for each other quickly and split Thanksgiving between our two families. On the drive back to school after Thanksgiving, CJ asked if I had strong opinions about rings or if I’d be comfortable with him surprising me. I kissed his cheek. “I trust your taste and I love surprises.” That was before I learned there are some surprises that aren’t very loveable.

  The night before CJ left for a Park City Christmas holiday with his family, we went to a special showing of A Christmas Carol. After the movie, he unlocked the car door but didn’t open it. Instead, he leaned against it and looked at me.

  “What?” I’d asked, feeling self-conscious.

  Christmas lights flashed off and on around us, reflecting in the windows of the car. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” CJ had said, “and when I think about the future, I see you there.”

  “You do? What am I doing?”

  He laughed. “You’re painting pictures, and we’re cooking dinner together, and we’re playing with a couple of cute little kids.”

  “Mmm. Are we happy?”

  “Yes, very happy.” CJ stopped and turned toward me. He took hold of my scarf, so close to my neck I could feel the heat from his hands. “Charlotte, I want to marry you.”

  “Really?” I wrapped my arms around his waist.

  “I really do. My grandma told me when I found the right girl, she’d give me her mother’s engagement ring. Since I’ll be seeing her this week, I want to talk to her in person.” He pulled me close by the scarf and kissed me. “I didn’t want to wait until after Christmas to tell you. I wanted you to know my plans.”

  “I like your plans.” We kissed. A lot. Enough that someone thought they were funny and told us to get a room. I was mortified, but CJ grinned and said maybe we would.

  “How am I going to get through Christmas break without you?” he asked when he took me home. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. But we’ll call each other every day.”

  “Or twice a day,” he’d said.

  The phone calls had started out long and romantic. We’d talked about big things—the future, what our families thought of our plans, where we’d live. And we talked about little things—what we’d had for breakfast, music, and the college football rankings. We said we missed each other, and we whispered, “I love you.”

  “I think Chuck’s in love,” Will said one night when I came from my bedroom after a long phone call from CJ. He an
d Angus were playing video games, and I tucked my legs under me on the couch to watch.

  “Oh be quiet,” I said. “I’ll take on the winner.”

  Will lost and headed to the kitchen for some snacks while I beat Angus at two rounds of Mario Cart.

  “All right, Chuckers.” Angus flipped through the stack of games. “It’s time for Cooking Mama.”

  “No way. I hate that game.”

  “Come on, chicken. You beat me twice. I should get to choose the next game.”

  “I vote for Cooking Mama, too,” Will said, walking in with a bag of chips and a box of Whoppers. “Two against one. Sorry, Charlie. Winner plays me.”

  “I’ll leave it to you guys since you’re both dying to play a girlie game.”

  “If it’s such a girlie game, then why aren’t you better at it?” Will asked.

  “Come on,” Angus said. “I’ll let you choose what we cook.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re so generous.”

  Angus browsed through the menu. “Do you want to make custard?”

  “Huh uh. I can’t break the eggs right.” He continued clicking down the list. “There.” I pointed at the menu on the screen. “Let’s try the shrimp au gratin.”

  “Are you sure? That’s pretty ambitious.” I glared at him. “Fine. Let’s go.” Soon we were shaking our hands in the air, cutting the tails off shrimp and slicing butter.

  I waved my arm in a circle to melt the butter evenly in my frying pan. “Oh no, I’m already burning the butter. Look at you, you’ve already got the shrimp in the pan. Forget medical school. You should become a chef.”

  “It’d sure take less time. Hey Will, we should let Chuck’s fiancé know she can’t cook.”

  “He’s not my fiancé, and I can cook. Just not on this stupid video game.”

  “I thought he told you he wants to marry you.”

  “He did.”

  “Sounds like a fiancé to me.”

  “He hasn’t given me a ring yet.” I wanted to put a stop to their incessant teasing. The edges of my shrimp were starting to char and I knew Angus was trying to distract me. “It’s not official until I have a ring.”