by Cat Gardiner
Lucky 13
~Matchmaking & Misunderstandings~
A Modern, Pride and Prejudice Inspired, Holiday Novel
By Cat Gardiner
Lucky 13 – Matchmaking & Misunderstandings
© Copyright by Cat Gardiner
Publisher: Vanity and Pride Press, 1st Edition 2014
All rights are reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any format whatsoever. Inquiries and information should be addressed to [email protected]
Lucky 13 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, Jane Austen’s novel, Pride and Prejudice, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Author Blog - http://catgardiner.blogspot.com/
Lucky 13 Liz’s Dating Blog - http://l13datingdiary.blogspot.com/2013/09/About.html
Lucky 13 Story Inspiration Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/cattgardiner/lucky-13/
Lucky 13 Story Spotify Music Playlist: Lucky 13
Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting
Cover Design: Peculiar World Designs
Cover Image: © pringletta iStock.com
Dedicated to my very own Mr. Darcy
who has filled my life with laughter and love.
I am the luckiest of women!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
So many people have made Lucky 13 possible through their generosity and advice. To those in my heart: Thank you to my parents whose love and marriage inspires me, my sister who guides me from above, my brother who believes in me, and my William who makes every day special and never k’vetches when I spend too much time at my computer. Special thanks to my dear friend and kindred sister, Sheryl for her hard work, never ending encouragement, and confidence in my writing and in me. You are an inspiration and made this book possible – particularly since you are L13’s Charlotte! To my friends at both A Happy Assembly and DarcyandLizzy.com. Thank you for your support and continued readership.
~Table of Contents~
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
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Chapter Three
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Chapter Four
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Chapter Five
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Chapter Six
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Chapter Seven
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Chapter Eight
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Chapter Nine
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Chapter Ten
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Chapter Eleven
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Chapter Twelve
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Chapter Thirteen
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Chapter Fourteen
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Chapter Fifteen
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Chapter Sixteen
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Chapter Seventeen
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Chapter Eighteen
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Chapter Nineteen
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Chapter Twenty
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Chapter Twenty-One
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Chapter Twenty-Two
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Chapter Twenty-Three
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Epilogue
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Blog Updates: Dec, Feb, May, June, Sept-1, Sept-2
Glossary
~Prologue~
Thursday, November 28
27 Days Until Christmas
Her Thanksgiving - 2013
Have you ever, at some point in your life, taken a hard look around you and asked yourself the question, “Is this really my life?” I suppose it seemed fitting that I would ask that question on Thanksgiving Day while surrounded by my family. There I was sitting down for our annual, calorie-laden, typically traditional, turkey dinner when all of a sudden, it hit me – once again, I was the unlucky number 13. It was the story of my birth and now, my life. I was the odd person out. The only single at the table.
As I put a fork full of sweet potatoes into my mouth, I began to review each family member and guest around my mother’s overly decorated holiday table. Truly, I was content in my own musings on the ridiculousness of my sister Mary’s boyfriend, Billy Collins, and Lydia’s latest, letch friend-with-benefits, George Wickham. Even Kitty’s high school sweetheart, Ashton, became a subject of some interest, particularly when he clinked, a bit too harshly, the side of my mother’s fine Waterford goblet with his butter knife, straightened his narrow shoulders and stood.
“I’d like to make an announcement,” he declared a bit too loud for the size of the room. I instantly cringed, wondering if he was really going to do what I thought he was going to do.
When the table silenced, he proudly announced, “Kit-cat and I are engaged.”
Yup, he did it. They still have a couple years of college left but that had no bearing on the future direction of Kitty’s life. After all, she was born on the third of the month, and even the Chinese agree that is a lucky day.
Of course, in an attempt to appease my father, Ashton had to add, “We’re thinking of a 2016 wedding.”
Immediate and nerve grating effusions expelled from my mother’s mouth. All but my father jumped up to offer congratulations. Water goblets and wine glasses shook, splashing their contents on her Irish linen tablecloth when everyone sprang from their seats to kiss and fuss and demand to see the ring, which I might add, Ashton had yet to buy.
On and on it went, while my father surveyed it all from the head of the table with an amused look upon his face. Our eyes locked, and we both chuckled at the scene. Until …
“And if Lizzy would ever get herself a man, I might be able to marry you all off!” exclaimed my mother in her usual shrill, abrasive manner. “Lawd knows by the time she gets married, she’ll be past the age to give me grandchildren. God only gives you a certain amount of eggs before your ovaries shrivel up, ya’ know,” she proclaimed knowingly to everyone within a five-block radius.
Feeling my pain, my father surreptitiously rolled his eyes. What could I do? What could I say to that? I smiled, put yet another fork full of sweet potatoes in my mouth and continued my observation.
Poor Daddy. He was already stressed with Jane’s fast approaching wedding to Charlie the week after Christmas. As much as I dearly love my sister, I can’t help but to ask: Who schedules a wedding on New Year’s Eve?
Oh well, who can slight Jane for anything? She’s perfect, sweet, beautiful, and probably has more eggs than all of us girls put together. Of course, my mother isn’t expecting her to have children any time soon. After all, Jane is a high-paid fashion model, and God forbid she ruins her figure. As I said – she’s perfect, although that could be hotly contested given a certain sisterly confidence I hold that might, in some eyes, tarnish Jane’s immaculate rise to perfection.
Did I fail to mention … and I make this point because Jane was born on the 18th, a very lucky day in some religions - she’s marrying a great guy whose net worth probably rivals Bill Gates. Yup, that’s right billions. Only his family has big, fat, Texas oil money wealth: Bingley Oil.
One would think that would be enough to make my mother happy about anything and everything for the rest of her life. No. There is never enough to make my mother happy, so I quit trying years ago.
Speakin
g of Charlie, I cannot help but to feel for him. What must he be thinking marrying into our dysfunctional family just so he can get the proverbial pearl magically created within the rancid Bennet oyster? It seems as though he’s willing to endure anything and everything for Jane’s sake, even withstanding hours on end listening to my father’s detailed chronology of his wine bottle cork collection after watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on DVR for three continuous hours.
I looked over to where Charlie sat to the left of my mother. He didn’t know I was watching him when he subtly bent toward his dinner plate to sniff the food, slightly crinkling his nose. That’s when I knew Charlie was a great guy, a real keeper. He discovered my mother’s secret seasoning – Binaca Breath Spray.
So on it went, Thanksgiving dinner at the Bennet house in Meryton, Long Island with my parents Thomas and Frances Bennet, my sisters Jane, Mary, Kitty and Lydia, their boyfriends, and my dear aunt and uncle, Madeline and James Gardiner. It was then and there over pumpkin pie, in between George Wickham winking at me, as he brought his beer bottle to his lips, and my mother telling the guests she was sure my best friend Charlotte Lucas, with her spiky hair, was a lesbian, that I decided I would no longer sit idly by waiting for a good man to find me. I would have to go out and find him myself.
Who am I? I’m twenty-six year-old, Elizabeth Bennet, Director at the New York City advertising firm, Big Apple Design Company (BADCo.) I live alone in a one-bedroom co-op with a view of the Hudson River on the Upper West Side. In addition, apparently, according to my family, I am in dire need of a man which, frankly, I don’t understand because it’s not as though I don’t date. All right, I concede, maybe they are more astute than I give them credit. It’s been a while.
With that said, it seemed appropriate that on Thanksgiving Day I was mindful of what I had to be thankful. I’m blessed with the loving sisterly-friendship bonds of Jane and Charlotte. I’m a fairly attractive, slender, well- paid, successful, and well-connected professional woman. I love to laugh, and I don’t mind bragging to you in the least bit, I’m the top kickboxer at the Reebok Sports Club on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Granted, not the most glamorous or feminine of hobbies or sports, but what began as a simple self-defense class turned out to be more empowering than I had ever dreamed. It’s important to emphasize that a single woman, living alone in Manhattan, who is somewhat in want of a man, needs to protect herself.
I wish I could claim to be the most fashionable, trendy, exotic-looking woman of my acquaintance but that would be a lie. I’m not Jane. I’m Lizzy, and although I go for weekly manicures, get my hair styled at Bumble and Bumble, and wear Armani and Max Mara, I just never really thought of myself as one of those drop-dead gorgeous, savvy New York women. Like I said, I’m just Lizzy. I dress and present myself in a conservative manner and I wear sneakers with my suit when I walk across town to my office.
So, why am I still single? I have no idea. Well, maybe I do, apart from my incessant need to control my environment and my fear of long-term commitment, every man I've dated in the last few years turned out to be pretentious, crude, opportunistic, shallow and selfish. My mother says my sights are too high, and my father says my standards are too low. I say, I learned my lesson about men like those a long time ago.
While unavoidably watching Billy crack his knuckles – clearly an issue stemming from his gaming addiction - I mentally assembled my checklist. Not a checklist detailing what I’m looking for in a man. I already have that one memorized - all thirty-six line items. This new checklist details how to go about finding my perfect man, a man who could withstand my insane family. Oh, by the way - I love, live and breathe lists – did I mention that?
Before heading out the door of my parents’ house, I took a good look around, shivered when my eyes settled on my mother’s expansive Precious Moments collection laid out upon the mantel, and it was then I resolved to make some changes in my life.
So you ask, what is my plan for my new list? Beginning tomorrow, Black Friday, how apropos, I challenge myself to find the perfect date to take to Christmas dinner or at the least, Jane’s wedding. I will not be Unlucky Thirteen Lizzy ever again. I vow to end 2013 on a lucky note.
His Thanksgiving - 2013
There’s nothing like the firehouse on a holiday when the crew comes together to watch college football, eat, laugh and swap shop stories. We’re a bunch of loud, hungry guys who are missing our families and waiting for the next inevitable alarm to go off, because you just know that some idiot is going to deep fry a turkey in their studio apartment and usher in blazing hell.
So there I am, Will Darcy, sitting at the massive kitchen table with twelve guys chowing down on the Captain’s turkey dinner while I’m trying to ignore the cut out paper caricatures of pilgrims and horns of plenty as well as the colorful crayon, turkey-shaped, hand traces proudly displayed on the refrigerator door. I’m sure they are taunting me, like the kids who drew them. Every time they come to the station to see their dads, I’m the one whose back they seek for a ride and whose chops they just love to bust.
While eating, I tried my hardest to focus on tonight’s Riding List chalked on the blackboard, even the Riding List from the last tour of duty from 9/11 and the commemorative flag beside it, but instead I couldn’t help my eyes gravitating toward the small depiction of an American Indian taped on the microwave below them. Then it hits me right between the eyes when I realize I’m kidding myself – I love those hand-drawn pictures, I love those kids, and I love that those tokens of affection were made especially for their dads. I love the family affection and unity they represent, and I love spending Thanksgiving on high alert with every one of these guys.
I’m silent as I watch Morland shovel mashed potatoes into his mouth and Tilney talk with his mouth full of whatever, and again, I reflect how Thanksgiving night is probably, for me, the brightest moment of the entire Christmas season. My eyes finally settle on the Menorah and its lit bulbs on the counter beside the kitchen door. The smell of potato pancakes wafts in the air, mixing with all the other delicious scents of the season.
This year in particular, the camaraderie in the firehouse helps me to forget the doom and gloom of December. You see, I hate the holidays, I hate the memories, I hate the loneliness, and I hate going through the motions pretending I’m happy about it all. I’m not happy; in fact, I’m pretty depressed each year when this season rolls around. So much so that everybody knows to cut me slack until at least mid-January.
Then it happens. The station alarm goes off, and the dispatcher’s voice fills the house, “Engine 42, Ladder 13, active fire, Riverside Drive and 86th street.”
One minute and eleven seconds later, fully outfitted in black bunker gear, crammed into the jump-seat area of our truck Ladder 13, five guys and I are flying lights and sirens on a run toward Riverside Drive for a three-alarm fire. I can hear the Critical Information Dispatch System from the front cab giving fire conditions and specifics. The rig hits a huge pothole which doesn’t help the undigested turkey lying like a ton of bricks in my stomach. Even still, I’m savoring the imagined smell of sweet potato pie, still warm on my plate waiting on the station’s kitchen table.
It was day five of my self-imposed exile at the firehouse and the Captain knows better than to bust my chops about my choices.
For some strange reason, the cold air blowing into the truck from the downed window didn’t bother any of us. The jokes were still flowing as Tilney describes his wife’s bizarre pregnancy cravings and Morland teases him about his weight gain during her pregnancy. They went back and forth like only brother-in-laws can afford to do. It’s the usual banter and good fun we have in an effort to blow off the tension during a run. Finally, Tilney brings up Thorpe’s girlfriend who is a bartender down at Coyote Ugly Saloon. I brace myself because, damn, I know what’s coming and sure enough, it does.
In Thorpe’s thick Brooklyn accent, with his laminated holy card of St. Florian strapped to his helmet staring back at me, he
says, “Yo, Darcy, what appened to dat blonde babe you were datin’ last month? Ya know da one, she came by da house on Halloween lookin’ for ya – da one with da double D’s, wearin’ dat Playboy Bunny get up. What’s er name … Bambi, Candy … or was she just Randy?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, Thorpe does that to me consistently. He’s probably one of the funniest guys I know. His accent alone slays me. He’s one scary looking guy but he’s frickin’ funny. And yes, Mandy was consistently randy like a bunny and did have double D’s. Unfortunately, there was nothing upstairs, and for some strange reason, to me, she smelled like broccoli. I hate green vegetables.
“Mandy and she’s gone. Let’s just say, I wasn’t inclined to visit Tiffany’s with her,” I reply, then look out the window and lose myself in thought again. Only this time it isn’t the elusive sweet potato pie giving me cravings. No, instead it’s an elusive craving of another sort - complete happiness. Happiness that most of these guys have: Tilney and his growing family, Thorpe and his wild girl, Morland and his new wife, and even the Captain with his sailboat, ‘Blaze On’, the hard-won trophy of his divorce. Of course, I could probably have that kind of deep happiness too, if I would just allow myself to pursue it. My sister says I’m a serial dater. My best friend, Bingley, thinks I’m ridiculously unrealistic, and the cream on the cake is the opinion of my on again, off again shrink. He thinks I’m gamophobic with a deliberate dab of obsessive compulsion. Deliberate enough to look, find, and even sometimes create, imaginative reasons for breaking up with women.
Take for example Cindy, Giant’s football cheerleader, killer body, and a fabulous smile, but I was pretty sure she was a kleptomaniac. My Rolex went missing from my nightstand following an unmemorable, drunken night. Well, I did find the watch lying on the chaise on my rooftop terrace three days later, but it was too late – she was sent packing, and in response, I was told – and I quote, “You’re a dickhead, and I hope you rot in hell.”
