The Matchmaker

by Kitty Parker

  Somehow alerted to my presence, Troy turned around and caught sight of me lounging in the doorway. Frosting outlined his mouth, and I thought I could see some flour in his white-blond hair as well, but his eyes were glowing.

  "Darien!" he cried happily, though rather unintelligibly, through his mouthful of cookie. He swallowed, then grabbed the tray of frosted Christmas trees and practically shoved them in my face. "Want a cookie?"

  "I don't think I have a choice. There's no way we're going to eat all of these before they go bad." I dusted off the stool next to my brother and sat down, making sure not to get flour on my black polo. I took one of the cookies he offered, one with such an intricate design (for a cookie) that it had to be one of Emma's. Cautiously, because I vaguely remembered someone saying that Emma was a disaster in the kitchen, I sampled it. "These are really good!" I exclaimed after my mouth was empty.

  "I know!" Troy agreed, stuffing another cookie whole into his mouth and speaking around it somehow, "Emma says she can't cook, but these are the best cookies I've ever had!"

  "I wouldn't say that," Emma contradicted, tracing a pattern in the flour on the counter next to her. Except for a quick glance when Troy first called me, she hadn't looked at me at all. That wasn't like her; it was almost like she was avoiding me. She had never seemed… ashamed before, even during our numerous other tiffs. That made me feel much better- and worse. My ire hadn't lasted very long- I don't hold grudges unless I get really, really mad. Everything else is just my usual impersonal contempt. But she hadn't pushed me that far (yet). I couldn't blame her for succumbing to the image I projected; in fact I should have been complimented about how good my façade was. It was completely irrational to expect her, of all people, to understand me, but had assumed that if anyone could see through my illusions, she would have. But my fury had died quickly, and her apparent remorse made me feel almost… guilty. Ugh. Thank God she was never ashamed.

  "Not the best, but definitely quite good," I assured her, my eyes fixed resolutely on her in an attempt to make her look at me. She was just as stubborn in this as in everything else- I couldn't force her to do anything without exerting too much effort.

  "I'm just astonished they aren't poisoned," she drawled. I managed not to spit out my mouthful of cookie, but the cookie went down far too fast for comfort- her shame wasn't all a ploy, was it? I covered up my undignified shock with a nonchalantly raised eyebrow.

  "Trying to kill me, Emma?" I asked, impressed and worried by how casual I sounded. Something was wrong with me when death threats barely fazed me, from her at least.

  "Not intentionally," she countered with a flash of the Emma I was used to, though she neither met my eye or took the easy shot I had practically given her. Something was definitely wrong with her. "Baking and me just don't mix. Pun unintended."

  I groaned. "Good. Puns should be a punishable offense. Preferably punishable by death."

  "I don't know," she disagreed with a shrug and a considering look at the flour she was still drawing in, "Only really bad puns. Good puns can be amusing." I gave her a wide-eyed, incredulous stare.

  "There's such a thing as a good pun?" I inquired sardonically. She let out a smothered chuckle, seemingly by accident. She stopped drawing on the counter.

  "Touché," she admitted, "But I'm still glad I didn't manage to slip arsenic into the recipe. Totally by mistake, of course,"

  "That would be a Freudian slip in a more literal sense," I observed, snagging another cookie. She smiled evilly at me- the strain between us had disappeared somewhere amidst our easy banter.

  "There wouldn't have been anything Freudian about it," Emma replied, glancing up at me from under long, dark lashes, looking so innocent that it took me a second to reconcile her words with her expression. "But not only am I eating these as well, but it seems sacrilegious to poison Christmas cookies. Maybe Easter cookies, or Beltane…" Only she would consider the fittingness of when to poison someone.

  "So don't eat anything you've touched during the spring," I confirmed lightly. I knew she wouldn't really poison- disregarding the moral considerations, which I wasn't sure would matter to her, poison didn't seem like her style. I would be more wary of a knife in my back. "Duly noted."

  She grinned and let out an evil laugh. Troy tried to join in, but he couldn't even pull of a decent malicious sneer. Emma and I were still teasing him about his failure when the timer rang. Emma slipped off the counter to open the oven.

  "You made more!' I gaped as she wrestled another tray out of the oven. "We can't eat all of these!"

  Troy hung his head, but there was no embarrassment on his face, just an ineffective attempt to hide a smile. "Well, adding stuff is fun. And we had a big bowl." I saw Emma give him a nod. Apparently he made the agreed upon excuse.

  "Troy," I admonished, taking the tray from Emma and putting it on the stove to cool, "there's only 2 of us, not an army."

  Emma's piercing gaze suddenly bore into me. "How long is it only going to be you two?" she demanded. Stung by her authoritative tone, I wouldn't have answered, but Troy had no pride to speak of.

  "We don't know. Mom and Dad didn't say. Sometime after New Year's, right Dar?"

  She looked horrified, an expression I had never seen on her before. She tended to take everything in stride, whether it was working with me on a project or getting sneaked up on- I studied the look with interest.

  "Don't move," she snapped, whipping out her cell phone and wandering out of the kitchen, so we couldn't hear her conversation, or even whom she called. She better not have gotten flour everywhere.

  "What's she doing?" troy asked hesitantly. I shook my head. I had no idea, and I wasn't afraid to admit that I was getting kind of annoyed at her high-handed manner. Crossing my arms across my chest and leaning against the counter, I prepared to learn exactly that.

  Before we could get very irritated or afraid, Emma returned. "You're staying with us for Christmas Eve and day," she announced in a tone that brooked no argument. However well that would work (it was the answer to my prayers, in fact), I wasn't going to let her order me around.

  "We don't need your charity," I protested, imbuing the last word with as much contempt as I could. She ignored me completely, though I couldn't fault her for it- she was being attacked by Troy's energetic hug. I gently pulled him off of her before he strangled her – she wasn't much bigger than him, after all- and he nearly waltzed upstairs. Emma and I watched him go.

  "You don't have to do this," I muttered. So maybe I was grateful, that didn't mean she had to know how out of my depths I was before she bailed me out.

  "No, really, it's no problem," she replied sarcastically, turning to face me. I was suddenly struck by how close she was. Her head had to be tilted almost all the way back for her to meet my eyes, and I could almost fell the warmth coming off her body. I resisted my uncharacteristic urge to take a nervous step back.

  "Darien," she said into the silence that had followed her word. I didn't move. Her eyes dropped to her feet; her forehead was a hair's length away from my chest. "I'm sorry."

  I didn't have to ask what she was talking about, just like she had understood my not- apology. Through the same weird rapport, she knew she was forgiven- she met my eyes again with her usual straightforward emerald gaze, framed by black lashes in white skin.

  To break the charged hush, I picked up a lock of her hair to examine.

  "You're a mess," I informed her dryly, trying to brush the flour out of her silky soft hair. She broke the too potent affinity by taking a step back. Her hair slipped out of my hand like water, despite my odd reluctance that I disregarded.

  "This whole place's a mess," she replied, an expressive gesture with her hand taking in the whole kitchen.

  "Someone should clean it up," I pointed out casually. Guessing what was coming, I edged towards the door, none too subtly. Speed was my ally right now, not stealth.

  She nodded and glanced around at the dirty room. "Oh Darien," she sang innocently, grabbin
g a rag to shove at me. But I was too fast even for her (and I anticipated her). I was out the door and halfway up the stairs before she could reach the door.

  "No way," I shouted down the stairs, safe in my perch at the top of the stairs, "this time it's your mess!"

  She shook her dishrag at me from the bottom of the stairs, scowling to hold back her grin. "Savor your victory this time," she yelled back, her hidden laughter resonating in her voice, "Next time you won't be so lucky!"

  She was right, I decided as I retreated to my room, she was probably too right.

  Chapter 20

  * * *

  Emma

  * * *

  I heard the doorbell ring, of course. Our bell my not have had the ominous clang of the McGavern's, but its cheerful chimes still resonated throughout the house, even over my blasting music (the Aladdin soundtrack, because that movie rocks). It didn't, however, occur to me to stop my last minute present wrapping (procrastination is fun, isn't it?). In fact, I barely registered that the bell had rung; my music was on loud enough that the bell was only a whisper above it, and I was too absorbed in considering if the Christmas tree wrapping paper was more appropriate for Allan than the cartoon frogs. So preoccupied was I that I didn't even notice my bedroom door open until,

  "Wouldn't have pegged you for a Disney fan," Darien observed, stepping into my room as if he didn't have a care in the world.

  I sat bolt upright from my nest of wrapping implements, flipping off the music. What the hell was he doing in my room? No one went into my room.

  He surveyed my room with a critical eye. "Or the four poster type either." I narrowed my eyes angrily at him. He didn't appear to discern my ire as he glanced at the naked katana resting on my desk (authentic and live, a birthday gift from Jack last year). "That now," he said with a mocking half smile, "I could have guessed."

  I rose, shedding paper scraps, and stalked over to block his path before he reached my desk, emanating fury. I didn't care that it was Christmas Eve and I should be merciful, or I had invited him and thus he had a right to hospitality- he was in my room. No one was allowed in my room, other than me.

  "Out," I ordered curtly, pointing an uncompromising finger at the door. "Now."

  He was only taken aback by a second; by now he was used to my moods and idiosyncrasies. That didn't mean he accepted them, though.

  "Why?" He reached casually past me for the katana. I snatched it off the desk before he could even consider hurting himself with it and planted it, point down, on the floor both my hands resting on the hilt. He drew back his hand slowly. "Protective of your space?" he asked with good-natured teasing.

  His good moods were just as arrogant and presumptuous as his bad ones. He didn't get that I needed him out. And I did, desperately. There was far too much evidence in my room of too many secrets.

  "Yes, I am," I managed to force out from between clenched teeth. I resisted the urge to drive the point home with the sword, but my glare would have to do. Blood is just so difficult to clean- old habits from when I actually had to clean up after myself die hard. "So get. Out." And then, just because I had been raised to be a good hostess, "Go find Allan. He can show you where you and Troy will be sleeping."

  "He and Troy are already off plotting something," Darien informed me off-handedly, seating himself comfortably on my unmade bed. Most guys would have felt awkward enough in a girl's room, let alone sitting on her bed, but if he did, he certainly didn't show it. He was quite at ease (although luckily all my laundry was hidden. I don't know how he would have reacted to bras and underwear strewn everywhere), probably just to spite me, because I would have preferred him out at almost any cost.

  "Allan doesn't plot," I retorted, knuckles white against the black-bound hilt. He may not have been uncomfortable, but I was. He shrugged, not conceding but not denying my point. I once more heroically resisted the urge to drive him out of the room with the flat of my blade.

  Instead, I picked up the sheath from where I had thrown it on the floor after practicing earlier with deceptive calm and sheathed the katana in one smooth motion (a harder feat than it looked). I replaced it on its hook, ignoring Darien's impressed look. In lieu of holding onto it, I crossed my arms across my chest.

  "Darien, could you please leave?" I asked disingenuously, my voice gentle and young sounding. As I thought, the innate streak of gallantry that he worked so hard to conceal with his arrogance and womanizing wouldn't let him refuse me when I sounded like that. It wasn't a weapon I could use often for fear of wearing it out, but it was a very useful part of my arsenal in manipulating Darien.

  "Fine," he acquiesced, rising and stretching like a cat who didn't want to admit that it had been kicked off the couch, he meandered out the door as if leaving had been all his own idea. I closed the door behind him with a gentleness that belied how much I wanted to slam it.

  I turned the music back on and sank back onto the floor to finish what Darien's arrival had interrupted, rubbing my temples wearily. I wasn't angry anymore: he had left when I asked, after all. But it wasn't fair, I decided; he shouldn't be allowed to so easily invade my space with such a relaxed air, and worse, I shouldn't be so loathe to kick him out.

  o0O0o0O0o

  We were midway through an intense game of Monopoly when Mom and Jack got home from work. Troy had just landed on a loaded free parking, yet again (I swear that kid had to be fixing the dice, because he was far too lucky) while Allan was still desolate from having just landed on Darien's Boardwalk for the second time. I sat by, chuckling at the McGavern brothers' avaricious glee and Allan's despair, all the while hoarding my secret: I, with my orange and light blue monopolies, was actually quietly winning.

  I hear mom's trilling laugh far before they came in. No one else was even aware of them- testosterone poisoning was at a peak I was planning to take advantage of- until Jack boomed over Troy precisely when he was about to make a very disadvantageous deal with Allan,

  "Don't do that!" The boys all jumped at least a foot as I hid my smirk beneath a hand. After they had landed, Darien and Troy scrambled to their feet, like they were soldiers surprised by a commanding officer. Darien's face reverted instantly to a sullen boy at odds with his handsome, glowing countenance a moment before.

  "Dad!" Allan whined, reluctantly putting his property back down, "Why'd you do that?"

  "No else would," his father answered, ruffling Allan's chestnut hair fondly. He clapped me on the shoulder in greeting, and I grinned up at him, eyes twinkling as I saw him take in the actual winner of the game.

  He turned to Darien, who was standing stiffly, one hand on Troy's shoulder as he gazed impassively at Jack. His brother's head was down, looking at his toes as if afraid to meet the adults' eyes.

  "Hello, Darien." Jack shook Darien's hand jovially. Though he had apparently met the older man before, Jack's genuine cordiality didn't seem to be what Darien was expecting. What would have the reception been at his house, I wondered. Would it have been so different?

  "Thank you for having us, sir," Darien replied woodenly, letting go of my stepfather's hand and locking it on Troy's other shoulder. Jack disregarded, intentionally or not I'm not sure, how formulaic the response was.

  "No trouble at all!" he rumbled, holding out another hand for Troy to shake with equal formality as he had shown the elder brother, "Troy, I would guess?" Troy grabbed Jack's hand and hurriedly let go; retreating as far back as Darien's body behind him would allow him to go.

  "Yeah, thanks," Troy muttered diffidently. He was so painfully shy, even with Jack, who was one of the most inoffensive adults I knew, but he hadn't been at all like this with me. Odd. Jack beamed and began to respond when Mom, who had lagged behind her husband in the hallway for some reason) breezed in with all the force of a tornado.

  "Allan, darling," she chided lightly without looking anywhere else, not yet perceiving our guests, "Must I tell you again to take your jersey out of your bag right after you get home? There's only so much me or Jan can do
if it gets moldy."

  Allan ducked his head shame-facedly. "Sorry, Diana," he muttered. Mom always had a way to make people feel guilty without antagonizing them.

  "It's fine-" she began, but I cut in, saying what she would be too nice to say.

  "But it'll be you who smells, not her."

  Mom leaned down to give me a one-armed hug, which I returned nonchalantly, ignoring another, quickly hidden, disbelieving look from Darien. HE didn't get that just because I didn't show affection didn't mean I couldn't.

  "Don't make fun of Allan, honey," she scolded. I rolled my eyes dismissively. She only told me that a million times a day, and how much I paid attention to it was inversely related to how many times she said it.

  "But it's so easy!" I complained, as I always did. My family ignored me- it's not like I had anything new to add to the debate. Hurricane Mom had already moved on, anyway.

  "And you must be Darien!" she exclaimed, overlooking his formally extended hand to wrap him in a hug, to which he didn't respond but didn't push away. I exchanged a look with Allan and Jack; she was in full mother mode. The brothers wouldn't know what hit him. "It's so nice to finally meet you! I've heard so much about you!"

  Darien raised a questioning eyebrow at me over her shoulder (not that he had much room over her shoulder, because height was one of the many things I hadn't inherited from my mother) but I only shrugged. I hadn't said anything. Much.

  She released Darien, who stepped back as if shell-shocked, and turned to Troy. "You're Troy?" At his nod, she embraced him as enthusiastically as she had his brother. Troy, however, returned her embrace with almost equal gusto, though no one could match Mom's hug.

  "Welcome!" she continued, letting the boy go, "It's so nice for friend's of Emma's to come. Ever since-" At my sudden, sharp look, she cut herself off. Mom was amazing, but lying was not one of her strong points. "She hasn't brought friends home for years! Are you hungry? I'll go make you some-"