Miss Match: a Lauren Holbrook novel

by Erynn Mangum

  I march down the hall, my footsteps eaten up by the carpeting. For once, I wish the floors were linoleum or wood. I need the sound effects now.

  Boom . . . boom . . . boom.

  Executioners tread here.

  I don’t bother knocking on his office door.

  “Brandon Michael Knox.”

  Brandon looks up from his desk, a smile peeking on his lips and then racing for cover when it sees the smoke from my burning pupils.

  “Hi, Laurie.” He is clearly going over everything he has said to me in the last twenty-four hours and analyzing it, trying to figure out what caused the appearance of the Wicked Witch of the West.

  I stop in front of his desk. Hands on hips. Eyes in Sniper Mode. Ready to ping him with the smallest indiscretion.

  “You asked Hannah out?” I enunciate each individual word.

  He blinks. His jaw drops. “Uh, who told you?”

  “Hannah.”

  Obviously, he didn’t plan on this little development. He squirms. “Okay, Laurie, before you get mad —”

  “Too late.”

  “You need to know I was asking her out to discuss what we talked about at Bible study.” He looks at me hopefully.

  What does he expect me to say? Oh, Brandon, bless you for your kind and Christ-centered heart! I am a fool to have assumed you wanted to do anything but witness to the poor lost soul!

  I gape at him. “Brandon, how stupid do you think I am?”

  “Not very.”

  “Then why on earth did you just feed me that blatant lie?”

  He sits back in his chair. “Uh . . .”

  I point at his heart. “You need to do some serious soul-searching, Bud.”

  And I leave. Quite pleased with myself, actually. I didn’t preach or rant. I kept myself cool and confident through the whole confrontation.

  I am Lauren Holbrook, after all. I have a reputation to protect.

  “What did he say?” Hannah’s eyes are wide with trepidation.

  I shrug. “Nothing remarkable. Lots of ‘uhh.’”

  “You’re the best, Laurie.”

  I nod graciously.

  The chime over the door jingles, and Hannah and I look over. A model for Today’s Best-Looking Guys walks in, pulling his shades off his face.

  Stephen Weatherby.

  My memory isn’t perfect, but I don’t recall seeing him in the appointment book.

  “Hey, Stephen,” I say casually. “What’s up?”

  “Hi, Laurie. Hannah.” He walks to the desk and looks at me, a smile spreading across his chiseled face. “Can I talk to you for a second?” He directs the question to me.

  Uh-oh.

  The Plan is crumbling before my very eyes.

  “Sure,” I say weakly. I look at Hannah, who is grinning unabashedly at me. “When the McKenzies get here, tell them I’ll be right with them.”

  “Will do.” Hannah’s eyes flash in sheer delight.

  Who would have thought Prom Queen Barbie enjoyed watching human sacrifices being led to the altar?

  I follow Stephen outside.

  Chapter Six

  Stephen walks down the sidewalk and stops in front of Wong Hu’s, a cheesy Chinese place run by a bunch of Swedes. This could be the reason for its cheesiness, I suppose.

  “Laurie,” Stephen fiddles with his sunglasses.

  “Yes, Stephen?”

  “I was wondering if . . .” His voice trails off and he looks off into the distance, fidgeting.

  I suddenly feel sorry for Dr. America.

  “If?” I encourage.

  “If you’d like to join me for dinner Tuesday night?” He finally finds the courage to look me in the eye.

  Oh brother. Now the question: Do I say yes and please his ego? Or do I say no and break his heart?

  Dad’s words, spoken so often during my childhood, float back to me on a very unwelcome cloud. “Always be pleasing and accepting, Laurie-girl. Never be rude or impolite.”

  Darn it, Dad.

  “Sure, I’ll go.” My voice is quiet. I feel the need to add, “as a friend,” but I don’t think Stephen hears me, he is so busy smiling.

  “Great, that’s great,” he gushes. “So I’ll pick you up here or at your house?”

  “Here’s fine.”

  “Great! Uh, want to go to Vizzini’s or Halia’s?”

  I shrug. “Vizzini’s.”

  “Great! I’ll be here. Six o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  He grins. “Great!”

  I have to smile. He is pretty cute in all his excitement. I hope I don’t disappoint him. I’m not the most enthralling date.

  “See you later!” he calls, slipping his shades back on and again reverting into the cool, collected young doctor.

  “Bye.” I step back inside the studio. Hannah almost makes it back to her desk. “Spying?” I greet her.

  “Observing,” she corrects. She grins. “So when’s the wedding, Laurie?”

  “No wedding.” I shake my head vehemently. “We’re going as friends. I am not the marrying kind.”

  She snorts. For being Rhinestone Barbie she can do it pretty well. Not as well as I can, but pretty well.

  “He did not look like he had just asked a friend to dinner,” Hannah states.

  I feel the call to defend myself. “He knows I’m not ever getting married.”

  “Really?” One perfect eyebrow slips up under her bangs.

  Doubt descends like brownie batter sliding off a baking spoon. Kerplunk.

  Sure, Stephen knows. I mean, like I said, I’ve known the guy for forever. Not very well, but I’ve known him. Surely he’s heard about my stance on marriage.

  Surely.

  Hannah watches my private battle, and her other eyebrow disappears. My private battle is apparently not so private.

  “Surely he knows,” I tell her.

  “Uh-huh.” It is not a convinced “uh-huh.”

  The chime on the door rings and the McKenzies walk in, carrying two-month-old Amber and holding five-year-old Zach’s hand.

  “Hey, guys,” I greet them and lead them to Studio Three.

  When twelve o’clock ticks around and neither Hannah nor I have seen Brandon again, Hannah begins to feel sorry for him.

  “Don’t do that. Prince-Not-So-Charming deserves every word I said to him.”

  Hannah doesn’t look convinced. “He at least needs to eat.”

  “Did he bring his lunch?”

  She opens the fridge under her desk. “If he did, it’s not refrigerated.”

  She looks so worried, I capitulate. “Fine,” I grouse while grabbing my backpack. “I’m going to Bud’s anyway. I’ll get him a hamburger. Do you want one?”

  She purses her lips. “Do they sell hot dogs?”

  “Yep.”

  A five-dollar bill appears from the pocket of her jeans. “Lots of relish.”

  Shoreline Barbie likes hot dogs?

  I can walk the three-minute trek to Bud’s with my eyes closed, I come here so often. I push Bud’s door, and four hundred catlike screeches sound from the hinges.

  I wince. “You might want to oil that door,” I tell Mikey, the son of Bud.

  Mikey grins, showing the full extent of his braces. “But then what could you criticize?” This kid knows me too well. He grins at me. “What does your ladyship desire today?” He takes his place behind the cash register.

  “Two hamburgers and a hot dog. Lots of relish on the hot dog.”

  His red eyebrows climb on his freckled, zit-infested forehead. “Okay.” He grins again. “What did he do to you?”

  I glare at him. “First off, buddy-boy, that’s none of your business. Second, hamburgers are hardly a comfort food. And third, I’m buying for Brandon and Hannah.”

  “Who’s Hannah?”

  I grab a chunk of napkins. “Our new secretary. You’ve probably seen her in the parking lot. Blonde. Thin. Blue-eyed.”

  Mikey’s eyes widen. “Oh! You mean the babe in t
he blue Taurus?”

  “Smart and observant. Mikey, what other improvements are you hiding?”

  Mikey bats his eyes at me. Braces have been good for him. He is developing a nice smile.

  He totals the order. “Four bucks, eight cents. Minus the tip, of course.”

  I pull out my wallet. “Here you go. Four dollars.” I count out the change into his hand. “Six, seven, eight cents.” I slide the billfold back in my backpack. “Don’t eat the yellow snow.”

  He makes a face and hands me a white paper bag. Already grease is marking it.

  “See you Monday, Laurie.”

  I need to stop being so predictable.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I smile at him as I go outside.

  The bell chimes over the door when I step inside the studio. Hannah has the phone to her ear.

  “Actually, Mr. Holbrook, she just came back. Want to talk to her?”

  Hannah hands me the phone. “It’s your dad.”

  “Hi, Dad.” I set the paper bag on Hannah’s desk. She grimaces at the grease stains, pulls four paper towels from under her desk, and puts the bag on them.

  “Laurie, Honey, you forgot to turn your cell phone off silent again.”

  “No way.” I dig in my backpack. “Oh my gosh, I never turned the ringer on. Sorry about that! It is being turned on. Now.”

  “I wanted to tell you that I’ll pick you up from work tonight and then we can get your car after dinner. Does that work?”

  Bless Dad’s heart. He is so excited about this dinner.

  “Sure, Dad.” I grin. “That works great.”

  “See you at six, Sweetheart.”

  I give the phone to Hannah, who hangs it up for me. “Did you find your hot dog?”

  She nods, nose wrinkling. “Do they soak these in oil before cooking them?”

  “Sure do. Bud’s trademark. That’s what makes them fresh.” I pull my hamburger from the bag. “Here’s your change. Has The Bachelor emerged yet?”

  She shakes her head, her mouth full of hot dog.

  “Guess I’ll take this back to him then.”

  Here’s what I am: A nice person. Mostly.

  “Brandon!” I pound on his office door, then open it.

  Brandon sits at his desk, fingers steepled, face pensive. He watches me walk over without changing his expression.

  “Lunchtime.” I set the bag squarely on his desk, grease and all. “Eat.”

  He moans. “Laurie . . .”

  “Brandon . . .” I follow suit.

  He rakes his hands through his hair. “What have I done?”

  I have to admit I feel sorry for the guy. “Nothing that can’t be fixed. If it makes you feel better, Hannah had more sense than you anyhow. She didn’t want to go out.” I go around the desk and pat his shoulder.

  He sighs. “I’m glad you work here, Laurie.”

  I pause midpat. “Can I have a raise?”

  “No.”

  “Just checking. Eat up. Lots of nutrients in there. Grease, oil, grease, and . . .” I snap my fingers repeatedly. “What else? Oh! Oil.”

  A smile twitches in the corner of his mouth.

  “A perfect specimen from Bud’s.”

  Brandon pulls the burger from the bag. “How’s Mikey?”

  “Obviously still eating his pop’s food. A colony of acne relatives are living on his face.” I watch him rip the paper off the hamburger. “I have a date tonight and Tuesday.”

  Brandon nearly swallows his tongue. “You do?”

  He could be more flattering. “Yes, me,” I say with a growl. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “Well, who asked you?”

  “Dad.” Brandon’s face relaxes for a moment. Only a moment. “And Stephen Weatherby.”

  His mouth drops open. It isn’t a pleasant sight with the half-chewed burger lolling around in there.

  “Stephen?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Weatherby?”

  Nod again. “Uh-huh.”

  “The doctor?”

  ”One and the same.”

  Brandon stares at me. “And you said yes?” He is incredulous.

  “Sure I said yes. He’s a doctor. You don’t say no when a doctor asks you out.”

  “I thought you weren’t ever getting married,” he accuses.

  I avoided his eyes. “Stephen knows that.”

  “Then why did he ask you out?”

  The question could be strung up in the air with blazing, brightly colored Christmas lights.

  “I . . . don’t know,” I falter. “Maybe just to catch up on old times?”

  Brandon rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh. Right. Well, give my regards to the poor man.”

  “Doctor’s aren’t poor men.” I turn on my heel and walk out.

  Brandon has to be wrong.

  He has to. Stephen only wants to chat about the good old days in elementary school.

  After lunch I photograph six families, four of them with kids under the age of five. So the day passes relatively quickly. My headache, however, does not. I am taking aspirin when Dad shows up.

  “What’s wrong, Honey?” The bell over the door chimes as he enters.

  I swallow the pills. “I’m attempting to convince the little elves with jackhammers in my head to take a break.”

  Dad frowns. Hannah smiles.

  “Hi, Mr. Holbrook. I’m Hannah. I talked to you earlier on the phone.”

  “Hello, Hannah, nice to meet you.”

  “Good night, Laurie. Have a good dinner,” she says.

  “Night, Hannah.”

  Dad watches her leave. “Ready to go?”

  “Sure am.”

  I follow Dad out to his Mustang convertible and manage to cajole him to put the top down. We drive the six minutes to Vizzini’s in silence, the cold wind whistling through my hair and drying out my eyes.

  Once we are seated, Dad hands a twenty to the waiter, a tall, skinny guy with a gold name tag reading “JACK,” and asks that the breadsticks keep coming and the water glasses stay full for the next two hours. JACK is quite happy to oblige.

  “So. What’s up, Dad?” I ask this after Dad finishes blessing the two plates of spaghetti in front of us.

  Dad smiles. “You’re a wonderful daughter, Laurie. I really have enjoyed all the time we’ve been able to spend together since your mom died.”

  I frown. “Are you going somewhere, Dad?”

  Dad folds his hands on the table. “Yes and no.”

  This is what I don’t like: Beating around the bush.

  “What are you saying, Dad?” The tiniest smidgen of worry skitters up my spinal cord.

  He grins at me. “Actually you are the one who gave me the idea.”

  Already this is sounding bad.

  “Remember when you told me to tell Brandon you had taken up squid fishing?”

  I blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. “You’re going to take up squid fishing?” I ask very slowly.

  I expect a chuckle, a laugh, a hand slap, and then a profuse answer telling me how absolutely ridiculous this is.

  Dad shrugs.

  Not good at all.

  “Not squid fishing, per se. Just regular fishing. All I’ve done since retiring, Hon, is hang around the house. I’m going stir crazy!” He waves his hands. “I want to do something outdoorsy for a change. My friend John did, and look at him now.”

  John is the poster child for Game & Fish.

  “Yeah, but, Dad.” I scramble. “Think of all the diseases you could catch from the water!”

  Dad nods. “I have considered that. But I went to that new hunting store today and found these.” He slides a box across the table.

  “‘Purification tablets,’” I read.

  “Yep. Those, my dear, will kill any bacteria in the water.”

  I have a vision of a U-Haul backing up to Lake Michigan and depositing four hundred pounds of these Alka-Seltzers into it, the lake suddenly becoming crystal blue bottled water.

  I set the box
down. “You’re serious about this.”

  His eyes are sparkling. “I’m planning a trip for the month of March.”

  “March. Dad, that’s in like six weeks.”

  “I know.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I was hoping you could go with me.”

  I look in Dad’s eyes, and every excuse I have crumbles. Fishing is not my thing. I will take electricity and running water over a grimy, scaly, squiggly fish any day. Up to this point, I figured Dad agreed with me.

  “Okay,” I mutter. How bad can a long weekend fishing be? It’s not long enough to die of boredom. A cozy, short trip to some hole-in-the-wall lake, catch a few bass, go home.

  Sounds fairly easy.

  Dad’s elation shines in his face. “I’ll start getting the supplies this week.”

  “Well, don’t overdo, Dad. I mean, we probably have enough food at home. And sleeping bags.” I twirl my fork in my spaghetti.

  “Not for a month we don’t, Laurie.”

  My fork stops centimeters from my mouth. Dad has good timing. A millisecond later, spaghetti would have been rocketing out of my mouth and splattering all over Dad’s white shirt.

  “A month!” I can’t help it. I yell.

  JACK comes running. “Is everything okay?” He twists a dishtowel around in his hands.

  “Fine, fine,” Dad says, seeing my jaw is stapled to the fake wood table.

  Still wringing the towel nervously, JACK leaves.

  Dad looks at me. “Laurie?”

  “Where?” It’s the only word I can form.

  “A place by the Sacramento–San Joaquin Delta. A little town.”

  I blink. “For a month.”

  Dad’s eyes are shining in excitement.

  Drat my guilt complex.

  “Fine.” I sigh. “I’ll go if Brandon will give me that month off.”

  He could have been jumping up and down. “Good! Ah, Laurie, this will be so much fun! Just the two of us, the open water, the rustic cabin on the river. . . .”

  “Running water?” Incredible.

  “Of course running water. And electricity. What did you think? We’d sleep in a tent?”

  I shrug.

  “No, this is a cabin. You don’t even have to fish with me if you don’t want to. The scenery is gorgeous. Bring your camera.”

  “March,” I say again.

  “Yep. Temperatures in the fifties and sixties.”