Copyright © 2019 by Dori Lavelle
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing: Michelle Storrusten
Cover: Tracy Lorraine
For my friend Andrea Skaar Rott
Contents
CALEB
CALEB
ELLIE
ELLIE
ELLIE
ELLIE
ELLIE
CALEB
ELLIE
ELLIE
CALEB
CALEB
ELLIE
ELLIE
ELLIE
CALEB
ELLIE
CALEB
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CALEB
When I step off one of the LaClaire planes, after a four-day business trip to Montreal, the first person I see is Beverley Corbin, my private assistant. She’s standing next to my Mercedes limo, her long, honey-colored ponytail swinging in the evening wind.
“Welcome back, sir.” She flashes me a smile that stretches her full lips to reveal strikingly white teeth. I’d be lying if I said she isn’t an attractive woman.
She has the body of a dancer, an infectious smile, and a naturally seductive voice, but her intelligence is what convinced me to hire her. I’ve been known to mix business and pleasure from time to time, but it often doesn’t end well. When Beverley started working for me, I made a conscious decision to keep my dick in my pants because I wouldn’t like to lose her as an employee.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, frowning as I get into the limo. “I thought we agreed five years ago that you won’t call me sir.” Even though she agreed, she still does it when she’s nervous about something.
“Everything’s fine,” she says as she slides into the car next to me.
The darkened glass between the front of the limo and the back slides down a fraction. “Home or office?” my chauffeur asks with a smile.
“Home, Barry. Thank you.” The glass partition goes back up and I return my focus to Beverley. “I have a feeling something is not right. Spit it out.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.” She rubs her forearms.
“Come on, Bev, you only call me sir when something’s up. What’s going on?”
She drops her hands into her lap and clears her throat. “Well, you have some visitors.”
“At the office?” I glance at my watch. “But it’s seven, and I’m ready to head home.”
After days of negotiations concerning a number of buildings I’m interested in purchasing, I’m ready to crash. But even with exhaustion coursing through my veins, nothing comes close to the thrill I get when I buy a new property, crush it to the ground, and build hotels, malls, office buildings, and any damn thing my heart desires. Real estate is my life.
“No, not at the office.” She presses her lips together. “They’re at your place.”
“Why would you let strangers into my home?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I gave you a spare key for emergencies.”
“Calm down, Caleb. They’re not strangers. They’re your brothers.” Beverley stifles a laugh.
“My brothers? What are they doing in St. Louis?” My four brothers live in Boston, my hometown. I moved to St. Louis, two years ago, because most of my businesses are based here.
“I guess they missed you.” Beverley reaches for a bottle of mineral water and pours herself a glass. “Do you want some?”
I shake my head. “When did they arrive?”
“Yesterday morning.” She raises her glass to her lips and takes a sip. “They let themselves in with the spare keys you gave them.”
“Fine.” I unravel my tie and yank it from around my neck. “Anything else I need to know?”
“You’ve got mail.” Beverley reaches for her bag and pulls out a stack of envelopes.
“That’s nothing new. Anything interesting?” I lean my head back, inhaling the scent of Beverley’s sweet perfume mixed with smells that often come with a new car.
“The usual.” She pulls out an envelope that resembles the kind people send wedding invitations in. “Except this one.” She hands it to me.
“Who’s getting married?” I turn the envelope over in my hand. There’s a GG monogram sticker on the back.
Beverley gives a half shrug. “No idea. I thought you might want to open it yourself.”
When I open the envelope, there’s a handwritten letter inside, cursive words scrawled across a cream page sprinkled with faint, white hearts. The words What a Heart Wants stand out in the header, underneath the same GG monogram I saw on the sticker.
“Who sends handwritten letters these days?” Beverley asks. When I throw her a glance, she turns to look out the window. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy.”
My brows drawing together in a frown, I flatten out the letter and begin to read. The last letter I received that was handwritten was from my mother before she died.
Dear Mr. LaClaire,
Let me congratulate you on this exciting phase of your life. Making the choice to find the one is the most important decision you will ever make.
I apologize that it took a while for me to get back to you. I’m glad to let you know that I have found you a potential match. I think you will be pleased with her.
In this envelope, you will find a photo of Ellie, along with her brief profile. Should you feel the need to connect with her, please write her a letter and mail it to me. I am only accepting handwritten letters at this stage in the process.
Since you paid for the VIP package, I’m choosing to bend some of my rules for you and your match. Apart from the first letter you send her, you will not be required to exchange a minimum number of letters before deciding to meet in person. However, as you requested in your application packet, the initial correspondence will have to go through me until you are both comfortable with sharing your contact details with each other.
Once you send me Ellie’s letter, I will forward it to her, along with the photograph you sent with your application.
I’ll leave you for now as you have an important decision to make. If you decide that Ellie is not the right match for you, I will be happy to find you another match.
Wishing you a happy adventure in love.
Yours Sincerely,
Grace Graham
“This can’t be right.” I fold the letter in half.
“Bad news?” Beverley’s voice pushes through the rush in my ears.
“I’m not sure,” I croak, turning to look out the window.
The limo is just pulling up to my house. Great timing. I don’t even know how to start discussing the strange letter with my personal assistant.
“Look, Bev. Go home and get some rest. Or go out and party. Make the most of your Friday evening.”
“I have a date actually.” She gathers her ponytail to one side of her neck.
“Great,” I nod. “Have fun. Barry will drop you off.”
After I say goodbye to Beverley, I walk into my house, still confused about the letter I received.
CALEB
I find my four brothers sitting at various places in my living room. The twins, Lance and Bryant are sitting next to each other on the couch. Even in their late thirties, they look so alike that a stranger would have a hard time telling them apart. Derrick, our adopted brother is sitting on the stool at the piano, while Neal has made himself comfortable on my white leather massage chair.<
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“May I ask why you’re all here at the same time?” I ask, stepping into the room. The time we normally all come together is during our yearly get-together at our family villa in Cabo.
“It’s good to see you, bro.” Bryant rises to his feet and approaches me. “We missed you. You hardly come to Boston anymore.”
The others follow his lead. They take turns hugging me before returning to their seats. I won’t admit it to them just yet, but it’s good to see them.
“Is that so? Why do I get a feeling that there’s more to this?” I move to the bar and pour myself a glass of water. “Is this some kind of intervention, or something?”
“Something like that.” Derrick comes to where I’m standing. “What’s that?” He points to the dating service envelope that now lies neglected on the bar counter.
I take a swig of my water. “Some letter that I think is meant for someone else.”
“Are you sure about that?” Derrick picks up the envelope. “The envelope has your name and your address. Looks to me like it was sent to the right place.”
“It’s from a matchmaking company. Why would I contact such a place?”
“Really?” Derrick frowns. “Well, loneliness makes people do all kinds of things.”
“There’s no shame in contacting such a company,” Bryant cuts in. “As long as it’s a reputable one, of course.”
I glare at him and shake my head. “No. Even if I were lonely, I’m not desperate enough to pay someone to find me a woman. There are plenty of them around.”
“Then why are you still single?” Bryant raises an eyebrow.
“Exactly,” Lance adds, nudging his twin. “Don’t be ashamed to admit you need a little help.”
“Wait a second.” I lower my glass of water to the counter and gaze at each of my brothers in turn, eyes narrowed to slits. “Please tell me you had nothing to do with this shit.”
It would make a lot of sense since none of them seemed at all surprised to hear about the letter. When they all avert their gazes, I know I’m right.
“You can’t be serious. What you did is just messed up.” I drag a hand down my clean-shaven cheek. “What gives you all the right to meddle in my life?”
“We’re the LaClaires. Meddling in each other’s lives is what we do.” Derrick waves a photo in the space between us. “Look at this woman. She’s stunning. And she might just be the one.”
As my other brothers jump from their seats to come and take a look, I grab the photo from Derrick.
For a few heartbeats, I just stare at the portrait, gazing into gold-flecked amber eyes that look like they’re lit from within. The dark, sweeping lashes surrounding them match the color of the wisps of black hair that escaped from a messy bun on top of the woman’s head, to frame a fragile-looking oval face. She’s beautiful to the point of coming across as unreal. I bet she’d look even more beautiful if she smiled for the camera.
I draw in a breath as an unexpected ball of pressure builds up inside my chest and my heart disobeys me. It’s beating a little too fast for my liking.
I hand the photo back to Derrick and they all swarm around him like bees. While they take turns in agreeing with what Derrick said, I take several steps toward the window, swaying slightly.
“She’s a knockout,” someone says. I’m not sure who said the words. There’s a rush in my ears that makes me feel as though I’m underwater.
I have to agree with my brothers, but I can’t let them know that.
“What you did is not right.” I don’t turn to face them. “If I wanted a woman, I’m perfectly capable of finding one for myself.”
“Sorry, man.” Neal comes to put a hand on my shoulder. “We just want you to be happy.”
“What makes you think I’m not happy? Just because you’re all in relationships or marriages doesn’t mean I should be in one. What if I’m not a relationship kind of guy?”
“We were just like you.” Bryant laughs, leaning against the counter. “But we all know how that turned out. Sleeping with random women is only fun for so long.” He pauses. “Come on, Caleb. Just try it out. What do you have to lose? If she’s not the one, she’s not the one.”
“We also paid the matchmaking company a lot of money,” Lance adds. “The owner doesn’t give refunds.”
“You’re all full of shit.” I smile in spite of myself. “Whose ridiculous idea was this, anyway?” I turn back to face them, arms crossed.
They all point to Neal, who has always been the most romantic of the five of us.
The next few minutes, they do everything they can to convince me to respond to Grace Graham’s letter.
In the end, I decide I have nothing to lose. I also want to prove to them that there’s no way I’ll be able to find love through such a company. Maybe that woman’s photo is even fake.
“I’ll do it, but if the woman in the photo is not the right one for me, I’m out.”
“We’ll see.” Neal laughs and the others join in.
Even though I had not expected them to show up, it’s fun to have them around. It will also give us a little time to catch up on each other’s lives.
ELLIE
The alarm beeps. I hit snooze. Two times in a row. Then guilt falls over me, threatening to suffocate me. It forces me to throw back the covers and swing my legs out of bed. My warm feet meet the wooden floor.
Staying in bed is not an option. It’s 5:00 a.m. and I have responsibilities.
My eyes still closed, I make my way down the hallway to the bathroom. To get there, I have to walk past Justin’s door. I stop in front of it for a moment, imagining him inside his room, snoring softly underneath his superhero comforter.
I place my palm on his door and keep it there, blessing my little boy. He’s the reason I get out of bed every morning even when it’s damn hard. He needs me as much as I need him.
A bittersweet smile crosses my lips as I walk away from Justin’s door.
Inside the bathroom, I jump into the shower and stand underneath the jet of hot water, my head tipped back as drops of water tap dance on my face and my closed eyes.
When I walk out of the shower cubicle, I still feel drained, my body begging me to crawl back under the covers, to fall back into the arms of sleep. I resist the urge.
“You’ve got this, Ellie.” I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare into my tired, red-rimmed eyes. “You are supermom.” That’s what Justin calls me on days when he’s himself. It’s been a while since he said more than three words to me.
I get dressed quickly in black yoga pants and a matching oversized T-shirt. It’s 5:30 now, which gives me exactly thirty minutes to do some work before Justin wakes up.
I only manage to write three short sentences of an article that has to be submitted to the Moms at Home Magazine by Monday morning. I guess I just have to stay up late tonight.
At 6:00 a.m. on the dot, I hear Justin’s voice calling for me. It’s almost as though he has an alarm clock inside his head that wakes him up at the same time every day, weekday or weekend.
I close my laptop and push back my chair. “Coming, sweetheart.”
As I walk to his room, I try not to think of how it would have been if he had been capable of getting out of his own bed, to come to me instead of me going to him every morning. Unfortunately, that’s a dream that would never come true.
At his door, I put a smile on my face and push down the handle.
“Morning, sunshine,” I say, opening the blinds. His room still smells of the ocean breeze shampoo I washed his hair with last night.
Instead of responding, Justin groans. An ache spreads through my chest. I ignore my pain and sit next to him on the bed, throwing back the comforter to unveil my ten-year-old son’s weak body that looks as though it belongs to a five-year-old.
“Let’s get you up and running,” I say, then bite my tongue. Running is something my son will never get to do.
Blinking back tears, I rise to my feet and gather him into my arm
s, ignoring the ever-present burn between my shoulder blades from carrying him so much over the years.
For the next few minutes, I stifle my physical and emotional agony as I wash his face, brush his teeth, comb his jet-black hair, and clean him after he uses the toilet. After I’ve finished dressing him, I transfer him to his wheelchair, which he’s fortunately able to drive himself with the push of a button, even with atrophied fingers. It’s not the best on the market, and it might need to be replaced soon, but for now, it does the job.
Justin suffers from type 2 spinal muscular atrophy, a disease that causes his muscles to weaken and shrink day by day, year by year. The older he gets, the harder it gets for him to control his various movements.
Like most victims of SMA, he’s unable to do a lot of things for himself. He can’t walk, sit without help, or even go to the toilet alone. That’s where I come in. I’m his sidekick. As painful as it is to watch my son waste away, it also gets harder to do it alone.
four years ago, my husband, Tim, had been unable to cope with Justin’s disease, so he checked out by overdosing on sleeping pills, on Justin’s birthday. The only thing he left behind was a short note.
I’m sorry, Ellie. But I can’t take it anymore. It’s too hard and I’m not man enough to handle it. I’ll always love you.
As I make scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast, I blink several times to push the memories to the back of my mind. I refuse to allow them to break me.
The doorbell rings shortly after I’ve fed Justin and I’m getting ready to eat my own breakfast.
“I’ll be back,” I say to Justin and head to the front door. I open it to find Coby, the mailman, standing there. The twenty-year old has a mop of curly hair and a sprinkling of freckles on his nose and cheeks. My heart clenches, as it always does each time I see him. Mail often means bills I can’t pay.
Dear Mr. Maybe: The Matchmaker Series Page 1
