“If you’re interested in interviewing for Mimi’s position, I’m open to the idea. You’ve done an excellent job with your field experience here, and your extra work as a part-time assistant is outstanding. Thing is, though, even for entry-level social work, the degree is essential.” He rested a paternal hand on her shoulder. “No incompletes. No failed classes. Nothing marring your academic record. You graduate next month, right?”
“Right. Third weekend in May.”
“When you’ve got the diploma in your hands, let me know pronto. I can run the interview and make the recommendation, but I still have to submit your paperwork officially to the board of directors. And for this position, it’s all got to be in before June first.”
“Thanks, Dan. There won’t be any problems. I just have one last sociology class to finish and, of course, my field instruction here.”
He smiled at her. “Good. We need people like you in this agency, kid. Now, get to work.”
She left his office and collapsed at her makeshift desk, smiling with glee and goodwill toward the entire planet. Another month or so and she’d have a real desk with drawers, not just a glorified end table with a computer on it and a photo of her son Charlie squished off to the side. She’d be a true professional! Respected finally. Man, she could hardly wait.
Beth plunked the files down and scanned the individual care plans. Reading their reports, her heart clenched in sympathy. Getting old must be hard. Her favorite relative, Grandma Kate, used to complain so.
“The body doesn’t do what it should anymore,” Grandma would say, handing Beth an enormous oatmeal-raisin cookie before wiping her arthritic fingers on her apron. “And there’s no one to listen to you whine after awhile. They all up and die.”
Beth picked up the framed photo of her son. She ran a finger down his two-dimensional cheek, wishing she were touching the real one.
But Charlie was busy at school, no doubt plaguing his kindergarten teacher with incessant questions. He barely knew his grandparents—her parents, the Bennets. They lived in Arizona now, and her mother wouldn’t be caught baking cookies if her golf swing depended on it.
As for the other set of grandparents, well, they tended to forget they had a grandson. Just like her ex-husband Pete Wickham, Charlie’s father, forgot he had a son.
“You and me, babycakes,” she whispered, admiring the straight, blond hair so unlike her own and the silken skin only a child could possess. “Things are looking up for us.”
The computer gave a frantic beep, alerting her to another email. After adding “Organize Clients’ Data” to the bottom of her To Do list, she turned her attention to deleting spam. Only a few noteworthy messages remained: Some requested information on hospice care. Updates from the university’s social work department. An offer for ten percent off her next oil change.
The computer beeped again.
Sender: William Darcy.
She gasped, her blood pressure jumping up to a level not advised by health professionals.
She let the cursor hover over his name on the screen. Doctor Darcy. What would Number 49 write this time?
He’d sent her seven emails in the last few weeks, telling her of his profession and his coffee addiction. His love of baseball, hotdogs, apple pie and…Ferrari. She’d saved and printed every one. The Good Doctor had a funny online personality. He seemed so sincere.
But he also seemed very stereotypical, she reminded herself. The kind of guy who wouldn’t look at her twice if he knew she were closer to thirty than to twenty, had a school-aged son, hadn’t yet earned a college degree and supported herself by working part-time as a lowly social-work assistant.
She’d answered him of course—for research purposes only—her heart hammering its way out of her chest every time she hit the SEND button. If she didn’t desperately need that information for her final paper, she would’ve acted ethically and broken it off at least five emails ago.
But she did need the information and, furthermore, something about this guy kept luring her back.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she clicked on his message.
Hi, Charlotte! Glad to know you’re fond of hot coffee and home-baked cookies, too. (Well, not everything she told him was a lie.) The things we have in common are piling up. What do you say we take a small step forward and try out both of the above? There’s a Koffee Haus near the hospital. Their brew is strong and they make a mean chocolate-chip cookie. Any interest in meeting me there tomorrow afternoon? Let me know.—Will
Meet him?
No way. Although…
She could get her answers faster in person. That might be the easiest way to simultaneously complete her research and end things with tact. He’d realize she wasn’t as young as he’d expected, or remotely hip or wealthy. He’d talk to her for twenty minutes to be polite and then rush out of there. All communication would dwindle to nothing within a week or two.
Maybe…
She hit the REPLY key, staring at the blank space where her return message needed to go. She should say, No, thank you. She should say, Sorry, although I’ve enjoyed emailing you, I’m not ready to meet in person. She should say, I’m on a strict diet and can’t go near bakery items. Anything.
Her fingers, however, had ideas of their own. They flew over the keyboard as if racing against logic.
Lovely plan, Will. I can be there at one p.m. tomorrow. See you then.—Charlotte
Her fingers hit the SEND button before her mind had a chance to talk them out of it.
***
The next day at dawn, Beth reviewed her stereotypes list:
1. Greater size and strength
2. Goal-oriented, often highly ambitious
3. Values the rational/logical over the emotional
4. More independent, assertive, critical and competitive
5. Fast visual-attraction reactions
6. Better at spatial/mathematical skills
7. Difficulty expressing emotions
Yep. That seemed to pretty much sum up the major male stereotypes as she knew them, omitting universal truths like men’s bizarre predilection toward big tools and bigger remote-control devices.
Beth laid down her pen. She was armed and ready for today’s coffee “date” and planned to find as much direct, supporting evidence as she could for each point in the few minutes she and Will would spend together. She prayed she’d be able to pull it off.
Somehow she managed to get Charlie to school, do a morning’s worth of organizing at the agency and pull into the Koffee Haus parking lot right on time.
The scent of warm, roasted coffee beans enticed her nostrils even before she made it through the doorway. The singles’ bar of this century had cinnamon shakers and skim milk pitchers on the counter instead of vodka jiggers and salty peanuts, but the idea was unchanged.
A pair of lanky guys leaned against the counter waiting for their orders to be ready. Neither of them looked anything like Will’s website photograph. Where was he?
A small table opened up near the door and Beth leaped for it. She slid into the chair and began casing the room. Mostly couples or small groups of friends. A dark-haired man in his early thirties sat alone with a newspaper. His back was to her so she leaned to the left to try to catch a glimpse of his face.
It could be him. Might be.
She leaned a little further but before she could see him she felt that roller-coaster dip in her stomach and lost her balance—hands swiping the floor, chair scraping awkwardly. Very smooth move.
The guy turned to stare at her. So did everyone else. She readjusted herself and tried to bury her head in her purse.
That looked like him. Close enough to the photo anyway to make her pretty sure. Darn it. There was no way he’d want to be approached by a klutz.
When she looked up, he was staring at her again. An assessing glance. Yep. The game was over before it had a chance to begin. Something about him struck her as odd, though. His email personality was so warm, so char
ming. This guy—well, arrogant seemed to be a better descriptor.
She wondered what he’d do now. Ditch her? She grabbed her stereotypes list from her purse, scanning it covertly in case he worked up the nerve to come over before she approached him. A glimpse at her watch told her it was already ten minutes past one. When she looked back at his table, he was gone.
She sighed. This wasn’t good. Her final project was due in a few weeks, and she needed to cite concrete examples of Case Study #1’s behavior, documented and dated over a period of thirty days. She didn’t have time to start again with a new subject. As it was, she’d have to use all of their email correspondence in her report, and that still left her with over a week’s worth of communication to obtain and record.
And nothing she had thus far was very conclusive.
She didn’t want to resort to shortcuts to complete the paper, but Charlie’s future was at stake here. She stood to leave.
“So, are you the woman Lady Catherine thinks I’m destined for?” a deep voice with a laugh hidden in it whispered in her ear. She swiveled around and stared at the man behind her. He wasn’t the guy with the newspaper, but he, too, looked like Will’s website photo… only better. Much better.
“If so,” he continued, “I’m your Perfect Match.”
TWO
She was a knockout, pure and simple. Tanned skin, wild tufts of light-brown hair, huge dark eyes that looked both inquisitive and kind. Will took in the startled expression on Charlotte Lucas’s angelic face and drew in a lungful of air. She’d literally robbed him of his breath. He had no choice but to snatch it back.
“William Darcy?”
He nodded. “Call me Will. And you must be Charlotte.” She didn’t answer. She just kept staring at him. “Been here long?”
“No, not really, but I—um—didn’t see you come in. Actually, I thought for a minute that someone else was the person I was supposed to meet. He looked a lot like your profile picture and was sitting over there…” She pointed to a table near the back.
Bingley’s spot. Will had seen him through the window and snuck in the back door to dodge him. He’d forgotten when he’d emailed her this location that it was one of his cousin’s favorite haunts.
Bingley needed to meet the stunning Miss Lucas for sure, to validate the agreement and everything, just not on this very first date. Will wanted to at least attempt to make a good initial impression, and his cousin would have made that impossible.
He tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Who knows? They say we all have a twin somewhere.” He motioned for her to sit back down. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I got detained at the hospital.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m glad you made it. It’s nice—very nice—to finally meet you. Busy morning?” She brushed a strand of untamed hair behind her ear and fiddled with her purse straps.
“Yeah.” Jeez, but did she ever seem nervous. How much coffee did she drink while she was waiting? He shot a glance to the bar. “Have you had a chance to order anything?”
She shook her head and he immediately rose, feeling her eyes watching him. “Let me get you a drink. What would you like?”
“Oh, thank you. Just a small decaf.” She rummaged in her purse for a few bills and some change. “Here, I’ve got—”
He covered her hand with his and felt the rapid pulse beneath her knuckles. “My treat,” he told her.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a nod and quickly strode toward the counter.
In a place where you could get twenty-seven flavors of coffee from all regions of the globe (not including daily specials), she chose a small decaf. He’d just have to take it upon himself to expand her horizons. It’d be a dark day in Chi-Town before he stooped to order a simple House Blend.
“This is small and it’s a decaf,” he announced when he returned to their table, handing her the coffee with care and plunking down a bag of chocolate-chip-hazelnut cookies between them. “But it’s also Kenyan, and it’s noted for its distinctive berry-like undertones. Most people find it tangy. Hope you like it.”
She smiled at him, and he almost burned his tongue on his tall Stockholm Roast. Yeah, he was in the mood for dark, smooth and full-bodied today. He inhaled deeply, wishing he could breathe in the scent of this woman along with his brew. She was simply lovely. He watched her take a cautious sip before pronouncing the Kenyan “quite good.” Excellent. This lady was chock full of potential.
“So, you’re finishing up your child psych program this spring?” he asked.
“Y-yes.”
“Got a position already lined up after you graduate, or are you planning to begin a masters degree right away?”
She paused, a moment’s confusion evident on her face as if she had to think hard to produce an answer. Maybe it was a distressing subject, but he couldn’t figure out why.
“I’m still waiting to see what’ll turn up over the summer before I make a final decision,” she said finally.
He nodded. “Probably a good plan. Which age range do you eventually hope to work with? Young kids? Adolescents?” C’mon, Charlotte. Go for the little ones.
“I enjoy early childhood. I have the most experience with the preschool and kindergarten years, up to age six.”
YES! Ten points to the woman with the chocolaty eyes. He grinned. “Terrific. Where did you get your experience?”
A shadow darkened her features and she looked almost upset. Oops. He didn’t mean to insult her by probing into her academic training. He thought she’d be pleased by his curiosity.
Charlotte took her time composing a response. “I’ve had the opportunity to…interact with children at different ages and in a variety of settings. Schools, doctors’ offices, parks, libraries, even private homes. I—I may appear young and inexperienced, but I always study my subjects carefully.”
Well, shoot, now she was getting defensive. “Oh, I wasn’t criticizing, Charlotte. I’m just interested in finding out more about you. You know, your background, your work style. I mean, are you Jungian or Freudian in orientation? Do you subscribe to Bruner’s philosophy of child cognitive development? Piaget’s? Or lean more toward Titchener and the structuralists?”
She looked at him like he was as nutty as one of the cookies. “I, um, tend to take a more eclectic approach.”
“Yeah. A lot of people are doing that now.”
“And what about you, Will? You said you were an attending physician at Regents. Do you have a medical specialty or do you plan to focus your training on a particular area later?”
He’d been waiting for this lead in. Hoping for it. “Well, yes, in a way. These days I spend most of my time at the hospital, in the ER, but that’ll change soon.”
“You’re planning to relocate? Go into private practice?”
“Actually, I’m in the midst of getting a project approved that I’ve wanted to establish for several years now. A city health center. A clinic, basically, for low-income mothers and their children.”
Her eyes widened. “And you’re building this center?”
“No, the building’s already there. We just need private investors and additional funding to pay for the running and staffing of the clinic.”
A bewildered expression crossed her face before she managed to conceal it with a look of polite interest. Not quick enough for him to miss it, though. “You said you’d wanted to do this for years. What inspired you? Why this project above all others?”
Ah, she was a sharp one, but maybe too young and free-spirited to comprehend the challenges of single parenthood. It was too soon to tell her the story of his upbringing. She’d feel sorry for him or think he was—well, who knew what she’d think?
He took a deep breath. “It’s an underserved population, Charlotte. So many of the mothers I see in the emergency room are alone, the child’s father nowhere in sight. They’re making a living the best they can, but there’s not much opportunity or money to go around. They avoid routine healthcare if they d
on’t have the insurance to cover it and, eventually, not just the child but the whole community suffers. It’s a desperately needed service.”
She looked down at her coffee, closed her eyes for a few heartbeats before looking back up at him. “I’m really impressed. What you’re doing is so admirable. And, as you said, necessary.”
“Thank you, but I’m not doing it alone. We’re going to need a lot of good people to pull this off. People who care about other people. People with specialties in areas like…well, like yours.”
He watched her head shoot up again, the startled glance she tried to camouflage with a rapid head nod. “Certainly you mean people more experienced than me. A project like that requires—”
“No, I mean people exactly like you. And, as you said, you study your subjects carefully. We’ll need observant, hardworking doctors, nurses, nutritionists and child psychologists, among others, to be able to offer the kind of holistic, quality care we’d like to provide. I’m already beginning to review applications and, if you’re interested, I’d love to take a look at your résumé sometime, too.”
He knew by the caged-rabbit look on her face that he was moving too fast. He forced himself to sit back, sip his coffee, change the subject. “Anyway, just an idea to consider. And, though the clinic is something I’m passionate about, these cookies are a close second.” He opened the paper bag and held it out to her.
She took one and bit into it. “Mmm,” she said. “Wonderful.”
A few crumbs clung to the corners of her lips, and he was surprised by his temptation to reach over and brush them away. But his own good sense and a warning look in her expression held him back. A whole lot was at stake here. He needed to tread more carefully than he’d been.
He watched her chew her cookie. She nibbled slowly, the corners of her mouth rising ever so slightly by the third bite. Something elusive lurked behind her eyes as well, a twinkling look that surprised him when her gaze met his.
“So, Will,” she said between bites four and five, “what led you to Lady Catherine’s Love Match Website? You’re clearly an intelligent, attractive man with noble career plans and great taste in cookies.” She grinned more broadly at him now. “You’d need little else to recommend you. Why go to all the trouble of joining an Internet matchmaking service? Why not just hang around bakeries or coffee shops like this one and look for love?”
Pride, Prejudice and the Perfect Match Page 2
