Perfect Match

by Fern Michaels

  Gracie was frantic as she hit key after key only to find all the files and folders empty. She hit the backup key and checked the files—gone. Then she hit the outside stored files at Mozy—gone. How, she thought, swiping at her forehead, was this possible?

  Gracie yanked at her bottom drawer and pulled out the shoe box with all the memory sticks that Beth had insisted on. Eight months into their business they’d started backing everything up on the memory sticks at the end of the day. Neither one of them ever walked out of the office at the end of the day until that was done. And of course the handwritten ledgers. Beth called it Rule Number Two. Her sigh of relief was so loud Gizmo reared up to see exactly what the sigh meant. Satisfied that all was well, he dropped his head onto his big paws and watched the fish swim to and fro in the big tank. Eventually, his eyes closed because his world as he knew it these days was right side up.

  Okay, what’s my next move here? Gracie wondered. Do I call Beth and seek her input, or do I go out to Jake Masters’s house and apprise him of all of this, or do I just sit here and contemplate my belly button? Who would do this? Surely it wasn’t Luke Olsen, regardless of how dissatisfied he was with his treatment by Perfect Match. Then again, he probably wasn’t too happy with the restraining order that was in place against him. That alone might be enough to push him into doing something like this.

  A competitor was more likely, but which one? A local matchmaking service or one of the biggies? What was the end goal? To put Perfect Match out of business? A client who wanted to get even for some perceived wrongdoing? She quickly negated the latter as she and Beth made it a policy to work overtime with an unhappy client until they found just the right partner for him or her. As Beth was fond of saying, “There is a perfect someone out there for each one of you. We just have to find that person, and that’s why we’re here.” They had only known two failures, and both were men impossible to satisfy. They had cheerfully refunded all fees to both men, wished them well in their pursuit of the perfect female partner, who both women were quick to point out, hadn’t been born yet. There had been no blowback from either man, and today they were someone else’s problem. In Gracie’s mind, it now boiled down to either Luke Olsen, aka Phil Parsons, or one of their rivals.

  Gracie wished, hoped, it was Olsen, because she felt she could deal with him. If it was a rival, the deck was stacked. How to find out? Why wasn’t the damn phone ringing? She picked it up and listened for the dial tone again. It droned in her ear. She did the same with the phones on Beth’s desk, only to hear the same droning sound.

  Gracie swiveled her chair around, and that’s when Gizmo growled deep in his throat as he got to his feet. A nanosecond later, every phone in the room started to ring, and the fax machines started whirring as the computer e-mail pinged an alert that an e-mail was coming through. Giz somehow knew it was going to happen before it did. The dog’s hearing was over the moon. She stroked his big head and spoke softly. Battlefield-weary, the big shepherd didn’t like excessive noise, and this was definitely excessive noise. In the blink of an eye, she turned all the phones to mute. That just left the soft whirring of the fax machines. She quickly turned off the pinging sound on her computer. The fur on the back of Gizmo’s neck went back down, but he didn’t lie down. He started to patrol the room. Gracie watched him, all the while talking to him quietly, just the way the military vets had taught her on his return from Afghanistan.

  Finally, after fifteen minutes, Gizmo came over and nuzzled Gracie’s leg to let her know all was well. She smooched him, tickled his ears, and rubbed the sweet spot between his eyes before she handed over a chew that was as big as her foot. He walked away with it, flopped down, and went to work on it.

  Gracie drew a deep sigh as she started pulling papers out of the fax machines. She winced. There had to be four or five hundred from all the different machines, and they were still coming in. At this rate, she’d have to replace the printer cartridge and replace the paper tray.

  “I need a Xanax,” she muttered under her breath when she clicked on her e-mail and looked at the long list. She knew without picking up the phone that there would be just as many voice mails.

  Instead of reading and sifting through what was staring her in the face, Gracie pulled out her cell phone and called Mandy Franklin in New York. She barked a greeting of sorts and said, “Your backup is good, right?”

  “It’s all old files, Gracie. We’re good. Well, not good, but you know what I mean. I put in a call to one of those A-1 Temporary office placement companies, and they’re sending me three people to help respond to this disaster. I just got off the phone with Callie in Chicago, and she did the same thing. I haven’t been able to touch base with Lily Wexler. Today might be her late day. I’ll keep trying. Listen, Gracie. Yeah, this is a big pain in the butt, but thanks to Beth and her iron rules, the bulk of our stuff is safe. A quick look through tells me what the hacker got is all old stuff but still serious. He or she got Social Security numbers, credit card info, home addresses. And, of course, our clients are blaming us for not being more secure. Plain and simple, their identities have been stolen. I see lawsuits all over the place. What’s your take on this?”

  “Same as yours. I’ll call our local temp company and do what you did, so we stay on top of things. I’m going to call the company’s legal team and see where we stand. That’s why we pay them a retainer. I’ll get back to you. If you manage to get hold of Lily, tell her to call me ASAP. Fill her in, but I’m sure she’ll have already jumped right on it.”

  Gracie spent the next thirty minutes talking to the placement services and was promised four temps would be ringing her doorbell within ninety minutes. The placement supervisor was quick to tell her the hourly rate was forty-five dollars. Gracie didn’t bat an eye. “Whatever it takes,” was the best she could manage by way of a verbal agreement.

  Gracie’s second call was to the two-man law firm by the name of Axel and Axel, who were the twin brothers Andy and Artie, and friends of both Beth and Gracie. Perfect Match had quickly become the twins’ major client and was on a healthy retainer. Both lawyers agreed to come to the house and bring lunch.

  Gracie spent the rest of the morning going through the ugly, threatening e-mails, faxes, and listening to the abusive voice mails. By the time the temporary office workers arrived, Gracie had their work laid out for them, including providing a standard response to any clients who called and, of course, mention of the Axel law firm, which would be handling all communications effective immediately.

  Gracie made coffee and set it on the counter next to the bar sink in the office. Everything was operational right up to the moment the doorbell rang.

  Gizmo bounded to the door. He loved Andy and Artie and gave them a huge welcome as he herded them toward the kitchen. He eyed and sniffed the take-out food bags, knowing there was something there for him, and, as always, he was right.

  The Axel twins were tall and lanky, with dark, curly hair and sharp blue eyes. They looked exactly alike but did not dress alike. Andy favored pressed khakis and a blazer while Artie liked a full suit with pastel shirts and fancy ties. Both had a killer smile and sharp wit. But it was their legal minds that impressed both Beth and Gracie. Neither was married, but as Artie said, both of them were working on it with significant others.

  Gracie made a second pot of coffee while Andy set the table once she showed him where everything was. Artie fished around in one of the bags for the food they brought for Gizmo. Six meatballs with no sauce on them and two links of sausage. He cut it up and mixed it with some of the plain pasta. Gizmo watched him like a hawk to make sure nothing fell to the floor. “Here you go, boy,” Artie said, setting the dish on the floor. Gizmo looked up at Gracie to see if it was okay to eat, and she nodded.

  “God, I wish this dog was mine,” the twins said in unison. “Each time we see him, he seems more human than a lot of people I know,” Andy added. “Does he still have issues with loud noises?”

  “Yes, but it’s getti
ng better.” She told them about earlier, with all the phones ringing and the pings from the computer. “I just talk him down, and he’s good. He really loves going to the VA hospital on Sundays to help out in rehab. He loves it when the guys salute him. He gives it right back. You’re right, though, he is almost human. It’s uncanny how he knows or seems to know what each service member needs. He’s their cheerleading squad.

  “As soon as we get there, the guys all salute him, and he loves it. He wears his dog tags and his battle armor because he knows that means business. They salute him for fun and call him Sergeant Giz. He just drools. The doctors told me Giz does more for morale than anything they can do for the guys. That’s how we spend all our Sundays. Believe it or not, Giz knows when Sunday rolls around.

  “Okay, ’nuff of that. Let’s eat, I’m starved. We can talk business after we eat.”

  And that’s what they did.

  It was four o’clock when Andy and Artie packed up their briefcases and prepared to leave, saying they had a handle on it all and they’d take it from here. Gracie was so relieved that she grew light-headed.

  “What about New York, Chicago, and California?” she finally managed to gasp.

  “We’ll work on that tonight from the office. Stop worrying; you’re in good hands now. By the way, how is Beth doing?”

  “She’s planning on taking Nashville by storm.” Gracie grinned.

  “But she can’t sing,” the twins said in unison.

  “Stop raining on her parade. She’s taking lessons.”

  Hugs were the order of the day, and words that said we’re a phone call away rang in Gracie’s ears long after the door closed. She checked with the temporaries and was satisfied that all was well, and no one needed anything.

  Gracie trotted out to the kitchen, exhaustion finally getting to her. “Let’s go for a walk, Giz. I need some fresh air. Twice around the block,” she said, buttoning her jacket. Giz liked twice around the block because it gave him more time to check out the kids in the neighborhood, who all wanted to pet him. He allowed it and even barked once or twice to show them who was boss.

  And life goes on, Gracie thought as she walked along the empty streets. The wind was picking up, and the last of the colorful fall leaves swirled about like someone was blowing a fan on them.

  Gracie loved fall. It was her favorite time of year. So many years ago, she’d met Alex at a football rally. He was standing next to the huge bonfire staring at the flames shooting toward the sky. He turned, bumped into her, apologized, and the rest was history. She fell in love that night. Her throat started to close on her, and tears burned behind her eyelids. Gizmo was at her side in a second. “It’s okay, Giz. I just had a flashback. I know you have them, too. It’s okay.”

  Twice around the block, Gizmo stayed glued to her side. If he saw a child, he ignored him or her; his job was to give comfort and aid to the woman next to him. A job he took seriously.

  Chapter Seven

  Gracie ran her fingers through her mop of hair, trying to smooth out what she called her bed hair, as she looked outside before opening the door for Gizmo, who was acting as frisky as a new pup. It was a bleak-looking day, overcast and gray. The wind was sharp as it whistled through the trees in her small backyard. A typical November day. She half wondered if there would be snowflakes before the end of the day. Possibly. But did she really care? She admitted that right now, right this second, she didn’t care about much except the dire predicament Perfect Match was in.

  She wondered again, and not for the first time, if she should have played it differently with Beth instead of downplaying the whole mess she was confronted with.

  What she needed was some busywork. She made coffee and scrambled eggs and bacon for Giz, who bolted through the door like a whirlwind the moment he picked up the scent of frying bacon. Gracie turned to look at the big dog and pointed to the door. “You know the drill, Giz. Lock the door.” The big shepherd trotted over to the door. His massive paw shot upward. Snick. Done. He barked once, sharp and shrill. “Okaaayyy,” Gracie said as she scratched at the sweet spot between his eyes. “One delicious breakfast coming right up, big guy.”

  Gracie nibbled on a slice of bacon that was so crisp it broke apart in her fingers. She scooped it up and dropped it in Gizmo’s plate. She had no appetite. She tried to recall when and what she’d eaten last but couldn’t remember. She continued to sip at the hot coffee, her thoughts everywhere.

  What was she supposed to do today other than go by Beth’s house to feed the fish? Go grocery shopping? She had to really be in the mood to go to Whole Foods. Another day, maybe. She’d been meaning to buy a new winter jacket and new boots. Today? She hated clothes shopping almost as much as she hated food shopping. Maybe she’d order something online or through a catalog.

  Or . . . or she could go to Andy and Artie’s office and offer her services. Something told her that wasn’t a good idea. Andy had called at the stroke of midnight to tell her they were pulling an all-nighter and would have something to report by morning. He also said things were not as grim as they had first thought. Meaning they went through all the computers’ hard drives that they had taken with them. Artie had chimed in from the background to say they’d alerted the firm’s private investigator, a guy named Jim Mack, and he was already on the job.

  She could head out to Jake Masters’s house and make a pest of herself. Or she could ignore Beth’s brother and visit with Henry, who would make short work of her since she knew diddly-squat about decorating. Henry didn’t like people looking over his shoulder or giving him advice. Scratch Jake Masters and Henry.

  Gracie was back to contemplating her belly button when the phone rang. The caller ID showed the name of Beth Masters. She said a breathless hello on the second ring. After listening for a moment, she laughed out loud. “Whoa! Whoa! Slow down and tell me all that again.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was squealing in pure rapture. Gracie finally figured out what her best friend in the whole world was saying, which was that John got the gig he’d auditioned for and would be working nights with the small band at a place called Rootie Tootie’s. And he also got the waiter job at a breakfast-lunch café where the tips were really good. The part that made Beth’s voice squeal was the band said she could sing the song she’d written about Jake’s lost love. That wouldn’t happen for a couple more weeks because she needed more lessons, but the promise was there, and that was all Beth cared about.

  When Beth finally calmed down she asked how things were going, but to Gracie’s ears she didn’t sound like she really cared one way or another how things were going.

  Gracie had no desire to rain on Beth’s parade. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Beth so happy. “I turned everything over to Artie and Andy, and they said things aren’t as bad as we originally thought. They have a handle on it.”

  “That’s good. That means it won’t be a burden on you. Good, good! Oh, Gracie, I never thought this would happen. I mean I hoped, but you know me. I’m actually going to get to sing with John. John is over the moon. The guys in the band are older and are supernice and they like him. What’s not to like when it comes to John Rossmon? You should see this place, Rootie Tootie’s. It is the place here in Nashville. And John and I just stepped into it. Someone must be watching over us.”

  Gracie bit down on her lower lip. She almost said, “Just hope it isn’t Luke Olsen.”

  Beth was back to squealing with happiness. Gracie just listened, her mind drifting to what she was going to do with her day. Maybe check her bank and brokerage statements. That was a chore that was long overdue and one she hated almost as much as she hated any kind of shopping, which brought up the question of what did she like to do?

  Gracie brought herself back to the moment as Beth finally wound down and promised to call her the next day after her and John’s first night at Rootie Tootie’s.

  Gracie poured herself a second cup of coffee as she realized she could stay in her
pajamas all day if she wanted to. She could simply dillydally. What a strange term, she thought, as she looked around her kitchen, which she rarely used. Oh, she sat in it in the mornings, had lunch on weekends, but she rarely cooked even though she had a freezer full of food. She looked outside. She couldn’t decide if it was a chicken soup or a pork chop kind of day. Why not both? she thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t like to cook—she did, and she was a good cook. At least according to Beth she was. Not only couldn’t Beth sing, but she couldn’t cook, either, so her endorsement really didn’t mean much. Cooking took up so much time. Prep time. Then you had to watch and stir, or at the very least keep your eye on whatever it was you were cooking but not stirring, so it didn’t burn or overcook.

  Back in the day, when she’d thought she would marry Alex, she had bought a large eight-quart pressure cooker that was still in the original box in her pantry.

  Gracie got up and meandered into the pantry and scanned the shelves for the pressure cooker. She hauled it down off the top shelf, opened it, took out the instructions, then washed the pot. Always read the instructions. Always. She did. Then she shrugged as she went to the freezer, unwrapped a whole chicken, rinsed it off, and dropped it into the pot. She added two containers of chicken broth and a bag of frozen vegetables and several sprigs of fresh parsley that weren’t so fresh anymore and looked yellow. Whatever. She dropped them in the pot, added some salt and some cracked pepper, then secured the lid, set the timer, and dinner was under way. She scratched the idea of the pork chops. She’d used up fifteen minutes. Maybe she should make a pie. A frozen one. Everyone needed dessert. She used up another ten minutes turning on the oven and unwrapping a frozen berry pie. She slid it into the oven, set the timer for sixty-five minutes. It wasn’t exactly making a pie but close enough.

  “This is bullshit!” Gracie bellowed at the top of her lungs. Gizmo looked up and waited to see what would follow his mistress’s exclamation. When nothing happened, he went back to chewing on his oversized bone.