Blame it on Cupid (5 page)

At least Charlene hadn't been the only soul under ninety in the place. Almost everyone looked gentle and kindly, but still, the more Merry saw, the more she wanted to hustle Charlene out of there and get her home.

“Charlene,” she repeated again to the caretaker, worried that he hadn't understood her because of the roaring television. “I have papers giving me permission to take her. Mr. Oxford should have called. The only reason she came here was because her great-grandmother was the only relative she had, until they found a guardian or—”

“Yes. Absolutely. We've been expecting you, like I keep saying. And she's right there.”

He pointed at the kid, the boy.

Merry shook her head. God. In the last ten days, she'd argued with her dad and family and friends, quit a job, upended her whole life, packed up, suffered a god-awful two-day drive, landed in a terrifyingly high-end suburb and then had to clean all last night. She wasn't frayed exactly. She just needed one thing to go smoothly. “No. I mean a girl—”

But finally, over all the noise, the caretaker yelled “Charlene” loud enough to catch the child's attention. When the child responded, Merry started to get it.

The skinny scrap of a kid—the one with the marine brush cut, the he-man fatigue shirt and forearm tattoo and combat boots—was actually
her
kid.

The child obediently put down the computer game, got up and hiked toward her. The caretaker ordered the kid to stick out a hand. The kid did. And though Merry desperately wanted to throw her arms around the child and hug her senseless, she found herself returning the polite, stiff handshake.

“Pleased to meet you,” Charlene said.

“I'm thrilled to finally meet you, too,” Merry said, but instead of the exuberantly warm, reassuring tone she had in mind, her voice came out faint as a whisper. The child looked like her dad, as far as the skinny build and small bones, the blond hair and blue eyes. But the all-guy outfit and the robotic walk and self-contained expression stunned Merry, and for damn sure, confused her.

This was Charlene?

The sweet young girl she'd bought sparkly bangles and pink socks for?

I
T WASN
'
T EVEN
ten o'clock, yet already the morning had managed to turn into one nonstop nightmare after another.

On the drive home, Merry discovered that Charlene was capable of speech. So far, though, the only words she'd freely offered were—“You're taking me home, right?”

And that was the last sign of animation she'd gotten out of the girl. They'd collected a suitcase of stuff, stashed it in the back of the Mini, had the caretaker sign a form releasing Charlene to her care, and started out.

After that, the kid locked herself in the passenger seat and sat there like an obedient machine. She wasn't rude. She just volunteered no smiles, no conversation. She sat with the literal posture of a marine—boots clomped on the ground, posture straight, eyes focused ahead.

Merry kept glancing over, trying to reconcile that stupid brush cut on the face of a little girl with big blue eyes and fragile features and a tiny rosebud of a mouth. It was like trying to pair peanut butter with pickles. The darn kid was tucked inside that seat belt as if she didn't have a fear or emotion or worry in her life—and for darn sure, wouldn't admit to one.

Merry felt so rattled she forgot what road signs she was supposed to be watching for. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd turned the wrong way out of the driveway from the get-go.

This silent business just couldn't go on. “Charlene—” she started to say.

“If you don't mind, I'd rather be called Charlie.”

“Okay. Charlie, then.” Merry smiled, thinking,
Oh God, could an eleven-year-old girl be suffering from gender issues?
Or transgender issues? Or whatever it was called when one gender wanted to be another? “Charlie, I don't know if anyone told you who I am.”

Well, that at least forced a little more dialogue. “Of course people told me. Mr. Oxford told me I couldn't go home until there was someone to take me. Then Mrs. Innes came to talk to me, and I heard that you were coming. So I could go home for a while.”

“More than for a while, Charlene—Charlie.” Cripes, she almost zoomed through a red light. And her hands on the wheel were slick as slides. She thought landing in suburbia was confounding, but this…she desperately wanted to help this little girl…only so far she hadn't even caught a glimpse of a little girl inside those big, scruffy combat boots.

“We don't know for how long,” Charlene said matter-of-factly. “Things may not work out. You don't know me.”

“And you don't know me. But we can both try fixing that, starting right now, okay?”

“Sure.” The child said “sure,” but her voice and posture said
I don't believe you. I don't believe anyone.

Merry fumbled. She'd always been so gregarious that she figured she could talk to a wall, but how to get a conversation going with a youngster who didn't seem to want to talk back? She said, “Maybe I can share something about myself, and then you can tell me stuff about you, all right?”

No answer.

“Okay! I'll start!” God, had she ever seen that street corner before? She turned right. “I love dark chocolate. Bubble baths. Can't stand peas. I never wear shoes if I can help it and tend to scream if I see a mouse….”

Okay, no response from the other side of the car, so trying to be cute wasn't working. She tried a different tack. “I grew up in Minnesota, mostly in the country around Rochester—where the Mayo Clinic is. My dad's an anesthesiologist. We never lived in a suburb like you do. We had a place on a lake, lots of woods. I have two sisters, but they're both more than ten years older than me, so growing up, it was pretty much just me and my dad….”

Merry thought it might help for the child to know their circumstances were the same, the daughter-and-dad-living-alone thing, but Charlene showed no response to that either. Merry considered shutting up, but surely the more the child knew about her, the faster she'd start to feeling comfortable, right? So she bumbled on.

“I can't say I was a great student. Mostly got Bs and Cs. Just couldn't seem to stick with the books. Did the cheerleading thing…” Definitely didn't add the prom-queen type of history. Not to a girl wearing army fatigues. “I did a couple years in college, but just didn't really have a career in mind….”

She tried to think, what to say, what not to say. “So I just started working. Worked as an assistant DJ for a radio station—that was fun. Worked in an insurance office—actually, that was kind of interesting, too. A way of helping people, hearing about their lives. Was a management trainee at Ann Taylor for a while….”

Finally, a voice piped up from the passenger seat. “You don't have any idea where you're going, do you?”

“Huh?” How many times had her dad asked her that in real life? Was she ever going to get a clue where she was going, find a job she wanted to stick with, a place she was willing to stay?

But apparently Charlene meant something else entirely. The child said patiently, “You keep driving in the wrong direction. I mean, I don't know where you're trying to go. But you're headed the wrong way if you're trying to drive toward home. My home.”

“We
are
headed toward your home. Um, I don't suppose you know the way, do you?”

“Sure.” Finally, some conversation. Precise, clear directions.

Well, hell. They were only seven or eight miles out of the way. God knew, Merry had done worse. “You
do
want to go home, right, Charle—Charlie?”

“Yes.”

There. The first sign of emotion she'd seen so far. An honest yes. A desperate yes. A yes that captured Merry's heart and made her determined to reach the child no matter what it took. And she reminded herself of the obvious. They were just getting started. No one ever promised her this was going to be easy, and she hadn't expected it to be.

“What was it like,” she asked, “being with your great-grandmother this last week?”

Charlene scrunched up her nose. “Is that a trick question?”

“No. You were staying there, so I figured—”

“When we first moved to Virginia, I was really little, but I can remember my dad saying that was why. I mean, why Virginia. Because his grandmother was here and there was no one to take care of her. Only that was ages and ages ago. She doesn't know who I am anymore. She doesn't know who anyone is. Everybody there was nice enough. I just really, really want to be home.”

“You missed some school?” Merry already knew the answer to that question, but Charlene had finally started talking; she wanted to keep it going.

“Yeah, I know. That's freaking everybody out. But I think that's pretty stupid. I only missed a week or so, because it was still Christmas vacation before that. And I was already getting all As. And I could keep up just as well from the books as from classes anyway.” Her face suddenly turned toward Merry. “I'll bet you're thinking that I'm going to be a big problem. But I won't be. I promise. If you just take me home, I won't bother you. I won't bother anybody. I don't need anybody to take care of me.”

“Charlene, I wasn't worried about that at all—”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie, then. I—”

“You're lost again, aren't you.” This time, the squirt didn't waste time phrasing the comment like a question.

Merry said, “Looks like. Feel like a burger or an ice-cream cone or anything?”

“No.”

“Do you, um, know which way to turn from here?”

Merry zealously obeyed the eleven-year-old's instructions. Left at the first light, then four blocks later and so on. It was a new experience, actually paying attention to directions, but it still didn't seem to win her any brownie points.

She rashly assumed it might help warm up the waters if she tried talking about Charles. “I knew your dad back when you were just a toddler, when you two lived in Minnesota. We were really good friends. I thought the world of him.”

“Come on.”

“Come on?” She heard the disbelief, but had no idea where it was coming from.

“If you were such good friends, how come I never heard your name before? How come we never saw you?”

“We were good friends at the time of your parents' divorce, Charlie. Maybe your dad didn't talk about it because it was such a painful time for him—and it wasn't something he wanted you to remember, either.”

Zip. Silence.

She pushed on. “But at the time, your dad talked about you all the time. How much he loved you. All his parenting ideas, how he wanted to raise you, how much he wanted you to be happy….”

When they finally pulled into the driveway, the kid bolted out of the car as if jet-propelled to get away from her. Merry hadn't felt this wrung out since she'd paid for a fitness trainer—a foolish move she'd never repeated.

The culmination of the impossible morning, though, was when she got inside the front door, and found Charlene standing in front of the tree. “What is this?”

“Now I realize it's past Christmas, but I knew you missed out on the holiday. I just thought it might help to try and make up.” Hell's bells, back in Minnesota when she'd thought of this, the idea had seemed brilliant. Only now Merry realized the kid could think she was trying to buy her. Or trying to imply that a bunch of silly presents could make up for her dad's death. How could a nice intention turn out so rotten wrong?

And Charlene kept looking at her as if she were from another planet. “That's real nice of you,” she said politely. “But…it's pink.”

“I know, I know. It was the only tree I could find this late after Christmas,” she lied.

“That's okay,” she said.

But obviously nothing was okay. The kid sat down by the presents as if waiting for a shot at the dentist's. She gingerly opened each gift and produced an obligatory “thank you” even when she didn't have a clue what the item was.

Merry knew—
knew—
this was going all wrong, yet it was like changing your mind about a permanent in the middle of a hairdresser appointment. It was just too late, once they got that chemical going.

Charlie wasn't trying to be difficult. She was so clearly trying to do anything Merry asked her, anything Merry wanted, whatever it took to be home. But everything Merry had chosen, from the Juicy Couture purse with the rabbit's foot, to the tweed hat with the bumblebee pin, to the spangly beads, to the Ashton Kutcher poster…oh, God. Each thing was worse than the last.

The rock-bottom worst, though, were the pink cashmere socks with the butterfly motif.

“Wow,”
Charlie said. The word hung in the air like a cooking odor.

When it was over, Merry perked up—because, hey, there was no place to go from rock-bottom but up, right? How could anything more ghastly happen that day?

 

G
OD KNEW
,
HE LOVED
his job, but as Jack pulled into the driveway, he was hungrier than a bear in spring.

No one had twisted his arm to skip lunch or work late. He just forgot the time. When people asked him what he did, he always responded “desk jockey” because that answer worked like a charm. No one ever asked him further questions. They just assumed he was some kind of bureaucrat—no surprise, since there were a lot of white-collar pencil pushers running around Langley and Arlington.

The label had an element of truth besides. Once he “retired” from the navy—Special Ops—he'd settled into a non-dangerous job. Truth to tell, he thought he made more of a difference now than when he'd fought for his country with a weapon in his hand, but whatever. He loved it.

Right now, though, he was conscious that he'd completely forgotten the clock, and he had one of those stomachs. The kind that went with a six-one, hundred-and-ninety-two-pound man. The kind that needed filling or he got real, real cranky.

Whistling up a storm, he took the porch steps two at a time, grabbed the mail, and shucked off his shoes inside the door. He flipped on lights, shocked to discover no one had done the laundry or picked up after him this morning. Of course, he had Hire-A-Wife coming on Monday, but somehow it always seemed a surprise, what complete chaos the house could turn into before they got here.

After the divorce, he'd changed some things in the house—like redoing the kitchen in chalk and stone. Maybe it wasn't “decorating” on a woman's terms, but smooth surfaces sure seemed easier to clean up. Still whistling, he flipped on the kitchen light and opened the freezer. Ages ago, he figured he needed both a fridge and freezer in the kitchen, because almost everything he ate came out of the freezer. Today that meant lasagna, garlic bread, and a cherry-berry pie with—he checked—half a container of Cool Whip to put on top.

Of course, it all had to be cooked—but that just meant throwing it all in the oven—except for the Cool Whip. Baking Cool Whip was not a good idea. It was the kind of lesson a guy only had to learn once. He got it all going, then scrounged around for some cashews to stave off imminent starvation. He punched on the kitchen TV and had just popped the lid on a soda—hadn't had a single bite of food or sip yet, not even one!—when he saw her.