Heartstrings and Diamond Rings (2 page)

Unbelievable.

She remembered movies where everything on earth went wrong for the heroine, and then to seal the experience, she’d get rained on.
Overkill
, Alison had always thought.
That never really happens.

Yeah. Right.

When the train came several minutes later, she sniffed a little, dried her eyes with her fingertips, boarded a car, and plopped down on a seat. Evidently she looked really pitiful, because even the insane homeless people shied away from her.

Under normal circumstances, she’d walk home the few blocks from the 15th Street station, but she didn’t relish the thought of doing it in the rain. She grabbed her phone, called Heather, and asked her to pick her up. Since Alison wasn’t exactly radiating the excitement of a newly engaged woman, Heather started to worry, but Alison told her she’d fill her in when she got there. Just last week, Heather and her husband, Tony, had returned from celebrating their second anniversary in Las Vegas. Alison tried not to be pea green with envy about that, but it was a hard-won battle.

You got the last good one, Heather. Hang on to him.

Alison thunked her head against the window, her thoughts a jumbled mess. This couldn’t have happened. It just couldn’t have. How had all her marriage dreams morphed into a scenario only a pornographer could love?

Easy answer. Because she was a fool.

Randy had never given her any indication that he was Mr. Wonderful. She’d just chosen to hope that maybe he was. He was merely a clueless degenerate who’d taken a wrong turn and wandered into her life. She, on the other hand, should have pulled off those damned rose-colored glasses the moment she’d met him and smashed them into a million pieces.

As the train went underground and picked up speed, whizzing through the tunnel toward Cityplace, Alison thought about how other women were getting married and having families right and left. What was wrong with her?

Okay, so she hadn’t exactly been a genius when it came to picking the right men. First there had been Tim Chapman. A few months in, she’d woken up one night to find him licking her toes. That she might have been able to overlook, but when he wanted her to wear six-inch heels in the bedroom and carry a whip, she decided enough was enough. Then there were the two years she’d wasted on Richard Bodecker, who turned out to be gay. Alison might have realized it sooner, but since he owned a Harley dealership and spit a lot, she’d stayed in denial even longer than Richard himself.

And then there was Michael Pagliano, who scratched his balls in public. Just stood there in a movie line or wherever and scratched away, as if nobody were watching. But since Alison had been three months away from her thirtieth birthday and feeling a little desperate, she’d decided to overlook it. Then he took her to a five-star restaurant, which was good, and blew his nose on a cloth napkin, which wasn’t. It was then Alison decided she couldn’t close her eyes to his downside any longer.

Then came Randy.

So there they were. The men she’d been able to attract over the years. A clueless degenerate, a foot fetishist, a gay biker, and a ball-scratching nose blower. She wasn’t dumb enough to think all men were rotten, but she was beginning to believe she was a magnet for the ones who were.

Thirty minutes later at the 15th Street station, the pouring rain had lightened into a steady drizzle. Heather was there to meet her, umbrella in hand. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a white tank top, and the damp evening made her curly brown hair even curlier than usual.

“Uh-oh,” Heather said as Alison ducked under her umbrella with her. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“If eight months of my life going down the tubes is bad, then yes. It’s bad.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Let’s see. The
Reader’s Digest
version. Randy’s an asshole, and I’m an idiot.”

Heather winced. “Get in the car. Then I want to hear everything.”

Once they were inside the car, Alison told Heather the whole story, and Heather’s eyes grew wide.

“He wanted a threesome? With Bonnie?” She paused. “Well, okay. If a guy’s a big enough jerk to want a threesome, of course it would be with Bonnie.”

Tears welled in Alison’s eyes, and she hated it. Randy was
not
worth it.

“Oh, hon,” Heather said. “I know you had such high hopes. I’m so sorry this happened.”

“No. Don’t be sorry. What he did tonight saved me from wasting even more time on him.”

“That’s true. But it doesn’t stop it from hurting.”

And of course that made Alison cry even more, and Heather gave her a hug. “Randy’s an idiot,” she murmured, patting Alison on the back. “He didn’t deserve you.”

Alison nodded, even though she really didn’t feel like such a great catch right about now.

“You want me to go beat him up for you?” Heather said. “He’s bigger than I am, but I’m
way
more pissed.”

“Would you? That would be
wonderful
.” Then she sighed. “Nice thought, but maybe you’d better not. This night is bad enough already. I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail.” She eased away from Heather and dropped her head back against the headrest, feeling miserable. “I’m a dating disaster. I’m done with men.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am. I’m going to become a nun.”

“You’re not Catholic.”

She rolled her head around to look at Heather. “I could adapt. I’m not too fond of kneeling, but I do like wine. Trade-offs, you know?”

“What about confession? That won’t exactly be a walk in the park for you.”

“Yeah, maybe the first one will be a little lengthy. But once I purge the past ten years or so, the next ones will be a breeze. I mean, come on. After I’m a nun, what could I possibly have to own up to?”

“Oh, right. Like the moment a cute priest walks by, you won’t be lusting in your heart?”

Alison sighed. “That’s my problem, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter if he’s Mr. Right or not. I’ll find a way to cram that square peg into that round hole or die trying. God, Heather. What’s
wrong
with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you. Randy’s the one with the problem.”

“But what if I end up with somebody even worse than Randy because I’m so desperate to get married that I’ll settle for anyone?”

“You would have figured Randy out sooner or later, even if he hadn’t…you know. Gone all pervert on you. Just be glad you’re rid of him.”

“And who am I supposed to put in his place?”

“Do you have to figure that out now?”

“Sometime before I’m eighty would be nice.”

“You have fifty years before you’re eighty.”

And Alison knew what those fifty years were going to be like. A few years would pass. Then a few decades. And before she knew it, she’d be staring at some hairy‑eared octogenarian over their morning oatmeal at the home and wondering how long it might take to get him to pop the question.

“It’s not like you’ve exhausted every possibility out there,” Heather said. “You just haven’t met the right guy yet. Give it some more time.”

“But I’ve already tried everything! Singles bars. Speed dating. Video dating. Match dot com. E-Harmony. I’ve even considered setting fire to my own condo to try to meet a cute firefighter.”

“Now there’s an approach I wouldn’t have thought of.”

“Yeah, but it’d be just my luck that he’d be a firefighter who wore women’s underwear or had a wife he wasn’t telling me about.” She sighed. “Do you understand how much I suck at picking out men?”

“Have you thought about letting somebody else pick one out for you?”

“No,” Alison said with a wave of her hand. “No way. I’ve had enough bad blind dates to last me a lifetime.”

“I’m not talking about letting your Aunt Brenda fix you up. That was a disaster.”

Alison cringed at the memory. She’d never met a man before who grew marijuana in the backseat of his car.

“I’m talking about a professional,” Heather said.

“Huh?”

“A matchmaker.”

“Matchmaker? You mean, like one person who decides who you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with?” Alison screwed up her face. “Sorry. That’s just weird.”

“No, really. I work with a woman who went to this matchmaker in downtown Plano, and she set her up with a really great guy. She was engaged four months later and married within the year.”

Just the words “engaged” and “married” in the same sentence made Alison’s heart go pitty-pat. But she knew the truth. Nothing was ever that simple.

“Pardon my skepticism, but what’s this friend of yours like? Tall? Skinny? Blonde? Ex‑cheerleader? Trust fund?”

“Short, a little overweight, brown hair, ex-debate team, good job.”

Now Alison was listening. Minus the debate team thing, Heather could be describing her.

Alison pulled out her phone. “What’s this matchmaker’s name?”

“Uh…I can’t remember. Rosie…Roxanne…something like that.”

Alison Googled “matchmaker” and “Plano.”

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Did you know there’s a matchmaking service dedicated to finding you somebody to cheat with?”

“You’re kidding.”

“I guess that one’s for later. Before I can cheat on a man, first I have to find a man.” She flipped to another site. “And here’s one called Sugar Daddies. They match rich old men with hot young women.”

“How young?”

“Judging from these photos, barely legal.” Alison poked the screen. “I’m still not seeing…wait. Rochelle Scott? Matchmaking by Rochelle?”

“Yeah. I think that’s it.”

“Hmm. Says she’s been in business for thirty-five years. Nobody stays in business that long if they’re not successful, right?”

“Oh, she’s successful, if you judge by what she charges.”

“How much are we talking?”

“That’s the downside. She charges fifteen hundred dollars for five introductions.”

Alison winced. Three hundred dollars per man?

Then she thought about the thousand dollars she’d once paid to spend a week at a singles resort in Florida. Instead of coming back with a man, she’d returned with a horrible sunburn and so many mosquito bites she looked like flesh-colored bubble wrap. She wasn’t one to throw money around indiscriminately, but if the woman could actually deliver, it might be worth it.

She looked back at her phone and clicked through the website. “Listen to this,” she said, reading from the woman’s bio. “Rochelle Scott has a degree in psychology. She’s been matchmaking for thirty-five years. Out of more than three hundred marriages, there have been only sixteen divorces.” She looked at Heather. “That blows the national average out of the water. I’m going over there Monday.”

Heather’s eyebrows shot up. “Now, wait a minute. I just threw that out there as something to think about. You need to let the sting of tonight wear off a little before you hop right back out there.”

“Nope. I’m thirty and alone, and it’s bad. I imagine forty and alone is even worse.”

“Doing anything on the rebound is usually a mistake. Forget about it for tonight. Come up to my place. Tony’s working late at the bar, so we can trash talk men all we want to.”

“Right. You have nothing to gripe about where Tony’s concerned.”

“Yeah? That’s what you think. He still hasn’t grasped the concept that dirty underwear goes in the hamper and that onion rings aren’t health food. And don’t get me started on his collection of
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit editions. You’d think they were the Dead Sea Scrolls the way he—”

“Heather,” Alison said, “right about now, I’d kill for a messy guy eating onion rings while he’s staring at hot women in bikinis. Particularly if he looked like Tony.” Her eyes teared up again, and she hated it. “You know, when we were both single, it wasn’t so bad. But now…now you have Tony, and…” She sniffed a little. “I’m happy for you, Heather. I really am. But I’m really starting to feel like the odd woman out.” She let out a painful sigh. “It sucks to be me.”

“Don’t you say that,” Heather told her. “Don’t you
dare
say that. You already have a good life. You have a great job. A nice place to live. Good friends. Money in the bank. And you’re a good person who does nice things for other people. So it does
not
suck to be you.”

Alison sighed again. “Is it really so wrong to want the last piece of the puzzle?”

“No. Of course not. I know how much you want to get married. I’m just saying that maybe you need to give the husband hunt a rest for a while.”

“I would, except for that damned clock ticking inside my head.”

Heather smiled. “He’s out there, you know.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Right. Your knight in shining armor. Your forever guy. You just have to be patient. One day, when you least expect it—”

“Don’t try to cheer me up. I’d rather wallow in my misery.”

“No problem there. I have a really nice bottle of vodka I’ve been saving for an occasion like this.”

“Will you keep me from doing something dumb if I drink too much? And yes, I’m referring to the state fair incident.”

“Of course. And did I mention I also have a gallon of Blue Bell Cookies ’n Cream?”

“Perfect. That’s why I can’t find a man, you know. My hips aren’t big enough.”

Heather started the car and drove the few blocks to the condo complex where they both lived. Alison ran up the stairs to her place to get out of the big‑butt dress. As she stepped inside, Lucy, Ethel, and Ricky galloped into the living room, leaped onto her Queen Anne chair, and started in with a whiny chorus of meows as if she’d been lost at sea for thirty years and had finally been rescued.

She turned her back to them and looked over her shoulder. “So what do you guys think? Does this dress make my butt look big?”

More meows. In her state of mind right then, Alison took that as a unanimous
yes
.

She grabbed cat food from the pantry. The cats did their usual serpentine around her ankles, then played musical bowls as she was dumping food into them. Lucy had always been the troublemaker, clawing her way straight up the drapes, then pouncing on Ricky’s head as he strolled by. He’d spit at her, she’d whack him with her paw, and then five minutes later they’d be curled up on the sofa in a wad of tabby cat nirvana. Ethel stayed out of the fray most of the time by plunking her hefty self on top of the bookcase in the living room, refusing to get involved in her brother’s and sister’s love-hate relationship.