The Matchmaker's Mark (5 page)

Amy left the stage, found a seat near the center of the theater and settled in to watch. It stung her pride to see how well Maeve and the group progressed without her. Maybe she was losing her touch. She used to relate so very well to her students, helping them appreciate literature and reclaim their inherent creativity.

She tapped a finger on her coffee cup, wondering if Maeve had a point about loosening up and enjoying the scenery. Trying to see with a more fluttery-feminine view, she watched a few young men give a passable contemporary portrayal of the street fight, to the jeers and applause of the class. They weren't ready for Summer stock, but she admired the enthusiasm.

And there she was right back in professor mode.

She stared into her coffee. Whatever love potion had landed in Maeve's cup sure hadn't tainted hers. She tried to be disappointed, but Maeve had really scared her with the bizarre attack of hormones.

Amy gave up trying to solve the riddles of the morning and tuned back into the class on stage. Maeve was coaching the next group, so Amy pulled out the letter from her aunt. As always the handwriting was smooth and elegant. Amy smiled, picturing the ever-fashionable Camille as she read:

My Darling Amy,

The world was once filled with diverse and talented folk. Different often as night and day, they kept to their own and when not warring, they kept the peace. But times changed, civilizations rose and fell, and tolerance faded.

Amazing lives became obscure history and history morphed into impossible myths. Myths who live among the 'civilized' and 'intelligent' peoples who populate the world we know today.

The Matchmaker is one such myth. A living, breathing impossibility. A human female who is so much more, gifted with the ability to affect the hearts of men (and women). Always a woman of Campbell blood, through the generations the Matchmaker has prevented wars, united clans, and saved more than one floundering race.

Of course there have been a few mistakes along the way…no one can claim a perfect record. Despite what you may hear in the years to come, always remember there are two sides to every story – three sides if it's a love story.

Intelligent people know myths are rooted in truth. And those diverse and talented folk I mentioned, well, most of them will have stories and myths of their own about the Matchmaker. All of them will have an agenda.

Your day will come, Amy. Cherish your true friends and most of all, my darling, forever guard your heart.

All my love,

Aunt Camille

p.s. I do hope this letter finds you well and happy in your work. You should expect a package shortly. You can trust the messenger with any and all concerns. I certainly have always done so.

Amy smiled, tracing the words with her fingertip. It had been years since her aunt had written this kind of letter, though it had once been their own special brand of communication. A Matchmaker myth within their own family. How intriguing. She'd start the research this afternoon so she could craft a suitable reply. Feeling encouraged and more energized than she had in a long while, she tucked away the whimsical letter and forced her attention to the actors on stage. She could hardly feel good about the generous paycheck if she didn't give the class any of her attention.

As two students prepared to deliver their perspective on the balcony scene, Amy realized it had been over a year since she'd seen Aunt Camille – last Christmas – and they hadn't spoken by phone since she'd acquired Guinness.

Easy enough to fix that. She jotted a note to herself to call Camille, and another note to have her assistant make the necessary travel arrangements once she had a destination. Camille was forever flitting from place to place. It was part of the mystique of owning a high-powered consulting firm and an enviable trait unique to her eccentric aunt.

But she could never be so brave and free as Camille. She needed roots, routine, stability. A life where a winter visit to Charleston was a big adventure surely looked boring to an outsider, but Amy knew it was perfect for her.

Leave the bold flirtations and jetsetting to women like Maeve and Camille who could handle it. Amy had long ago concluded she wasn't destined to join their ranks.

Oh, she'd fantasized and even taken a tiny, daring couple of steps outside her comfort zone. Those forays hadn't ended well, but she'd learned to be content with herself. She was the approachable girl next door, the average everything sort of woman that rugged, eye candy sort of men used to get the introduction to the svelte, glamorous women like Camille and Maeve.

Maybe it was the echo of Camille's letter, maybe it was the Goth girl mixing a little Rapunzel with her Juliet, but Amy found herself wishing she was more like her aunt or even Maeve with her inimitable grace, delicate features, and Southern Belle charm. They knew how to work a room and how to own a moment. After so many years with their good example, Amy wondered how she could still be so...bland.

She sighed. Even her name was another layer of blah beside the elegant monikers of Camille and Maeve.

It had been the solitary goal of her childhood to grow into the rare beauty of her aunt. Hair dark and straight as night, flawless alabaster skin, and nearly electric blue eyes.

She tried to imagine herself behaving like Camille when she saw a man hovering stage left, arms crossed, staring out at the seats. From this distance all she could tell was that he was taller than average with broad shoulders and dark hair. Just for the mental gymnastics, she envisioned herself going after him, but with a little less intensity than Maeve exhibited this morning. She pictured herself striding forward, all smiles and grace. She'd make a witty comment about the pair on stage, and they would glide out to an intimate lunch where they flirted wildly and exchanged names and numbers.

She clapped a hand to her mouth to smother the burst of laughter.

Reading the stranger's body language, knowing he was looking for someone, she knew he wasn't watching her. It was the simple law of attraction and not entirely because she was a classic case of too much plain with a smidge of plump. Her grandma called her lovely, but Amy knew that referred to her personality. She'd never have the allure of her aunt and she held no hope of developing a resemblance to her streamlined, athletic greyhound.

No, sitting in the middle row of the center section of the dark theater, she was effectively invisible. If Camille sat here, there would be no doubt every man in a three block radius would be compelled to stare, good lighting or bad. But that wasn't the point.

Goth Juliet wrapped her scene to the sincere applause of the group and Amy turned her thoughts to what Camille would say really mattered: her successes. She'd achieved her first career goals ahead of schedule despite her soft edges, fiery hair with a tendency for frizz, and an abundance of freckles.

While the students offered constructive criticism, Amy made her way to the stage.

Maeve was praising fresh viewpoints and moderating with a deft touch when Amy joined them and noticed a few students gloating over those who'd struggled with the acting. "Well done, everyone. We won't meet tomorrow morning." This was met with cheers and she smiled sweetly, even as she noticed she was losing their attention. Clearing her throat, she continued. "I want a three page essay with a personal perspective on any theme of this play other than the romance. Due tomorrow afternoon."

The students dispersed with groans and grumbles, sounds that always surprised her when uttered by adults hoping for good grades.

"Well that was inspired," Maeve said.

"I do have my moments."

"What are we doing with our morning off?"

She smiled. "Anything we want until two o'clock tomorrow."

Heavy boot heels thudding across the stage drew Amy's attention.

"Pardon me, ladies." It was the same man Amy had used in her failed fantasy. His voice was compelling and gentle, but there was a hard glint in his pale blue eyes. "I'm Grant Barclay."

"I don't believe we've met." Maeve moved forward, hand extended, smile heating up.

Amy stepped aside, giving them room, but noting that love-sick look in her friend's eyes, she had no intention of leaving Maeve alone.

"The pleasure is all mine." Mr. Barclay raised Maeve's outstretched hand to his lips and had to tug his own hand away when she clung. "I know your reputation on campus, Professor King, but not your partner's."

He scrutinized Amy as if he could see right through her. She wanted to take a step back. Pride kept her feet rooted in place.

"Amy's a guest professor for the next few months," Maeve gushed. "Professor Campbell, Mr. Barclay." She wiggled her eyebrows at Amy.

"Ah. Professor Amy
Campbell
." The way he said her name, as if it had germs, bothered her. "It seems I am indeed here for you, Professor."

Camille's letter flitted through her mind while Maeve whispered something about hot men walking straight out of books and Amy felt the blush staining her cheeks. It wasn't as if Mr. Barclay couldn't hear her. "How odd, since we've just met."

He narrowed his eyes and she felt a sudden lack of oxygen and an odd buzzing sound in her ears.

"Let's just say I'm a fan of your work."

"All right." Not all right! What work? Aside from a few published articles, she'd never done anything more than teach collegiate English classes. This wasn't a man she would've overlooked even in a packed lecture hall.

"Do you have another class scheduled?"

She shook her head, still trying to make things fit together. Power radiated from him and while she wasn't precisely afraid, all her instincts were on red alert. "We can talk on the way to the office." There. She'd managed to sound composed. Planning to deal with him quickly, she was already looking forward to her walk with Guinness.

"Of course." He bowed and flourished as the stage lights blinked off.

Amy ordered herself to remain calm. The exit signs were bright enough to reach the door without incident. Mr. Barclay gave every sign of being an actor, not a threat, and Maeve was right here, though she was clearly losing the battle against another hormone hurricane. Was she drooling?

No matter. Amy could handle this – whatever this was. Serial killers didn't usually escort their victims into a more public arena, did they?

Outside, in the bright light of mid day, among the bustle of business people taking lunch and tourists killing the hours before embarking on a cruise, Mr. Barclay didn't look or feel any less threatening. He didn't scowl or glower or threaten, but Amy felt him at her shoulder like her own personal storm cloud.

To get a handle on her runaway imagination, she cataloged every detail. The name he gave, his height and coloring, the careless stride, and the classic manners. The dark sweater and faded black jeans. Black jeans? Didn't those go out a decade or so ago? She jerked her attention to more important points. The police would want better details if this went downhill.

Pessimism or imagination, she couldn't shake the feeling that she should be prepared to dial 9-1-1.

Beside her, Maeve's wide-eyed gaze remained fixed on the dark Mr. Barclay. It was a small relief from her chasing every male in sight.

"This is an honor," he said as they turned the corner to the admin building.

Amy didn't know how to reply.

"I thought your class went well."

"Oh, thank you," Maeve gushed, oblivious to Mr. Barclay's annoyed glance.

"Yes, thank you," Amy echoed, wishing she felt more like a person and less like a specimen under his microscope. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she didn't like this guy. Whatever he wanted with her, Amy needed to get Maeve away first. "You said you were here for me?" She led the way through the lobby and up the wide steps. It was the long way to Maeve's office, but it guaranteed they'd pass more than one security camera.

He nodded as his lips hitched into a sardonic half-smile. "Your aunt sent me."

His timing was too perfect. Yesterday she'd never have credited his claim, but today she had a new letter from Camille in her purse. She still found it an unthinkable notion that someone so dire being would be a trusted friend of her aunt.

Aloof and polite and dire. What a combination. A combination working all too well on Maeve. This guy might be GQ-cover worthy, but there was a hefty dose of creepy in the mix.

"You've certainly come a long way," she said, trying to get into the spirit of hospitality Maeve claimed made Charleston famous.

All business, Amy opened the office door, motioning Mr. Barclay inside. She stopped Maeve on the threshold. "Maeve?" She repeated her friend's name and pinched her arm before Maeve pulled her eyes away from the stranger.

"What?"

"Can you brew a fresh pot of coffee, please?"

"What? Oh, sure." She grinned and waved her fingers at Mr. Barclay. "Be right back."

Amy closed the door, turning the lock quietly so Maeve couldn't get back in. She skirted around the crush of furniture, putting the desk between her and the stranger.