The Perfect Match (11 page)

It would be all right, he told himself, ignoring that flash of pain in his chest. It wasn’t like he was doing any good here, anyway.

The bleat of his cell phone startled him. He looked at the screen. “Charlie?” It was a first, the boy calling him.

“Can you come get me?” The words were muttered, barely audible over the background din.

Tom paused. “Yeah. Of course. Where are you?”

Charlie mumbled an address and hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Tom turned onto a grungy street in Bryer, two towns over from Manningsport. His heart pulled the second he saw Charlie, a small, dark smudge sitting on the curb.

“Hey,” Tom said, rolling down the window. “Hop in.”

Charlie did, walking faster than his usual shuffle. He slumped in the seat.

“Buckle up, m—”

“Just get out of here,” Charlie said, pulling the seat belt across him.

Tom obeyed. It was hard to tell in the dark, but by Charlie’s careful breathing, he thought the boy might be crying. A block down from where Charlie had been waiting, people streamed and yelled from the porch of a dilapidated two-family house. Most were wearing similar clothes to Charlie’s—black, torn, adorned with chains and metal. A thunking bass rhythm slammed into the car, making it reverberate.

Charlie sat low in the seat, looking at his lap.

When they left the neighborhood, Tom glanced over. “Bad time?”

Charlie shrugged. There was a trickle of blood coming from his ear, where the safety pin pierced the cartilage, and for a second, Tom’s vision flashed red. He turned his eyes back to the road and loosened his death grip on the steering wheel.

“Did someone hurt you, mate?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“Your ear’s bleeding.”

Charlie reached up and touched it. “It got caught.”

Bullshit. Someone had roughed up his little boy. Again, he had to force his hands to relax. “Want to stay at my place tonight?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Okay.” Charlie looked out his window, his face away from Tom. “Don’t tell my grandparents the party was so...whatever. They’ll freak.”

“Right. I’ll call them when we get home and let them know you’re with me.”

When they got to Tom’s, Charlie headed straight upstairs. “Do you need anything?” Tom asked.

“No.”

“Make sure you clean that cut, all right? There’s hydrogen peroxide in the cabinet.” He nodded toward the loo.

“Okay.” Much to his surprise, Charlie turned and almost managed to make eye contact. “Thanks,” he mumbled to the region of Tom’s collarbone.

Despite the black eye makeup and piercings, Charlie’s face was still that of a little boy, his skin unroughened by beard, his jawline still soft, reminding Tom of the kid who’d never run out of things to talk about at bedtime.

“You’re welcome,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Any time.”

Then Charlie closed the door, and Tom felt a rush of love so deep and fast and helpless that it felt like he’d been punched in the chest.

What kind of a gobshite picked on a kid who still didn’t weigh a hundred pounds? And just who would Charlie have called tonight if Tom went back to England?

No matter what it took, he was staying.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
T
4:
45
ON
Friday afternoon, Honor was contemplating another cruise through eCommitment or OnYourOwn.com and wondering if four was too many times to see the latest Bond movie. But Dad and Mrs. Johnson had an in-house date, since Mrs. J. thought it was too soon to go out in public, so Honor wanted to make herself scarce. Because, my God! What if an in-house date meant she had to overhear something? Then she and Spike would have to kill themselves.

However, once again making the trek to the theater and power-eating popcorn and Sour Patch Kids (the ugly face of addiction...or the ugly hips, as the case may be) held little appeal, even if she could look at Bond, James Bond, for two hours. Plus, the low-bellied clouds looked like they were about to birth some snow. The lake was black from here, and the grapevines were dark and twisted. The air was raw with cold.

Maybe she’d just stay here and work, despite her pledge to be different. The Black and White Ball wasn’t far off, and it was Honor’s pet project of all the charity events Blue Heron participated in or hosted. The ball raised money for the parks and recreation services in town. In years past, the ball proceeds had funded a new playground, replacing the rusting equipment Honor herself had played on, a skateboard park and the municipal pool.

This year, the funds would go toward making a hiking and bike trail through some of Ellis Farm. Everyone could use it, of course, not just kids, but it was special to Honor’s heart. Manningsport, while as beautiful a town as America made, had pockets of need. Kids who grew up in the squat brick houses at the edge of town, or the trailer park, didn’t have what Honor had growing up—woods and fields to romp in. Orchards and sledding hills, a shallow pond for skating. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned buying a small herd of Scottish cattle for the 4-H program, a flock of chickens, maybe a few rescued horses. The land would be for those kids, so that they could enjoy the riches of the area, get away from their televisions and Nintendos and feel the connection to the land the way she did.

The ball would be held in the Barn at Blue Heron, the space that Faith had converted last fall—once a crumbling stone barn, now a stunning, bright space overlooking the rest of the vineyard. Her sister had quite a talent. And red hair. And the cutie cop.

Okay, none of that. She ran her hand over her own hair. She had good hair now, too. The rude Brit had been right: it had been a little sister-wife.

So yes. While Jessica Dunn and Ned were doing just fine, the Black and White Ball was Honor’s. And lists needed to be made. Or remade. Or color-coded.

Just then, her phone rang, making Spike leap up from her beauty rest and bark four times. Honor lunged for the phone before Jessica could answer it. “Honor Holland,” she said, using her smooth, Blue Heron voice.

“It’s your father speaking,” Dad said. “Reminding you that you have a life and need to leave the office.”

“Dad, no one leaves work at five.”

“Get out. Go to O’Rourke’s with one of your friends.”

Honor winced. Unluckily, no one in town had died since the catfight...no one had even been arrested or had sex in a public place (except maybe Pru and Carl, though they hadn’t been caught). In other words, she was still the hot gossip. O’Rourke’s was out.

“And, um, don’t be home before ten,” Dad added, his voice sheepish.

“Why? Wait, scratch that, I don’t want to know.” Honor sighed. “Okay. Maybe I’ll swing by Pru’s and stay over.”

“Oh, honey, that’d be
great.
”

“Dad, please.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just...well, you do what you want, Petunia. Just give me a call if you do decide to come home. Let the phone ring twice. That’ll be our code.”

“Got it. Code, as in don’t you dare be doing anything in the living room that would cause emotional scars for your spinster daughter.”

“You’re not a spinster. Go out. Have fun. Meet some young people.”

“I hate young people.” She paused. “Can I at least come home to change and feed my dog?”

“Of course. Just, um, make it quick, okay? Oops, I have to go. Mrs. Johnson’s glaring at me. Love you!”

“You should probably start calling her by her first name,” Honor said, but her father had already hung up. She sighed. It’d be nice to be able to tell her sisters about this (it might be fatal to Jack), but Mrs. Johnson had made her swear not to tell yet.

Honor scooped up Spike and kissed the dog’s little head, getting a joyful snuzzle in return. “Let’s run away, just us two,” she said. Spike wagged in agreement.

Young people and friends. Outside of her relatives, no one leaped to mind. Maybe Jack would want to watch
Top Ten Tumors,
a show dear to both their hearts. She could go to Rushing Creek and talk about artificial hips, or she could go to her grandparents’ house and do the same thing. Maybe get rid of some of their stuff. Help Goggy clean out the pantry, which held canned goods from the 1980s.

A knock came on her door frame. “Hey. Sorry to interrupt,” Jessica Dunn said. “I took a whack at the press release for the tourism magazine.”

“Great! Let’s take a look.” Delegation, delegation. It was supposed to be a good thing.

Jessica handed her the paper. “I also posted a picture of the cask room on Facebook and Twitter and asked everyone what wine was in their fridge. And I made a list of some potential blog topics for you, too. Oh, and here’s your calendar for next week.”

“Thanks,” Honor said, her heart sinking a little.

Jessica had worked here for two weeks now, and Honor was a little intimidated by how terrifyingly efficient she was. Didn’t smile much, did everything from empty the trash to bring Honor coffee to write copy (pretty damn well, too).

Jess stood there a minute as Honor read what she’d done. It was friendly, informative and seemed to be missing all of one comma. Honor looked up. Jess was frowning.

Honor knew this was her first job outside of waitressing; the girl (woman) had acknowledged that on her first day. So far, she’d been quiet, hardworking and a little tense, almost as if she was worried she’d be fired. It was kind of endearing. Faith had mentioned that she’d always been a little scared of Jessica Dunn; Honor didn’t see why.

“This is great,” she said. “I almost can’t remember what I did before you came.”
You worked sixteen hours a day,
the eggs told her.

Jessica smiled a little. “Thank you.”

“Hey, Jess, do you want to get a drink? Since it’s time to go?”

“Shoot, I can’t. I have to work. I’m on at Hugo’s.”

“Right.” Crap. “Another time, I hope.”

“I’d really like to. I just...I still need the other job. Student loans, you know?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. Maybe that was inappropriate. Maybe Jessica didn’t want to have a drink with her boss.

“I could do Tuesday,” Jess offered.

The relief was a little pathetic. “Great. Sure, Tuesday, then.”

Just then the phone rang; they both lunged, but Honor won again. “Blue Heron, Honor Holland speaking.”

“Hey, On, it’s Brogan.”

She felt the blood drain to her feet. Since the catfight (cringe), she hadn’t actually spoken to him, aside from a few very superficial and cheery emails. “Hi there, Brogan!” she said. Her voice sounded weird. “How are you?” Better.

“I’m good, I’m good. How about yourself?”

“I’m really great. So good. Truly. I’m excellent!” Oh, Lordy. Jess gave her a sympathetic look and slipped away to her desk. “So, what’s up?”

Brogan paused. “You think you could meet me for dinner tonight? Or a drink?” he asked. Honor grimaced hugely. “Just you and me,” he added.

I’d rather swallow a live eel, Brogan
. “Oh, shoot, hang on a second, I have another call,” she lied. She pushed the hold button. “Jess? You still there?”

Her assistant reappeared. “Yes?”

“I’m sure you heard about my brawl a few weeks ago.” Jessica nodded. “Brogan wants to get together for drinks.”

“Yick.” Jess pulled a face.

“Thank you. Do you think I should go?”

“Have you seen him since the fight?”

“Nope. Do I have to go?”

Jessica leaned in the doorway, then shrugged. “Yeah, you kind of do. Sorry. You don’t want him to think you’re sulking.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Crap. Thanks.”

“Come to Hugo’s. I’ll spit in his drink for you.”

“Really?”

“No. But I’ll want to.” Jessica smiled.

“I appreciate that.” Honor pushed the button back. “Sorry, Brogan,” she said. “Sure, I can meet you for a bit. How’s Hugo’s?” Jess gave her the thumbs-up and disappeared again.

Brogan let out a breath. “Oh, that’s fantastic. Can you be there in an hour?” His voice still made her stomach pull.

“Okay. Um, Brogan, I can only stay for a little while,” she added. God forbid they were together long enough for him to...
get
to her again. “I, um, I’m meeting someone. Later. After I see you. It’s a date. I mean, I’ll have a date later tonight. I
do
have a date.”

Spike stared at her, hypnotized by the lies.

“Awesome,” Brogan said happily.

“Yes, yes. Okay, I have to go. I’ll see you at six o’clock at Hugo’s. Great. Bye. Take care.”

She hung up and let her head fall backward. Her armpits were damp with sweat. Plus, the clouds were releasing their burden, and fat snowflakes filled the air. Beautiful, except it was March. Just when you thought spring was really going to come through, Mother Nature bitch-slapped you with a storm.

Spike scrabbled at her leg, and Honor lifted her into her lap. “You get to stay home,” she told the dog. “And you better TiVo
Top Ten Tumors
for me.”

* * *

A
ND
SO
IT
was that an hour and twenty-three minutes later, Honor was fake-laughing at Hugo’s, sitting across from the only man she’d ever loved, slightly sweaty, stomach churning with acid and vodka from the perfectly chilled, slightly sweet Saint Germaine martini Jessica had brought her.

This was...what was the word for it?
Hell
. Yes. This was hell, and she was pretending to have a wonderful time.
Oh, Satan, you’re so droll! Hahahahaha!

Because yes,
Honor’s stupid heart had done that squishy, painful thing when she saw him. At the moment, Brogan was telling a story about an athlete who did a sport that involved running, and you know, at least she could stop storing away this kind of information so as to be the Most Perfect Companion Ever. At least there was that.

Your attitude could use adjusting,
said her aging eggs, fanning themselves.
Yowza! Here comes another hot flash!

“You’re kidding. That’s just crazy,” Honor said out loud. Hopefully her comment made sense, since she clearly wasn’t paying a lot of attention.

It wasn’t fair.

She still felt for him. You don’t love a guy for seventeen bleeping years and then just stop. At least, Honor didn’t. Unfortunately.

Brogan had now moved on to a story about his parents, whom he’d just seen in Florida. Kind of surreal that just over two months ago, Honor had been having dinner chez Cain, had flashed Brogan’s parents, had imagined them as her in-laws.

Now, she just hoped her sweat wasn’t showing and was counting the seconds till she could leave for her pretend date. At least the restaurant was practically empty, given the raw weather and the fact that Hugo’s had just opened for the season last week.

You know, she was so good at her job. For the past eleven years, she hadn’t made one major misstep at work. All her decisions had been sound, had proved to be good investments, smart moves.

On the personal front, a fail. She’d chosen the wrong friend, the wrong guy.

Next time she had an instinct about someone, she was going to do the opposite thing.

Nodding all the while, Honor stared at Brogan. Why were his eyelashes so long? Why had God seen fit to give him that perfect, curling, chestnut hair? Hmm? Anyone? Bueller?

They’d been here for twenty-seven minutes. About twenty-eight minutes too long, in other words. Did Dana know he was meeting her? Was Dana at Brogan’s right now, in the same bed where Honor had—

Oh. The sports story was over. Brogan was looking at her, his face concerned. “Honor, are we okay?” he asked gently, and her face burned with heat.

“Yes! Yes, we’re fine. It’s fine. I’ve practically forgotten about it.” She forced a laugh, making her sound like a dying seal. Faking. Not her area of expertise. Jessica, who was taking an order at a nearby table, shot her a look.

“It’s just that we’ve been friends for so long,” he said. Damn those blue eyes. The concern in them seemed genuine. It probably was. Brogan was not a faker, either.

“Look, Brogan,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I was surprised, I overreacted and I’d love it if we could just drop the subject. Okay?”

He nodded. “Of course. It’s just...I hate thinking that I led you on,” he said. “I always thought we felt the same way about each other.”

She took a large swallow of her drink. “No, we did. We do. Um, I care for you. As a friend. When I asked you if you wanted to get married, it was an ill-formed thought.” One she’d spent roughly six years thinking. “I’m over it. Really.”

He smiled a little. “Good. I’m glad. You mean so much to me.”

God. This night was endless.

“Can I get you guys anything else?” Bless her, Jessica was here with a pitcher of water.

“We’re good, I think,” he said. “Do you want another martini, On?”

“Oh, no! No. Nope. Thanks. I have to get going pretty soon,” Honor added.

Brogan’s face lit up. “Right! Your date. We’ll take the check, then, Jess.”

Thank you, baby Jesus! This interminable evening would finally end, and then she
was
going home to watch
Top Ten Tumors,
and she didn’t care if Dad and Mrs. J. were doing it on the hallway floor. On second thought, maybe she would call Pru and see if she could crash. She and Abby could watch the tumor show together.