The Bride Plan

“Really? Doctors are good. What kind?”

“I don’t know. He’s a doctor-doctor. It doesn’t make a difference what kind of doctor he is.”

“It would if he was a witch doctor,” Marylou said quietly. “Anyway, I’m proud of you for doing this. I know how much you hate blind dates. That’s why I’ve given up. No more matchmaking for me with you, Chess, I took the pledge. You’re just not ever going to get married. It’s very possible you’re still carrying a torch for old what’s-his-name.”

“Rick?” Chessie was shocked. Nobody mentioned Rick to her. Not ever. She could joke about her aborted trip down the aisle, but that was her. For everyone else, the subject had been tacitly agreed to be out-of-bounds. “Why would you mention him? Why would you think that?”

Marylou’s expression being cosmetically rendered unreadable, darn it, Chessie could only listen to the words, not watch for telltale signs of fibbing. Or conniving. “Because he’s back in town and you haven’t said anything about that to me or to anyone, which might mean you’re afraid of old feelings rising to the top and bubbling where everyone can see them. At least that’s the general consensus.”

Was there a Chessie’s World website floating around the internet that she didn’t know about? How did everyone know so much about her private life? Not that she had a private life. One private almost-tryst—did people still say tryst?—earlier this same day, but certainly not a private life. “How do you know Rick’s back in town?”

Marylou got up and deposited the empty soda can in the recycle bin beneath the kidney-shaped registration desk. “I haf my vays,” she said, doing an impression of Mata Hari, or some other spy with a bad German accent. “Not that I know much.” She turned and sort of smiled at Chessie. “He’s living at home with his mother—pitiful—his divorce from the bimbo maid of honor was final six months ago, he drives a three-year-old Mercedes—leased, and the cheaper model—and he’s working as a junior broker at Gibbons, Fiorello and Schultz on Hamilton Boulevard. Oh, and he’s got just the teensiest little bit of a sparse spot starting right at the crown of his head, for which he uses that liquid stuff you buy at the drugstore and rub on your head twice a day.” She rolled her eyes. “Other than that, I know nothing.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Marylou,” Chessie said sincerely. “How do you know he’s rubbing hair restorer on his head? Or don’t I want to know?”

“You probably don’t, although I will say the drugstore at that new shopping center on Cedar Crest Boulevard has a very nice selection of eye shadows.”

Chessie tried not to laugh, but it was difficult. “You’ve been stalking the man? How did you do it? Did you wear a trench coat with the collar pulled up? Or just dark sunglasses and a blond wig?”

Marylou rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Let’s just say I happened to be in the same place he was a few times in the past week or so. But I’m done with that. Just be glad he doesn’t use that spray-on hair stuff some men use and think we don’t notice. Run your hand through a guy’s hair and come out with sticky gunk all over your fingertips and, believe me, you know.”

“Well, you and the rest of the world can relax. I’m not going to be running my fingers through Rick’s hair, Marylou. He called here once, nearly two weeks ago, and I did not call him back. Clearly he took the hint. And I am not still carrying some torch for him. Rick Peters is filed away under Lucky Escape, and that’s that. I just don’t like being set up. There’s something creepy about it. So thank you for not doing it anymore, and if you could convince everyone else, I’d be eternally grateful.”

Marylou gave her a hug. “Honey, I’ve told them and told them. She doesn’t want your help, I told them. She’s happy as she is. Alone. But you know how happily marrieds can be. They want everyone else to be happily married, too.”

Chessie disengaged herself from her friend’s expensively scented embrace and held her at arm’s length. “So you really did hire Jace Edwards because he came highly recommended? And not in some typical whacked-out Marylou Smith-Bitters idea of throwing him in front of me and vice versa?”

Marylou almost succeeded in making a face this time, she seemed that appalled. “Jace? Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not at all your type. You need a doctor, a dentist—heaven forbid, a stockbroker. Someone more … refined. He’s a hunk, certainly, and seems nice enough. I’m sure I can find somebody for him if I just flashed his photo a few times, and since I’ve given up on you, he might make an interesting project. But not you, Chess, he’s not at all right for you. He’s much too male. Rough and tumble, self-made, a little too earthy around the edges.”