The Perfect Match

“So you should marry him. Nothing wrong with an arranged marriage.”

“As in, you and Pops worked out so well?” She opened the drawer on the cart and took out a replacement bulb.

The old lady chuffed. “Please. You want to be married, or you want to be happy?”

“Both?”

Goggy snorted. “You young people. So spoiled. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with this boy. He’s very nice and extremely good-looking.”

Honor screwed in the new lightbulb. “Have you ever met him?”

“No. But he is.”

“Seen a picture?”

“No. Charming, too.”

“So you’ve talked to him on the phone?”

“No.”

“Facebook? Email?”

“No, Honor. You know I don’t believe in computers.”

“Hi there, Honor,” called Mr. Christian from the back of the auditorium. “Heard you were in a girl fight the other day.”

“Thanks for bringing it up,” Honor said. “Anyway, Goggy, it sounds like you really don’t know this person at all.”

“What’s to know? He’s British.”

“That may or may not help his case. If he sounds like Prince Charles, there’s no way in hell I’ll marry him. Does he have those big teeth?”

“Don’t be so superficial, honey! He’s a professor,” Goggy added. “Electrical engineering or math or something.”

An image of Honor’s own math teacher in college, a damp man with onion breath, came to mind.

“So he needs a green card,” Goggy said, “you’re single, and you two should get married.”

“Okay, first of all, sure, I’d love to get married if I met someone great and fell in love, but if that doesn’t happen, I’m fine on my own.” Oh, the lies. “Secondly, I don’t want to get married just to check it off a list. And thirdly, I’m pretty sure marrying for a green card is illegal.” She paused. “Why doesn’t he just go back to England?”

“There was a tragedy.” Another triumphant look from Goggy.

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter, Honor? You’re thirty-five. That’s when the eggs start spoiling. That’s when I started menopause.” Oh, snap. “Besides, if I can stay married to your grandfather for sixty-five years and not have murdered him yet, why can’t you do the same with this boy?”

“How old is this person? You keep calling him a boy.”

“I don’t know. Anyone under sixty is a boy to me.”

“So he’s a math teacher and distantly related to an old friend of yours, and that’s all you’ve got on him?”

Goggy waved to Mrs. Lunqvist. “Young people,” she called. “They’re so fussy!” Mrs. Lunqvist, who used to terrorize the kids in Bible study with tales of fiery devastation of Biblical cities, nodded in agreement. “So you’ll meet him?”

What have you got to lose? the eggs asked, looking up from their quilting. Didn’t you hear what she said about menopause?

Honor sighed. “Sure,” she said.

“I just thought it’d be nice,” Goggy said. “I have a soft spot for his family, that’s all. You’d be surprised at how many times I think of Peter and what my life would be like if he hadn’t died in World War II. Protecting freedom and saving the world. So when I heard his grandnephew was in town, all by himself, lonely, depressed, British—”

Such a prize. “You can stop now, Goggy, I just said I’ll meet the guy.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

Goggy smiled triumphantly.

“Don’t go planning any weddings,” Honor warned. “I’m just doing it to be polite.” An image of a balding man with large, horselike teeth and a love of sharing math theorems popped into her head. “What’s his name?”

“Tom Barlow.” A completely ordinary name. Not like Brogan Cain, for example. “I told him you’d meet him tonight at O’Rourke’s.”

“What?”

“And put on lipstick, for heaven’s sake. You’re such a pretty girl. And be nice! It wouldn’t kill you to smile. Oh, there’s Henrietta Blanchette. I heard she got food poisoning from that slop they serve here. I’ll go say hi.”

Honor’s mood was soft after the movie. First, the wine had been fantastic, this lovely Tempranillo with hints of strawberries, cherry jam and leather. Then the Rushing Creek residents, who loved Watch and Wine and always had something nice to say (once they’d gotten their kicks out of mentioning her catfight, that was). But in general, whatever barriers seemed to exist between Honor and her peers evaporated with old people, who called her honey and dear and told her about their kidney stones and varicose veins. Also, one couldn’t rule out the movie itself. Keanu Reeves, amen, sister. The kiss in that movie—the kiss, the babymaker—had she ever been kissed like that?

Er, no.

Nope, no man had ever been desperate to kiss her. No man had ever kissed her like he’d die if he didn’t. No sirree. Didn’t happen. Didn’t seem like it was going to happen, either, not when a middle-aged British math teacher was her only prospect.

That could change. She’d update her dating website profiles. Ask Faith to help her out with things like push-up bras and flirting. Maybe some of the men she did business with were single, and maybe they’d notice her. It could happen.

It’s just that no one was like Brogan.

Nope, nope. No more thoughts like that. So over him. Almost. Well, getting there. Okay, not at all, really.

As she walked through Rushing Creek, she heard a familiar laugh.

Right. Dana cut hair every other Thursday at Rushing Creek’s salon. Honor had recommended her for the gig, actually.

The sound made Honor stop in her tracks, her stomach suddenly flooded with a cold rush of emotion. Anger, embarrassment, jealousy, loneliness...

Yeah. Loneliness.

Don’t let her see you.