The Matchmaker Meets Her Match (11 page)

“You’ve got a good wine buyer at the liquor store,” he said.

“Maybe I picked it out on my own.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

He nodded and took a breadstick from the basket. “Leave it to the experts.”

What happens when the expert doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing?
That seemed dispiriting, so she said, “Tell me about your brother.”

“Nate?”

“Sure,” she said. “I saw him at the shop when I brought my car in. I assume that’s your brother.”

“Yes,” he said and sounded cautious. “Why are you asking?”

She couldn’t help herself. “Not because I noticed he has such a nice ass,” she said. “Though he does. I also noticed he has a wedding ring. So I must be asking because I’m curious about you.”

Jeremy blinked. “Yeah, okay, get exasperated because I can’t read your mind.”

She bit into a breadstick. Delicious, even if she did say so herself. “I didn’t expect you to read my mind.”

“Yeah, I think you did.”

“I asked you a totally innocuous question.”

“How was I to know it was totally innocuous? Maybe you were going to ask for his phone number. And that would have been awkward.”

“Whereas this is not.”

“No, this is us being normal,” he said.

“You forget that I’m not in the market,” she said. “So I wouldn’t be asking for men’s phone numbers from you.”

He heaped some gnocchi on his plate. “I think you’re in the market,” he said. “You’re just put off because you’re too close to the inner workings of love relationships.”

“What?”

“It’s like being a sausage maker. You wouldn’t eat sausage if you knew how it’s made.”

“Uh huh.”

“But eventually it stops bothering you and then you don’t mind a nice sausage fry up on a Sunday.”

“I’m sort of grossed out,” Rilka said, “and weirdly intrigued.”

“I’m just saying you’re disillusioned. Everyone gets disillusioned. Then they either sink into bitter misery or they get over it.”

“Good to know there are options,” Rilka said, and poured another glass of wine.

• • •

Rilka had just said goodnight to Jeremy and it was quite late, so she was surprised to hear her doorbell ring. She pulled open the door and Jeremy was there again.

“What’s up?”

He had Mrs. Olsen’s peekapoo in his lap. “I think something’s wrong,” he said, worry creasing his face. “I don’t see the old lady. Just the dog. And it’s really late.”

She nodded. Mrs. Olsen and the dog ought to both be in bed by now. “I’ll call 911.”

“I already did,” he said, holding up his cell phone. “I just wanted to wait here until they arrive. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

She went out on the front porch with him to wait. A few minutes later, a patrol car pulled up to the curb across the street. Rilka scooped the dog from Jeremy’s lap and followed him over as he went to explain the situation.

As they approached, a slender blonde officer got out of the car and eyed Mrs. Olsen’s house, then gave them a glance. “You the one who called it in?” the cop said to Rilka. She wondered how many times a day Jeremy got that — people not even acknowledging him.

“I’m the one who called 911,” Jeremy said.

The officer glanced down at him, then listened as he explained, then nodded once, unhooked his flashlight from his belt, went up the walk, and started looking in windows.

A moment later, he was back at his car, radioing a message in. When he was finished, he came back to where Rilka and Jeremy waited. “I see a body on the floor,” he said briefly.

Rilka sucked a sharp breath in. She wasn’t close friends with Mrs. Olsen but she hated the thought of the old lady being hurt, with no one to notice.

“Can we help?” Rilka asked.

The officer shook his head before turning to go back up the walk. “No. Please stay back.”

Rilka watched anxiously as he forced the door open and went inside, cautiously, hand on his weapon, as if he might encounter criminals. Jeremy reached over and took her free hand. She twined her fingers with his gratefully. The dog in her other arm whined pitifully but didn’t try to break free.

“I think she had a heart attack,” Jeremy said. “I’m pretty sure there aren’t any desperadoes inside about to start shooting.”

A little tension left her shoulders. She nudged the arm of his chair. “If there are any desperadoes, think I can outrun you?”

She heard his short laugh. “You mean like the bear? You don’t have to outrun the bear, you just have to outrun me?”

“Exactly like the bear.”

“I’m too much of a gentleman to outrun you.”

“Such a thoughtful guy,” she said. Then the smile left her face as an ambulance pulled to the curb. The officer came to the front door of Mrs. Olsen’s house and called something to them. A few minutes later the old lady was loaded into the back of the ambulance, the EMTs working over her. The police officer said something to the driver and then the doors shut and the ambulance drove off.

“I hope she’ll be all right,” Rilka said, reminded too forcefully of Gran, wax-pale and still on the last night of her life, leaving too soon, leaving before she had taught Rilka everything she needed to know. Although maybe that was selfish.
Oh, Gran. How I miss you.

“Does Mrs. Olsen have relatives?” Jeremy asked.

“Not that I know of. I’ll stop by the hospital in the morning, see how she’s doing.”

“I was thinking of the dog,” Jeremy said. “Who’s going to take care of it?”

Rilka was suddenly aware that she had the peekapoo cradled in her elbow. “Hey, you’re the one who picked it up,” she said, thrusting the dog back at him.

He held his palms up, disclaiming possession. “You’re the one who needs a dog.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t like animals.”

“How can you turn down that sweet face?” he asked. “You need a puppy to love.”

“You’re just as alone as I am.”

“No,” Jeremy said. “I’ve got my brother and his wife. And my dad. And a couple of buddies. And you have — Marilyn is her name?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Shut up.”

“The dog’s name is Sugar,” Jeremy said helpfully, patting the dog on the head. “Mrs. Olsen told me that the day I had to go chasing after her.”

Rilka rolled her eyes. “That’s an inventive name.”

“What would you have called her?” Jeremy challenged. “Cupid?”

“Cupid is a male name,” Rilka said.

“Would the dog know the difference?”

“Weren’t you supposed to have gone away by now?”

• • •

Jeremy watched Rilka close the door behind her. Her and Sugar, whom she was already cuddling and saying cooing words to, though he was pretty sure she’d deny cooing to her last breath.

He wondered if Mrs. Olsen would be all right. She’d seemed elderly when he’d met her, but not old old, not frail old. A good spirit, and a nice heart. He hoped she’d be okay. He liked that Rilka was going to look out for her. Rilka liked to pretend she didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but she did. She just didn’t like anyone to know about it.

If he and Rilka had actually been friends, when the drama had ended she would have invited him in for coffee or a drink, or he would have been able to suggest it. But he guessed they weren’t friends because she hadn’t offered and he hadn’t asked. He slipped the truck into gear.

They weren’t friends, not really. He wasn’t sure what the hell they were. Oh, she was friendly enough, and she bantered fine. Yes, he was pretty sure she liked him, was attracted to him, but she totally shut down when it came to the man-woman thing. Every time they skated anywhere near personal intimacy, she skittered back to treating him like a client. Which, okay, he was. Although she had invited him to dinner, so that had to mean something. He just wasn’t sure what. Maybe she did want a relationship, just not with him. There was an encouraging thought. What was wrong with him?

Hello, you’re missing your legs.

He squelched the thought. Plenty of other people had disabilities — challenges — and found mates. Although he admitted there was a difference between, say, having arthritis and missing both legs.

Anyway, he wasn’t looking for a mate, he reminded himself firmly. He was looking to get laid. And Rilka wasn’t that kind of person. He suspected her Gran would have been.

At least no one was calling her from the county jail. Rilka was trying to find the bright side.

“That woman is a menace to society,” Don Deane thundered when she called him to see how the date had gone. “Intelligent woman like that admits to a cop fetish, what’d she think my next move was going to be?”

Rilka closed her eyes. She could imagine, and the picture it presented was hideous, and now that was something she was never going to be able to unthink. “I told you she was looking for someone who acted like a gentleman,” she said. “And I hope you backed off — ”

“Well, hell, I know what
no
means,” Don snapped, and now he was pissed at her. So, great.

She sighed. “I’m sorry it didn’t go well,” she said. “We’ll keep trying.”

She hung up before he could froth at her some more and dragged a frustrated hand through her hair. What was she going to do with Hilda? The woman needed a psych evaluation, not a matchmaker. She had some sort of hang-up that going on dates wasn’t helping any. Unless she enjoyed being offended. That was possible.

“Crap,” Rilka said out loud.

Sugar looked up at Rilka and barked, then went back to snoozing on the dog bed Rilka had purchased for her.

“Same to you,” Rilka said.

• • •

“He’s dumb as a box of rocks,” Daphne said.

Wasn’t that the truth.

“He’s always struck me as rather reserved,” Rilka suggested. She was willing to lie for Duncan. Daphne pulled her hair over her face as they discussed her most recent date.

“Rilka, he’s dumber than my fern.”

Rilka winced. “You didn’t tell him that?”

Daphne looked offended. “Of course not. I just left the two of them together while I watched a movie on TV.”

“The two of them?” Rilka asked tentatively.

“Him and my fern.”

Rilka really hoped she was making a joke. “You didn’t go out?” She lifted a brow and looked at Daphne, who lowered her gaze.

“No. I don’t, you know. People stare. I feel like they’re pointing at me, saying things behind my back.”

That was ridiculous, as Rilka felt sure Daphne’s psychiatrist had told her, although almost certainly he had phrased it a little more kindly than that. Psychiatrists probably weren’t supposed to go around saying,
That’s ridiculous
. Although maybe they should. Anyway, people were way too self-interested to spend a lot of time gossiping about total strangers, so Daphne’s self-consciousness probably had no basis in reality. She might feel like people were pointing and talking but almost certainly no one was, and if someone did, that was just evidence that he or she was a stupid loser, so who cared? But it was easy for Rilka to think that, she wasn’t the one facing it.

“You know my Gran had a scar, too?” Rilka said. Gran’s scar had been on her back where no one could see it, or at least when they saw it, that meant she was naked, so they were thinking about other things. Anyway, it was on her back but Daphne didn’t need to know that. Rilka was telling the truth, as far as it went.

“Oh?” Daphne said politely, but her jaw tightened and Rilka knew she was treading dangerous ground. But that had never stopped her before, so she plunged onward.

“When I first met you, I thought you might be like her. She was an adventuress.”

“An adventuress?” Daphne sounded tentative but intrigued.

“Sure,” Rilka said. “She was an amazing woman. She was a member of the Hungarian resistance. Escaped Budapest by the skin of her teeth after the Communists took over. She never had a husband but she took plenty of lovers.” Would claiming Gran had died with the pool boy in her bed be stretching it too much? Probably. Gran had never had a pool.

Daphne had a slight smile on her face. “She sounds like quite a lady. But that was a long time ago. People don’t do things like that anymore.”

Sad but true.

“Being an adventuress is an attitude,” Rilka said, then wondered where she’d come up with that. “You know, when I saw you I wondered what adventure had caused it. The scar.”

Daphne started, pawed her curtain of hair, and said, “It wasn’t an adventure at all. It was a car accident.”

“No, no,” Rilka said. “Look at you. Anyone would believe you’re an adventuress. Call it ‘a souvenir of my misspent youth.’ With a laugh. Leave ’em wondering.”

“Hmm,” said Daphne.

Rilka wondered what Dr. Pennyman would say when Daphne told him Rilka’s suggestions as she almost certainly would. Well, Rilka had never been told off by a psychiatrist before, so that would be something to look forward to.

• • •

“Marcus, this is Marilyn. Marilyn, this is Marcus.”

They were at Henry’s on Sixth Street. Rilka and Marcus had “just happened” to come in during Marilyn’s shift. Not even Marilyn could resist the dashing and handsome Marcus, could she? Rilka didn’t think they would make a match — given Marcus’s penchant for lifting valuables, a character flaw Marilyn would never be able to overlook — but Rilka was trying to find some way to jumpstart Marilyn’s dating life. She had to thaw eventually, didn’t she? And if being with Marcus made her feel good, even if it wasn’t long term, then maybe, just maybe, she could imagine finding a guy who could be long term. And then Rilka could help her make
that
match.

It was a long shot, but sometimes you took long shots when you wanted to help a friend.

Marilyn nodded at Marcus, gave Rilka a suspicious look, and then said, “What’ll it be?”

“I’m driving,” Rilka said. “So Diet Coke for me.”

Marilyn transferred her disgruntled expression to Marcus.

“What’s your signature mix?” he asked with a charming smile.

Marilyn smacked a bottle of Rolling Rock on the counter.

“I see,” he said.

“Marilyn,” Rilka said, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Which one is this?” Marilyn snapped, folding her arms in front of her chest, body language that anyone from any culture could understand. “The jewel thief?”