The Matchmaker Meets Her Match (2 page)

When Rilka’s real career as an analyst for a brokerage firm had fallen to pieces, this had been her fallback position. Just temporary. Until things turned around. Five years later she was still answering Gran’s phone and admitting that she was a matchmaker. Even the word sent a shiver of revulsion through her.

Because it was only temporary, she ran the business the way her grandmother always had: three-ring binders on a shelf, card file cross-reference. She hadn’t computerized anything because that implied permanence. As they had when Gran was in charge, people paid what they could. If Rilka developed a standard rate card, that implied a commitment to the business. So she didn’t.

Somehow there was always just enough money to keep the roof over her head from caving in. But there was no pension plan, no 401(k), and no paid vacation or sick days. She was part therapist, part cheerleader, part priest, and part dating coach, but she’d never been able to figure out how to transfer those skills to a new job, a real one.
I was a well-regarded securities analyst until the SEC investigation, and since then I’ve been a matchmaker
. No matter how she tried to spin it, it never resulted in a new career. Or even a better job. She hated to think of herself as a quitter but she hadn’t sent out a resume in a long time.

Gran had left her the house and the business, such as it was, with the blithe assumption that it was exactly what Rilka wanted. On that fateful day five years ago, when she’d gotten the pink slip from her job, the letter from Gran’s executor, and the message from Davis (“I’ve put your things in storage so my new girlfriend can move in”), it had seemed like a fair solution to her most pressing problems.
But why me?
she often wondered. The answer was obvious: Rilka, like her mother before her, was an only child. Rilka, unlike her mother, had not run off to Bangkok. In other words, who else was there?

In fact, she’d been surprisingly successful in the five years she’d been doing this. It was just that she knew her success was pure luck, and luck was not a business strategy.

The doorbell buzzed. Eleven o’clock already, and this would be — she glanced at the planner by her elbow — Jeremy Ford. She got to her feet and went to the front hall. She pulled open the door, fixing a welcoming smile on her face, and then her gaze dropped to the man in the wheelchair. Expressionless brown eyes met hers. Expressionless brown eyes in an expressionless square face. Short brown hair. Lips a little tight with pain or frustration. An unremarkable man. She wouldn’t have glanced at him a second time.

He hadn’t mentioned the wheelchair when he’d called. Or, rather, his brother hadn’t mentioned the wheelchair when he’d made the referral. Of course, they never did. But she wished they’d just spit it out:
I’m OCD
or
I’ve been convicted of three felonies
. Her job would be a lot easier if she just knew all that upfront.

“Jeremy Ford?” she queried.

“The same,” he said.

“I’m Rilka.” She opened the door wider, glad Gran had had the place made accessible after her first stroke had put her in a wheelchair for several months. Gran had assumed there would come a time when she couldn’t get out the wheelchair, and she had been right. A realist, Gran had been, despite her lunatic belief in happily-ever-after.

“This way,” Rilka said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Your brother didn’t mention you’re — ” She hesitated. Maybe it wasn’t too late to learn to be tactful.

“A double amputee?” Jeremy finished for her. He shrugged, rolling across the vinyl floor.

Rilka scooted one of the chairs away from the kitchen table to make room and asked, “Tea?” That seemed safe.

“Sure,” he said, rolling up to the table and setting the brakes on his chair.

“Car accident?” Rilka asked, setting a cup in front of him.

“Iraq,” he said.

“Hope they’ve given you a decent pension,” Rilka said, but she knew the government.

“I get by.” He shrugged again, his broad shoulders tugging at the fabric of his plain blue sweatshirt. “I’m a mechanic and my brother’s got a shop. We outfitted it so I can do my job okay.”

“Good,” Rilka said firmly, taking a seat. “I’m glad you have people you can count on.”

“I take care of myself,” he said, not belligerent but just as firm as she was.

“Sure,” said Rilka. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I expect you get a lot of people who want to take care of you.”

“Either they want to baby me or they run screaming from me,” Jeremy said and by
they
, Rilka assumed he meant
women
. Rilka was pretty sure there was a third choice that involved neither babying nor screaming but if he’d found it on his own, he wouldn’t be here.

“And what do you want?” she asked. There. A refreshing change from “Tell me what’s going on.”

He tapped a finger on the mug she’d set at his place. “I want to get laid.”

Yeah, no wonder he wasn’t managing the third choice on his own. Still, she gave him credit for knowing what he wanted and for being direct about it. But — “This is not an escort service,” she said. “If you or your brother thought so, I’m afraid you misunderstood.”

“No, no,” Jeremy said. He stopped toying with the mug and looked directly at her. His brown eyes weren’t expressionless now. “I know you’re not an escort service. I’m not looking for a professional. I prefer amateur action. Most guys do.”

“I see,” Rilka said. Maybe it wasn’t too late to learn to be a fry cook. What would Gran have said to this man? She probably would have slept with him herself and solved the problem. If only Rilka were a free spirit. She frowned. “Or rather, I don’t see.”

“What I’m saying is I’m not looking for marriage or commitment or kids or anything long term. I’m looking for someone to have fun with. Uh, not someone saving herself for marriage, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do know what you mean. It’s just that — ”

“I lost my legs,” Jeremy said. “Not my — ”

“Dick,” Rilka finished for him, hoping that saying the crudity herself would prevent her from blushing.

Jeremy looked taken aback. “I was going to say ‘sex drive.’”

Rilka ended up blushing anyway. Someday she’d learn to let people finish their own damned sentences. “Well. I’m assuming everything is — ”

“Fully intact and operational,” Jeremy assured her. “Feel free to take it for a test drive.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rilka said primly, which made him smile. She’d been wrong in her initial assessment of him. He was attractive once he relaxed a little, once he smiled, attractive in that former Army man way, with a strong physique, maybe from pushing the chair around and doing physical labor. It was possible to see he could be charming, if he exerted the effort. Assuming there were women who wouldn’t be put off by a physical disability, and she had just enough faith in her gender to believe this was possible, why was he here? Looking for the third kind of woman, yes, but somehow she suspected it wasn’t that simple. Or maybe it was. What did she know?

“So what do I do?” Jeremy asked and Rilka realized she’d been staring at him for too long. “I’m assuming you don’t have any women in your files with ‘double amputee’ listed under ‘preferences.’”

“You’d be surprised what’s listed under ‘preferences,’” Rilka said darkly. Honest to God, the human race never ceased to amaze her. She tried to have faith. She really did. “But you’re right, I’m fresh out of requests for men missing their legs.” She figured the diplomatic touch was lost on him, which was good because she’d already used up what she had. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help you.”

“Of course not,” Jeremy said. “I was sure you’d be resourceful.”

“My reputation must precede me,” Rilka said, raising an eyebrow. She never asked where people got a referral because she didn’t want to know. Her name was probably written on every bathroom wall from here to Wichita.

“Tom Daniels is a buddy of mine.”

“Tom?” Rilka raised her other eyebrow. “He didn’t meet Elaine here.”

“That’s true. But he gives you credit for hanging in there.”

“He ran through every female I’ve ever met,” Rilka said. “Plus some I got out of the phone book. And then he met Elaine at work and bam.” If Rilka knew Tom, he was damned lucky to walk away with a wife instead of a sexual harassment lawsuit.

“True. But you didn’t give up on him.”

“I don’t give up on anyone,” she said piously, but then the streak of honesty she hadn’t quite drowned yet forced her to add, “Which isn’t to say people don’t give up on me. No one in this business has a one hundred percent success rate. But I’ll keep trying as long as my client wants me to.”

“You do that very well.”

“What?”

“The standard disclaimer and sales pitch. Nicely done. Almost like a regular conversation.”

This one was going to try her patience, that was clear. Of all the qualities a matchmaker needed, patience was the most important and the one quality Rilka had the least amount of.
It will be a learning experience
, Gran used to say, when Rilka had to do something she didn’t want to do. Rilka hated learning experiences. She sighed and said to the newest one, “So are you sold?”

“Sure. I’ll take the rustproofing and the extended warranty, too, please.”

“Just step into the finance office and we’ll get you set up.” Rilka couldn’t help the smile. Her clients were usually a little more respectful of her. Self centered enough not to want to get off on the wrong foot with her, she supposed. When you were their last hope, people tended to be careful in their dealings with you.

“So what’s next?” he asked.

“When someone has a physical disability or disfigurement, I usually suggest they find a hangout — a place where they can be a regular. That’s how you get people to look past the disability and get to know the real you.”

“Uh huh,” Jeremy said. “But I’m just trying to get laid.”

“Aren’t we all,” Rilka said with feeling. Five years without the whiff of a man. No one since Davis. She didn’t want to die with
Davis
having been her last lover. She didn’t understand how that worked.
Men
never went five years without getting any.

But then, Rilka had standards, so perhaps that explained it. Seventy-five percent of male college students would have a one-night stand with an attractive woman. Someone had actually done a study. None of the women in the study had been willing to sleep with an attractive stranger. So either women were more sensible than men or they were all liars.

Rilka didn’t actually want a one-night stand, nor did she really want a relationship. The last five years had put her off men pretty well. Women, too, but that was less problematic as far as sexual relationships went. Sometimes she felt like she’d spent all of her optimism on her clients and hadn’t kept any for herself. She had a hard time believing there could be a happily ever after for her.

Jeremy was waiting for her to say something. She wracked her brain trying to remember what they’d been talking about. Then she had it. “Look, you said yourself that you attract two kinds of women. Well, I’m trying to help you figure out how to attract a third kind.”

“Bimbos?” he asked hopefully.

“Jeremy, if you want to hire someone I’m sure we can find — ” She stopped herself before she could say something that would get her arrested for pandering.

“I’m joking,” Jeremy said. “Sort of.”

“Will you trust me on this?” Rilka said and realized that, all things considered, he probably shouldn’t. “Do you have a favorite watering hole?” She sometimes suggested sports leagues or continuing education programs, but she was pretty sure he’d have a smartass remark to either of those suggestions.

“Last Call,” he said.

“That’s a cop hangout.”

“Army, too.”

“How many women frequent that place?” Rilka demanded. Honestly, no wonder people needed her help.

“Uh.” Jeremy thought for a moment. “None. Maybe a cop groupie or two.”

“Okay.” Rilka felt she could rest her case. “Do you go anywhere else?”

“I get to Bennie’s now and then.”

“That’s a biker bar.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Sure, but you’re looking for women. The only women at Bennie’s are the hookers the boys run.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened. “You know a lot about the local bars,” he said respectfully.

“Not by choice,” Rilka said. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

“What, you go there to scope out the goods? So you can match ’em with your desperate clients?”

Rilka closed her eyes. When she opened them he was still there. “No. People go to bars to meet people. It’s a way my clients can work on their interpersonal skills without risking much. But I have to know the clientele before I send someone out for a beer to practice their flirting skills.”

“You have to teach people how to flirt?” Jeremy asked. “These are grown adults?”

This from the man who hadn’t realized women didn’t hang out at his favorite bar.

“You have no idea,” Rilka said. “You don’t think people come to me just because they have trouble sorting through all the offers, do you?”

“I know why I came to you — ”

“Yeah, we’ve identified your problem. Your first step is to become a regular at a different kind of bar.”

“We don’t need a place with a dance floor,” he said helpfully.

“I’m sure you could figure out how to dance if it meant you’d get laid,” Rilka said.

Jeremy grinned at her. “I don’t think you can guarantee that,” he said. “But you’re right. I didn’t like to dance even before the Iraqis bombed my convoy.”

“So no dance floor,” Rilka said. She considered him for another moment. “Not a yuppie place.”

“Hey. Do I appear to be a low-class loser?”

“That’s not what I said. I implied you’re not a yuppie. I suspect you don’t want to find yuppie women. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Okay. Let me think. Henry’s on Sixth?” she suggested. “That’s the kind of place you can be a regular.” Plus she knew the bartender and could put in a good word.

“Huh,” Jeremy said. “Guess so. I can’t shoot pool worth a damn anymore — ”

“Learn,” Rilka said.