Chapter 2
“You did what?” I immediately get a grip, literally holding the edge of the table, because I can’t shout at Granny. She’s the saint in our family if there ever was one.
“I had a matchmaker fix you up,” she repeats louder as if my problem is that I’m deaf.
“A matchmaker? You don’t think I can get my own dates?” I try to make light of her suggestion, though I can see Granny is as serious as a fever.
“This isn’t about getting a date. This is about getting married.”
I want to roll my eyes, but it wouldn’t do any good when she gets that look in her eye. I take a sip of my lemonade and enjoy the fact that I have time to sit with her, just the two of us, now that I’ve been relieved of my job.
“Granny, you know I have no intentions of getting married any time soon.” Or ever, but I’m smart enough to keep that tidbit to myself. I have a good sense of self-preservation.
“Plans change. You know I’m getting old, and my fondest wish in life is to see my great-grandchildren?—”
“Hold on a second—are you okay? Is something wrong? I thought the doc said you were as healthy as a—I mean, in very good health at your last check-up.”
Granny sighs and shakes her head as if I’m a na?ve child, like the one I used to be long ago. Not that I’ve lived all that long, but I’ve done a lot of growing up fast in the past few years.
“Ever since that incident at work, you’ve been angry, and that’s no way to attract a man. I’m worried about you.”
“I don’t need a man?—”
“Nonsense. You love men.”
She has a point. But I’m not going to admit that because I absolutely don’t want to go on a fix-up date with some guy from New York who thinks he’s a badass.
Okay, maybe I do have an attitude. Maybe I have more of a love-hate relationship with men.
“Men have their uses,” I say, hoping to shock her into dropping the whole thing. She’s a staunch Irish Catholic who I’d swear believes in the immaculate conception, except that she had five kids and knows better.
She looks at me as we sit in her doily-infested dining room like she’s overlooking my naughty reference. Shit. This must be serious. She always called me boy crazy when I was a little girl, and now… I’m still boy-crazy, but I’m wiser and smarter and know how to take advantage of my advantages. No way will I ever let a boy—or man—get the edge on me.
That leads to no good.
I have four uncles whom I adore—two firefighters and two policemen. We all grew up in the city at Granny’s house while my parents worked 24/7 at the family’s pub, which they deemed no place for a young girl—thank God.
So, of course, I love men. I love all my uncles and learned so much from their rough-and-tumble antics, shouting, and competitive macho juices constantly flowing around me in that house. But do I want to live with that for the rest of my life? Hell no.
My uncles taught me to be wary of men who act tough. They never so much as say “shit” in front of a woman. Granny made sure that for all their toughness, my uncles are perfect gentlemen when it comes to women.
I was the exception, of course, because I was declared the little sister they never had, and I needed to know all the worst behavior of men, as well as the best. I didn’t believe them that men were as terrible as they said. Their foul language and roughhousing were all in fun and innocent, without any meanness. They were—and still are—kind to me.
When I encountered men who didn’t know the difference between being tough and being truly mean, I was ready.
Which is probably how I got into trouble—the incident at work, as Granny calls it. She doesn’t acknowledge that I did anything naughty. Where I’m concerned, she has only glowing praise. I’m her angel. Cue the eye roll from my uncles.
In truth, it’s Granny who’s the angel. Until now.
“The matchmaker set you up with a strapping young man I think you’ll approve of. I saw his picture?—”
“Are you serious?” I barely stop myself from laughing, but I have too much respect for Granny to laugh. And I know her well enough to know this is not a laughing matter. She wears no smile on her well-kept face, rosy cheeks highlighting her snapping blue eyes, and her dark hair piled into her familiar flawless knot.
She nods. “I am. He’s a looker.”
“I mean—never mind. Can I see the photo?”
“Absolutely not. The matchmaker will introduce you to him when you get to Bill’s Food and Drink.” She digs into her gigantic purse, which always reminded me of Mary Poppins’ carpetbag when I was a kid. It holds everything and never wears out. She’s had that thing for over twenty years.
When she goes to put it aside, I try to snatch the glossy photo from her, and I can’t help smiling when she whisks it away, teasing me. I don’t remember the last time I saw an actual eight by ten glossy besides the ones framed on Granny’s credenza and walls. She hasn’t made the leap into the digital age, but I’m okay with that. She keeps life in perspective, always making me mindful of social history.
“I don’t want to spoil your surprise. The deal is sight unseen,” she says.
“The deal?”
“The matchmaker knows what she’s doing. Believe me.”
“You want to tell me about him?”
She shakes her head.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you tell me anything about him? Maybe give me some incentive to go along with this… deal?”
“I understand he makes good money.”
“Right.” I don’t bother to point out that I plan to make my own good money. But money and security are a major issue for Granny—and my parents—so I don’t say anything.
“Well, don’t just sit there. Go get dressed.”
“Go get—for what?”
“Your date is in one hour.”
I jump from my chair. “One hour? Are you kidding? You sprung this on me at the last second on purpose, didn’t you?”
The old devil smiles.
I laugh. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else but you, Grandma. I’ll agree to the date, but I don’t think?—”
“No need for you to think. Just keep an open mind and let things happen as they may. You’ll know if there’s a spark.”
“It’s not the spark I’m worried about. I’m not interested in a committed relationship. I have too many things to do. Songs to write, a music career to launch.”
“How’s that been working for you?” she deadpans.
Shit. Leave it to Granny to fall back on her plain-talking streak, bordering on cruel in this case.
“Ouch. I’m working on it. You know that. Now that I’ve been unceremoniously relieved of my duties at the Honey Pot Bar Grill, I plan to focus on my music. I’ve saved up some money and plan to go full throttle for the next six months.”
“You’re going to record your music?”
Shit. “Maybe.”
“You should, Delaney. You have the voice of an angel. Everyone in the church choir agreed. You can’t sell words on a page, but you can sell the sound of your voice, singing your songs.”
“You may be right.” I don’t point out that people sell words on a page all the time and that I haven’t sung in the church choir since grade school, but I get her point. “Selling songs is easier when they’re heard, but you know how I feel about being a vocal talent. It’s very different from being a songwriter.”
“And where is it written that you can’t be both?”
Nowhere. In fact, the most successful musicians are both. I smile and give her a hug. “I should get going if I want to meet my mystery date for dinner.” I wink at her.
“Dress up nice, Delaney. Put a real effort into this, the way you would if it was any challenge put before you. Give him—and yourself—a chance.”
She stops me with her earnest pleading, and I nod. “I will.”
Dammit. I had no intentions of dressing up. I’d been prepared to get a cab and go as I am in jeans, a white button-down shirt, and low black boots. I’m not even sure I’d have put a brush through my hair or my teeth.
But shit. Granny is good at shaming me to do the right thing, and I promised I’d make the effort. Changing out my jeans for a short black skirt and my boots for strappy sandals with a sexy heel, I glance in the mirror and unbutton one more button of my blouse. A little cleavage never hurt. I give myself an encouraging wink, satisfied with my effort.
I can keep an open mind about enjoying the evening even if I have no intentions of seeing this mystery man—no matter how much money he makes—ever again.
That should be easy since I plan to leave the city in a couple of days.
I’ve already sublet my studio apartment to Uncle Torin for six months. I’ll be escaping to my friend’s cabin in New Hampshire to work on songwriting for the duration. Though I’m using the word friend loosely here, he owes me, so I’m taking advantage of the chance to get away.