Chapter 15
I owe it to Stacey to find her another match. She already thinks there’s someone secretly in love with her. If she only gets the one letter and then communication from her admirer stops suddenly, she’ll take it as a rejection. That’s something I can’t allow to happen.
Printouts from the library’s recording software are scattered over the surface of my bed—my very own bibliophile dating profiles.
But instead of name, age, and hobbies, I have something better: their nonfiction intellectual interests combined with their fictional escapes.
Of course, there’s the pesky problem of knowing if each person is actually single and looking to mingle.
A very important point that I should’ve considered more carefully before getting myself into the mess with Tai.
Kitty Purry jumps onto the bed and walks across the papers I’ve divided into categorical stacks.
Her tail flicks as her paws dislodge the top pages, making a disarray of my organization system.
She lowers her head and nudges the largest pile with her nose before slinking her body to sprawl on top of it, rolling in a way that mixes the pages together.
“Kitty!”
She blinks her yellow eyes at me as if to say, Yes, peasant?
I reach forward to pick her up, but she anticipates my movements and launches herself into motion, a whirling tornado running a tight circle over the top of my bed before stopping and sitting primly on my pillow.
She peers at the scattered papers on the bed, on the floor, and wafting in the air, and then looks at me.
I swear one of her brows (do cats have brows?) arches condescendingly as if the mess is somehow my fault.
Then she curls up into a tight ball and closes her eyes, dismissing me entirely.
“You really are a diva, you know that?” I snatch a paper out of the air. Now I’m going to have to start the process of separating interests based on genres all over again.
I peer down at the list in my hand. Might as well start somewhere.
Westward Expansion: A History of the American Frontier
The Worst Hard Time
The Pioneers
My gaze jumps from the nonfiction historical titles to the name of the patron at the top.
Caleb Chapman. I read the list of books he’s checked out again.
Seems like Mr. Caleb Chapman is a fan of American history.
And who else is a fan of American history, albeit of the fictional variety?
None other than the woman of the hour, that’s who.
“I think I’ve found a match, Kitty Purry.”
My cat ignores me, her breathing even.
Now all I need to know is if Caleb is romantically unattached and not in any way related to Stacey.
Do you know Caleb Chapman?
Henry Crawford
Is that your next victim?
I’d edited Tai’s contact information the night before. If he can give out nicknames willy-nilly, then so can I. And what better moniker than a character of Jane Austen’s who’s vibrant and alluring while also being morally ambiguous? It’s a good reminder to myself to stay on guard around him.
I think you mean beneficiary.
Henry Crawford
If you say so, sweetheart.
I ignore the term of endearment. This is the South. Everyone is sweetheart; it doesn’t mean anything.
Can I safely assume you know him?
Henry Crawford
Since second grade when he moved here so his dad could take over being principal at our elementary school. Caleb is single and ready to mingle.
I ignore the fact that Tai uses the same exact phrase to describe Caleb’s relationship status that I had. It doesn’t mean anything except that rhymes are catchy.
Henry Crawford
Is it my turn to ask some questions now?
I have a feeling you’d ask even if I said no. Or find a way to coerce me into answering if I declined the first time. Is that not your modus operandi?
Henry Crawford
I guess you won’t find out since you didn’t say no. Here’s what I want to know: What life lesson have you learned the hard way? Do you enjoy being yourself? What would you do differently if you knew nobody would judge you?
“What?” I stare at my phone. I’d been expecting some flirty innuendo or something better left in the archives of a middle school Truth or Dare game. Honestly, that would’ve been easier to roll my eyes at and brush off than these out-of-the-blue deep questions.
Henry Crawford
Don’t answer now. Think about it. You can tell me on Thursday when I pick you up for our date.
I toss the phone onto the mattress faster than a medal-winning Hot Potato player. Kitty Purry lifts her head and glares at me.
“Sorry, Kitty.”
She stands and stretches, then climbs into my lap, demanding attention.
I pet her between the ears absentmindedly.
I think I might have underestimated Tai and the level of danger he poses.
The flirty comments and constant attention are bad enough, but now he wants to get to know me on a deeper level?
Be strong, Evangeline.
Categorizing Tai is supposed to make things easier.
If I can pin a bookish archetype on him—cinnamon roll, grump, alpha, etc.
—then I can better prepare myself for my interactions with him.
But bad-boy rakes are supposed to be shallow, up for quick debauchery with anything in a skirt.
They aren’t supposed to ask meaningful questions that allow them to get to know their conquests on a deeper level.
He’s throwing me a curveball I’m not prepared for.
I survey the sheets of paper still littered over the surface of my bed. If I’m up to bat, I might as well get my three swings in before I’m called out.
I lower my head and groan into Kitty Purry’s fur. “Since when have I started to use baseball analogies, Kitty?”
Kitty Purry twists and paws at my face as if to say snap out of it.
I sit up. “Thanks. I needed that.”
I swear her feline eyes roll as she looks at me, and she meows her displeasure at the human race—or me as its representative—before jumping off the bed and striding out of the bedroom.
“Right. Okay. Let’s see who else is booktastically compatible.
” I retrieve two sheets of paper. The person in my right hand seems to consume a steady diet of adult epic fantasy.
They like to escape into a world of fairies and magic and fights against good and evil.
The person in my left hand—I quickly read down their booklist—oh, they seem to only read highbrow literary fiction.
Probably not the best of matches. I pick up two more papers, consider them, discard them, then pick up two more.
Finally, I settle on another couple I think could really hit it off.
My phone rings from where it’s slid under my thigh. Retrieving it, Penelope’s name lights up my screen.
“Hello, sister dearest,” I say.
“Sorry I’m calling later than expected. I got stuck in a meeting.” Her voice is agitated and clipped.
“Everything okay?”
She takes in a long breath and exhales slowly. “Fine as frog’s hair, as Grampie would say.” The false cheeriness she’s coating her words with sticks about as well as wet paint in a rainstorm.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” She pauses. “But I swear if one more guy tries to mansplain something to me, I’m going to knee him right in said manhood.”
I grin. “Tsk-tsk. What kind of genteel ladylike behavior is that?”
“I’m sure Scarlett O’Hara would approve.”
A very unladylike snort escapes my lips. “Yes, because she’s the gold standard.”
“Don’t let Granny hear you imply otherwise.”
“Never.”
She chuckles. “Okay, speaking of Granny and Grampie. You evaded me on your last visit, but we really need to pin down some specifics for their party.”
“I was thinking . . .” I hedge.
“Out with it.”
“What if we find the love letters that they wrote to each other and incorporate those in some way?”
Penelope doesn’t respond immediately, and I hold my breath. I really do think it would be special for Granny and Grampie to revisit the written words that ignited their love in the first place. It’s personal and special and celebrates them in a non-generic way.
The fact that the letters may be useful in my own matchmaking is icing on the cake. And what’s cake without icing?
“What would that look like? Lay it out for me.”
“Well . . .” I draw the word out, scrambling to come up with some specific ideas.
“First off, we can commission a wax seal to be made with their monogram and then seal the invitations like the aristocracy used to, a nod to when letter writing was the main avenue of communication. To continue with the love letter theme, we can have Granny’s antique desk set out as a note station.
Guests can use the desk to write personal messages to Granny and Grampie, expressing their well wishes and felicitations. ”
“In lieu of a guestbook.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, I like that idea.”
I smile, gathering steam. “For decorations, along with flowers and candles and such, maybe we can make or commission a custom backdrop with one of Grampie’s letters written in calligraphy on a large piece of fabric.
We could hang it either behind the cake table or behind where Grampie and Granny will sit. ”
Penelope is quiet as she seems to digest my suggestion. “It’s a good idea, Evangeline. Let’s do it.”
“Great!”
“Do you think you can be responsible for the backdrop and the wax seal? Actually, can you just take care of the decorations and sending the invitations out? I’ll help you with the guest list, of course, and I’ll find a caterer and uncover where Granny keeps the letters stored without her knowing.”
“I can do that.”
“Thanks. I also wanted to ask . . .”
The I’m-stepping-on-eggshells quality to her voice instantly puts me on guard. “What?”
“Well, it’s just that I was wondering . . .”
“Spit it out, Penelope.”
“Fine.” She blows out a breath. “I was just wondering if you’ve reconsidered telling Grampie and Granny how much of a jerk Brett was to you.”
Not this again. “You know my stance on the subject.”
“Fine. If you are choosing to continue to be a martyr, then I was wondering if maybe you should bring a date to the party.”
My head rears back. I wasn’t expecting that. “A date? Why? You know I’m not dating anyone right now.” Or anytime in the near future.
This bargain with Tai doesn’t count.
“A friend. I should have said a friend. But . . . a guy friend?”
“Again, why?”
“Well, Brett will be there, and I thought you might want some . . . you know . . . backup or emotional support or something.” She rushes on.
“Obviously I’ll have your back, Evangeline, but I’ll also be busy with the other guests and making sure everything runs smoothly.
I don’t like the thought of you having to face Brett alone because I’m occupied with something else, so I just thought . . .” She trails off.
A date. To my grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. Celebrating their lifelong love where my ex-fiancé, the man who broke my heart and shattered my self-esteem, will be. A mental image of Tai materializes in my mind. Followed by one of his fists smashing through Brett’s weak jaw.
I smile despite myself, then wipe the expression off my face. My mind should not automatically jump to Tai when the word date is bandied about, even if it is to fantasize about him punching Brett.
My lips begin to curve upward again.
Nope. Nuh-uh.
Going out with Tai is his part of the bargain, not mine. And I will not renegotiate our terms. End of discussion.