Chapter Five
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
At JFK International Airport, y’all! Two-hour layover and then I am on my way to London Town! I’ll be in the Cotswolds by teatime tomorrow. Get ready Northam-on-the-Water singletons, you’re about to meet your match!
I snap a selfie beneath the yellow neon gate sign displaying my flight’s information and post it along with my Facebook update, before taking a seat facing the people movers. My Kindle is loaded with reading material—funny rom-coms by Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk, historical romances by Sophie St. Laurent, a creepy vampire romance by Elle Jasper—and I have the latest People, Vogue, and Tatler, a British magazine that focuses on high society, but I would rather people watch. I like creating love stories for the people I see when I am crowd watching. I imagine where they are going and who they are going to meet. Sometimes, I match a stranger with another stranger and create a story for them. An hour later, I have made two dozen successful matches and imagined all sorts of happy endings (the PG kind, y’all). So, I pull my iPhone out of my pocket and scroll through my notifications and texts.
Text from Madison Van Doren:
I hooked up with that Barton boy after you left the party. It was incredible, but he hasn’t returned any of my texts. What should I do?
Text to Madison Van Doren:
My daddy used to say, “A girl should be like a butterfly: pretty to see, but hard to catch.” Be a butterfly, Maddie. Make him work to catch you.
Text from Alexandra Armistead:
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Everything was perfect last night, Emma Lee! The toast. The food. The fairy lights. Everything, except . . . NM.
Text to Alexandra Armistead:
I don’t think so! Don’t you try that never-mind business on me, Alexandra Armistead-soon-to-be-Aiken. Except what?
Text from Alexandra Armistead:
You’re going to think I am silly, but I’m still a little hurt Cash didn’t like my dress. It seems like ever since we got engaged, he’s stopped giving me compliments. Tell me I am being a ridiculous, clingy fool.
Text to Alexandra Armistead:
Girl, please! You need to grab him by his ears and shake him like he’s a new bottle of OPI nail lacquer. Southern boys can be as backward as an unbuttered biscuit sometimes. Just tell him how you’re feeling, Lex. Smooch.
Text from Savannah Warren:
Did you know the government funded a study on the impact of marriage on poverty and illness? Turns out married people are wealthier and live healthier. Who knew?
Text from Manderley de Maloret:
Bon voyage, darling Emma Lee! I am proud of you for having the courage to take this big step.
I snap a selfie with the collar of my Burberry trench flipped up and my lips puckered together and send it to my big sister with a sincere message of gratitude—for her generous gift and her emotional support.
Text from Truman Barton:
Your girl, Maddie, is hot, but she’s gone all Lisa on me, and shit. Can you tell her to chill?
Text to Truman Barton:
Lisa? The crazy-ass woman who stalked Idris Elba in Obsessed?
Text from Truman Barton:
Yaaas!
Text to Truman Barton:
So, you don’t like her?
Truman texts back to tell me he does, in fact, like Maddie, but she’s been blowing up his phone with lovey-dovey messages ever since they hooked up. So, I text Maddie and tell her to stop being a Lisa. She promises she will take my daddy’s advice and play hard to get. I suspect that will be mighty difficult because she’s already slept with, and stalked, Truman.
I send Tara a text letting her know I am safe and relatively sound in the JFK international departures terminal and then send Roberta a mess of pictures I snapped at Lexi’s engagement party.
Roberta Hearst—Bertie to her friends—is a Kappa Kappa Gamma big sister; she was in a class ahead of the rest of us. She married her college sweetheart the week after graduation and moved to his hometown, Guyton, Georgia. She’s on bed rest because she’s pregnant with twins.
“You’re a busy young lady.”
I was so caught up in my messages, I didn’t notice when an older gentleman in a supernatty tweed blazer took the seat next to me. I slide my phone back into my pocket and smile.
“Not too busy to get to know my neighbor,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Emma Lee Maxwell.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma Lee Maxwell.” He has a strong British accent and an even stronger grip. “William Amor, at your service.”
“Amor? As in, the Spanish word for love?”
“Yes.”
“How romantic!”
“You think?” He laughs. “My ancestor was Robert de Almore, a Breton soldier who fought alongside William the Conqueror. Robert married a Scottish lass named Fiona, who bore him twelve children. They lived near the village of Aviemore, in the Scottish Highlands. Robert, it seems, was a wee bit of a lothario, though. He was rumored to have fathered more than fifty children with women from local villages and even a nearby convent.”
“He sounds like a modern-day Casanova!”
“Quite right.” He chuckles. “I suspect the surname was changed from de Almore to Amor because of Robert’s numerous romantic peccadillos.”
A chime sounds over the loud speaker, and a woman with a posh British accent begins speaking. Good Afternoon. This announcement is for passengers traveling on flight BA723 to London Heathrow. We will begin boarding in twenty minutes. Please have your boarding pass and passport ready for boarding at gate 75. Thank you.
I reach into my purse, pull out my boarding pass and passport, and double check my flight number.
“Are you on flight BA723?”
“Yes.”
“Headed to London?”
I slip the boarding pass and my passport back into my purse and smile at my inquisitive, nattily dressed friend.
“I am going to the Cotswolds, actually.”
“The Cotswolds, you say? Ah, but that is an area of particular charm and beauty, a splendid choice for a holiday.”
“I’m not on holiday,” I say. “I am moving to Northam-on-the-Water to start a business.”
“That sounds rather exciting. What sort of business?”
“Matchmaking.”
“Matchmaking? I didn’t know young people still used matchmakers. I thought they used Timber.”
“Timber?”
“My grandson uses a dating application on his smartphone called Timber. He looks at pictures of potential dates and swipes his finger across the screen to let them know he fancies them.”
“Tinder! You’re talking about Tinder.”
“Tinder? Is that what it’s called?” He shakes his head. “Timber. Tinder. It’s quite sad, really. I tell Johnny that he can’t judge someone’s character by glancing at their photograph. To dismiss someone solely because of their appearance, it’s a shallow approach to something that is meant to be meaningful.”
“Johnny is your grandson?”
“Grandson and bane of my existence.” He sighs. “He dropped out of Oxford a few credits shy of a degree in English language and literature because he said music was his true passion. Now, he spends his days helping his friend launch an indie book business and his nights singing in pubs in pants that are too tight and a velvet jacket that is entirely too pink.”
“He sounds like my kind of friend.”
“Hmmm. Does he, indeed?”
“Sure,” I say. “You’ve described someone who is artistic, passionate, courageous, and loyal. It takes a lot of courage to leave a straight, secure path in pursuit of a passion.”
His face softens.
“He is a good lad. He just needs a nice girl like you, to focus him. I don’t see a wedding band on your finger,” he says, nodding at my hand. “Is there a Mr. Maxwell pining for you somewhere?”
“No.” I laugh. “The longest and most affectionate relationship I’ve had was with my hairstylist: six years and one regretful flirtation with red lowlights.”
He chuckles. “Why is that?”
“I have commitment issues.”
He laughs.
I laugh, too, even though I’m dead serious. You don’t know the mental distress I suffer when I am faced with situations that require dedication to a long-term goal, like dieting or saving money. Shoot, I couldn’t commit to raising a stray dog, let alone marrying a man. Kristen, the psych major, said commitment issues have psychological underpinnings, usually caused by a traumatic event or early childhood stress. I reckon losing my momma when I was a baby was the traumatic event, and growing up watching my daddy struggle with his grief was probably the early childhood stress.
“Why don’t I give you my grandson’s contact information? Maybe you could meet for tea. Who knows, maybe you could even find him a wife.” His cheeks flush with color and he clears his throat. “Was that too forward of me? I suppose it was. I suppose a pretty girl like you doesn’t need an old man introducing her to his grandson. I am sure you have plenty of friends already.”
“Friends are like fabulous shoes, Mr. Amor; you can never have too many.”
The chimes sound again and the woman with the posh British accent invites all Executive Club and Business Class passengers to form a queue. Mr. Amor reaches into his suitcoat pocket and removes a pen and small spiral notebook. He opens the notebook, writes on a blank page, and tears the page from the book. Then, he puts the notebook and pen back in his pocket, lifts a leather weekender off the ground, and stands.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Maxwell,” he says, handing me the slip of paper. “Call Johnny, won’t you, dear?”
“Definitely.”
He shuffles away, taking his place at the back of the queue.
I stick the folded paper in my pocket and grab my carry-on. I can’t help but feel Aunt Patricia’s hand in my meeting Mr. Amor. Amor. Love! And he has a grandson he wants me to meet and match. Thanks a mil, Aunt Pattycake.