Samantha took a step back and admired her handiwork. The room looked amazing. She had splurged on the flowers and lighting because she knew these things were important to Lucinda. They had been talking about expanding the dance studio for months—in fact, Lucinda had mentioned it one of the first times Samantha had ever stepped foot in this place. The adjoining space was owned by a cute elderly couple that had been there for decades. Just after Lucinda and Samantha got engaged, the husband came over and told them they were planning on selling and moving south to be closer to their grandchildren. Lucinda had started making phone calls that night to get the acquisition rolling. The positive relationship Lucinda had fostered with her neighbors over the years had made the transition smooth and seamless, and within a few weeks, Lucinda owned the space next door.
Part of Samantha felt a little guilty that the space still remained unused. And she knew a good part of that was because they were planning a wedding. But this event was important, and she wanted to make sure it was done right. The idea for the fundraiser had come to her long before the sale was finalized. Combining it with a matchmaking mixer was a new revelation, though. She laughed to herself as she remembered the look on Lucinda’s face in her office that day when she’d realized that Samantha had intentionally stopped by right before her meeting with Claire. She was too proud of herself to feel sorry for her underhandedness. She was doing it in the name of true love, after all.
When Shelly had come to her office a few weeks before and they’d decided to start from scratch, her mind immediately ran through the catalog of eligible bachelorettes in her system. But finding what Shelly wanted was going to be a little more difficult this time around—she needed a new approach. She had been idly fooling with some paperwork on her desk when she received a fax of her updated contract with Clear View. Claire’s signature was on the boilerplate welcome letter that accompanied the fax.
She liked Claire. She was tenacious and capable. Lucinda spoke so highly of her—she was a prized pupil. And, Samantha had noted, she appeared to like women. More specifically, she had caught Claire staring at her assets more than once. And when she’d casually tried to make small talk with Claire, she noticed a few other key things: Claire was very close to her brothers and she was unattached, and maybe, just maybe, Samantha had wandered onto social media and seen a picture of Claire kissing some other girl. None of that mattered, though. She just had a feeling that Claire and Shelly might hit it off—the hard part would be getting them in the same room. Then, voilà, enter the fundraiser. Shelly would do anything to help Lucinda, and from what Samantha knew of Claire, she would do anything to prove herself. It was a win-win.
Convincing Lucinda had been another matter entirely. Samantha had done her best to reiterate that sometimes fate had to be helped, sometimes divine intervention was necessary. Lucinda had laughed and asked her if she had considered herself divine. That night, she’d done her best to prove she was indeed celestial. It seemed to have worked.
“What are you thinking about?” Lucinda’s arm wrapped around her waist from behind.
“You.” Samantha turned and kissed her fiancée sweetly. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”
Lucinda gave her a small smile. “You know I don’t often disagree with you, Samantha. I’m just a little unsure about this. Do you really think it’s a good idea to set Shelly up with—”
“Do you trust me?” Samantha ran her hand along the side of Lucinda’s face.
“Of course.”
“And do you think that I am worthy of the title Miss Match?”
“Samanth—”
“Do you?”
“You are the best. I concur,” Lucinda relented.
“Then believe me when I tell you this is just a chance for me to observe their dynamic without either one of them knowing they are being observed. And let me do what I do best.”
“Make the impossible possible?” Lucinda’s air quotes got her a gentle shove.
“Exactly.” Samantha snuggled close to Lucinda and rested her head on her shoulder. “The more I think about it, the more I think they would be perfect together. Just something in my gut—I can’t explain it. And if I’m wrong, then we still raised funds for the studio, Claire still made some business connections, and Shelly still got to practice her socialization skills in a controlled environment. She’s come so far, Luce. I want this for her.”
“All right. I have to admit, it was a stroke of genius. I can’t believe I never noticed Claire checking you out before.”
“Well, full disclosure, I may have picked out that outfit that day with the intent of setting her up for failure. I look great in that dress. The boots were a complete on-the-spot guilty pleasure purchase, though.”
Lucinda pressed a kiss to Samantha’s head. “What am I getting myself into?”
“A lifelong adventure, I suppose.”
“I’m okay with that.” Lucinda sighed. “This place looks great, Samantha. Really. You pulled out all the stops.”
“Thanks. I happen to think you’re worth it.”
“Aww.” The hand that had been gently caressing Samantha’s shoulder paused. “Wait, what else do you have in mind for tonight?”
“So many accusations.” Samantha stepped out of Lucinda’s embrace with that same mischievous smile from her office that day. “Well, since you asked…”
*
Shelly stood in front of the mirror on her closet door and exhaled. This event was entirely out of her comfort zone. She had agreed to attend because Samantha and Lucinda had asked her to. And she loved supporting the arts. What was the point of having her wealth and not sharing it? As she looked at herself in the mirror again, she frowned. This outfit was not working.
She walked back toward the bed and tossed the blazer onto the duvet. The pants were fine, the shoes Andrew had picked out, so they must be perfect, but the shirt and blazer combo was off. She headed back to her walk-in closet and looked at the clothes: organized by color, all dry cleaned, and neatly arranged with care. This had been Samantha’s doing—but Shelly secretly loved it. Before Samantha and Andrew, Shelly had dressed in what she would refer to as nerd-chic. She was promptly educated that her natural style was actually decent, but the fabrics she chose and the fits were not flattering. In came the tailor and the personal shopper, and now everything fit her perfectly.
She walked over to the casual leather jacket section and ran her fingers along the soft leather. Whenever she was insecure about her clothing choice, she found herself back here. Something about the warm softness of the material drew her in—and it made her feel bold and edgy even if it was made to be worn indoors and was lightweight. Leather made her a little more confident. Tonight was a leather night, she decided.
“Hedy,” she called over her shoulder as she pulled down a crisp black dress shirt. She shrugged off the white pinstriped shirt and let it fall to the floor. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she slipped the black shirt over her shoulders. Samantha had also overhauled her bra and panties selection. She had resisted this at first, but there was something about a matching set that made her feel sexy. Of course she still had her favorite Spider-Man boyshorts and requisite granny panties for her monthly cycle—she wasn’t a savage, after all. But it was nice to have adult things. She admired the way the open fabric encased her slim frame, though the muscles defining her stomach were new. Lucinda had recommended she pick up something athletic besides their weekly dance lessons to help harness her anxiety, and she had chosen racquetball. The first few weeks were brutal; she had spent the better part of her life behind a laptop or tablet skipping meals and the sun in favor of working. That drive made her business with D’Andre extremely successful, but it also resulted in her having some bad loner qualities and social anxiety that she didn’t have in college.
“Seriously, where are you?” She shrugged on the olive green faux leather jacket that she knew made her eyes look their best and walked into the bedroom again. “Hedy!”
A pair of emerald eyes that nearly matched her own appeared at the door frame, blinking at her expectantly.
“There you are.” Shelly fastened her watch and ran her hand once through her hair. “What do you think? Do I look okay?”
Hedy sauntered into the room and jumped up onto the bed with the grace and ease of a ninja. She looked at Shelly for a moment and flopped onto her side, uninterested.
“No comments from the peanut gallery?” Shelly leaned forward to inspect her eyeliner application and gave herself a mental high five that her eyes appeared to match. “I’m getting better at this straight line thing. All right, I’ll be home a little late. Gotta stop off and see Old Man Louis before the event tonight. Don’t get into any trouble. And stay out of my closet, ya dig?”
Hedy blinked once more, this time yawning once before rolling onto her back, her arms and legs extended.
“Worst. Support. Cat. Ever.” Shelly ruffled her belly and forced a kiss onto Hedy’s face resulting in an annoyed meow. “She speaks. I’m outta here, Kit-Kat, see you in a few hours.”
Shelly walked down the front stairs of her spacious three-bedroom house and started the car. She slipped into the driver’s seat and dialed her father on the Bluetooth.
“What?” he grunted over the line.
“Hey, Dad, good to hear from you, too.” She looked left and right before taking the turn onto the main road. “Did the food get delivered today?”
“I’m working, Sheldyn, I don’t know.”
Shelly cringed. She hated when he used her full name. Really, she hated the fact that he’d named his only child, a daughter no less, Sheldyn to begin with. Who names their daughter after a Nobel Prize–winning physicist? Someone hoping for a son, she presumed. She took a steadying breath to keep her blood pressure from rising. “Can you take a quick break and check the front door? I’m on my way there now and I’ll set up dinner for you, but I have plans tonight, so you have to finish what I start, okay?”
“Maybe. We’ll see. ’Bye.” He disconnected the line abruptly.
She sighed and used the button on the steering wheel to activate the loud, angry rock music she had queued up in the cloud. For some reason, listening to this kind of music made her have fewer homicidal thoughts toward her moody and cantankerous father. She sat in his driveway nodding her head to the last verse of a Paramore song before finally shutting off the vehicle. Her father lived in an aging and deteriorating Victorian by himself, about ten minutes from her. That had been her choice, though. He had lived here his whole life—she chose a home close to him when she moved out because she knew he would never travel to her. She had not been incorrect.
As she walked up the uneven paver stones to the front door, she noticed a piece of the front gutter to the left of the door had detached and was inefficiently hanging at an awkward angle. The pane along the door frame was chipping, the original white a dusky gray now. The house almost looked haunted. She got to the front step and noticed the Peapod delivery of food still sitting there. She glanced over the railing and saw the cooler she had hidden tucked under the brush with a note on it. Shelly, your dad didn’t answer. I left the perishables in here with some extra ice I swiped from the store. Hopefully you get to this before it goes bad. Great idea on the cooler, by the way—Ramon.
She made a mental note to leave a monster tip for Ramon on the next delivery. Her father had been getting less and less reliable about bringing the food inside in the last few months. That’s where the cooler idea had come from. She knew Ramon was going above and beyond by using it—the delivery service had strict rules and he was breaking most of them to help her out. She was grateful. She picked up the grocery bin and keyed into the house she grew up in, walking into complete darkness, as usual. She hit the foyer light and walked to the kitchen, heading back to grab the cooler and unpack. The next delivery wouldn’t be until next week. Ramon had circled the estimated date and time. She made a note in her phone to swing by that day and make sure the groceries made it into the house.
“Dad?” She called down the hall toward the study, where a whisper of light shone beneath the door. Again, the only light on in the house. It even felt haunted inside when it was like this.
She put the perishables in the fridge and freezer before washing the vegetables and drying them with care, rewrapping the ones she wasn’t using now and putting them into glass containers with plastic lids. If things weren’t easily accessible, her father wouldn’t eat. Washing and drying fruits and vegetables was a step too far, and she knew it. She put the pot of water on the stove and clicked on the gas burner to bring the water to a boil.
“Dad! I have to leave, c’mon!” She looked around the kitchen and grumbled at the stack of papers obscuring the kitchen island, and as she stepped toward them to move them, her father appeared in the doorway.
“Don’t touch those. They’re important.” He huffed and shuffled into the room. His gait was a mess, his steps stuttered and halted—his Parkinson’s was progressing.
“Dad, did you shower today?” Shelly looked over his disheveled appearance and knew the answer. His hair was uncombed and standing straight up in the back. His shirt had a stain along the front lapel and his tweed sport coat was fraying at the right elbow patch.
“What are you, the hygiene police?” He adjusted his fingerprint-smudged glasses and pushed them up his nose. “I’ve been working.”
“You mentioned that,” Shelly replied as she finished cutting the peppers and onions, dropping them into a pan of olive oil. “Can you clear some of those papers off the island? Dinner is almost ready.”
“I’ll eat in the study.”
“You’ll eat at the island like a civilized human being before you go back to your cave.” Shelly stirred the pasta and reached for the strainer.
“When did you get so bossy?” The sound of shuffling papers behind her indicated that her father was at least cooperating a little bit.
“Oh, about the time you stopped functioning like a normal human.” She lowered her voice. “I’d say about the time I was nine years old.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, Dad. What do you want to drink?”
“Tea.”
“Okay.” She was grateful she had started the kettle when she arrived. Her father loved tea, but he only drank water from his mother’s old iron kettle. It must have been a hundred years old and weighed at least that many pounds. She had bought him numerous kettles over the years—electric ones, aluminum, ceramic—but he swore the water tasted different and he turned his nose up to each of them. The woman at Bed Bath & Beyond had actually thought Shelly kept returning kettles just to hit on her. She was pretty but, alas, taken. Shelly didn’t have the heart to tell her that her frequent trips were more to do with her aging father than her desire to get in the girl’s pants. But it was kind of flattering nonetheless.
She poured the warmed sauce onto the strained pasta and stirred in the sautéed vegetables. She added just a pinch of salt and pepper before making two plates, a small one for her and a larger serving for her father. The rest she put into the glass containers that lined the counter, depositing them into the fridge.
“Here you go, Dad.” She placed the larger plate in front of him and climbed onto the stool across from him.
“Why don’t you have more food on your plate?” He spoke into the pasta between the bites he shoveled into his face.
“I have somewhere to be in a bit. I’m not starving and I’m sure there will be passed hors d’oeuvres.”
“This is good. It needs more salt, though.” He still had not bothered to look up from his plate.
“You know the doctor put you on a low sodium diet, Dad.”
“Just saying.” He reached for his tea and took a swig, finally looking up. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” She finished her last bite and wiped her mouth before standing to clear her plate and load the dishwasher. “Greta will be by tomorrow morning to clean and do the laundry. That patch on your elbow needs to be fixed, so leave it out and I’ll text her about fixing it.”
“The jacket doesn’t need fixing.” He crossed his arms like a defiant child, making the tear more obvious.
“Okay, Dad. Whatever you say.” She glanced at the clock once more. “I’ll be over tomorrow or the next day, depends on how my meeting with D’Andre goes tomorrow. I will call you regardless, though, okay? I made extra pasta and put it into the fridge—just toss it into the microwave if you get hungry. Three square meals, Dad. Remember that.”
“What are you doing tonight?” His expression was curious, his arms uncrossed now.
“What?” She paused in the doorway, her keys jingling in her hand at the sudden stop in forward motion.
“You’re dressed…differently. And you have makeup on. Why?” Before she had a chance to answer he added, “When did you stop wearing glasses? There’s nothing wrong with glasses.”
“I’m going to a fundraiser for my friend’s dance studio.” She ignored the glasses comment and turned to go but he stopped her again.
“The blond one? What’s her name? Lucille?”
“Lucinda. And yes.” She was a little surprised he sort of remembered her name.
“I like Lucille better.” He continued eating. “Have fun.”
“Uh, thanks.” She walked out the front door and shook her head in confusion. That was the most interest he had shown in her life in so long it felt foreign to her to share with him. She texted Greta to tell her to get him out of that jacket and repair it by any means necessary, before driving toward Lucinda’s studio. She was actually looking forward to social interaction now. Spending any amount of time with her father tended to do that.