The Perfect Match

And so, Tom had decided to drive to Pennsylvania, visit the only relative he had in this country and start the goodbye process. He’d been in the States for four years now, and Aunt Candace had been good to him. Not to mention delirious with joy when he called after his last class to see if she was free for dinner. He even took her to the mall so she could buy a coat, proving a fact Tom firmly believed—he was a bloody saint.

“Here. Have more pie, darling.” She pushed the dish across the table toward him, and Tom helped himself.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Lovely town, Manningsport,” she said. “I lived near there as a child, did you know that?”

“So you told me,” Tom said. His lovely old aunt could bake, that was certain.

“Finish that pie, you might as well. I’m prediabetic or some such nonsense. Then again, I’m also eighty-two years old. Life without dessert is too horrible to contemplate. I’ll just overdose on caramel corn and die with a smile on my face. What was I saying again?”

“You used to live near Manningsport.”

“Yes, that’s right! Just for a few years. My mother was a widow, you see. My father died of pneumonia, and so she packed my brother and me up and came to America. Elsbeth, your grandmother, was already married, so she stayed in Manchester with her husband, of course. Your grandfather. But I remember the crossing, seeing the Statue of Liberty. I was seven years old. Oh, it was thrilling!” She smiled and took a sip of tea.

“So that’s how you became a Yank?” Tom asked.

She nodded. “We lived in Corning, and she met my stepfather, and he adopted Peter and me.”

“I never knew that,” Tom said.

“He was a lovely man. A farmer. Sometimes I’d go with him to deliver milk.” Candace smiled. “Anyway, we moved after my brother died in the war. I was fifteen then. But I still have a friend there. More of a pen pal, do you know what that is?”

Tom smiled. “I do.”

“A pity you have to leave. It’s beautiful there.” Candy’s gaze suddenly sharpened. “Tom, dear...if you really want to stay in the States, you can always marry an American.”

“That’s illegal, Auntie.”

“Oh, pooh.”

He laughed. “I can’t see myself going that far,” he said. “It might be different if—well. It’s not an option.”

It might be if Charlie actually wanted him to stay. Needed him. If Tom were anything but a thorn in Charlie’s side, he might give it a whirl.

He had two thin job prospects with manufacturing firms, both requiring experience he didn’t have. If those didn’t work out (and he was almost positive they wouldn’t), he’d be heading back to jolly old England, which wouldn’t be awful. He’d be near his dad. Probably meet some nice girl someday. Charlie would barely remember him.

The pie suddenly tasted like ash. He pushed back his plate. “I’d better be off,” he said. “Thanks for the visit.”

She stood up and hugged him, her cheek soft against his. “Thank you for coming to see an old lady,” she said. “I’m going to brag about this for days. My grandnephew adores me.”

“You’re right. Ta, Auntie. I’ll call you and let you know what’s happening.”

“If I happen to know someone who might be interested, can I give her your number, dear?”

“Interested in what, Auntie?”

“In marrying you.”

Tom laughed. The old lady’s face was so hopeful, though. “Sure,” he said, giving her another kiss on the cheek. Let the old bird feel useful, and that way, maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad when he went back to England.

There was that pain in his chest again.

It took four hours to drive back to Manningsport. Four hours of wretched, icy rain and windshield wipers that smeared, rather than cleared. The weather thickened as he approached the Finger Lakes. Perhaps he wouldn’t get in too late to grab a bite (and a whiskey) at the pub he was becoming too fond of. Chat up the pretty bartender and try not to think about the future.

CHAPTER TWO

SIX WEEKS AFTER her failed marriage proposal, Honor was starting to panic.

Online dating sites had offered her all of four matches: her brother Jack (pass); Carl, her brother-in-law (he and Pru had registered to see if eCommitment would say that they were compatible, then planned to meet and pretend to be strangers as part of their ongoing quest to keep things fresh; he was also a pass, obviously); Bobby McIntosh, who lived in his grandmother’s basement and had strange, reptilian eyes; and a guy she didn’t know who listed “reincarnation” under his hobbies.

So. Here she was again, staring down the weekend with only Spike, her recently acquired little mutt, for company, and while Spike was indeed excellent company, Honor had sort of hoped for the human variety. Ryan Gosling would’ve been preferred, but he had plans, apparently. Dana was busy, and had been busy a lot lately, which was getting a little frustrating, as winter in the Finger Lakes meant there already wasn’t much to do. Take the best girlfriend out of the equation, and there was even less.

Faith was busy being a newlywed. Pru was busy pretending to be a newlywed. Jack had come over to watch the gruesome medical documentaries they both loved on Honor’s fabulous new TV, and she had the feeling she’d tapped him out on the social front. Abby was a popular kid, and Honor couldn’t bring herself to beg the teenager to hang out and watch movies. Ditto Ned, who already spent enough time with Honor at work.

This left Goggy and Pops, who were always happy to see her but fought constantly, and Dad, who was acting a little weird lately. Jumpy. Secretive.

Would Mrs. Johnson be up for something? Sometimes she’d go to a movie with Honor, though she clucked about the unsanitary nature of theaters, theater staff and humans in general. Hmm. Mrs. Johnson was probably her best bet. They could bring Spike, who loved movies as well as popcorn.

At that moment, her phone rang, startling her so much that she sloshed her coffee. Spike barked from her little doggy bed and began leaping up against Honor’s leg, tearing her panty hose. Though she’d only had Spike for a month, the dog was very protective.

“I’ll get it!” Honor yelled to Ned, the only other employee here at this hour.

“Of course you will,” he yelled back from his office, where the sounds of Angry Birds could be heard.

“Blue Heron Vineyard, Honor Holland speaking,” she said smoothly into the phone, scooping up her doggy.

“Hey, On, it’s Brogan.”

A burst of heat raced up her legs. “Hey! Hi! How are you? How’s it going?” Down, girl, said the eggs. He rejected us, remember?

True. But they’d only emailed a few times since then, and damn if she didn’t miss him.

“I’m really good,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m good! I’m great! I’m great, too, I mean.” The eggs sighed.

“So listen,” he continued, “I’m in town, and I was hoping you could find some time to see me.”

Honor paused. The words old baseball glove leaped to mind. Then again, they’d always been friends. Still were. “What did you have in mind?”

I’m really sorry about saying no, Honor. These past few weeks have given me time to think and I love you and I want to marry you. Now.

“Drinks at O’Rourke’s?” he asked.

“Sure! You bet.”

“Fantastic,” he said, and his voice was warm. There was a pause. “I have something important to tell you, and I want to do it in person. I think—I hope—it’ll make you really happy.”

The eggs sat up straighter. So did Honor.

“Okay,” she said, pressing her fingers against her hot cheeks. “That sounds great.”

“Seven o’clock?”

Seven! That was in ninety-two minutes. “That works. I’ll see you then.”

She sat there another minute, then sucked in an enormous breath, having forgotten how to breathe normally. Spike licked her chin in concern, and Honor patted her out of reflex. Turned to her computer and typed in Brogan’s words. Studied them. Read them aloud, very softly so her nephew wouldn’t hear.

“Hey,” the same nephew said from her doorway, causing Honor to slap her laptop closed. Ned gave her a strange look. “Chill, Honor.”

“What is it, Neddie dear?”

“You okay? You look all blotchy.”

“Shush, child. What do you want?”

“I’m leaving. I have a date. And a life. You should try it some time.”

“Very funny, Ned. Have fun. Drive carefully.”

She waited till his footsteps had faded away, then opened her laptop and looked at those words again. I have something important to tell you, and I think—I hope—it’ll make you really happy.

Could it be?

Could this be exactly what she wished for?

For one second, the scene flashed in front of her eyes. Herself, sitting at a little table at O’Rourke’s. Brogan on bended knee, the ring shining from a black velvet box. His question, her answer, the applause of the pub patrons, and then, finally, the feeling of his arms around her as he kissed her in public for the first time ever.

Her heart was thudding. Could this really be about to happen to her? The most unsurprising of the Holland girls, the one who was steady as a rock, about to be the subject of such a romantic proposal, finally claimed by Brogan Cain?

It was almost hard to believe. Yeah, about that, said the eggs. The years are precious, sure, but don’t jump the gun.

She ignored them. Adjusted her hairband (pink-and-green plaid). Read the words again.

It sure sounded like what she wanted it to sound like. Oh, yes, indeedy.

Legs trembling slightly, Honor settled Spike in her purse (why have a five-pound dog if you couldn’t take her everywhere?), gave her an absentminded kiss on the head and walked across the lawn to the New House, where Mrs. Johnson was banging pots and pans in the kitchen. Dad was there as well, his face red, stuffing his hands into his faded jeans, a tear in the elbow of his flannel shirt.

“Hi, guys,” Honor said.

“Hello, Petunia,” Dad answered, taking off his baseball cap and running a hand through his hair. Mrs. Johnson growled, which was not uncommon.

“Everyone good here?” Honor asked.

“Of course! Why would you even ask such a question, Honor Grace Holland?” Mrs. J. demanded in her lilting accent. She slammed a pot on the stove. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. How’s your brother? Is he hungry, do you think?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. J. Give him a call. And I, uh, I have plans,” she said.

“Good,” Dad said, his face flushing all the more. “I mean, good that you’ll get out with friends, sweetheart.”

“Yes. Mrs. J., will you watch Spike tonight?” I may be getting a marriage proposal.

The housekeeper’s face melted into a smile. “Of course I will! Come here, you precious angel! Your fur is almost all grown back, isn’t it? Oh, my beautiful princess, give us a kiss!”

Honor floated up to her little suite. Since she was the only Holland kid left at home, she’d appropriated Faith’s old room last year and made it into a sitting room. She did a lot of work there, and also watched TV, most often with her laptop open, doing all the things that she hadn’t gotten to during the workday.

Going into her bedroom, she opened her closet and frowned at the sea of navy blue and gray. Hmm. Her clothes were either neat-as-a-pin business attire, or jeans and a Blue Heron sweatshirt, and she didn’t want to be wearing either if Brogan was about to...you know.

Her hands were sweating.

I have something important to tell you, and I want to do it in person. I hope—I think—it’ll make you really happy.

What else could it be?

From the bookcase, her mother’s image smiled out at her.

Twenty years gone, and Honor still missed her. They’d been so close, and so alike, both practical with a healthy dose of yearning thrown in: Honor for a family, which Mom had had right out of college; Mom for travel and possibly a career, which Honor had in spades. Funny, that. They both wanted what the other had.

Mom would’ve liked Brogan, Honor thought. Yes. She definitely would’ve.

She showered, shaved her legs, moisturized. If she went back to Brogan’s house, she’d have to call, or Dad would call the chief of police, Levi Cooper, who happened to be married to Faith.

She’d cross that bridge later on. Put on a pink dress she’d worn to a wedding a few years ago, added a gray cardigan so she didn’t look quite so dressed up, but still suitably feminine. Honor looked at her shoe options. Flats and a couple of pairs of basic pumps. She didn’t own slutty shoes. Too much to swing by Faith’s and borrow some? Probably.

Calling a goodbye to Dad and Mrs. J., Honor got into her car, shivering at the cold. Drove down the Hill into the tiny village. Tonight, it looked more beautiful than ever, a coating of snow on the ground, lights in the windows of the houses and storefronts that ringed the town green, Crooked Lake dark and vast behind. The sky was a swirl of stars. O’Rourke’s was typically full, as the little pub was open year-round, the only place in town that was, and she could hear laughter and music from inside.

So...romantic. There was no other word for it, though romantic didn’t figure a lot into Honor’s life.

Tonight would be different.

Brogan’s Porsche was already in the parking lot.

This is it, she told herself, wishing abruptly she’d told her sisters to come tonight. But maybe it was better this way. Or...maybe...Brogan had asked them to come tonight, so they could see him popping the question live and in person. That would be just like him. The guy had flare.

Proposing to him had been a bad move. Men liked to do the work, according to the nine books she’d read recently on understanding the male psyche.

She touched her pearls for luck, then opened the door to O’Rourke’s. “Hey, Honor,” said Colleen from behind the bar. “Wow, you look nice!”

“Check you out,” said Connor at the same time.

“Thanks,” she murmured, not really seeing the O’Rourke twins, who ran the bar.

Brogan was waiting for her, that knowing, incredibly sexy half smile on his face.

Oh, Lordy. Could it be true? That in just a few minutes, she’d be engaged to marry this guy? She smiled back, heart galloping. “Great to see you,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. He took her coat and hung it up, ever the gentleman, and, oh, man, she loved him more than ever, and that was saying a lot.

Somewhere far in the back reaches of her psyche, the eggs were saying something about assumptions and whatever, sort of like an irritating storm warning running along the bottom of the television screen when you’re watching a really good show. Whatever. It was hard to form rational thought at the moment, which was odd, since her trademark was being the sensible one, the dependable, calm member of the Holland family.

Not this night. This night, she was just a woman in love.

The thoughts came in disjointed flashes, the only thing registering solidly was Brogan’s hand on her back, warm through her sweater.

When she saw Dana sitting alone at a table, her heart did a strange flop, and for a second, Honor felt a little surge of sympathy—Dana, who had no problem finding a guy, but had huge problems keeping one, would now have to see her and Brogan together. Dana often mocked happy couples. But Dana was her best friend, and she’d be happy for Honor. She would set aside her own issues.

In fact, maybe Brogan had invited her here for just that reason, to see the whole thing. You know what? That would explain why Dana had been a little hard to reach, a little distant lately. She’d been afraid to blow the surprise.

Then Brogan held a chair at the same table where Dana was sitting, and Dana looked up at Honor and gave her a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Okay, that was...huh. That little warning that scrolled across the screen was now accompanied by the loud beeping of the emergency signal.

She sat down. So did Brogan.

Later, Honor would wish she’d brought her dog, who could have attacked either Brogan or Dana, hopefully both, biting them with her tiny, needlelike teeth. She might have even peed on someone.

What happened next was a bit foggy. A poison, industrial-waste, evacuate-the-area kind of fog. Honor could hear her heartbeat crashing in her ears, caught Dana looking her up and down, immediately making her regret her choice of outfit. Dana herself wore a yellow wraparound shirt that showed her tiny waist and great boobage, making Honor feel overdressed and prim at the same time. Dana’s dark hair was a little different than the last time she’d seen her—gosh, two weeks ago? Three? Well, Dana was a hairdresser. Her hair changed all the time. Not like Honor, who’d had hers all one length for years. Alice in Wonderland hair, Dana called it. She was always urging Honor to let her cut it.

Honor cleared her throat. Probably should be thinking about something other than hair. The other thought, the big one, was trying to shoulder its way in, but Honor wouldn’t let it. Where was the happy, rosy glow? She missed it. Damn that glow! Come back! “Hi,” she said, forcing a smile.

One of the O’Rourke cousins brought Honor a glass of wine she didn’t remember ordering. Red. Pinot noir, Californian, a little too much pepper for her taste, better at first sip than upon finish, when it left a burning sensation in the back of her throat.

Over at the bar, Lorena Creech bellowed something about beddy-bye time. She heard Colleen O’Rourke’s belly laugh. Someone said, “Thanks, mate,” in an accent not usually heard around here, and all the while, Dana’s dark eyes held a gleam of something, and she kept wrinkling her nose when she laughed. Brogan talked, shrugging, smiling. Little scraps of their words came to her, and Honor was aware that she’d tipped her head and was smiling. Or, at least her mouth was stretched so that her cheeks bunched. It might’ve been a grimace. She wasn’t sure.

Then Dana held out her left hand, and on her fourth finger was Honor’s engagement ring. An emerald-cut three-carat diamond set in platinum. And then the words, all those words she hadn’t quite been hearing, slammed into Honor’s heart, Dana’s voice bright and sharp as a razor, slicing through the fog.

“So obviously, we didn’t plan on it. In fact, it was so crazy! We didn’t want to say anything to anyone until we were sure it was real, right, honey? But you know that saying. When it’s right, it’s right, and you don’t have to spend years wondering about it.”

Oh. That was meant for her. Gotcha.

Dana paused, squeezing Brogan’s hand. “Anyway, Honor, I know it’s a little weird, since you guys hooked up once in a while...” She smiled at Honor, a bright, movie-star smile. “But as you told me, that was done, and we hope you’ll be happy for us.”

All this first-person plural. Us. We. Our. What the hell was that about? No, seriously. What the ffffff—no, no, Honor wasn’t the type to swear, but really, what the ffff-ungus was that about?

“Excuse me?” Honor said, and her heart beat so fast that she honestly felt like she might faint. “You’re getting married?”

Brogan stopped talking. His face began to register something was off. “Uh, yeah.”

Dana reached over and squeezed her hand. “Maid of honor? What do you say?”

Right. Because if she asked Honor to be in the wedding, then clearly Dana was a wonderful friend. Clearly it wasn’t a case of swooping in and stealing—okay, not stealing, but definitely swooping—and taking Brogan. Brogan, of all people!

And why not? Brogan was handsome and nice and wealthy and glamorous, and Dana was a shark. Honor had seen it before, little flashes of those lethal rows of teeth, but man-oh-man-alive, she never thought Dana would turn on her.

Breathing. Right. Had to do that to stay alive. Honor sucked in a fast, hard breath, then another.

Brogan was now looking downright concerned. “On?”

She dragged her gaze from Dana’s face to his. “It’s Honor.”

He blinked those ridiculous (now that she thought of it) turquoise eyes. “Uh, Honor, you’re okay with this, right? I mean, we were never...” He winced. “I thought...”

“Honor? You’re not upset, are you?” Dana asked. “I mean, you and Brogan were never more than a friendly fu—”

That was when the wine appeared on Dana’s yellow shirt, right splat on her chest, some beads of red rolling into her exposed cleavage. Dana’s mouth opened and closed like a trout pulled out of the water, and Honor realized her glass was empty.

“Holy crap, Honor!” Dana shrieked, jolting backward in her chair. “What the hell?”

Honor stood up, her legs shaking with shock and—and—and something she wasn’t used to feeling, but it seemed to be fury.

Dana stood, too, mouth hanging open in outrage as she stared down at her shirt. She looked up. “You bitch!” she said.

Honor shoved her. Not hard, but still. She wasn’t proud of it, didn’t plan it, but there wasn’t really much time to think, because Dana shoved back, much harder, and Honor staggered a little, bumping into her chair, and then Dana shoved her again, and she could smell the wine and “Sweet Home Alabama” was playing on the jukebox, and then they were falling, and there was some grappling, and Honor’s head jerked and a sudden pain lanced through her scalp—for the love of God, Dana was pulling her hair and it hurt, and she grabbed some of Dana’s adorable, silky hair (which smelled like coconut, very nice) and gave that a tug, and a chair fell on top of them, and time was weird, it was so slow and so fast at the same time, and then Brogan was hauling Dana off her. “Honor, what are you doing?” Brogan asked, and Honor scrabbled up, too (hopefully not flashing anyone), then there was a crack and Honor’s face stung.

Her best friend had just slapped her.

Honor’s breath came in short gasps. A cocktail napkin was stuck to her left breast. She pulled it off and set it on the table.

Oh, God.

The bar was silent.

“Honor.” Jack, her big brother, and who said they were never around when you needed them? “Are you okay?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Peachy.” Her face hurt. The spot Dana slapped throbbed.

Brogan looked absolutely bewildered. “Honor,” he said. “I—I thought...I didn’t realize...”

“No? Well, then, you’re stupider than I thought.” Her voice was cool, despite the fact that she was shaking violently.

“Let’s get out of here,” her brother said, and she loved him so much right then.

“I can’t believe it!” someone barked from the bar, breaking the silence. Lorena Creech, the biggest mouth in town. “Honor Holland in a catfight! Wowzers!”

“Come on,” Jack muttered. “I’ll drive you home.”

But Honor just stood there another minute, unable to take her eyes off of Dana. Her friend. The one who watched movies with her on Saturday nights when neither of them had a date, who confided in her, laughed with her, didn’t seem to mind that she was maybe a little quiet, a little predictable. The one who’d told her to go for it, propose to Brogan...the one who’d handed her tissues after he said no.

The one who’d had a strange look on her face when she answered the door that night, and now Honor recognized what that expression had been: triumph.

The one who was wearing the same engagement ring Honor had admired.

In Dana’s eyes was a dark gleam of satisfaction.

“I’ll drive myself,” Honor said, finally looking at her brother. “Thanks, anyway, Jack.” She straightened her sweater, took her purse from the back of the chair.

Over the back of Dana’s chair, she noted, was a Burberry raincoat. Honor’s raincoat.

She turned and headed through the still-silent bar. It was an awfully long way.

A man she didn’t know slid off a bar stool and went to the door ahead of her, weaving a bit, she noted distantly. “Thanks for that,” he said, the origin of the British accent she’d heard earlier. “You don’t get to see enough girl fights these days.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, not looking him in the eye.

He toasted her with his glass and held the door open, and the cool, damp air soothed her burning face.