Match Me If You Can

Chapter Seventeen

The week after the disastrous Wind Lake retreat, Annabelle immersed herself in work to keep from obsessing over what had happened. The Perfect for You Web site was up and running, and she received her first e-mail inquiry. She met separately with Ray Fiedler and Carole, who weren't going to be a love match but had learned something from each other. Melanie Richter, the Power Matches candidate Heath had rejected, agreed to have coffee with Shirley Miller's godson. Unfortunately, Jerry was intimidated by her Neiman's wardrobe and refused to ask her out again. A few more senior citizens arrived at her door, taking up too much of her time and doing nothing to improve her bottom line, but she understood loneliness, and she couldn't turn them away. At the same time, she knew she needed to think bigger if she intended to make a living wage. She examined her bank account balance and decided she could just afford to throw a wine and cheese party for her younger clients. All week, she waited for Heath to call. He didn't.

On Sunday afternoon she was listening to vintage Prince on the radio while she unpacked some groceries when her phone rang. "Hey, Spud. How's it going?"

Just the sound of her brother Doug's voice made her feel inept. She envisioned him as she'd last seen him: blond and good-looking, a male version of their mother. She stuffed a bag of baby carrots into the refrigerator and flicked off the radio. "Couldn't be better. How are things in LaLa Land?"

"The house next door just sold for one-point-two mil. On the market less than twenty-four hours. When are you coming out to visit again? Jamison misses you."

"I miss him, too." Not exactly true, since Annabelle barely knew him. Her sister-in-law had the poor kid so overscheduled with play dates and toddler enrichment classes that the last time Annabelle had visited, she'd mainly seen him asleep in his car seat. As Doug rattled on about their fabulous neighborhood, Annabelle imagined Jamison showing up on her doorstep as a twitchy, neurotic thirteen-year-old runaway. She'd nurse him back to mental health by teaching him her best slacker tricks, and when he grew up, he'd tell his children about his beloved, eccentric Auntie Annabelle who'd saved his sanity and taught him to appreciate life.

"So get this," Doug said. "I surprised Candace last week with a new Benz. I wish you could have seen the expression on her face."

Annabelle glanced out the kitchen window toward the alley where Sherman sat baking in the sun like a big green frog. "I'll bet she loved it."

"I'll say." Doug went on about the Benz-interior, exterior, GPS, like she cared. Once he put her on hold to take another call-shades of Heath. Finally he got to the point, and that was when she remembered the main reason Doug called. To lecture. "We need to talk about mom. Adam and I've been discussing the situation."

"Mom's a situation?" She opened a jar of Marshmallow Fluff and dug in.

"She's not getting any younger, Spud, but you don't seem to recognize that fact."

"She's only sixty-two," she said around the sweet gob. "Hardly ready for a nursing home."

"Remember that health scare she had last month?"

"It was a sinus infection!"

"You can minimize it all you want, but the years are catching up with her."

"She just registered for "windsurfing lessons."

"She only tells you what she wants you to hear. She doesn't like being a nag."

"You could have fooled me." She tossed the dirty spoon in the sink with more force than necessary.

"Adam and I agree about this, and so does Candace. All the worrying Kate does about you and your… Why don't we just come right out and say it?"

Why don't we not? Annabelle screwed on the lid and shoved the jar in the cupboard.

"This anxiety about your fairly aimless lifestyle is putting a strain on her that she doesn't need."

Annabelle ordered herself to let his dig pass. This time she wouldn't let him get to her. "Mom thrives on worrying about me," she said semicalmly "Retirement bores her, and trying to manage my life gives her something to do."

"That's not the way the rest of us see it. She's always stressed."

"Being stressed is her recreation. You know that."

"You're so clueless. When are you going to figure out that holding on to that house is a headache she doesn't need?"

The house. Another vulnerability. Even though Annabelle paid rent every month, she couldn't escape the fact that she was living under Mommy's roof.

"You need to move out of there so she can put the place on the market."

Her spirits sank. "She wants to sell it?" As she gazed around at the shabby kitchen, she could see her grandmother standing next to the sink as they did the dishes together. Nana didn't like messing up her manicures, so Annabelle always washed while she dried. They'd gossip about the boys Annabelle liked, about a new client Nana had just signed, talking about everything and nothing.

"I think it's pretty clear what she wants," Doug said. "She wants her daughter to step up to the plate and live responsibly. Instead, you're freeloading."

Was that what they called the rent money she barely managed to scrape up every month? Still, who was she kidding? Her mother would make a fortune if she sold this house to developers. Annabelle couldn't take any more. "If Mom wants to sell the house, she can talk to me about it, so butt out."

"You always do this. Can't you, just once, discuss a problem logically?"

"If you want logic, talk to Adam. Or Candace. Or Jamison, for God's sake, but leave me alone."

She hung up on him like the mature thirty-one-year-old she wasn't and promptly burst into tears. For a few moments she fought them, but then she grabbed a paper towel, sat down at the kitchen table, and gave in to her misery. She was tired of being the family outcast, tired of coming up short. And she was afraid… because no matter how much she fought it, she was falling in love with a man who was just like them.

By Monday morning, Heath still hadn't contacted her. She had a business to run, and as much as she might want to, she couldn't roll over and play dead any longer, so she left him a message. By Tuesday afternoon, he hadn't replied. She was fairly certain her Oscar-winning performance had convinced him at the time that he'd only been her sex therapist, but more than a week had passed since then, and he seemed to be having second thoughts. It wasn't in his nature to back away from confrontation, and sooner or later he'd contact her, but he'd want their showdown on his terms, which would put her at a disadvantage.

She still had Bodie's cell number from the day they'd spent with Arte Palmer, and she used it that evening.

An early morning jogger clipped past as she wedged Sherman into a miraculously vacant parking space a few doors down from the Lincoln Park address Bodie had given her the night before. She'd set her alarm for five-thirty, a fine time for Mr. Bronicki and his cronies to hop out of bed, but hell on earth for her. After a quick shower, she'd slipped into an acid yellow sundress with a corset-structured bodice that made her feel as though she had a bust, run a little styling gel through her second-day hair, dabbed on eye makeup and a slick of gloss, and set off.

The coffee she'd picked up at a Caribou on Halsted warmed her palm as she doubled-checked the address. Heath's house took her breath away. The free-form glass-and-brick structure, with its dramatic two-story wedge of windows angling toward the shady street, somehow managed to fit in with its neighbors, both the exquisitely renovated nineteenth-century town houses and the newer luxury homes built on the narrow, expensive lots. She walked down the sidewalk, then turned into a short brick path that curved to a carved mahogany front door and rang the bell. As she waited, she tried to refine her strategy, but the lock clicked and the door swung open before she'd gotten too far.

He wore a purple towel and a scowl, which didn't go away when he saw who'd come calling at 6:40 in the morning. He pulled the toothbrush from his mouth. "I'm not here."

"Now, now." She shoved the coffee into his free hand. "I'm starting a new company called Caffeine to Go Go. You're my first customer." She slipped past him into the foyer where an S-shaped staircase curved to a landing above. She took in the tumbled marble floors, the modern bronze chandelier, and the foyer's only real furnishing, an abandoned pair of sneakers. "Wow. I'm totally awestruck but pretending not to be."

"Glad you like it," he drawled. "Unfortunately, I'm not giving tours today."

She resisted the urge to run her fingertip over the dab of shaving cream that clung to his earlobe. "That's all right. I'll look around while you finish getting dressed." She gestured toward the stairs. "Go on. Don't let me interrupt you."

"Annabelle, I don't have time to talk now."

"Squeeze me in," she said with her snarkiest smile.

The toothpaste had begun to bubble at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. His gaze slid over her bare shoulders down to the fitted bodice of her sundress. "I haven't been avoiding you. I was going to call you back this afternoon."

"No, really, take as long as you need. I'm not in any hurry." She waved him away and headed toward the living room.

He grumbled something that sounded blasphemous, and, a moment later, she heard his bare feet padding upstairs. She peeked over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of a glorious pair of shoulders, a naked back, and a purple towel. Only when he disappeared did she return her attention to the living room.

Morning light splashed through the tall wedge of windows and dappled the pale hardwood floors. It was a beautiful space just begging to be lived in, but except for the gym equipment sitting on blue rubber mats, as empty as the foyer. No furniture, not even a sports poster on the wall. As she took it in, she began to see the room as it should be: a massive stone-topped coffee table sitting in front of a big, comfy sofa; chairs upholstered in spicy colors; splashy canvases on the walls; a streamlined CD cabinet; books and magazines strewn about. A kid's pull toy. A dog.

With a sigh, she reminded herself that she'd ambushed him this morning so they could get past their weekend at the lake. The old adage of being careful what you wished for sprang to mind. She'd wanted people to know that Heath had signed with Perfect for You, and the word had spread. Now, if she lost him as a client, everyone would assume she hadn't been good enough to keep him. Everything rested on how she handled herself this morning.

She passed through the empty dining room into the kitchen.

The counters were clear, the stainless-steel European appliances looked unused. Only the dirty glass in the sink signaled human habitation. She was struck by the notion that Heath had a place to live, but he didn't have a home.

She returned to the living room and gazed through the windows toward the street. A piece of the puzzle that made up the man she'd fallen in lust with settled into place. Because he was always on the move, she'd missed the fact that he was basically a loner. This unfurnished house brought his emotional isolation into focus.

He reappeared wearing gray slacks, a midnight blue shirt, and a patterned necktie, everything so perfecdy pulled together he could have stepped out of a Barneys ad. He tossed his suit coat across the weight bench, set down the coffee she'd brought, and shot his cuffs. "I wasn't ditching you. I needed some time to reassess, and I'm not apologizing for it."

"Apology accepted." His frown didn't bode well, and she quickly shifted gears. "I'm sorry things didn't work out better with Phoebe at the lake. Despite what you might think, I was rooting for you."

"We had half a decent conversation." He picked up the coffee.

"What happened to the other half?"

"I let her push my buttons."

She'd have enjoyed hearing the details, but she needed to get rolling before he started looking at the watch peeking out from under his shirt cuff. "Okay, here's the real reason I'm here-and if you'd called me back, I wouldn't have had to bother you. I need to know if you said anything to anybody about you-know-who. If you did, I swear I'll never speak to you again. I told you in the strictest confidence. Truly, I'd die of embarrassment."

"Tell me you didn't barge in here to talk about Dream Boy."

She pretended to fidget with her ring, a turquoise Nana had bought in Santa Fe. "So do you think Dean might like me?"

"Gosh, I don't know. Why don't you wait till study hall and ask your girlfriends?"

She tried to appear offended. "I'm looking for the male perspective, that's all."

"Get it from Raoul."

"We're over. He was screwing around on me."

"Like everybody in town didn't already know that?"

Okay, they'd had their fun. She sank down on the edge of the weight bench. "I know you think Dean is too young for me…"

"Your age is only one item on a bullet list of calamities waiting to happen if you don't get past this. And I haven't seen Lover Boy, so your secret is safe. Are we done yet?"

"I don't know. Are we?" She rose from the bench. "The thing is… I'm afraid you still might be dealing with some emotional issues from the retreat, which, I'm sorry to say, is making you seem a little girly."

"Girly?" A dark eyebrow slashed upward.

"Only one woman's opinion."

"You think I'm being girly? You, the queen of Annabelle Junior High?"

"You haven't returned my calls."

"I wanted to think about it."

"Exactly." She advanced on him, working up a righteous head of steam. "Obviously you're still conflicted about my night of sexual liberation, but you're too macho to admit it. I should never have taken advantage of you. We both know that, but I thought you were okay with it. Apparently you're not."

"I'm sure this'll disappoint you," he said dryly, "but I wasn't traumatized by your rape and pillage."

"I respect you for holding on to your pride," she said primly.

He frowned. "Cut the crap. You were crystal clear about mixing business and pleasure, and you were right. We both know that. But Krystal threw her porn party, I don't like having people say no to me, and the rest is history. I'm the one who took advantage. The reason I haven't called is that I still haven't figured out how to make it up to you."

She hated the idea that he was seeing her as a victim. "Not by running, that's for sure. Smacks a little too much of the boss who sleeps with his secretary and then fires her for it."

She had the satisfaction of seeing him wince. "I'd never do that," he said.

"Great. Block off every evening starting tomorrow. We're kicking off with a brainy econ professor who looks a little like Kate Hudson, finds Adam Sandier at least mildly amusing, and knows a wineglass from a water goblet. If you don't like her, I have six more lined up. Now are you back in the game or are you wimping out?"

He didn't let her bait him. Instead, he wandered over to the windows, sipping his coffee and taking his time, no doubt thinking over how complicated this had gotten. "Are you sure about going on?" he finally said.

"Hey, I'm not the one who got all worked up. Of course I'm sure." What a lie. "I have a business to run, and frankly, you're making that difficult."

He shoved his hand through his hair. "All right. Set it up."

"Perfect." She gave him a smile so big her cheeks ached. "Now, down to business…"

They made their arrangements, setting up days and times, and she escaped as soon as they were done. On the drive back home, she made a promise to herself. From now on, she'd seal her emotions away where they belonged. In an internal Ziploc bag-extra heavy duty.

The next afternoon, Heath followed Kevin between the tables in the hotel ballroom as the quarterback shook hands, slapped backs, and worked the crowd of businesspeople who'd gathered to eat lunch and hear his motivational speech,

"Throwing the Long Ones in Life." Heath stayed just behind him, ready to intercede if anyone tried to get too up close and personal, but Kevin made it to the front table without incident.

Heath had heard his speech a dozen times, and as Kevin took his seat, he returned to the rear of the ballroom. The introductions began, and Heath's mind wandered back to Annabelle's ambush yesterday morning. She'd burst into his house, filling up the place with her sass, and despite what he'd said, he'd been glad to see her. All the same, he hadn't lied when he'd told her he'd needed time to think things over, including how he could torpedo that infantile crush she had on Dean Robillard. If she didn't come to her senses soon, Heath was going to lose all respect for her. Why did women leave their brains behind when it came to Dean?

Heath pushed away an uncomfortable memory of a former girlfriend saying exactly the same thing about him. He intended to have a pointed conversation with Dean to make sure Golden Boy understood Annabelle wasn't another bimbo he could stick in his trophy case. Except Heath was supposed to be courting Robillard, not antagonizing him. Once again, his matchmaker had put him in an impossible situation.

Kevin made a self-deprecating joke, and the crowd laughed. He had them right where he wanted, and Heath slipped into the hallway to check his messages. When he saw Bodie's number, he returned it first. "What's up?"

"A buddy of mine just phoned from Oak Street Beach," Bodie said. "Tony Coffield, remember him? His old man owns a couple of bars in Andersonville."

"Yeah?" Tony was one of a network of guys who fed Bodie information.

"So guess who else just showed up to catch some rays? None other than our good buddy Robillard. And it seems he's not alone. Tony says he's sharing a blanket with a red-haired chick. Cute, but not his usual type."

Heath backed against the wall and clenched his teeth.

Bodie chuckled. "Your little matchmaker sure knows how to keep herself busy."

Annabelle lifted her head from the sandy blanket and gazed over at Dean. He lay on his back, muscles bronzed and oiled, blond hair gleaming, eyes shaded by space-age sunglasses with bright blue lenses. A pair of bikini-clad women made their fourth pass, and this time it looked as though they'd worked up the nerve to approach. Annabelle caught their eyes, pressed her index finger to her lips indicating that he was sleeping, and shook her head. Disappointed, the women walked on.

"Thanks," Dean said, without moving his mouth.

"Does this job pay?"

"I bought you a hot dog, didn't I?"

She propped her chin on her fists and dug her toes deeper into the sand. Dean had called her yesterday, a few hours after she'd left Heath's house. He'd asked if she could squeeze in a trip to the beach before T-camp started. She had a million things to do to get ready for the dating marathon she had planned, but she couldn't pass up the opportunity to feed the story of her infatuation in case Heath still had doubts.

"So explain it to me again," Dean said, eyes still shut. "About how you've been blatantly using me for your own nefarious purposes."

"Football players aren't supposed to know words like nefarious."

"I heard it on a beer commercial."

She smiled and adjusted her sunglasses. "All I'm saying is this. I got myself into a little jam-and, no, I'm not telling you who with. The easiest way to wiggle out was to pretend I'm smitten with you. Which, of course, I am."

"Bull. You treat me like a kid."

"Only to protect myself from your glory."

He snorted.

"Besides, being seen with you raises the profile of my business." She laid her cheek on her forearm. "It'll get people talking about Perfect for You, and free advertising is all I can afford right now. I'll pay you back. I promise." She reached over and patted one very hard, sun-warmed bicep. "Ten years from now, when we know for sure you've made it through puberty, I'm going to find you a great woman."

"Ten years?"

"You're right. We'll make it fifteen just to be safe."

Annabelle had a crappy night's sleep. She dreaded the start of Heath's dating marathon, but it was time to bite the bullet and hit him with everything she had. She arrived at Sienna's first. When he walked in, her heart gave a dopey little kick before it plunged to her toes. He'd been her lover, and now she had to introduce him to another woman.

He looked as grouchy as she felt. "I heard you played hooky yesterday," he said as he sat down.

She had hoped word of her outing with Dean would make its way back to him, and her spirits lifted. "Nope. I'm not saying a word." She made a zipping motion across her lips, turned the lock, and threw away the key.

His irritation deepened. "Do you know how juvenile that is?"

"You're the one who asked."

"All I said was that I heard you'd taken the day off. I was making conversation."

"I'm allowed to take a day off now and then. And Wind Lake doesn't count because I had to entertain a client. Specifically, you."

He got that sexy half-lidded look, the one that signaled he was about to say something raunchy. But then he seemed to think better of it. "So how is the course of true love progressing?"

"I think he's attracted to me. Maybe it's because I'm not clingy. I could be clingy, but I'm forcing myself to give him plenty of room. Don't you agree that's the smart thing to do?"

"You are not sucking me into this discussion."

"I know he has gorgeous football groupies hanging all over him, but I think he might be growing out of that stage of his life. I get the sense that he's maturing."

"Don't hold your breath."

"You think I'm being stupid, don't you?"

"Tinker Bell, you've redefined stupid. For a woman who's supposed to have a head on her shoulders-"

"Shhh… Here comes Celeste."

Heath and Celeste had a boring discussion about the economy, a topic that always disheartened Annabelle. If the economy was good, she felt as though she wasn't taking proper advantage of it, and when the economy was bad, she couldn't see how she'd ever get ahead. She let the discussion drag on for the full twenty minutes before she put an end to it.

After Celeste left, Heath said, "I wouldn't mind hiring her, but I don't want to marry her."

Annabelle didn't think Celeste had liked Heath all that much either, and her mood brightened. Unfortunately, only temporarily, because her next candidate, a public relations executive, showed up right on schedule.

Heath was his normal charming self-respectful, interested in everything she had to say, but unwilling to take it any further. "Great taste in clothes, but I make her nervous."

For the rest of the week, Annabelle pulled out the stops, introducing him to a filmmaker, a floral shop owner, an insurance executive, and Janine's editor. He liked all of them but wasn't interested in dating any of them.

Portia got wind of the dating blitz and sent two more socialites. One drooled all over him, which he hated but Annabelle got a kick out of. The other disliked his lack of pedigree, which infuriated Annabelle. Next Portia insisted on setting up an introduction at the Drake for morning coffee. Heath finally agreed, so

Annabelle took advantage of the time slot to schedule a former classmate who taught adult night school.

Annabelle's candidate was a dud. Portia's wasn't. Portia had insisted on the morning meeting, Annabelle discovered, because she'd lined up WGN-TV's newest evening anchorwoman, Keri Winters. Keri was gorgeous, accomplished, and polished-too polished. She was Heath's female counterpart, and together they were slick enough to float an oil tanker.

Annabelle tried to put an end to the agony after twenty minutes, but Heath shot her the evil eye, and Keri didn't leave for another half hour. When the coast was finally clear, Annabelle rolled her eyes. "That was a waste of time."

"What do you mean? She's exactly what I'm looking for, and I'm asking her out."

"She's as plastic as you are. I'm telling you, it's a bad idea. If you ever have kids, they'll come out of the birth canal with Fisher-Price stamped on their butts."

He refused to listen, and the next day, he called Ms. News at Nine to set up a dinner date.