The Matchmakers (3 page)

“Cal? Never. He’s about as close-lipped as the proverbial clam. Even I have to pry things from him.”

“But—”

“But he’s observant. And he understands people. It amazes me, the little things that he picks up. Should have been a detective or something. Details fly right over my head, but Cal seems to see and hear everything that’s going on. Little things. Not just what people do, but why. I never catch those things. I just take things as they come—on the surface. Never notice the deeper side.” Judith used her hands expressively to emphasize her comments.

Cynthia nodded and smiled. It was true. Judith was an everything-on-the-surface person. One knew exactly what she was thinking or feeling about any subject. She took others in the same way—on the surface. While she, Cynthia, was more inclined to bury things. To feel things deeply yet silently. Judith was never silent. Cynthia often wondered if she talked to herself if no one else was around.

Judith waved for a refill of her coffee cup. “Cal will watch. But no one—not a soul—will realize that he is watching. He’s like that.”

“I’m not sure Daddy—”

“Cal will never let your daddy know, and he certainly will not try to make a match. Never. You know Cal better than that. He’d never interfere.”

“Then what—?”

“Sometimes folks can sit right beside each other and never catch on that they would be good for each other. Sometimes folks just need a little nudge.”

“And who’s going to do the nudging?” Cynthia asked with some trepidation.

Judith smiled. “Well … I’m not above a little nudging.”

With fresh cups of coffee they settled back for a few moments of quiet reflection. Cynthia was the first to speak.

“I sure don’t want Daddy pushed into something.”

“Nobody will do any pushing, Cynthie. Promise. There’s a big difference between pushing and encouraging.”

“I don’t know  …”

“Relax. Maybe Cal won’t even be able to come up with a good prospect. We won’t force the issue, you know.”

Uneasiness still made Cynthia shift slightly.
Force the issue,
her thoughts repeated.
No. No one will force Daddy. He has a mind of his own. Always has.
She supposed that he was safe enough. She managed a weak smile and turned back to her Danish. She would try to put the whole conversation out of her mind.

“If you happen to see any of those knitted dishcloths at the craft sale, would you pick me up a couple? Mine are getting pretty ratty looking.”

“Daddy, that button looks about to come off,” Cynthia said, indicating a dangling button on her father’s sweater.

He followed her gaze. “So it is,” he responded. With one quick little jerk he finished the job, tucking the button into his pocket.

“Want me to sew it on?”

“I can do it when I get home.”

“I’ll do it now, if you like.”

He reached back into his pocket and produced the button. “Would you? I hate sewing buttons. Would rather change a tire, or pull a pump, than sew on a button.”

Cynthia waited while he removed his sweater and handed it to her with the button. “That was always your mother’s job,” he explained unnecessarily.

“I know.”

She saw the wistfulness in his eyes. She knew he was still lonely. He had adjusted in many ways. But one could never really adjust to the loneliness. Maybe, just maybe, Judith was right. It was possible her father did need someone. Someone to share his days and his long evenings. Someone to help with the little chores of daily living. Someone to care whether he came home.

As Cynthia sewed on the button, her thoughts traveled to areas she had not allowed them to go to for many months.
Maybe I’ve been selfish,
she concluded.
Maybe Daddy is longing for a life of his own but feels that he has to stay and care for me and the boys. Maybe I need to let
him
go.

The unexpected twist in her thinking brought tears to her eyes.

Chapter Two

A Plan of Action

“I think I’ll have the sesame bagel.”

Judith’s head came up from the coffee she was stirring. “What do you mean—sesame bagel? You never have the sesame bagel. What happened to the fruit Danish?”

Cynthia shrugged. “I just feel like having something different.” Judith shrugged too. “Well, make mine the raspberry Danish,” she informed the young woman who waited for their orders. “I’m sure what was good last week will be good this week too.”

Cynthia felt that the glance thrown her way held a bit of reproof. “I didn’t say I was trading in my kids,” she stated with some annoyance, “just ordering a sesame bagel.”

“You’re getting restless,” Judith countered.

“Not restless. I’ve been having a fruit Danish for years.”

“That’s just the point. Why—?”

“Do I have to go on ordering the same thing every Saturday for the rest of my life?” she asked, agitation giving an edge to her voice. She stared at Judith, her jaw set. Why are we even discussing this? she wanted to say.

Judith stared back, then laughed.

It began as a funny little snort and quickly turned into full hilarity. Soon the two of them were sharing the mirth of the silly exchange. They hadn’t laughed like that since they had been college roomies.

“Have all the sesame bagels you want—and English muffins, too, if it pleases you,” Judith gasped out. “I’m glad to see you are able to make changes.”

“I’m in a rut. My whole life is in a rut,” said Cynthia, wiping at the laughter tears in her eyes.

“Maybe life is nothing but ruts. Comfortable ruts—when things go well. Jarring ruts—when things go wrong. I don’t know. We sort of settle in and feel content with the familiar—even when the familiar is not what we really want from life. Are we really that fearful of change, Cynthie? Boy! I hadn’t realized—my rut is getting pretty deep. I really should do something to shake things up. Wish I would have ordered the… the cherry cheesecake or—”

“Not the cheesecake. Too many calories.”

Judith frowned. “I forgot for a moment. I’m out with the fat patrol.”

They laughed again, not as boisterously as before.

“You said you had some news,” Cynthia prompted as the waitress placed steaming cups before them.

“Wish I’d have just had Columbian,” stated Judith, frowning at her coffee mocha. “Been having the same—”

“Jude! You said you had news about something.”

Judith’s eyes lifted to look into Cynthia’s face. Her whole countenance brightened. “Oh, I have,” she enthused. “I could hardly wait to tell you. You know—what’s his name? That lawyer, the one who sits at church over there on the left—by the Lairds?”

“Attorney,” corrected Cynthia. “He wishes to be called an attorney—not lawyer.”

“What’s the difference? He’s in law, isn’t he?”

Cynthia shrugged. “I dunno. Folks say he doesn’t like to be called a lawyer. That’s all I know.”

“What’s his name?”

Cynthia thought for a few moments. She couldn’t remember.

“I think it’s—what’s that big law firm in the city?” Judith tried again. “He’s connected with it. You know that big one. You hear the name all the time. Starts with… with some direction.”

“Direction? You mean East, South—?”

“West—that’s it. He’s with Weston,” Judith said, triumphant.

“Right. Weston, Weston & Hughes. Is he the Weston or Hughes part?”

“He’s Weston. The second Weston. His father was the first Weston. He’s gone now. Died about two years ago.”

Cynthia’s eyes clouded. She still could not hear the words relating to death without pain.

“So—what about him?” she finally managed.

“Cal has gotten to know him. Racquetball. They play in the same church league. Lately they have been teaming up for doubles. Having coffee after.”

Poor Cal,
Cynthia wished to say but bit her tongue. That would be unfair. She really didn’t know the attorney. But she had to admit that she had never been too impressed with the little she had observed of him.

“Well, listen to this,” said Judith, leaning forward, her cheeks flushing with the excitement of her soon-to-be-disclosed news. “He has a mother.”

Cynthia frowned.

“He has a mother,” repeated Judith.

“I was under the impression that all mortals have mothers,” said Cynthia dryly. “I thought it was part of the plan.”

“No, silly! He has a mother—widowed.”

“So—?” Cynthia turned palms up to underscore her question.

“He’s worried about her. Well  … concerned anyway. She is planning to come and spend some time with him. She’s lonely. They had moved—his mom and dad, just before his father died—to a new area, a new church. She didn’t even have time to make another set of friends. He—
Attorney
Weston”—Judith spoke the words with exaggerated emphasis, swaying her shoulders to keep time with each syllable—“is afraid that once she gets here, she’ll just stay.”

“What’s wrong with that? He’s single, isn’t he? I should think he’d like someone to cook his meals and wash his socks.”

“Guess he doesn’t.”

“So he doesn’t want her? His own mother?” It sounded very uncaring to Cynthia.

“He doesn’t think that would be good for either of them. He’s been on his own since law school.”

“I’ve wondered about that. How come he’s not married?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never stopped to think about it.” Judith stared at Cynthia, who could feel herself flushing. It wasn’t that she had been staying up nights thinking about it either. She just wondered, that’s all.

“Why doesn’t his mother move back to her old area? Surely her old friends are still there,” Cynthia commented.

“He asked her that. She said she couldn’t. Not alone. It just wouldn’t be the same.”

Cynthia felt her heart going out to the lonely widow. She understood some of those feelings. It wouldn’t be the same. But then—nothing was.

“So what—?” began Cynthia, determinedly bringing her thoughts back to the present conversation.

“You aren’t getting it, are you?”

Cynthia shrugged. Judith had lost her—way back on the verbal trail when she had taken one of her unexpected turns.

“No. I guess I’m not. I’ve no idea—”

“Your father!”

“My—what?”

“Your father. Don’t you see? It would be perfect. A widow—a widower. She is—”

“Jude. How could you? I mean—really. Daddy is not desperate.”

“But you are.”

The frank statement raised the heat again in Cynthia’s cheeks. Her back straightened. “I am
not
desperate,” she said firmly.

“Okay, okay. You’re not desperate. I’m sorry,” Judith quickly amended. “But we had agreed that finding a nice—”

“It was your idea. I hadn’t agreed to anything.”

“But you didn’t oppose it either. Did you?”

“Well I … I’m not about to make these kinds of decisions for my father. If he feels that  …”

Judith looked impatient. “Look. No one is making decisions—just introductions, that’s all.”

“But—”

“Listen—this lawyer—attorney,” Judith quickly corrected herself. “Cal says he’s a nice guy.”

“He’s a stuffed shirt. He looks so solemn all the time you’d think he was in court.”

“He’s  … serious.”

“Serious? I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man crack a smile. Even when he says good morning, only his lips move. If his mother is anything like that, I’m not sure that I want Daddy—”

“Oh, Cynthie. You’re being obstinate.”

Their friendship allowed a frankness that was open yet without real condemnation.

“Look—if it was your father, would you want an alliance with the mother of Sober Weston?” asked Cynthia pointedly.

“Well, I hope that I’d have the good sense to at least meet her first before passing judgment.”

The words cooled the fire in Cynthia’s heart. She lowered her gaze and began fingering her coffee spoon. At last she looked up, nodded, and admitted sheepishly, “You’re right. I have no right to dismiss her when I haven’t even met her. And for all that, I don’t know him either. Not really.”

“Cal says he’s got a great sense of humor.”

Cynthia wanted to ask where the man kept it hidden, but she did not.

“And he’s a great racquetball player. Plays squash too.”

“Does his mother?”

Cynthia asked the question teasingly and Judith gave her a playful swat.

“Don’t be a simp,” she responded. “I think her sport is mountain climbing.”

A sudden thought made Cynthia hold her breath. “Cal didn’t talk to him about Daddy, did he?”

“’Course not. He did tell him that our church had a seniors’ program that he hoped his mother would try. Get her out a bit. That sort of thing.”

Cynthia breathed in relief. She would have been so embarrassed had Cal made her father look like a lonely-heart case.

“On the other hand,” Judith went on, her eyes shining again, “who better than your father to introduce her to the group?”

Cynthia was already shaking her head before the statement was completed. “Oh no.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you think your father is capable of judging for himself?”

“Of course he is.”

“Then what are you afraid of? He’s friendly. He knows all the ropes—all the group. He’d be a perfectly logical one to make a new member feel at home.”