Fiancé at Her Fingertips

For two very special women, one who is a sister and one who
became one
.

To my big sis, Donna, whose sense of humor inspired more
than a few incidents that appear in this book—and others—
thanks for keeping me laughing. Feel free to keep the
material coming
.

And to my very own pal, Suzi, who in a very real sense
made this book possible, thanks for always being there for
us. You’re the best
.

BOXED IN!

Despite the heat of Logan’s car interior, Debra’s teeth began to chatter. She felt woozy. Disoriented. Before he came out she had to find proof that this man was a hoax, that he was too perfect to exist anywhere but in the gag-gift box that had originally contained him.

Expanding her search, she got down on her hands and knees in the back to peer under the Suburban’s seats. She grunted in disgust. Okay. This cinched it. There had to be something very, very wrong with a person who didn’t have at least one empty pop can tumbling about on the floor or one single solitary candy wrapper or fast food sack crunching beneath their feet. Yeesh! Her car probably had a redeemable can value of close to three dollars.

The driver side door of the Suburban opened and slammed shut.

Debra flattened her torso against the car floor. She gasped when she heard the sudden roar of the engine and the vehicle began to back out of her folks’ driveway and onto the street. Trapped in the backseat of this lunatic lawyer’s car, Debra knew one thing for certain:

This never would’ve happened if she’d stuck with Inflatable Ian.

It’s me again.
You’re not surprised?
What is it, Lord?
With all these guys?

Commitment-phobic,
conceited jerks,
I’m up to here with all
their quirks
.

Workaholics,
Or prone to sloth,
I attract losers
like angst to Goth
.

Into all their
latest toys,
God, save me from these
pretty boys
.

Low on brains,
But high on brawn,
Once they nail you, phffft!
They’re gone
.

Obsessed with
things like size and length.
Oh, dear Lord, please give
me strength
.

“I’m sorry about the interruption.” Debra Daniels’s mother-sponsored date du jour picked up his napkin and placed it on his lap when he returned to the table following the third— or was it the fourth?—cell phone call from his mother. “She wanted to know what time I’d be home.” Color crept from his neckline to the tips of his two rather large ears. “Sometimes she waits up for me,” he admitted, his smile forced.

“I can relate,” Debra said, very much in empathy when it came to matters maternal. “Families can be…difficult.”

Howard, the head librarian from the regional branch located near her folks’ Springfield home, put a finger beneath his collar. “Indeed,” he said.

Debra picked up her water glass and took a sip, searching for something to fill yet another of those awkward voids that were so typical of arranged dates.

“Read any good books lately?” she asked with a smile, determined to get at least one chuckle out of this latest in a never-ending string of bad-to-worse setups arranged by well-meaning friends and family members.

“You know, I did finish a rather compelling piece of nonfiction about controlling personalities,” Howard said. “Until Mom made me quit.”

Debra laughed, and then quickly sobered when she realized her date wasn’t making a joke. “I tend to go more for cozy
mysteries myself,” she said, wishing herself home with one of those whodunits at that very moment.

“Your mother spends a lot of time in the cookbook section,” Howard the head librarian observed. “She must be a very good cook.”

Debra winced. Her mother had spent a lifetime trying to acquire skills in the kitchen—with few edible signs of success.

“And the other day she checked out about ten back issues of
Bride
magazine,” her date went on. “Have you got a sister getting married or something?”

“Or something,” Debra mumbled, reluctant to explain how her mother also dedicated free time to planning weddings for non ex is tent nuptials.

Her date’s phone started its familiar vibrating dance on the table. He checked the number, and a muscle in his clenched jaw quivered. “Mother,” he said by way of explanation. As if any were necessary. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course,” Debra responded to her date’s back as he made his way to the foyer of the restaurant. Thoughts of her own mother figured rather prominently in Debra’s psyche at that moment. Unsavory thoughts. Matricidal ones.

She was going to strangle her mother. Each date she’d been talked into was worse than the one before. This month alone she’d suffered through Art the Accountant:

“So, I ended up rolling my four-oh-one-K over and invested in mutual funds and annuities. You can’t go wrong with mutual funds, Debra. But, of course, you know that. You
are
invested in mutual funds, aren’t you? Perhaps I should take a look at your portfolio sometime.”

In your dreams, pencil-
neck
, Debra had thought, and walloped him with the whopper that not only was she without mutual funds, she was without funds, period.

“But I have awesome credit,” she’d assured him.

“Yes?” Accountant Art’s pupils dilated.

Debra leaned toward him and nodded. “Absolutely. I bet I have close to ten thousand dollars racked up on two credit cards alone!” she told him, crossing her fingers under the
table. “And I’m really, really good about paying that minimum payment right on time each and every month.” Ten minutes later her prevarication had paid off. Accountant Art had excused himself with numbers to crunch back at work. Shocker.

Then there was Larry the Landscaper, who’d finished a lawn lighting job at her folks’ home.

“You’ll like this one,” her mother had promised. “He’s tall.” That was a reference to Debra’s own five-foot-nine-inch-in-bare-feet frame. And Larry was tall, all right. The guy turned out to be the size of the Jolly Green Giant, and just like that vegetablemonger he had a voice that bounced off the walls of the restaurant like theater surround sound.

“You’re Debra Daniels, aren’t you? I recognize you from the family album your mother showed me! You look even purtier in person. Hi, I’m Larry Lawrence, of Lawrence Landscaping and Lighting! I’m the blind date your mother arranged!” he announced to the world. “She said you’re into tall men! You
do
like tall men, right? You don’t think I’m too tall, do you?”

Okay, so she was tall and generally made it known she liked men she could look up to. But this? This was ridiculous. Eye level with Paul Bunyan’s belly button, Debra could only shake her head and thank her lucky stars her mother hadn’t arranged an evening of dancing.

Next was Hypochondriac Herb.

“It took me three days—
three days!
—to pass that kidney stone. The doctor said it was one of the largest he’d seen.” He’d whipped a Polaroid out of his wallet and handed it to Debra. “The picture doesn’t do it justice. It’s massive. I’ve got it in a jar on my nightstand. You’ve got to see it.”

Debra had returned the appetite-killing photo to its owner. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Herb,” she’d said with a small cough.

“Oh? Why is that?” Herb had asked.

“Because…” Debra coughed again. “Because I’m not well.”

“Not well?” Hypochondriac Herb had grabbed a handful of napkins and placed them over his nose and mouth. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I have a rather rare condition.” Cough. “In fact”—cough, cough— “the doctor says I should avoid other people.” Cough. “But I’m determined to live as normal a life as possible. I’m confident they will find a cure.” Cough.

By the time the check arrived, Hypochondriac Herb had been coughing up a storm and mopping beads of sweat from his forehead.

Debra looked at her empty water glass, sighed, and took a drink of her iced tea. Would her mother never learn? This constant obsession with her social life—or “antisocial life,” as the woman liked to call it—was getting out of hand. Thank goodness Debra’s father didn’t suffer from the same malady. Stuart Daniels was always quick to defend his daughter when his wife was in her rabid matchmaking mode.

“Shop around,” he told Debra, “and get the best fit.”

To which Debra’s mother would reply, “Fit? This is your daughter’s future happiness we’re talking about, Stuart Daniels. Not a pair of Hush Puppies.”

Debra drummed her fingers on the table while she waited for Howard the head librarian to return from phoning home. Perhaps, she conceded, her job influenced her love life more than she acknowledged. As a crime-victim counselor for the state of Illinois, she often saw firsthand the results when women bought into the school of thought that they couldn’t live without a man to take care of them. The very real threat of physical harm that resulted when women stayed in abusive relationships due to brainwashing, intimidation or fear, was heartbreaking to witness, and the emotional toll was incalculable. It made matters worse when win-at-any-cost lawyers hammered away at those very same emotional insecurities that often entrapped women, and as a result women found themselves legally strong-armed into withdrawing dissolution petitions and assault allegations. Debra shook her head. Even now, the memory of a friend from college
who’d married in haste after an unexpected pregnancy and found herself in the nightmare of domestic violence fueled Debra’s resentment against the legal profession. When Kristine sought a legal separation, her husband, a businessman with good connections, had employed his attorney to fight for custody of their daughter. Threatening to drag up an alleged suicide attempt from the past and call a parade of suspect witnesses to testify that his wife had a drinking problem, her husband “convinced” his wife to withdraw the divorce petition. Eight months later, after a vicious beating, Kristine shot her husband. He’d survived. She was in jail, and her daughter was in her abusive husband’s care.

Facing such sobering situations, Debra acknowledged that it was possible she’d become over-the-top OCD in her evaluation of prospective mates. Okay, so what if she did have a list of the qualities she considered musts in a potential life partner? So what if she hadn’t found the right candidate yet? So what if her mother sent her articles about perimenopause and fifty-seven-year-old new mothers? In this day and age a grown woman shouldn’t have to drag a man around like some life-size trophy in order to validate her status as a fulfilled, content, twenty-first–century woman.

Debra took another drink of her now watery tea and pulled a face. Maybe what she needed was one of those inflatable dolls to tote around with her. She could introduce him as her significant other.
Mom, Dad, meet my new boyfriend, Inflatable
Ian
. She sighed. The truly depressing part? Inflatable Ian would probably be a better date than most she’d endured lately.

“Sorry that took so long.” Howard returned to the table and took a seat. “Mother wanted to know what movie we’d be seeing.”

Uh-
oh. Red alert. Red alert
.

“Oh?”

“Seems she’s been dying to see the same movie. You don’t mind if we swing by and pick her up after we catch a bite here, do you? You’d be doing me an immense favor.”

Debra swore under her breath as she saw his lower lip tremble. “Uh, I guess that would be okay,” she responded, realizing she’d lied more on dates in the last six months than she had in her entire life up to that point, and predicting another in the form of a sudden, killer migraine in the queue. She started to rub her forehead when her cell phone rang.

“Hello? Yes, this is Debra Daniels. Who is this? Randall who? A Realtor? I’m sorry. I don’t need a Realtor. My father? My father gave you my number? When? Where? What! Just a minute.” Debra stood. “Will you excuse me for just a second, Howard?” She motioned at her phone. Howard nodded and she slipped into the hallway by the restrooms. “Where did you see my dad? At the club? My father gave you my number in the men’s locker room at the country club? He said what? No! No, I am not interested in going to a concert with you and your daughter. No, I’m sure. I don’t care what my father said. That’s right. I’m not interested. What’s that? No! No, I don’t have any property to list! Good-bye!”

Debra snapped the phone shut. “I do not believe this!” She took a shaky breath.

It was bad enough her mother had had business cards made up for Debra and handed them out like missing-person flyers; having her father finagle dates for her in the locker room at the club over stinky sweat socks, wet towels, soiled jockey shorts, and dirty nut cups was the limit. The absolute limit. Her dad, her supportive, “shop around, kiddo” comrade, had sold out. He’d formed an alliance with the other tribe and left her all alone in the crosshairs of a loaded-forbear, matchmaking mama with a mission.

Dear God, somehow she had to find a boyfriend. And not just any boyfriend. A boyfriend who would let her come and go as she liked, who wouldn’t make any demands upon her time or her person. A man who was successful in his own right and wasn’t emotionally needy or financially greedy. A man who would continue to let her live her life just as she pleased. She sighed. Where on earth would she find such…perfection?

Debra suddenly remembered her date and hurried back to the table. She sat and picked up her napkin and looked over to find Howard the Head Librarian doodling knives and nooses on his dinner napkin. She groaned and put her head in her hands. Maybe her earlier idea about Inflatable Ian wasn’t much off the mark.

Two hours later, citing a headache from hell, Debra stomped through the food court of the mall, her mood as sour as one of those rancid Tearjerker gumballs her nephews, Stephen and Shawn, kept trying to foist off on her. She’d become an object of sympathy. The target of speculation. A cause for concern. And why? All because she wasn’t a
hers
in
his and hers
. Wasn’t Tweedledum to some man’s Tweedledee. She shook her head, still not believing her loyal, sympathetic father had stooped to enter his own handpicked stud in the Debra Daniels Dating Derby. The last thing her father needed was to fret and worry over her love life. He’d suffered a mild heart attack several months earlier, and, although he seemed to be recovering well from the angioplasty, added worry couldn’t be good.

Debra swore under her breath. She had to put an end to this out-of-control manhunt. But how? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been trying to find her soul mate. She had—and had the dating résumé to prove it. But so far Mr. Right hadn’t stepped forward for consideration. Debra frowned. She didn’t think she could use a poor, unsuspecting schlub as some kind of dating talisman to ward off maniacal matchmakers. She bit her lip.
Hmmm
. Maybe she could pay a guy to pose as her significant other…

She gave herself a mental slap. Wasn’t that illegal in some states? Besides, it would never work. If Mr. Right wasn’t the real McCoy, her parents would see through him quicker than Debra herself saw through most politicians.

She frowned and considered the alternatives. She supposed she could settle for another subpar, real, honest-to-goodness boyfriend. Her lip curled. After ten years of dating one bozo after another who thought
monogamous
meant one woman
per sexual encounter, of enduring pretty boys who were more enamored with themselves than with her, and of fending off octopus arms and blowfish lips, she suspected her best friend was right: The good men were either married or gay. Anyone who still believed that there was a prince at the end of all that frog kissing was having seriously messed-up Disney delusions of a fairy-tale world that didn’t exist.

Several months earlier, in her first very promising courtship in a long time, Debra was almost convinced she’d found the One: state trooper Thomas Talbot. Anticipating a very special Valentine’s Day that would take their relationship to a new level of commitment, Debra waited to hear the magic words that could terminate her mother’s matchmaking preoccupation forever.

“Debra, would you believe I’m gonna be a daddy?” Trooper Thomas had asked instead, not on one knee holding flowers and candy, but via the answering machine with a police radio blaring in the background. Trooper Thomas had knocked up a Springfield police sergeant’s daughter—who just so happened to be a city attorney. A shotgun wedding—hosted by the father of the bride, of course—was planned.