Page 54 of The Merry Matchmaker

The restaurant side of the place served anything and everything fried. The peanuts served gratis in red plastic bowls were responsible for the shells littering the floor. Immediately upon entering, patrons would notice the portrait of “Carol.” Carol Clementine, who the town was supposedly named after, had been a buxom woman with neon yellow hair done up in a Gibson Girl bun. According to legend, she ran the first cathouse in the county, which had stood right where the current establishment now was. Come Valentine’s Day, people would write messages (Keep it clean, folks!) on pink paper hearts, which would get pinned all around the picture. At the moment, a Santa hat hung over the corner of the large frame.

“I’m glad you joined me,” Brock said as they worked on their second peppermint martinis.

Was she glad? Frankie wasn’t sure. So far they’d shared pictures on their phones and talked about things they enjoyed. Football. They had that in common. He loved to water-ski. She’d never been able to get upright. He assured her he could get her up.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’m safer on land.”

“So do you snow ski?”

“I’ve been known to,” she said modestly. She skied like a demon, loved being up on the slopes.

Correction: had loved being up on the slopes.

“We should go,” said Brock.

“I don’t ski anymore.”

“Why not? Anyone looking at you can tell you’re in great condition.”

She could feel the prickle of tears and grabbed for her glass. “I haven’t skied since my husband died. That was something we used to do together.”

Her sister skied. So did Mitch. So did Viola and her husband. Frankie never joined them. The only times she went up in the mountains were when she hiked with Mitch in the summer.

“Oh, man. Did he die on the slopes?”

Their dark corner suddenly seemed darker. She shook her head. “He was hit by a car.”

The memory of Viola’s husband, Terrill, and his partner standing on her porch, asking if they could come in, rushed over Frankie, fresh as the day it happened. She had to take a deep breath.

“Man, that’s awful.” Brock fell silent, probably unsure what to say next.

Frankie found herself out of words, too. Her sad memory didn’t belong there with them. Yet there it sat. The moment stretched on.

“I’m really sorry,” he said at last.

Sorry was in the past. She’d moved on. Theoretically.

He put his big hand over hers. It felt warm and strong. What was there about a man’s hand that could make you feel so...comforted?

“Maybe he’d want you to start skiing again,” Brock suggested.

Everyone seemed to know what Ike would have wanted for her. She shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Maybe he’d want you to be happy.”

“Now you sound like my mother,” she joked.

“Just don’t say I look like your mother,” he joked back.

“You definitely don’t look like my mother.”

He turned her hand over and traced her palm with his thumb, tickling the skin, starting a tingle running up her arm. “You have a long life line.”

“Don’t tell me you read palms,” she said, trying to ignore the little flame he’d lit in her.

“No, I’m just making stuff up. But I bet you do have a lot of life ahead of you. It’d be a shame to live it alone.”

“I’m not alone. I’ve got my family and friends.”

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