Page 18 of Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars 6)

“Mr. Bronicki, your agreement was with my grandmother.”

“My agreement was with Marriages by Myrna, ‘Seniors Are My Specialty,’ or have you forgotten your grammie’s slogan?”

How could she forget, when it was plastered over every one of the dozens of yellowed notepads Nana had scattered around the house? “That business no longer exists.”

“Bull pippy.” He made a sharp gesture around the reception area, where Annabelle had exchanged Nana’s wooden geese, silk flower arrangements, and milk-can end tables for a few pieces of Mediterranean-style pottery. Since she couldn’t afford to replace the ruffled chairs and couches, she’d added pillows in a cheery red, cobalt, and yellow Provençal print that complemented the creamy new buttercup paint.

“Addin’ some doodads don’t change a thing,” he said. “This is still a matchmaker business, and me and your grammie had a contract. With a guarantee.”

“You signed that contract in 1989,” she pointed out, not for the first time.

“I paid her two hundred dollars. In cash.”

“Since you and Mrs. Bronicki were together for almost fifteen years, I’d say you got your money’s worth.”

He whipped a dog-eared paper from his pants pocket and waved it at her. “‘Satisfaction guaranteed.’ That’s what this contract says. And I’m not satisfied. She went loony on me.”

“I know you had a difficult time of it, and I’m sorry about Mrs. Bronicki passing.”

“Sorry don’t cut the mustard. I didn’t have satisfaction even when she was alive.”

Annabelle couldn’t believe she was arguing with an eighty-year-old about a two-hundred-dollar contract signed when Reagan was president. “You married Mrs. Bronicki of your own free will,” she said as patiently as she could manage.

“Kids like you, they don’t understand about customer satisfaction.”

“That’s not true, Mr. Bronicki.”

“My nephew’s a lawyer. I could sue.”

She started to tell him to go ahead and try, but he was just cranky enough to do it. “Mr. Bronicki, how about this? I promise I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“I want a blonde.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Gotcha.”

“And not too young. None of them twenty-year-olds. I got a granddaughter twenty-two. Wouldn’t look right.”

“You’re thinking…?”

“Thirty’d be good. With a little meat on her bones.”

“Anything else?”

“Catholic.”

“Of course.”

“And nice.” A wistful expression softened the slant of those ferocious eyebrows. “Somebody nice.”

She smiled despite herself. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When she finally managed to close the door behind him, she remembered there was a good reason she’d earned her reputation as the family’s screwup. She had sucker written all over her.

And way too many clients living on Social Security.

Chapter Five

Bodie readjusted the treadmill speed, slowing the pace. “Tell me more about Portia Powers.”

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