The Perfect Match. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ Viggo Mortensen in that dreadful movie she watched last night—there were all sorts of excuses. I’m getting over a long-term relationship was a good one. I wish I had time for a relationship! was another. And then the ultimate lie, If the right guy came along, maybe. But I’m happy on my own. Sure. Which was why those dating sites had half the planet registered.

      No, honesty seemed frowned upon in Dating Life. Honor wondered what would happen if she said, I really thought I’d have a family by now. I’m lonely. Also a little horny, and since the man I love is marrying my former best friend, I may have to invest in a superdeluxe vibrator.

      “Come on,” Goggy said. “Let’s get this movie over with before someone comes to lock me up. They use restraints, I hear.”

      “Honor! How are you?” asked Cathy Kennedy, who didn’t live here but came in for the movies. “Honey, Louise and I happened to be at O’Rourke’s the other night. Such a surprise.”

      Honor’s face heated in a rush. “Well, you know. It’s a little quiet in the winter here. I was just trying to liven things up.” Mercifully, it was time for her to get the film going.

      Honor had started the Watch and Wine club a couple of years ago: show a movie that had even a little bit of wine in it and pair it with a themed tasting. For Uncorked, they’d of course had the Chateau Montelena chardonnay. Pinot noir for Sideways. A full-bodied cab for Twilight, though the combination of wine and Taylor Lautner’s torso had proved too much for some, and 9-1-1 had to be called when Mrs. Griggs fainted.

      The monthly gathering had almost immediately been renamed Watch and Whine, given the propensity of the viewers to discuss their most recent health issues, peppering Honor with questions, which she (and her iPad) did their best to answer. Hey. It was a hobby, and one she’d listed on Match.com. Visits the sick and imprisoned.

      As Honor set up the film in the projector in the gorgeous auditorium, Goggy sat on one of the plush seats, sighing dramatically. “Just put a pillow over my face if it ever comes to this,” she said.

      “Goggy, you told Faith you wouldn’t mind a new place,” Honor said. “Remember? When she was moving into the Opera House?”

      “Oh, I meant a place without your grandfather. But the old fool wouldn’t last a week without me. He’d starve to death. I honestly don’t know if he could find the refrigerator on his own.” She paused. “It’s a thought.” Goggy suddenly sat bolt upright. “Speaking of miserable marriages, I found someone for you!”

      Honor gave her a wary look. “Uh, that’s okay, Goggy.” Goggy had recently suggested she marry Bobby McIntosh “before he ended up a serial killer.”

      “No, he’s wonderful! You should meet him. Plus, it would help you get over you-know-who. And then you could get married and give me some more great-grandchildren.”

      The projector’s lightbulb was out. Was there another one? She opened the drawer of the AV cart. Bingo. “Just for the sake of conversation, who is this future husband of mine?”

      “You remember Candace, my old friend? She moved to Philadelphia in 1955? They drove that enormous Packard?”

      Honor gave her grandmother a quizzical look. “I wasn’t born then, Goggy. So no, I don’t remember.”

      “Well, before I married your idiot grandfather—”

      “You make it sound so romantic.”

      “Hush up and listen. Before I married your idiot grandfather, I was engaged to Candace’s brother. He died in the war.” She gave Honor a regal, suffering look, perfected from years of practice.

      “I know, Goggy. It’s such a sweet, sad story.”

      Goggy’s face softened. “Thank you. Anyway, Candace also had a sister, but she was older and stayed in England.”

      “Uh-huh.” What this had to do with matchmaking was anyone’s guess, but such was the mind of Goggy. Honor unscrewed the burned-out lightbulb with some difficulty.

      “So this sister had a son, and then that son had a son, and Candace just adores him, and anyway, the boy’s been living here for a few years and he needs a green card.”

      Honor squinted, trying to filter through the bundle of facts.

      “So you should marry him. Nothing wrong with an arranged marriage.”

      “As in, you and Pops worked out so well?” She opened the drawer on the cart and took out a replacement bulb.

      The old lady chuffed. “Please. You want to be married, or you want to be happy?”

      “Both?”

      Goggy snorted. “You young people. So spoiled. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with this boy. He’s very nice and extremely good-looking.”

      Honor screwed in the new lightbulb. “Have you ever met him?”

      “No. But he is.”

      “Seen a picture?”

      “No. Charming, too.”

      “So you’ve talked to him on the phone?”

      “No.”

      “Facebook? Email?”

      “No, Honor. You know I don’t believe in computers.”

      “Hi there, Honor,” called Mr. Christian from the back of the auditorium. “Heard you were in a girl fight the other day.”

      “Thanks for bringing it up,” Honor said. “Anyway, Goggy, it sounds like you really don’t know this person at all.”

      “What’s to know? He’s British.”

      “That may or may not help his case. If he sounds like Prince Charles, there’s no way in hell I’ll marry him. Does he have those big teeth?”

      “Don’t be so superficial, honey! He’s a professor,” Goggy added. “Electrical engineering or math or something.”

      An image of Honor’s own math teacher in college, a damp man with onion breath, came to mind.

      “So he needs a green card,” Goggy said, “you’re single, and you two should get married.”

      “Okay, first of all, sure, I’d love to get married if I met someone great and fell in love, but if that doesn’t happen, I’m fine on my own.” Oh, the lies. “Secondly, I don’t want to get married just to check it off a list. And thirdly, I’m pretty sure marrying for a green card is illegal.” She paused. “Why doesn’t he just go back to England?”

      “There was a tragedy.” Another triumphant look from Goggy.

      “What kind?”

      “I don’t know. Does it matter, Honor? You’re thirty-five. That’s when the eggs start spoiling. That’s when I started menopause.” Oh, snap. “Besides, if I can stay married to your grandfather for sixty-five years and not have murdered him yet, why can’t you do the same with this boy?”

      “How СКАЧАТЬ