Daddy's Little Matchmakers. Kathleen Y'Barbo

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СКАЧАТЬ it go.”

       “I would hate to see it go, as well, but I’ll do what I have to do to provide for my family.” He paused only long enough to offer his mother a smile. “However, I haven’t placed the ad yet.”

       “And I hope you don’t have to.” She held up her hand to wave off any response from him. “But before any of that, you still need to speak to your daughters.”

       “I plan to, Mother,” he said wearily.

       “Promise?”

       “Yes, I promise. Right after I call the Gazette to stop the ad then ground the girls for using your cell phone without permission.”

       “It’s too late to call. The paper closes at four. And who said they didn’t have permission, Eric?” she said as she slipped out into the hall.

       “Mother, come back here,” he called as he started to follow her.

       “Sorry, darling,” his mother said sweetly as she waved over her shoulder. “The girls will be wondering where I am, and you’ve got patients to see.”

       He cast a glance at his watch and then back at the lone file on his desk. “Patient,” Eric corrected under his breath. “At least I’ll be home early tonight, and I can sleep late.”

       This thought kept him going through the remainder of the afternoon and got him through the bedtime routine that sometimes derailed his patience. Tonight, however, the older two girls were unusually compliant, taking their baths and climbing under the covers without a single complaint.

       That in itself was suspicious. But when Brooke, the baby girl who was growing up far too fast, kissed him good-night and marched off to bed without a single request for water or a second story to be read, Eric suspected something was up.

       He loaded the supper dishes into the dishwasher and reset the coffeepot for tomorrow then waited a full five minutes longer before tiptoeing down the hall to see if he could catch the trio at whatever trouble they’d planned. Instead, he found his girls sound asleep, bathed in the pale yellow glow of the night-light.

       Eric padded back to the kitchen and turned off the lights. Standing in the darkened room, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the spice-scented candle his mother insisted made a suitable centerpiece for the table. What she couldn’t have known is the smell reminded him of Christy. Cinnamon and spice had always been her favorite scent.

       Opening his eyes, Eric scooped the candle off the table and marched outside. The warm night air fell around him like a salt-tinged blanket as he walked barefoot to the trash can behind the garage. Lifting the lid, he hesitated only a moment before throwing the candle into the deep recesses of the empty can then slamming the lid back down tightly.

       He returned inside and fell into the recliner. Reaching for the remote, Eric turned on the television but after realizing he’d heard nothing of what the talking head on the sports channel had said, he shut off the television and went to bed.

       Tomorrow would be another day, he reminded himself as his head hit the pillow. Fridays were generally slow at the clinic—slower than even the snail’s pace of the other weekdays—so he’d decided starting today he wouldn’t go in until noon unless there was an emergency.

       Maybe he’d set the alarm and make pancakes. Eric smiled. Yes, pancakes. A reward for the girls’ good behavior in going to bed so nicely. And just maybe, a chance to see what in the world they were up to. Also, a way to have a nice family meeting regarding why they would not be placing any more ads.

       “The ad.” Eric scribbled a note to remind himself to call the Gazette first thing. Perhaps he could stop the ad before it went to print.

       After a fitful night of mostly missed sleep, Eric rolled over and reached for his phone as soon as the alarm went off. “Classifieds, please,” he said when the call was answered.

       “I’m sorry, there’s no one in yet. May I take a message?”

       Stifling a yawn, Eric laid back against the pillows. “Yes, please. This is for Amy Spencer or whoever has the power to pull an ad before it goes to press. Please call Eric Wilson at—”

       “The Eric Wilson? From Daddy’s Little Matchmakers?”

       He groaned. “Yes.”

       “What a great story. We’ve already had inquiries on it.”

       Sitting bolt upright, Eric gripped the phone. “Wait. You’re saying the ad has already gone to print? But it was just placed yesterday afternoon. I thought there was a lag time of a day or two. Your paper only comes out once a week.”

       “All the more reason to get such a great story in quickly,” the woman said with a lilt in her voice. “Was there anything else I could help you with?”

       “No, nothing,” he managed.

       “Amy’s last day was yesterday but I’m sure someone can call you back if you’d like. I’ll have to check and see who’s handling classifieds now that the temp job is finished. Would you like me to do that?”

       “No,” he snapped. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. But you could do me one favor.”

       “What’s that, Dr. Wilson?”

       “Could you tell whoever’s inquiring that there’s no story here? Its just three little girls and one nosy grandmother trying to run my life. I love them but I certainly don’t want to encourage them.”

       A giggle and then she said, “Can I quote you on that, Dr. Wilson?”

       “No,” he said a bit too harshly before hanging up.

       Later that morning Eric scooped the last pancake off the griddle and added it to the stack. With summer upon them, that meant he could spend the morning with the girls before his mother came to take up her babysitting duties. Even as he grumbled over the embarrassment of the ad, he gave a quick thanks for Mom—whose home was a short three blocks away—as he reached into the pantry for the syrup. Maple for Ella and Hailey, and strawberry for Brooke.

       “Girls,” he called as he said a prayer for guidance before their family meeting. “Breakfast.”

       Down the hall they came, a scampering herd of pink-clad girls whose giggles and squeals were forever imprinted on his heart. One by one he greeted them and then, with a great show of mock formality, he set their glasses of juice and milk before them.

       “Look, Daddy’s using the stick glasses.”

       Hailey lifted the glass, a piece of wedding crystal that had been woefully hidden away for special occasions—until this last move. Since Christy’s death, Eric had learned that any day he woke up and put both feet on the floor was a special occasion.

       He slid his Bible out of the way and sat the milk carton on the counter. Tucked into the pages of the well-worn book was a neon-green flyer for Starting Over—the new men’s group for widowers that the church advertised last Sunday.

       Wincing, Eric recalled sitting through the clever basketball-themed video the pastor had shown last Sunday. While he loved the sport, the idea of getting together with a bunch of guys on Saturday morning to СКАЧАТЬ