Tracy Del Campo
1961
Charlotte fanned herself with a paper plate as she stood in line at the annual fall fair, eager for a helping of Eunice Boyd’s blue-ribbon ambrosia. She stiffened when she spied Mavis Goodnight weaving through the crowd, headed in her direction. Great.
“Yoo-hoo! Charlotte!” Mavis waved a gloved hand.
Mavis was a saleswoman and a good one at that. Thanks to her powers of persuasion, every housewife in the county had a set of pastel Tupperware in their cupboard and several bottles of Avon perfume on their dresser.
And now, in addition to plastic containers and beauty products, Mavis was peddling hope to the lovelorn through her latest venture. Matchmaking. For a nominal fee, Mavis would find your soulmate. Money-back guarantee, as stated on her business card.
Charlotte Penrod did indeed pine for love. More than she cared to admit. But despite watching one friend after another pair off and get married, a dispassionate arrangement orchestrated by the likes of Mavis Goodnight was not what she had in mind.
Still, Mavis persisted. Pestering Charlotte whenever and wherever an opportunity arose. The library, the gas station, the restroom at church. Didn’t matter. And here they were, face to face. Again.
Adorned in a sheath dress with a pillbox hat atop her coiffed, lacquered ’do, her lips slathered in a pale shade of pink, Mavis clutched her pocketbook and began her spiel for the umpteenth time. “Charlotte, I have a list of eligible men, all eager to find love with an eye toward marriage. I think you’ll be pleased with the selection.” Mavis rattled off a handful of names.
Charlotte recognized a few. An incorrigible philanderer, a widower twenty years her senior, the painfully shy produce manager at the IGA, and her cousin’s ex-boyfriend. Thanks, but no thanks.
“I don’t—”
“New prospects are added daily. One of them is sure to be your soulmate. However, before we can proceed, you must complete the application and remit payment. Cash or check will do. Payable to Mavis Goodnight Enterprises.”
“But, I—”
“If you heed my advice—and it would behoove you to do so—you could be a June bride. Isn’t that exciting? Every girl dreams of being a June bride.”
“I’m not—”
“Ah, ah, ah.” Mavis snatched the paper plate from Charlotte’s hand. “You must watch your waistline if you want to land a marriage proposal.” She tsked and waggled a finger.
Charlotte’s cheeks burned. Her manners waned. “I am not interested in being matched, Mrs. Goodnight.”
“Not interested?” Mavis steepled a penciled brow. “Why, you’re almost thirty. Surely, you’re itching for a husband, aren’t you?”
Heads turned and ears strained. Eavesdropping—one of the cheap thrills of life.
“I just—”
“For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, you’re not getting any younger. People are starting to talk. Do you want to end up like your Aunt Lottie? Old and alone? Because you’re certainly headed in that direction.”
Oof. The emotional punch of her words caused a catch in Charlotte’s throat. Maybe Mavis was right. Maybe she would end up an aged spinster like her namesake, crocheting afghans, eating Swanson’s TV dinners, and watching hammy soap operas. Poor Aunt Lottie.
Charlotte bit her bottom lip. Was she being too fussy? Were her expectations too high? Perhaps having someone was better than having no one.
She released a breath. “Fine, I’ll—”
A familiar face emerged from the crowd. “Hello, Charlotte.”
She stilled at the sound of his voice. “Cole.”
Handsome, kind, intelligent… He was perfect. The standard against which all others were measured. But they were friends. Just friends. Had been since childhood. If only… Sigh.
He was stylish in a plaid sports coat with a crisp, white oxford. Tall, tan, with thoughtful eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. Old feelings stirred.
“You look great.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “I like the side-swept bangs.”
He’d noticed. “Thank you.”
“It’s been a while.”
“Mm-hmm.” Seven months, but who was counting? “I’m glad you made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
That smile, slightly askew. So endearing.
“Care for a stroll?” He offered Charlotte his arm.
Mavis harrumphed with hand on hip.
Pleasantries were exchanged as they meandered toward the park. Cole gestured to a bench under a stately sycamore. Charlotte sat, smoothing her skirt, and fiddled with a loose button on her blouse. He eased down beside her, studying the ground beneath his leather loafers.
“What’s Mavis hawking these days?” he asked.
“Love.”
His eyes narrowed. “Love?”
“Matchmaking, to be precise. She’s convinced she can find my soulmate.”
“Really?”
“For a fee, of course.” You sound pathetic. Charlotte nudged him. “How’s your love life?”
“Well…” He rubbed the back of his neck and shot her a glance. “There’s this girl.”
Her throat tightened. Of course. Why did she ask?
“I can’t stop thinking about her. Her smile. Her laugh. She’s… perfect.”
Charlotte clenched her jaw to still her quivering chin.
“I’m just trying to work up the courage to tell her how I feel.”
Oh, to be that girl. She pinned on a smile. “I’m happy for you.” A little white lie. With a sudden desire to be alone, Charlotte slid her purse over her arm. “I should go—”
“It’s you, Charlotte.”
Did she hear him right?
His fingers found hers. “You’re the girl.”
She gathered her breath.
“Maybe we’re meant to be more than friends.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “Maybe we are.”
He placed a kiss on her cheek. She wilted, charmed by the gesture.
“There you are, Charlotte!”
Mavis. Really?
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She marched over, the heels of her patent leather pumps clacking on the pavement. “Now about that application—”
“I won’t be needing your services, Mrs. Goodnight.”
Mavis gaped with hand on hip. “But—”
“How about some of Mrs. Boyd’s ambrosia?” Cole pushed up from the bench, then helped Charlotte to her feet. “I hear it’s delicious.”
Charlotte smiled and linked her arm with his. “I’d love some.”
Fond of history, Tracy also fancies old houses, classic movies, museums, flea markets, road trips, rainy days, and a good cup of coffee. Born and raised in the Midwest, she now resides in Southern California with her husband and is the mother of two.
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