30 First Dates (43 page)

Oh, puh-leeze
. How he could possibly share the same DNA as his brother was beyond Mattie's comprehension.

"It's 2:15." Claudia's voice slapped her back to the present.

"I'm sure he'll be here any minute," Mattie heard herself say. But this time, even she didn't believe it.

She turned her gaze to the window, panic welling up inside of her. Seeing the black limousine parked at the curb decked out with ribbons, more flowers, and a professionally hand-painted "Just Married" sign affixed to the back bumper, she whispered, "I don't understand."

She was so thrilled when Eddie proposed that she offered to take care of everything, right down to the color of the bowties he and the groomsmen would wear. Figuring her bills would become their bills post-nuptials, she adopted Eddie's own mantra of "only the best" when selecting the flowers, the photographer, and the Drake Hotel for their reception.

Curiously, the honeymoon was the only thing Eddie insisted on handling. He wouldn't even tell her where they were going.

Claudia gripped Mattie by her bare shoulders. "Nobody can get hold of him. He's not coming, honey. I'll go tell Father Bennet. Wait here." Before leaving, she took her sister's chin in her hand and asked, "You OK?"

Mattie nodded. When she heard the door click shut behind her, she turned and faced her reflection in the full-length mirror. She had starved herself for weeks to fit into the Vera Wang gown she had dreamed of wearing before Eddie even slipped the two-carat diamond on her finger. Despite the weeks of deprivation, it took only a few seconds to convince herself that her Aunt Viv was right
she looked like a sausage stuffed into a casing of silk taffeta and hand-sewn mother-of-pearl beading. The singsong rhythm of cruel childhood taunting echoed in her ears.

Fatty Mattie, Fatty Mattie, Fatty Mattie…

The more she stared, the more her chin and lower lip started to quiver. She closed her eyes and tried to make the nightmare disappear.

It was 2:33. She stood there frozen, waiting for Claudia. In the stillness of the unventilated room, filled with hymnals, vestments, and choir robes, there was nothing left for her to do but let the truth sink in. Eddie didn't oversleep, get the time wrong, or have a flat tire on his way to the church.

He had stood her up.

An uncharacteristic darkness settled over her as she envisioned him writhing in pain from one of his debilitating migraines. She was surprised and somewhat disturbed by how much the image lifted her spirits.

As Mattie stood transfixed, the corset underneath her gown started constricting around her midsection like a lace-covered python. Her head began to swirl. Questions started racing through her mind. How could she have misread the cues? Was she that desperate? A combustible mix of despair and fury began to well up inside of her.

Where's Claudia?

She needed her help to get out of her gown, out of the church, and out of this nightmare.

Almost on cue, Mattie heard the door open behind her, but it was a male voice that spoke her name in a low, apologetic tone. "Mat-"

As she delivered a two-carat-weighted left hook to his perfect chin, she felt the fifteen silk-covered buttons holding her bodice together pop with the force of champagne corks.

"Take that you son of a
"

She took a step back. With buttons ricocheting off the walls, the windows, and the mirror, she wondered aloud, "Why aren't you wearing the white bowtie?"

CHAPTER ONE

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

– Virginia Woolf

"Come on you hunk of junk. I'm on deadline."

When she worked at the
Wall Street Journal
, Mattie Ross, investigative reporter extraordinaire, took for granted that she had the latest technology at her disposal. But here, under the flickering lights of the
Chicago Gazette's
newsroom, she sat waiting for her dated laptop to show signs of life. As she glared at the screen, the fingers of her left hand undressed a large bar of imported Swiss chocolate. To her right, a small vat of coffee emitted wisps of caffeinated steam. She blew over the rim and took a sip just as the future museum exhibit prompted her to log on. It was Monday morning, and
The Plate Spinner,
one of the
Gazette's
most popular features, was on the clock.

Letting the hot liquid warm her mouth before it slid down her throat, she opened her pseudonym's inbox. At least a dozen emails had arrived overnight. Some were from fans of the seemingly perfect working parent and multi-tasking guru. Some were from harried working parents, asking for advice. Some were from loyal readers either complaining about or complimenting her on advice given in previous columns.

Mattie loathed them all.

Unlike Carlotta Crenshaw, the original author of
The Plate Spinner
column, she was not married, did not have kids and couldn't multi-task her way out of a paper bag. On the contrary. She had sworn off men, was drowning in debt,
and routinely tested the limits of the American Heart Association's guidelines on red wine and dark chocolate consumption.

If only Eddie DeRosa hadn't re-entered her life when he did. She was on the cusp of fulfilling her dream to become one of the top journalists at the iconic financial news publication. When the Chicago bureau chief assigned her the task of flushing out allegations of shady transactions at Chicago's oldest investment firm, she could almost feel the Pulitzer Prize gold medal in her hands.

But that all changed the minute she stepped foot in the firm's swanky offices high atop the corner of LaSalle and Monroe to begin her investigation. Eddie greeted her personally with a warm hug. Having not heard from him since college, he was the last person she expected to see. What didn't surprise her was that
he still had the power to melt her steely resolve faster than a stick of butter in a hot frying pan.

While writing a searing expose on Eddie's well-calculated crimes would have gone a long way towards exacting revenge on the man who left her at the altar after six of the happiest months of her life, by the time she had come to her senses, he was long gone, and she was out of a job.

Never again.

Mattie snapped off a hunk of the exquisitely smooth chocolate and shoved it in her mouth.

Stuck with a mountain of wedding-induced debt, she knew she was lucky to find another job so quickly. Even if it meant filling someone else's place on the lowest rung of the journalism ladder
an advice column. Turns out, h
er decision to keep her two-carat Tiffany wedding set wasn't such a bad one after all.

Mattie sat back in her chair and stared at her faux marriage prop, watching the prism of colors dance off of it before giving it a quick buff against her pant leg.

Narrowing her eyes, she mulled which email to open first.

 Only two piqued her interest. One was a request for the chicken recipe that she mentioned in last week's column. The other was a plea for advice from "Stressed in Sycamore."

Since she had left her mother's delectable chicken recipe at home, she decided to go with Stressed—a wise choice since the guilt-ridden, corporate-ladder-climbing mommy's letter proved to be far more entertaining.

Mattie hammered out what she thought was a fitting response.

"Dear Stressed—It is not for me to judge whether you are a bad mother for missing your daughter's third grade poetry recital. Who could blame you for prioritizing your contribution to a high-profile corporate merger over sitting in a tiny chair next to other grinning parents, knees tucked under their chins while their little ones recited rhymes that took them days, if not weeks, to memorize? Truth be told, you have effectively taught her a valuable lesson: in life, we all experience rejection at one point or another. Better that she learn to get over the sting of it while she's young. If hurt feelings persist, perhaps you can parlay some of that handsome bonus you received into a new American Girl doll."

"Boy are we gonna hear about that one."

Startled, Mattie turned to see her editor, Dianne Devane, peering over her shoulder.

While she dished out the advice, Dianne had the pleasure of fielding the inevitable rebuttals from parenting organizations, the American Pediatric Association, and high-ranking school district officials.

And this response would be no exception.

"That's the goal, isn't it?" Mattie quipped. Looking back at her laptop, she asked, "Any openings in Metro yet?"

The transplanted Manhattanite leaned against the edge of Mattie's desk careful not to knock over more props—several framed pictures of smiling children and a ruggedly handsome man.

Ignoring her question, Dianne asked, "Is everything all right, Sweetie? You seem out of sorts."

Dianne called everyone "Sweetie" unless she didn't like them, and then it was "Putz."

"I've been writing this column for almost two years, Dianne. When you hired me, you said it would be temporary." She lowered her voice and added, "Until you could find someone who was really married and had kids."

"Has it been two years already? Time flies when your circulation just keeps growing."

Mattie sat up in her chair. "Dianne, I'm serious. I'll be the first to admit that I needed a place to hide out for a while after, well, you know. And I'm grateful you hired me. I am. But I'm ready to come out of hiding. You know, with my own byline. My own life…"

She studied Mattie and gave her back a quick rub. "Sorry. No can do, sweetie. Your problem is that you're too good at what you do."

Standing up, Dianne announced, "Come on. Let's celebrate your success at the spa this Saturday. My treat. We can spend the whole day there. Massages, hair, nails. What do you say? Blake and the kids are going to visit his parents in the Hamptons this weekend. This would give me the perfect excuse not to join them."

Mattie mulled the veiled bribe while she twirled a strand of her untamed curls. She knew she could definitely use some pampering, but with the added weight she'd put on since her rather traumatic humiliation, the thought of letting a stranger knead her bare skin made her shudder.

Through an apologetic smile, Mattie said, "Thanks, but you know what would really help me?"

"Name it."

"A raise." Plastering a big cheesy grin across her face, she clasped her hands in front of her and added, "Please, please, please."

Dianne chuckled. "Sorry, sweetie. I don't hold the purse strings. You want a raise, you're going to have to take it up with the big guy." She pointed her finger towards the ceiling.

"God?" Mattie teased.

"Close enough," Dianne laughed. "You know I mean Lester Crenshaw. Although, if you ask me, he's more devil than deity."

A shiver went down Mattie's spine at the mere mention of the publisher's name. While she had never met him, she did not relish the thought of confronting such a powerful figure.

"And heaven help you finding an open slot on his calendar," Dianne continued. "That man has more appointments than the Pope."