Matchmaking and mixtapes, p.1
Matchmaking and Mixtapes, page 1
MATCHMAKING & MIXTAPES
by Marie Landry
Copyright Marie Landry 2023
All rights reserved
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual people, places, or events, living or dead, is coincidental.
Character illustration by Qamber Emporium
Cover designed by Marie Landry
Content warnings: Mild language, alcohol consumption. In regards to side characters: brief mentions of parental death, parental abandonment, car accident that resulted in serious but non-life-threatening injuries.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Also by Marie Landry
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Coming Soon
Letter to the reader
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ALSO BY MARIE LANDRY
*Blue Sky Days
*The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
*Waiting for the Storm (Angel Island #1)
*After the Storm (Angel Island #2)
*Take Them by Storm (Angel Island #3)
*Only You
*Maybe You
*Hung Up on You
*A Very Perry Christmas
*A Very Perry Wedding
*Escaping Christmas
Coming Autumn 2023:
*Reunions & Ruses
*Do-Overs & Mixed Signals
*Bucket Lists & Midnight Kisses
*Silver Bells & Serendipity
DEDICATION
To Mum, Maddison, and Jaimie. My girls. My three constants in the two chaotic years it took me to write this series. You are three of my greatest blessings in life, and I love you to the next galaxy and back, forever.
CHAPTER ONE
“We need a catchy saying about turning thirty-five.”
The fluorescent lights of B&H Diner suddenly feel like a spotlight as three sets of eyes turn to focus on me. My friends seem confused by my non-sequitur, which I suppose makes sense considering we were just talking about autumn decor not two minutes ago.
I wave a hand as if inviting them to hop aboard my train of thought. “You know, similar to ‘thirty and flirty’ or ‘forty and fabulous’.”
“Evie, I’ve never been flirty,” Louisa says, picking up her cup of tea and making a face before taking a sip. “‘Thirty, anxious, and socially awkward’ doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, though, does it?”
I nearly choke on a bite of toast. “No, Lulu, it doesn’t.”
Lips twitching, Hollie rests a hand briefly on Louisa’s shoulder. “Well, we’re already fabulous, so I guess we’re five years ahead of the curve.”
“Hear, hear.” I toast her with my coffee cup and glance beside me at Stella, who’s been strangely quiet for the last few minutes. I quickly discover her silence is a result of her scarfing down her scrambled eggs with one hand while spreading raspberry jam on a piece of toast with the other. Huh. That’s some impressive dexterity.
“How about…thirty-five and feelin’ alive,” Hollie suggests.
“Thirty-five and I will thrive,” Louisa says.
Hollie and I nod enthusiastically.
Beside me, Stella hunches further over her plate and mutters, “Thirty-five and takin’ a dive.”
“A dive into what?” I ask, shifting to face her as much as I can in the tight diner booth.
The way she freezes makes me think she didn’t mean to say that out loud. As if simultaneously realizing she’s been doing a stellar impression of a starving gremlin, she sets down her utensils and sits up straight. “A dive into…bottomless glasses of prosecco at your birthday party?”
I narrow my eyes, silently communicating that, despite the nice save, we’ll be having a conversation about her weird behavior later. After all, we live together, so she can’t avoid me. Her wry grin and one-shouldered shrug tell me she understands and isn’t put off by my flinty-eyed look.
“Speaking of the upcoming party,” Hollie says. “Are we ready for Birthday Palooza?”
“I thought we agreed Birthday Palooza doesn’t officially begin until after the party my mom throws for me,” I remind her.
“I move to change those rules,” Hollie says, her brown eyes gleaming. “I know your mom’s Emily Gilmore-esque gatherings aren’t your ideal birthday celebration, but you can’t deny Eleanor Hathaway knows how to throw a party. I think we should consider it the official kick-off of our birthday season this year.”
Stella, Hollie, Louisa, and I were born between October and the end of December of the same year. Our moms were friends, which means we’ve known each other practically since birth. We may be approaching our mid-thirties, but we still love celebrating each other and the fact we’ve remained lifelong friends.
“I second that,” Stella says around another bite of food. “We’ll have plenty of chances to celebrate our birthdays how we want, but Evie, your mom’s parties are one of the few times a year the rest of us get to eat fancy food and drink prosecco that costs more than twelve dollars a bottle.”
She has a point. Fancy parties have lost the appeal they once had for me, between my mom trotting me out at various fundraisers and dinner parties, plus the events I attend as one of Bellevue’s highest-ranking real estate agents. It doesn’t help that my mom uses any excuse to play matchmaker, which means I spend the majority of time at her parties avoiding her by ducking into other rooms, striking up conversations with random people, or pretending I’m getting an important work-related call.
With me turning thirty-five next weekend, I have a feeling Mom’s efforts will double. Despite the very thought of it exhausting me, I know my friends enjoy the parties, so I can suck it up for one night.
“We’ll take you out later that weekend for dinner somewhere you can wear jeans and flat shoes,” Louisa promises.
“Or do pizza, wine, and movies at home,” Stella says. “Whatever you want.”
“You guys are the best,” I say. “I don’t care what we do, as long as we’re together.”
We finish our breakfasts, and then it’s time for Hollie and Louisa to leave for the animal shelter, where they’re volunteering at a Thanksgiving weekend adoption drive.
“I have an idea,” Hollie says to me as she climbs from the booth and wraps a lightweight scarf around her neck. “Have you met Fergus MacKinnon?”
“No…” I’m always wary when someone starts a sentence that way since it’s often followed by a matchmaking attempt. “Is he related to Hugh MacKinnon?”
Hollie snaps her fingers. “Yes! How could I forget you know Hugh?”
At this point, I think most of Bellevue knows about my connection to Hugh, or more accurately, to the MacKinnon Group. Hugh is a well-known businessman and philanthropist, and the owner of Bellevue Village, the city’s enormous amusement park. The MacKinnon Group recently bought a Victorian mansion and its vast grounds in the center of town, and it made the news for several reasons. The property, which was used as a funeral home since the mid-1800s, had been on the market for over three years with little to no interest. The MacKinnon Group purchased it for a whopping two million dollars, a figure that’s almost unheard of in this area. And since I was the realtor who facilitated the deal, I made the news too.
“Anyway,” Hollie continues, “Hugh and Fergus are distant cousins, and Fergus recently moved here from Scotland to work for the MacKinnon Group. The Group is one of the food bank’s biggest sponsors, so we’ve been working together the last couple of months. He’s great—nice, funny, handsome. Single.”
I’m almost afraid to ask: “Where are you going with this, Hollie Anne?”
She titters. “This isn’t an actual set up if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s more like a pre-emptive strike against your mom’s matchmaking attempts. I could talk to Fergus about being your date at the party, with the caveat that he’s just an escort and it’s only for the night. Unless you two hit it off, of course.”
“Hmm.” A pre-emptive strike isn’t a bad idea. At my mom’s most recent dinner party, she introduced me to no fewer than four ‘eligible bachelors’. One of them was nearly my dad’s age, which makes me think Mom is getting desperate. I’m perfectly content being single, but to Eleanor Hathaway, approaching thirty-five while unattached clearly means I’m heading for spinsterhood, and we can’t have that.
“Go ahead and mention it to him,” I tell Hollie. “If he’s not comfortable with the ruse, he’s welcome to come to the party regardless. Since he’s new in town, he might like to mingle and make connections.”
“You’re not interested in him yourself, Hols?” Stella asks.
Hollie suddenly becomes absorbed in fastenin
I expect there’s more to it—like perhaps the fact Hollie has met someone on the dating site we both joined recently—but now isn’t the time to press for details. “Well, we’ll look forward to meeting him,” I say before Stella can speak again. “You two have fun with the animals at the shelter. Snuggle some puppies for me and send us pics.”
When the others are gone, I move to the opposite side of the booth so I’m facing Stella. “Okay, what’s up with you? Where did you go this morning?” I woke up to a note on the fridge saying she had something to do and would meet us at the diner for our weekly breakfast.
Stella slumps in her seat and releases a sigh that turns into a groan. “I went to meet Tannis,” she mutters, referring to the woman she’s been dating off and on since she returned to town. When I don’t respond, she peeks up at me. “It was her idea to meet early this morning, but she didn’t show. Again. Which makes me an idiot. Again.”
“You’re not an idiot, Stella.”
“A failure then,” she says. “Failed marriage. No job. Dating losers, even though I know better. Squatting at your condo.”
“You’re not a failure.” My voice is more forceful than I intended, but at least Stella is looking at me now. I hate seeing her like this: lost, uncertain, feeling like she’s messed up her life. I’ve seen her slip into depression enough times over the years to spot the warning signs. “Your marriage not working out is a hard pill to swallow, but we both know you’re better off away from Lars. It took real courage to move back here and be willing to start over, and you’ll be happier and healthier in the long run. As for this so-called ‘squatting’…” I can’t help but laugh as I say it, and I’m pleased when Stella’s lips give the slightest twitch in response. “I invited you to live with me, and I’ve loved every minute of it. We always said we’d live together someday and now we are, even if it’s temporary.”
A genuine smile blooms on her face, although it withers quickly. “But all the money I owe you, Evie—”
I hold up a hand to cut her off. “You know that doesn’t matter to me. I don’t want your money.” Saying that comes from a place of extreme privilege, and I know it; I’ve been making good money for years, and I also have wealthy parents to come to my aid if I ever need it. My friends and I have always taken care of each other, and this is no different. “I meant it when I told you to take all the time you need while you figure things out. There’s no need to rush this fresh start.”
Stella nods as she blinks away tears. I’m sure she’s as relieved as I am when our favorite waitress—and the co-owner of B&H Diner, our home away from home—comes to refill our coffees. Bea is usually quick with a joke or a comment since she’s known the four of us for most of our lives, but she remains silent as she pours. She briefly touches Stella’s shoulder before moving on to the next table.
Stella blows out a shaky breath as she adds milk and sugar to her coffee. I observe the way she straightens in her seat, knowing she’s mentally collecting herself. A change of topic is coming in three, two, one… “Now that the others are gone, I have to ask: on a scale of one to five, how much are you dreading your mom’s party?”
I laugh under my breath at the question. Nothing ever gets by Stella. As much as I adore Hollie and Louisa and consider them an extension of myself, I try to limit how much I complain about my mom in front of them because it makes me feel like a whiny, ungrateful child. Louisa’s mom died when we were fourteen, and shortly after that, Hollie’s mom took off for a ‘short break’ and never returned. Both events set off a terrible chain reaction in Louisa’s and Hollie’s lives, and things were never the same for them again.
I feel comfortable commiserating with Stella, though. She knows my mom well, having lived next door to us for most of our childhood. My mom can be pretentious and over the top, and we’re not as close as we were when I was younger, but she’s a good person. And considering Hollie’s and Louisa’s moms are both gone, I’m lucky to have my mother here and driving me nuts rather than not having her at all.
“Honestly, it’s fine,” I tell Stella. “It’s one evening, and it makes Mom happy, so…” My phone, which is facedown on the table, lets out a series of short buzzing sounds. Without looking, I know it’s the reminder I set before coming to the diner this morning. “Speak of the devil. That’s my alarm to tell me it’s time to go. Mom summoned me last night for some sort of party prep today, and I need to run a couple of errands first.”
“Don’t want to leave Mama Hathaway waiting. I shudder to think of the consequences.” Stella’s playful tone eases the lingering worry niggling at the back of my mind. She’s going to be fine; my friends are made of tough stuff.
And, as I leave the diner a few minutes later, wondering what awaits me at my parents’ house, I remind myself I’m made of tough stuff too.
CHAPTER TWO
I park in the circular driveway of my parents’ place. As I often do when I arrive, I mentally prepare myself by sitting in the silence of my car and staring at the enormous house with its elaborate gardens. When we moved in nearly twenty years ago, my mom nicknamed the place Hathaway Manor. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but that should have been my first inkling that our new-found wealth was beginning to change Eleanor Hathaway.
I didn’t grow up with this kind of affluence. For the first fifteen years of my life, my parents and I lived in a modest three-bedroom house in a quiet, family-friendly neighborhood. Around the time I hit my teens, my dad was promoted to partner at the law firm where he worked, and we suddenly had a lot more money. The changes weren’t noticeable at first, at least not to a self-centered thirteen-year-old.
It wasn’t until a year later when my great uncle died and left a surprisingly large inheritance to my dad that things really changed. My mom immediately began house hunting in neighborhoods we’d only ever driven past, and the clothes in our closets went from department store labels to luxury brands. Within the year, my parents had sold my childhood home, moved us into Hathaway Manor, and put me in private school for the last two years of high school.
My phone chimes. I lift it from the center console and swallow a disbelieving laugh when I see the text from my mom: Are you going to sit there all day or are you coming in? I peek up at the house, searching for her in the many front-facing windows. There’s no sign of her, which makes me picture her hovering just out of sight behind the curtains, her phone clutched in her hand.
“Here we go,” I murmur, giving myself one final glance in the rearview mirror. Even though it’ll only be the two of us, I’ll be sure to hear about it if I have so much as a hair out of place or a tiny smudge in my lipstick. Eleanor Hathaway doesn’t only expect perfection, she demands it at all times. ‘It’s for your own good’ is her standard line any time I call her on her ridiculous penchant for flawlessness.
“Evelyn, so nice of you to join us,” Mom says as she opens the giant, intricately carved front door. The door I had to knock on and wait for her to answer, even though she knew I was here. When I was little, in what I now refer to as the Before We Became Rich Times, or Before Times for short, I rarely made it to the door before she’d have it flung open, her arms spread wide to welcome me with a hug, no matter how long I’d been gone.
That’s one of countless things that have changed over the last two decades. There was a time I would have attempted to get a rise out of her by pointing out she summoned me without giving me any choice in the matter, but I'm past that. Just like I’m past asking who ‘us’ is when I know she uses the term the way a sovereign uses the Royal We.
“You’re looking well, Mother.” I grip her upper arms lightly and lean in to press a kiss to each of her smooth cheeks. The scent of her most recent designer perfume tickles my nose. It’s more pleasant than the last one, which was so overpowering it made my eyes water. I still fondly remember the days when her signature scent was Calgon’s Hawaiian Ginger body spray. I still have a bottle tucked away in my medicine cabinet at home, and I spritz some in my bedroom whenever I’m feeling nostalgic.
