A Mother's Wish: Wanted: Perfect Partner / Father's Day. Debbie MacomberЧитать онлайн книгу.
Michelle was one of the most exclusive restaurants in Seattle, with a reputation for excellent French cuisine. Meg had never eaten there herself, but Laura and her husband had celebrated their silver wedding anniversary at Chez Michelle and raved about it for weeks afterward.
“You’re not making any sense,” Meg told her daughter.
Lindsey bit her lip and nodded.
“You have to tell her,” Brenda insisted.
“Tell me what?”
“You’re the one who wrote the last letter,” Lindsey said. “The least you could’ve done was get the dates right.”
“It’s tonight.”
“I know,” Lindsey snapped.
“Would someone tell me what’s going on here?” Meg asked, her patience at its end.
“You need that dress, Mom,” Lindsey said in a voice so low Meg had to strain to hear her.
“And why would that be?”
“You have a dinner date.”
“I do? And just who am I going out with?” She assumed this had something to do with Chez Michelle.
“Steve Conlan.”
“Steve Conlan?” Meg repeated. She said it again, looking for something remotely familiar about the name and finding nothing,
“You don’t know him,” Lindsey told her. “But he’s really nice. Brenda and I both like him.” She glanced at her friend for confirmation and Brenda nodded eagerly.
“You’ve met him?” Meg didn’t like the sound of this.
“Not really. We exchanged a couple of letters and then we e-mailed back and forth and he seems like a really great guy.” The last part was said with forced enthusiasm.
“You’ve been writing a strange man.”
“He’s not so strange, Mom, not really. He sounds just like one of us.”
“He wants to meet you,” Brenda put in.
“Me?” Meg brought her hand to her throat. “Why would he want to do that?”
The girls shared a look, reminiscent of the one she’d caught the night before.
“Lindsey?” Meg asked. “Why would this man want to meet me?”
Her daughter lowered her eyes, refusing to meet Meg’s. “Because when we wrote Steve … “
“Yes?”
“Brenda and I told him we were you.”
Two
Steve Conlan glanced at his watch. The time hadn’t changed since he’d looked before. He could tell it was going to be one of those nights. He had the distinct feeling it would drag by, one interminable minute after another.
He still hadn’t figured how he’d gotten himself into this mess. He was minding his own business and the next thing he knew … He didn’t want to think about it, because whenever he did his blood pressure rose.
Nancy was going to pay for this.
He was early, not because he was so eager for tonight. No, he was only eager to get it over with.
He tried not to check the time and failed. A minute had passed. Or was it a lifetime?
His necktie felt as if it would strangle him. A tie. He couldn’t believe he’d let Nancy talk him into wearing a stupid tie.
Because he needed something to occupy his time, he took the snapshot out of his shirt pocket.
Meg Remington.
She had a nice face, he decided. Nothing spectacular. She certainly wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but she wasn’t plain, either. Her eyes were her best feature. Clear. Bright. Expressive. She had a cute mouth, too. Very kissable. Sensuous.
What was he supposed to say to the woman? The hell if he knew. He’d read her letters and e-mails a dozen times. She sounded—he hated to say it—immature, as if she felt the need to impress him. She seemed to think that because she ran an eight-minute mile it qualified her for the Olympics. Frankly, he wondered what their dinner would be like, with her being so food conscious and all. She’d actually bragged about how few fat grams and carbs she consumed. Clearly she wasn’t familiar with the menu at Chez Michelle. He couldn’t see a single low-fat or low-carb entrée.
That was another thing. The woman had expensive tastes. Dinner at Chez Michelle would set him back three hundred bucks—if he was lucky. So far he’d been anything but …
Involuntarily his gaze fell to his watch again, and he groaned inwardly. His sister owed him for this.
Big time.
“I refuse to meet a strange man for dinner,” Meg insisted coldly. There were some things even a mother wouldn’t do.
“But you have to,” Brenda pleaded. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Remington, I feel really bad springing this on you, but Steve didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve just got to show up. You have to … otherwise he might lose faith in all women.”
“So?”
“But he’s your date,” Lindsey said. “It would’ve worked out great if …” she paused and scowled at her best friend “… if one of us hadn’t gotten the days mixed up.”
“Exactly when did you plan on telling me you’ve been communicating with a strange man, using my name?”
“Soon,” Lindsey said with conviction. “We had to … He started asking about meeting you almost right away. We did everything we could to hold him off. Oh, by the way, if he asks about your appendix, you’ve made a full recovery.”
Meg groaned. The time frame of their deception wasn’t what interested her. She was stalling, looking for a way out of this. She could leave a message for Steve at the restaurant, explaining that she couldn’t make it, but that seemed like such a cowardly thing to do.
Unfortunately no escape plan presented itself. Brenda was right; it wasn’t Steve’s fault that he’d been duped by a pair of teenagers. It wasn’t her fault, either, but then Lindsey was her daughter.
“He’s very nice-looking,” Brenda said. She reached behind her and pulled out a picture from one of the envelopes scattered across Lindsey’s bed. “Here, see what I mean?” Meg swore she heard the girl sigh. “He’s got blue eyes and check out his smile.”
Meg took the photo from Brenda and studied it. Her daughter’s friend was right. Steve Conlan was pleasant-looking. His hair was a little long, but that didn’t bother her. He wore a cowboy hat and boots and had his thumbs tucked into his hip pockets as he stared into the camera.
“He’s tall, dark and lonesome,” Lindsey said wistfully.
“Has he ever been married?” Meg asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Nope.” This time it was Brenda who supplied the information. “He’s got his own business, same as you, Mrs. Remington. He owns a body shop and he’s been sinking every penny into it.”
“What made him place the ad?” she asked the girls. A sudden thought came to her. “He is the one who advertised, isn’t he?”
Both girls looked away and Meg’s heart froze. “You mean to say you two advertised for a husband for me?” She spoke slowly, each word distinct.
“We got lots of letters, too,” Brenda said proudly. “We went through them all and chose Steve Conlan.”
“Don’t you want to know why?” Lindsey prodded.
Meg gestured