Laurel King - The Matchmaker's Medium

Months later, I was in the kitchen burning another batch of fried chicken, desperately praying the smoke alarms wouldn’t go off this time. I turned the heat down a little, hoping it would keep the popping sizzling grease from burning my arms, looking out of Esteban’s kitchen window. He was out there, in his golden-skinned perfectness, playing Frisbee with his kids, while trying to keep the dogs from grabbing it. Mostly, the dogs were running off with the plastic disc between their teeth, romping all over the grass, as Esteban chased after them and the kids rolled on the ground, clutching their guts from laughing so hard.

I smiled, feeling content for the first time in a very long time.

Too bad I can’t figure out how to cook the chicken without causing a wildfire, though.

“Yeah, you know how those things are once they get going.”

I froze, metal tongs poised above the spitting grease, little tiny burn-making drops trying to make their way to my arm hair.

“Jamal?” I whispered, that icy terror shooting into my veins for the first time in almost a year.

Turning around slowly, I expected the refrigerator to be rushing toward me. Nope, just Jamal. And some chick.

“I wanted you to meet my new fox lady. Now, try not to get too jealous, I know she’s a lot younger than you. And I know how ‘lady-freaked’ you get about that whole age thing.” He laughed, as the woman—girl?—smiled and put her fingers up in a peace sign.

Great, the hippies meet the disco days.

“Hi, I’m Amber.”

I stuck out my hand, but the tongs were still there.

“Oops,” I said, embarrassed by my faux pas.

“Groovy, chick. Amber. I’m feelin’ it, J.”

“Yeah, Daisy Chain here is from the 60s.”

Ya don’t say?

“That sounds fun. You two enjoy yourselves, now. Go have a couple of ghost babies, maybe buy a ghost house, just don’t get that stupid ghost-ARM rate, you know how it spikes after the first few years. Murder on the budget.”

“Damn, girl, you ain’t changed a lick,” Jamal said, shaking his head and smiling. “I see you and your man are doin’ good, with his kids and all?”

“Yeah, they’re great kids. I’m terrible at the whole babysitting, cooking, disciplining thing, but we’ll make it work.”

“Groovy,” Daisy Chain said, kind of waving her head a little bit. Her long dark hair was straight as a board, held back by—you guessed it—a chain of daisies woven into a headband.

“She says that a lot, doesn’t she?”

Jamal just smiled, shaking his head.

“So, you in town for a while, or just passing through ?” I asked, raising an eyebrow to Jamal.

“Funny you asked,” he said, walking towards me. “You see, Daisy Chain and me were kinda talking the other day, and we thought maybe we could help you—help other people—by helping the ghosts.”

“Wow, Jamal, there’s a lot of helping in that sentence.”

“Yeah, well, that’s my new thang, girl!” he said, turning in a circle, like James Brown was famous for doing onstage.

Work with these two twits, helping people with real problems?

“Yeah, why not? I don’t know what a twit is, but I’m pretty sure we could be that for ya, too, little foxy lady.”

You already are, Jamal. You just don’t know it.

I thought about it for a while, looking at the kids and Esteban romping all over the yard with the dogs. Happiness. Sheer happiness.

“Okay,” I said, picking up the pan of now-burnt chicken and unceremoniously dumping it in the sink. “When do we start?”