Kathleen Y'Barbo - Daddy's Little Matchmakers

Their resiliency humbled him, as did their repeated promises to him that God would bring him another wife. Not a girlfriend, they always insisted, for he told them he would never date, but a wife. A wife to make him happy again.

A tear threatened and he blinked it away. That his girls were concerned with his happiness spoke volumes, though he couldn’t yet agree with their idea of a solution. Perhaps his mother and the others were right. Maybe he just needed to get over it and move on.

But how? It sounded so easy in theory, but in reality, Eric knew he was well and truly stuck. Hadn’t his old friend Riley said the same thing just yesterday on the phone? Pride hadn’t allowed Eric to answer, or maybe it was the fact that once again Riley was trying to convince him to join the widowers’ small group that met on Saturday mornings.

He didn’t need a small group to remind him he was a widower. And he surely didn’t need to hang around a basketball court with a bunch of other guys talking about death and dying.

Eric ran his hand through his hair and leaned back to close his eyes. A moment later, he opened them again, his gaze landing on the stack of bills. Yet another problem he had not solved.

What he could do, however, was see to the lone client who was waiting for him in exam room one. With a sigh, he forced his mind to focus on the details of the file on his desk then went to see to the ailing terrier. At least a broken bone was something he could fix, unlike the troubles that seemed to pile on like stones on a very tall and completely impassable wall.

Chapter Two

Amy returned to her desk with the veterinarian on her mind. Absently, she swiped at the faint brown stain on her blouse, now slightly damp after a scrubbing in the ladies’ room sink, as she looked out the window across Main Street to the clinic. Settling into her chair, she spied the message light blinking and reached for the phone.

“How much is an ad?” the cutest little voice asked. A pause and then came whispering that Amy couldn’t quite decipher. “There’s no one there, Grammy.” Finally the girl gave a phone number. Twice.

Smiling, Amy wrote down the number then placed the return call. An older woman answered with a firm, “Hello?”

“Yes,” Amy said, “I received a call about placing an ad.” She paused. “But I believe it was from a child so…”

“Oh, yes,” the woman said. “Of course. Just a moment and I’ll put Hailey on.”

“All right,” Amy said as she wondered what was going on.

“Hello” came the voice from the answering machine message. “I, that is, we would like to place an ad. How much will that cost?”

“It depends.” Amy clicked over to the proper screen on her computer. “What sort of ad would you like to place?”

A moment of silence followed, and then the shared whispers of several other voices came across the line. Apparently this would be a group effort.

“Hello?” Amy said. “Is anyone there?”

“Yes, ma’am” came the shaky response.

“All right, then.” Amy placed her fingers on the keyboard. “First I need your full name and address so I can set up the account.” When the girl complied, Amy said, “All right, then, Hailey Wilson, go ahead and tell me what you’d like the ad to say.”

“We would like to place an ad for our daddy, Dr. Wilson.” Someone with a similar girlish voice shouted a correction. “No, I mean for someone,” the child amended.

Another voice, also quite young, added, “For someone for our daddy.”

Dr. Wilson. Amy grinned. Eric Wilson’s girls were setting him up? Interesting. She checked the caller ID. The number came up as belonging to Susan Wilson, likely the woman who answered the phone.

A squeal from the other end of the line drew Amy’s attention back to the situation at hand. “Before I can process your request, you’ll need to put your daddy on,” Amy said.

“Well, I can’t exactly do that.” A pause, this time without any background noise beyond a barking dog. “My daddy is unable to come to the phone. He just went back to work. But he’s the best daddy in the world,” she added. “He braids our hair and bakes cookies with us. He’s gonna teach me to sail someday when I’m bigger.”

Something in the sincerity in their voices softened Amy’s heart. While there wasn’t a chance she could possibly place such an ad, she’d begun to think the idea of it was the sweetest thing she’d heard all day. “I see. He sounds like a wonderful daddy. Now why don’t you put your babysitter on the phone and she can have your wonderful daddy call back when he gets home?”

“We don’t have a babysitter. Just our Grammy.”

Amy let out a long breath. This must be Susan. “Then might I speak to your grammy?”

“No, don’t do that!” was quickly followed by a crash that sounded like breaking glass. Then came a dog’s excited yip.

A scream, and then the line went dead.

Amy held on to the receiver for a moment then slowly returned it to its cradle. What had just happened?

She reached to return her computer screen to the home page and tried to shrug off the sense that something just wasn’t right. What if the elderly woman who answered the phone was in distress? Amy thought of her grandmother’s fall and how blessed she was to have neighbors who checked on her.

What if Susan Wilson had fallen and now lay helpless with only Eric’s little girls to assist? Would they know what to do? The thought sent her into action. Quickly she hit redial and listened as the phone rang repeatedly then went to an automated voice mail.

Amy jotted down the address the girl had given her and snagged her purse. If anyone in Vine Beach needed to place a classified, they’d just have to wait. Besides, what could the managing editor do, fire her? She had only a few more hours of work left, anyway.

“I’ll be right back,” Amy said as she passed Bev Calloway’s open door.

The city reporter looked up from her computer, her glasses dangling precariously on the end of her nose. “Emergency?”

“I hope not.” Amy hitched her purse up higher on her shoulder. “I got a call I’d like to check out. Older lady and some kids. Heard a crash that sounded like glass breaking and now I can’t get anyone to answer.”

She thought about mentioning the identity of the woman, maybe telling Bev to call the vet clinic, then decided against it. If she was wrong, she’d look like a fool. Better to check things out first and apologize later if need be.

Bev’s dark brows rose. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. The address is just around the corner.” Her fingers found the keys. “Might want to say a little prayer, though. I’m hoping it’s nothing, but you never know.”

“Will do,” Bev called as Amy hurried out the building to her car.

A few minutes later, she made the turn and soon found herself in front of a tidy redbrick home trimmed in white and marked by a front door of glossy dark green. An empty driveway ended at a matching garage with a basketball goal hung just over the center of the double-size door.

Pulling to the curb across the street, Amy shifted the car into Park. The black mailbox at the curb had the name Wilson emblazoned in slightly mismatched alphabet stickers, the only sign of imperfection in what was an otherwise perfect abode.

Amy spied a black-and-white Springer Spaniel bounding down the driveway toward her followed in quick succession by a stair-stepped trio of fair-haired girls—the same ones she remembered from church. Eric Wilson’s daughters.

The tallest of the three carried a leash as if she might use it to lasso the spaniel while the other two, lagging behind their sister by a few paces, seemed to have assumed a supporting role in the drama. All were headed toward the street.