Debrah Morris - A Little Night Matchmaking

“Very well.” Celestian sighed. There was no arguing with a Review Panel. “I can’t wait to hear what I must do.”

“That’s the spirit!” St. Obvious didn’t understand sarcasm. “Since you are guilty of manipulating circumstances for your own purpose, you shall be given ample opportunity to do so by returning to earth as a guide.”

“A spirit guide?” Celestian dared to hope. That wasn’t so bad. “Whose earthly life must I guide?”

“Your human’s name is Chloe Mitchum.”

Celestian’s optimism faded as memories of Slapdown, Texas flooded back. “But Chloe Mitchum is a child.”

“Yes, an old soul who recently entered the fifth year of her current life. Helping an innocent little girl won’t strain your limited resources, will it?”

“No, sir.” Celestian listened as the Panel explained he was to befriend a child experiencing earthly problems. What problems did a five-year-old have?

“All you have to do is provide comfort, succor and guidance. The usual.”

He could do that. “As in, look both ways before you cross the street. Brush your teeth up and down and back and forth. Drink your milk. That kind of guidance?”

“Your primary objective will be helping Chloe’s mother meet her soul mate,” said St. Cranky.

“What?” Matchmaking was definitely not in his toolbox.

“Nothing complicated. Assist them in falling in love. Facilitate their courtship. Insure their lifelong happiness, a fate already slated for them. That is all.” St. Calm’s impossibly reasonable tone frustrated Celestian.

“You lost me at courtship.” He knew nothing about making people fall in love. He’d died without ever experiencing the emotion.

“Despite the combined efforts of several departments,” St. Obvious continued, “we have been unable to bring these two soul mates together. Their paths have paralleled, but have not crossed.”

“Time is running out,” added St. Calm. “She married the wrong man once and is overcautious. He has stubbornly vowed to remain a bachelor.”

Celestian began to sense how truly difficult his task would be.

“Extreme measures are needed. That’s where you come in,” said St. Obvious. “We require regular progress reports, so stop by Central Supply before you leave and pick up a H.A.R.P.”

“A harp, sir?”

“Handheld Analog Reporting Pad,” St. Obvious explained. “The new technology far surpasses the old. Very user-friendly.”

“If you succeed in helping the soul mates find true love, you may return to your former position in the time-out room.” St. Cranky dangled the bait.

“And if I fail?” Celestian asked.

“If you fail, you are stuck.” Leave it to St. Obvious. “Stuck on earth. Stuck in Texas. Stuck with Chloe.”

Doomed. As were the humans if he was their best shot at happiness. “I don’t understand. Why do soul mates destined for eternal love need my help?”

Silence filled the interview chamber as the panel conferred with one another. St. Cranky finally spoke. “Due to a system error, these two soul mates currently occupy Antipodean Mortal Coils.”

“Anti what?” Celestian wasn’t up on the jargon. He’d never expected to wind up on happily-ever-after detail.

A babble of no longer serene voices boomed through the chamber.

“Opposites. Contrary in personality, temperament and values,” explained St. Calm.

“Totally and hopelessly mismatched,” added St. Obvious.

“You call that a glitch?” Celestian began to sense how hopeless his mission really was. “Try problem of mammoth proportions.”

“Dear boy, do not be discouraged. If you wish to return to The After Place, you mustn’t let the fact that the subjects have absolutely nothing in common deter you from your worthy goal.” St. Cranky had suddenly become St. Smug.

He knew Celestian didn’t have a prayer.

Love is the only fire hot enough

To melt the iron obstinacy of a creature’s will

—Anonymous

Unknown and uninvited, he had slipped into her bedroom again last night. Not quite real enough to be frightening, his arrival wasn’t entirely unexpected. Three times now, he’d appeared in the darkest hour of the night. At first, he had stood quietly at the foot of her bed and said nothing. He seemed to await an invitation, but she could hardly offer one. She couldn’t speak or move or beckon. She could only bide.

The tall stranger was oddly familiar, though there was shadow where his face should be. When he finally spoke, his whispered words were faint, as though drifting across a great, windy chasm. When she didn’t answer, he disappeared, but she ached for his return.

The next night, he became bolder. He sat on the bed beside her, so close his comforting presence invaded her senses and paralyzed her with pleasure. His voice was stronger than before, like distant thunder gaining power as a storm approached. He murmured, Brandy, Brandy, Brandy, turning her name into a song.

Last night when the stranger appeared in her room, he knelt beside her bed and touched her cheek. His dark head bent close, and his warm breath bathed her skin with need. Desperate to feel his lips on hers, she tried to turn her head, but couldn’t. She could only sense and feel and hear. He whispered a yearning expression of love in her ear. Brandy. Don’t sleepwalk through life. Wake up.

And so she had, to an empty bedroom filled with gray morning light, echoes of regret and the faint scent of cinnamon.

Brandy Mitchum squinted as her eyes readjusted to the bright afternoon sunlight and tamped down memories of the troubling dreams. She steered her old car down the washboard country road. She was running late. If Harry Peet hadn’t insisted on reading the thick sheaf of legal documents before signing, her mind wouldn’t have had so much time to wander. To dwell. She had to focus. The Midnight Man might be ruining her sleep on a recurring basis, but she couldn’t let him interfere with work. Futterman wouldn’t accept less than her best.

She glanced at her watch. The unscheduled trip to the Milk of Human Kindness Dairy had chomped a two-hour chunk out of her afternoon. Time was tight, but if no additional glitches arose, she could still hustle back to Odessa in time to pick up Chloe from the after-school program.

Her stomach rumbled. No lunch. She just couldn’t seem to break that darned three-meal-a-day habit. Hoping to find candy stashed in her oversize mommy purse, she kept her eyes on the road and fished among the jumble of Happy Meal toys, moist towelettes and clean size five Powerpuff Girls underwear. The catch of the day was a Hershey bar that had succumbed to heatstroke, but what the heck? A sugar hit was a sugar hit. Steering with one hand, she opened the wrapper and licked warm goo off the paper.

Melting as fast as the chocolate, Brandy switched on the air conditioner, but the fan grumbled and blew hot humid air in her face. Mid-September, and the outside temperature hovered near ninety. Not a good day for the A/C to conk. But then, no day in West Texas was a good day to lose climate control. She cranked down the window and leaned across the seat to lower the glass in the passenger door. Might as well roast evenly on both sides.

“Hey, lady! Wake up!”

She glanced up at the shouted warning and expelled a curse that would never have escaped her lips had her five-year-old daughter been present. She pumped the brakes, and the car slid in loose gravel before skidding to a teeth-rattling stop. The shoulder restraint locked in, preventing a close encounter between her head and the steering wheel.

Disaster averted. Barely. If the car had skidded another yard, it would have struck the truck angled across the road. Brandy sucked in a deep breath to calm her pounding heart.