Arlene James - His Ideal Match

“Be glad to,” Phillip said, rising from the table.

Chester didn’t argue and merely nodded his head, an indication of just how worried he was.

They left a few minutes later and drove across town to an older apartment complex that had seen better days. Chester led the way to a ground-floor apartment that opened onto a depressingly bare inner courtyard. It never occurred to Phillip that he might have waited in the car until Carissa opened the door. The dismay on her face when she saw Phillip standing behind Chester left no doubt as to her thoughts on his presence there.

“Come inside,” she said unenthusiastically.

The tiny vestibule opened on one side into a narrow living room and on the other into a dining room, with space large enough for only a small table and two chairs. Both rooms were strewn with toys and packed with boxes and wobbly furniture. The place seemed barely large enough for two people in Phillip’s estimation, let alone five.

“How is Marshall?” Chester asked, handing over the bag filled with containers of Hilda’s food.

“They wanted to keep him in the hospital,” Carissa said, “but he wouldn’t have it.”

“All I needed was a breathing treatment,” grated a raspy voice. Phillip saw a wheelchair roll into view from the dining area.

“Dad, you should be in bed.”

Marshall braced his skeletal elbows on the arms of his old manual wheelchair and shook his head, wheezing with effort. “And you should be in a nice three-bedroom brick house in Dallas, but here we both are in this two-bedroom dump. Introduce me to this young man.”

Carissa sighed and beckoned Phillip forward. “This is Phillip Chatam. Phillip, my father, Marshall Worth.”

Phillip reached out a large, strong hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Marshall’s thin, veined hand trembled. “You must be a nephew of those sisters, the triplets, that my brother works for.”

“Yes, sir, I am. One of many.”

Marshall waved a hand at his daughter, saying, “Sugar, put that food in the kitchen. Chester, take a load off.” He pointed to a dining chair. Niece and uncle traded looks and did as instructed.

“Phillip, I’m dying,” Marshall Worth said bluntly, “and this cancer’s taken everything I ever had. I’ll have nothing but rags and sticks to leave my daughter and grandchildren.”

“Daddy,” Carissa said, zipping back into the room, “that’s not important.”

“Chester and Hilda will do everything they can,” Marshall went on, as if she hadn’t even spoken, “and Carissa’s a hard worker, but she barely makes enough to feed them all.”

“Daddy, don’t worry,” Carissa pleaded.

“I can’t die without knowing you’ll have help,” he told her tiredly.

“Daddy!”

“Don’t concern yourself, sir,” Phillip interjected, leaning down to place a hand on the man’s rail-thin shoulder. “She won’t be alone or without help. You have my word as a Chatam.”

Tears filled Marshall Worth’s rheumy eyes, and he nodded with relief.

“Chatams are good people, so if you say it, I believe it,” he rasped.

“Believe it, sir. Your daughter and grandchildren will be fine.” He smiled. “I’m told that Carissa has strong computer skills, after all.”

“That she does,” Marshall agreed with a chuckle. “Not much business sense, though.”

“Dad!”

“But she’s a good mother and a fine daughter,” he added, “and she’s not hard on the eyes, either.”

“You slight her, sir,” Phillip said, just to rankle her. “She’s a rare beauty.”

Her back stiffened, then she relaxed again and swept through the narrow kitchen to the other bedroom. There couldn’t be another in the apartment, which meant that she probably shared it with all three of her children. Phillip realized just how blessed he was to have Chatam House as a haven in his time of trouble.

“I’m tired, brother,” Marshall said, sounding it. “Help me to bed.”

Chester rose and took his brother’s chair by the handles, saying, “Afterward, we’ll have a word of prayer together. Then I want you to eat.”

“I’d like that,” Marshall told him, seeming to shrink before Phillip’s eyes. “Prayer and Hilda’s good food. Nothing I’d like better. Goodbye, young man.” Not good-night but goodbye.

“Goodbye, sir.”

Phillip stood awkwardly for a moment before Carissa came back through the kitchen. “Walk me to my car?”

She didn’t want to. He knew it by the way she hesitated, but she couldn’t find a graceful way to decline. “All right.”

As they strolled along the inner courtyard, Phillip couldn’t help noting the buckling concrete of the sidewalk, the overgrown shrubbery, the disintegrating fence around the trash Dumpster and the flaking paint on the metal stairs at the corner of the building. There he paused and turned to face her, his hands tucked into his pockets.

“My aunts want to keep the children at Chatam House tonight. They can stay in the carriage house with Chester, Hilda and Carol. When your father is better tomorrow, you can pick them up and bring them home.”

Carissa took a deep breath. “Well,” she said, “that might work, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“My father’s not going to be better,” she said softly.

Phillip couldn’t resist the urge to slide an arm across her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She slowly slipped out from beneath his embrace, saying, “I’d better go pack a bag for the kids.”

He was surprised that she’d given in so easily and wondered if she had done so just because she was anxious to get away from him. The thought pinched in a way he hadn’t expected, but he reminded himself that her father was gravely ill. And that he had given his word to a dying man.

He would keep his word. Whether Carissa Hopper liked it or not.

But obviously, Carissa Hopper was not the woman for him. Or rather, he was not the man for her.

She needed a solid, serious, responsible man, the kind his parents had always wanted him to be. But that wasn’t him, had never been Phillip Chatam. And never would be.

Chapter Three

Marshall Worth lapsed into a coma during the night and was transported to the hospital the next day. The children remained at Chatam House, but with Chester staying close by them, waiting for news. Phillip tried to make good on his promise to Mr. Worth and consulted his older brother, Asher, an attorney, on Carissa’s behalf. Asher promised to look into the possibility of government assistance for her and her children, then he invited Phillip—and his résumé—to lunch.

Phillip dutifully went along, though he knew what was coming. Sure enough, his brother had asked a friend with a local accounting firm if he had any openings. It made sense, after all. Phillip was good with numbers. He was good with bookkeeping. He was even good with money. It was the whole idea of being an accountant, someone else’s bean counter, in a nine-to-five job that made Phillip’s skin crawl. Before Asher could suggest that Phillip apply for a position, Phillip changed the subject to an article that he’d read while he’d sat in Asher’s office, waiting for Asher to finish a phone call.

The article had mentioned a new smartphone app that allowed its purchasers to “test drive” possible employment fields. According to the article, a new field of reality apps allowed people to follow a day in the life of a number of professions, be it a baker, a truck driver, a plumber or a diesel mechanic. The purchase price seemed steep to Phillip, but he supposed it was worth it if it prevented a person from spending the time and money to educate him or herself for a career he or she ultimately didn’t like.