Judy Duarte - The Matchmakers' Daddy

“Yes, but we really miss our friends, the Merediths. They were like family to us.”

“What made you move?” Okay, so he was prodding her, when turnabout wasn’t fair play.

“We were living with my father and…” She glanced in the direction the girls had run. “He’s a good man, but critical to a fault. And I had to put a little distance between him and the girls. I didn’t want them to grow up in a harsh environment.”

The kind of environment she’d grown up in, no doubt. But she seemed to have come away unscathed.

“Well,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I have to check something on the stove.”

“Sure.” He watched her walk away, unable to ignore the gentle sway of her rounded hips. He blew out a pent-up sigh, hoping to shake off the attraction that brewed under his surface.

He glanced at the lamp table, spotting a framed photograph of a smiling man and woman.

A groom and his pretty, brown-haired bride.

Diana and her husband.

The girls had said their father passed away. They seemed to be okay with the loss. But how about their mother?

Was she still grieving? Still brokenhearted?

He hoped not. Diana was too young, too sweet, too perfect to be hurting.

And too damned young to be sleeping alone.

Again, he cursed his sexual attraction to a woman who was way out of his reach.

Diana stood at the stove. As spaghetti sauce simmered over a low flame, she stared at a large pot of water, wondering if it would ever boil.

On the way home from the bus stop, she’d thought about fixing canned soup and sandwiches for dinner—something quick and easy. But she couldn’t very well serve a light meal like that to a construction worker the size of Paul Bunyon and with, she imagined, an appetite to match.

So she’d used the hamburger she’d set aside for meat loaf and added a jar of store-bought marinara she kept on hand for emergencies like this.

But she couldn’t very well let Zack wait alone in the living room, without even the girls to entertain him. So she left the pots, one simmering and the other on high, and headed back to her guest.

He sat on the worn, tweed sofa, studying a photograph of her and Peter on their wedding day.

When he heard her enter the room, he returned the silver frame to the lamp table, tossed her a half smile and nodded at the twelve-year-old picture that spoke of another time, another life. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not.” She’d left that picture out for her daughters’ benefit, along with a couple of others down the hall.

“The girls told me your husband…their dad…passed away.”

She nodded. “About two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Most people felt awkward discussing death and loss, and for some reason, Diana wanted to make it easy on Zack. And easy on herself. “Time heals. And we’ve adjusted pretty well. At least, I think the girls are doing all right.”

Compassion spread across his face, and she realized he assumed she hadn’t gotten over her loss. But that’s not what she’d meant.

She took a seat in the easy chair that had, along with the other furniture, come with the house. “I’m doing all right, too.”

And she was. Her husband had been one of the kindest, gentlest men she’d ever known, but she’d gotten over his death easier than her daughters had.

She’d loved him, of course. How could she not? But she’d never really felt his love in return. His focus had always been on the church rather than on her and the girls. And, after a while, she’d grown to resent the time he spent trying to nurture everyone else in the small, struggling congregation.

So after holding down the home front by herself for what had seemed like forever, she continued to do the same after his death. And if truth be told—

Oh, God. It sounded so terrible to admit, but there hadn’t been a lot for her to miss.

At times, she wondered if she’d bypassed a step in the grieving process. But in reality, she’d probably been so busy trying to keep the wolf from the door that she’d passed through it all without a backward glance.

“What was his name?” Zack asked.

“Peter.”

“How did he die?”

“From a heart attack. And since he was only thirty-four, he probably overlooked any symptoms he might have had.” She fingered the frayed, braided edge on the armrest of the chair. “Late one evening, the church janitor found him slumped over his desk.”

“Wow.” The word came out as a solemn whisper.

She didn’t want Zack feeling sorry for them. It happened; they’d survived. End of story.

“Peter was a good man,” she told him. “And he’s in a better place.”

“Better than being with a beautiful wife and two great kids?” He frowned. Then he softened. “Sorry. Just my cynical nature busting loose.”

Over the past few years, Diana had grown a little cynical, too, although she usually hid it well. She offered Zack a smile that was steeped more in hope than reality. “Please don’t be sorry. Life goes on.”

He nodded, yet that awkwardness she’d wanted to avoid settled over them. She assumed it was due in part to them being strangers. Or, then again, maybe she was feeling uneasy about the thoughts she was usually so good at suppressing.

Yet there seemed to be something else happening, too. Something that had a lot to do with them being male and female.

It had been a long time since a man had held her in his arms. Maybe that’s why she found this virtual stranger so darn attractive, even though she had no intention of replacing the man she’d lost.

Death, they said, had a way of memorializing a person, making them seem almost saintly, when in reality, they’d been flawed and human. But in Peter’s case, that hadn’t happened. Not for her, anyway. He’d lost his footing on the pedestal on which she’d placed him years ago.

“The girls say you’re a secretary,” Zack said, obviously wanting to change the subject as badly as she did.

“Yes, I am. A friend from college knew I was looking to relocate, and she told me there was a perfect position for me at the Park Avenue Community Church. I interviewed over the phone, and Reverend Morton went to bat for me with the board of elders. Two days later, he offered me the job. And here we are.”

“I hear he can’t get along without you.” Zack didn’t know why he mentioned what the girls had told him, why he felt compelled to turn the conversation toward the preacher. But the fact was, he wanted to hear that the good reverend was seventy years old and happily married.

“Tom, or rather Pastor Morton, is a very busy man. And he appreciates someone taking care of the little things for him. I’m sure another secretary would be just as helpful.”

Before Zack could think of a response, the two girls entered the living room. It didn’t take long to figure out they’d been eavesdropping.

“Mrs. Ashton says our mom is perfect for the job because she used to be a pastor’s wife and knows just what to do to make Reverend Morton’s life easier,” Becky interjected.

Diana’s husband used to be a preacher?

Somehow, that didn’t surprise him. And, if anything, it only placed Diana on a higher level than most people.

When he was younger, before his time in prison, he’d never dated anyone who was considered a good girl, even though he’d sensed one or two of them had been attracted to him. It didn’t take a psychic to see the conflict in a mismatched relationship like that.

And from what he’d already seen and easily surmised, women didn’t get much nicer than Diana.

“Mrs. Ashton said Reverend Morton wants to ask Mom out on a date,” Becky said.