MISS MATCHED

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Bad habits are hard to break. I pick at my cuticle starting a brand-new hangnail as my mother harasses me. “It’s been a really long time since I had a boyfriend,” I tell her. 

And by really, I mean never. 

That would be my second bad habit. Never having a second date.  

I unzip my black graduation gown while my mother sits on one end of the IKEA couch she purchased for me. At the opposite end, a fluff of stuffing peeks out of the cushion where Taylor’s cat, Cheshire, attacked and clawed the couch to death. Of course, my mother would position herself as far away from the flaw as possible.  

She’s dressed far too chic today for a college graduation. What she’s wearing is closer to the red carpet than any normal mother. My mom is far, far, far from normal. I suppose that’s her bad habit. Outside the auditorium earlier, the other moms all looked nice in suits or day dresses in pastels while mine sparkled gold and silver and bronze, drawing far too much attention to herself. 

She loved it. The attention, I mean, not the dress.  

Actually, come to think of it, probably both.   

During the line-up for a family photo, someone else’s mint-green mom approached us and congratulated me, then turned to Mom and said, “Aren’t you Felicity O’Hara?” 

Mom delicately placed her fingertips on her breastbone and her mouth formed an “O” in feigned surprise. “Why, yes, I am. How nice of you to recognize me in this huge crowd of people.” 

I’m surprised, too, that the poor woman wasn’t blinded by the sparkle given off by Mom’s gown. 

“I just love The Matchmaker. I never miss an episode—or if I do, I record it. I just think what you do is …” She trailed off looking for the right word.  

Crap?  

“… so beautiful.” 

“You’re too kind. It’s been my lifelong calling, you know?” Mom smiles sweetly at her adoring fan.  

“I’d love—I mean if it’s not too much trouble—to get your autograph,” she said, holding out her program.  

“Don’t be silly.” Mom’s hand fluttered from her wrist. For one single second I actually thought Mom was going to say I’m not a celebrity, or You don’t really want my autograph, or This is my daughter’s graduation, I couldn’t possibly. But then she pinched the clasp on her evening bag, whipped out a felt tip in the blink of my eye and signed the blasted thing.  

I wish I could say I was flabbergasted, but I’m not.  

“Thank you so, so much.” The woman held it between her hands like Mom’s signature was a treasured family heirloom. Then, she waved it over her head and said much too loudly, “I can’t believe I just met Felicity O’Hara.”   

Naturally, all the commotion drew a lot of attention our way and a robin’s egg blue mom drifted over to ask the mint green mom about what just happened. Word spread like wildfire and soon there was a line of pale tangerine and carnation pink and lemon yellow and baby blue lined up in front of my precious-metals mom. Between autographs on their programs, and selfies with my mother that immediately appeared on social media, it took forever to get out of there, and we never did get our family photo.  

After the ceremony, we returned to my apartment. As she sits on my couch, Mom removes a compact mirror and a lipstick from her evening bag. Using her thumb on her left hand she flips the mirror open. Using the thumb and finger on the other she expertly twirls the lipstick to a perfect length and re-applies to her upper lip.  

“I could help with that. The boyfriend.” She presses her lips together and moves to the lower. In one fluid motion, she exchanges the mirror and lipstick for a tissue, and before she blots the excess says, “Like I told that woman today, ‘It’s my lifelong calling.’” 

I drape the graduation gown over the back of a chair and hunt for the bag it came in. “Oh, I know it is,” I say, the snark heavy in my voice. “It has to be after four, or do you count it as five, marriages?” This would be another bad habit of my mom’s. Serial marriage. Or maybe serial divorce. Realistically, it’s both.     

My quip about the number of times she’s been married doesn’t faze her. “I never know whether to include that one either. One day—does that count? At any rate, I’ve learned a lot being married to such a variety of different men. It’s given me the ability to properly assess—” 

“You can cut the bullshit with me Mom. I’m not one of your fans.” 

“I realize that, but I am your mother … 

Please don’t remind me. 

…and you could show a little respect for what I do… 

Respect?  

… the art of matchmaking makes a difference in people’s lives … 

Art? 

… why won’t you let me help you?” She’s worked herself up to one crocodile tear and uses the lipstick tissue to blot it away.  

Phony.  

Everything about my mom is fake. Her name isn’t Felicity O’Hara, not even close, although I’m sure even most of her fans have figured that one out. It’s really Kimberly Brubaker, which is a perfectly fine name, but, needless to say, it didn’t fit the glamorous image she wanted to cultivate. While she hopes I’ve forgotten the day, eight-ish years ago, when she enlisted me for a second opinion on her new moniker, I remember every word of the moronic discussion.  

So, her name is as fake as: 

Her dark chestnut hair. 

Her French-tipped nails. 

Her veneer teeth.  

Her long, thick lashes. 

And I suspect her boobs, though she’s never shared with me if she had them done, and probably never will.  

But the worst fake thing about her, not counting her own name, is the show. It’s a reality show, yet reality has very little to do with the way it works. Shows like Real Soccer Moms, Keeping Up with the Joneses, and Séance Science. Although my mother has grown her fan base for The Matchmaker to crazy heights with streaming, she really wants a national syndication deal. While the show isn’t the crown jewel of reality TV, my mother acts like the queen.  

“I asked you a question, Frederica.” Mom’s tears vanish as quickly as they appeared. “Why won’t you let me help?” 

Easy. “Three reasons. First, because no one has boyfriends anymore. I’m a college graduate, not a middle schooler. Second, it’s a ridiculously old-fashioned idea.” Like you. “And third, because your help would be a disaster.” 

“It doesn’t have to be. You could simply date one of the bachelors. I’d even let you pick one that appeals to you, or you could be the bachelorette, and you’d be entitled to three blind dates. Whichever you want.” 

There are so many reasons this is a bad idea. I simply say, “I don’t want my dates to be televised.” 

“They’re not. Not really. They do heavy editing, and then on the close ups, you know, we have a script for you. But when they film the couples eating, that really is private.” 

I already know all the ins and outs of the show, after living through my high school years under Mom’s roof, watching it—and Mom, skyrocketing to popularity. Still, she’s obviously forgotten the definition of private, if she ever understood the concept at all.  

“How can something that is filmed be private?”  

“Most couples say they forget they’re being filmed after a couple minutes. They say it’s no more awkward than any blind date. I know you realize how successful I am at making the right matches, I’ve had—” 

“Fifteen weddings and three beautiful grandbabies,” I say, finishing the line for her. It’s part of her opening on the show before the couples are introduced. I have it memorized.  

Hi, I’m Felicity O’Hara, matchmaker extraordinaire, and in the seven seasons we’ve been on the air I’m responsible for fifteen weddings, and now, three beautiful grandbabies. The season and number of weddings changes with each new season. Today’s lucky bachelors will meet an impressive young woman …  I have to give her credit. Somehow, she manages to find great-looking, bright, telegenic, successful people for all her shows. It’s part of the reason she has a hit. This young woman will have three blind dates, entirely arranged by me from start to finish, so let’s meet today’s bachelors and see if I can make …. a … match. 

“It’s actually going to be sixteen weddings by next season because André and Raven just got engaged, and I heard last week that Troy and Bethany may be expecting.” Mom always refers to her matches by their names, like they were personal friends or her own children. Even I have to admit that her numbers are impressive.  

“It’s not for me, Mom.” 

“How do you know if you never try it?” 

“This isn’t Green Eggs and Ham, it’s my life, my love life, that you’re talking about.”  

“I’m very aware of that, Frederica. I’m the matchmaker.” 

I fear she’s starting to believe her own press. “I’ll think about it.”  

Not a chance. 

“Good. Because I think if you’d join me on the show, it could win us an Emmy for Best Reality Series. You know how much I’ve always wanted one of those.” 

“Do I ever. There’s an open spot for it on your bookshelf.”  

My mother sighs deeply. More drama. “Someday, when you have children of your own, you’ll understand my strong maternal instinct.” 

Ha. That’s the biggest laugh of this entire inane conversation. She’s been such a lousy role model that I’m never having children. I wouldn’t know where to begin. “I’m pretty sure I’d need a husband for that.” 

Felicity tosses her hair. “Not necessarily.” 

“Of course, you’d say that.” 

**** 

Peter, Mom’s fourth-possibly-fifth husband, depending on how you count, is waiting outside Rilassante for us. He’s dressed in an expensive suit, obviously custom tailored, but at least he’s dressed appropriately and doesn’t stand out in the same way my mother does. Like always, Peter’s got a deep tan going. He reminds me of that actor George Hamilton—especially because of his tan. Distinguished and with some authentic sex appeal for an old guy.    

“Freddie! It’s so good to see you!” He grabs me by the shoulders and kisses both cheeks.  

I smile. Despite myself, I like Peter. He’s the best one from Mom’s catalogue of lovers and spouses, since he’s from the same generation she is, and seems to genuinely care about her. “It’s good to see you, too,” I say and draw him into a hug.  

After kissing me, he does the same to Mom, only air kisses this time so as not to smear her make-up.  

“Were you able to talk to the bank and take care of that little flare-up?” Mom asks, turning her eyes to meet his and to gaze adoringly into them. 

Following the ceremony, Peter received an emergency call from a business associate and had to skip out on the family picture, which, as noted, never happened, promising to meet us later at the restaurant. Personally, I suspect he just wanted to avoid all the hubbub that inevitably surrounds Felicity O’Hara.  

“I did, my dear.” He places his hand onto the small of Mom’s back and nudges her forward. “Our reservations were for three o’clock.” 

“Where’s the fire? Who eats this early anyway?” 

“They have seatings at three, five, seven, and nine today. Freddie requested the earliest one because I’m sure she has many other social engagements planned for later.” 

Peter’s being kind. I did request the earliest seating, but it was strictly to minimize the time spent with my mother, which was practically clairvoyant of me given that Peter couldn’t be there to mediate. There’s only one possibility of a social engagement—a get together, much later, at some bar that a few of my friends like. I’ve never been there and still haven’t decided if I want to go tonight.  

“We’re only a few minutes late,” Mom says defensively.  

“Fifteen.” Which is another thing I like about Peter. He doesn’t let her get away with any of her b.s. He opens the door with his left hand and scoots her along with his right and holds it for me while I follow her to the maître d’, who doesn’t need to ask for our names since we’re the last table to be seated. He simply motions for us to follow as he leads us to our table, pulls out the chair for Mom, then me, and gestures to the menus laying precisely between the silver service. 

There’s a flurry of activity around our table. Wait staff dressed in black pants and white shirts simultaneously pour water, bring a basket of breads and a plate of cheeses. The wine steward hands Peter a book. When they depart, the maître d’ bows his head. “Antonio will be with you momentarily.” Then, I swear, he clicks his heels and walks away.  

My mother points at the booklet of wines. “Why don’t you give that to Frederica, Peter. She majored in wine culture.” 

Wine culture. What doesn’t she understand? I majored in PR, but I’d love to work for a California winery. The industry seems interesting, and as a bonus, Napa and Sonoma are a good way from Santa Barbara. I don’t know much about wine selection, but today is as good a start as any.  

Before I even have the chance to read through the reds, Antonio is by my side. “How may I assist you with the menu?” he asks with a slight accent that I think could be authentic Italian. I glance up at what may be the most heartbreakingly attractive guy I’ve ever seen—Adonis as a waiter—and become completely and totally tongue-tied. I think I may have responded, “Uh?” 

Mom softly paints a Felicity O’Hare expression onto her face, like a watercolor artist who barely applies the softest tint to his canvas. “You could help me, Antonio.”  

“Of course. How may I help, Signora?” Antonio moves to stand over my mother’s shoulder. 

“Well, first you may call me Felicity.” Mom holds out her hand, and I swear Antonio isn’t sure whether to shake it or kiss it. He wisely chooses to give it a gentle squeeze.  

“Felicity, what can I answer for you?” 

Mom bats her eyelashes at him. “I have two questions for you. First, how’s the beef carpaccio here? Should I have that or the tuna tartar? I know that sounds like two questions, but it really only counts as one.” 

“Either of them is squisto, Signo—Felicity, depending on which one suits you today. And your second question?” 

Mom turns to wink at me, then looks back to our waiter. “Tell me Antonio, are you single?”  

Tell me, is there somewhere I can hide? 

In an awkward motion, Antonio nods a yes. “I will give you a moment to look at the menu.” He bows slightly, then disappears for a few minutes, probably bracing himself to come back to our table. 

I’m embarrassed again when he returns and shakes his head at my selection of a Pinot Noir, and points to a Sangiovese I’ve never heard of.  

“Trust me, you won’t be disappointed Signorina. It pairs well with almost any dish.” 

Something in his eyes makes me decide to trust him, and he’s right, the wine is superb. 

My mother behaves after this, which I count as a graduation gift. I steel myself for a few disagreements, and perhaps even one blow-out, but it never comes. I marvel at the effect Peter has on her.  

Dinner is delicious and so is the waiter. I can barely take my eyes off him as he moves from table to table. At one point, my mother clears her throat, and when I glance at her, with the lift of one brown and the tilt of her chin, she lets me know she’s watching me watch him. As things can go with her, it’s not too bad.  

After Peter gives the check a cursory review, Mom slips one of her business cards behind his credit card and seals the black pleather bifold. When Antonio picks up the check, she lays her perfectly manicured hand onto our handsome waiter’s forearm. “May I speak candidly to you Antonio?” 

“Yes, of course. Please.” 

“I’m Felicity O’Hara of the popular television show The Matchmaker, and I think you’d be perfect as one of our bachelors. I’ve left you my business card and hope you’ll consider this opportunity.” 

Antonio laughs uncomfortably, and even blushes in the most adorable way. 

“I’m not joking about this.”  

Antonio stops laughing. “I’m sorry. I just moved here from Italy to work for my uncle this summer. I don’t know this show.”  

“God, you’re adorable. Don’t you think so Frederica? Isn’t he adorable?” 

He is. And I nod, because to shake my head would be rude in addition to being a lie. 

“That’s perfectly fine, Antonio. You can watch it whenever. It streams on Bujo,” Mom explains. “But you should watch an episode soon, because filming for next season starts in July and if you give me an answer quickly, I’ll squeeze you into the schedule.” Her eyebrows arch as if to say and that would be the best thing ever.  

“I could be on TV?” Antonio asks like he wants to make sure he hasn’t dreamed this. 

“Yes.” 

“Just like that?” 

“Yes.” Mom’s expression seems to me like she might have second thoughts about him being a good candidate for the show.   

“This country is amazing.” 

“And you, my dear Antonio,” Mom pats his forearm, “are squisto.”