Blurb:
Ingredients
1C Chaos
1Tbsp Romance
3Tsp Betrayal
2C Comedy
1Pinch Magic
Candace Cooper is living the life she set out to live. With a posh apartment in
Manhattan, a high-powered job that takes her all over the world, and designer
clothes that most women would kill to have in their closet, she's definitely
living the high life. But when her best friend drags her to a seedy section of
Paris to meet with a crack-pot fortune teller, she hears things she doesn't
want to hear. She desperately tries to ignore the unsolicited advice, but that
becomes nearly impossible when her perfect life starts to unravel.
"Filled with comedic catastrophes, magical mishaps, romantic blunders, and
tasty recipes, The Matchbaker will have you laughing, crying and reaching for
the nearest box of baked goods!" Ava Stone, Amazon Best Selling Author
**Includes Cupcake Recipes from Erin Knightley, Polkadot Cupcake Shop &
Sugarcain Cupcakes**
Excerpt:
One
I
can’t believe I’m doing this. Why, when I should be shopping on the Champs
Elysee or sipping French wine at a fine restaurant, am I in a bad part of
Paris, sitting in the front parlor of Madame Antoinette’s? That’s right. She’s
a psychic. And I foolishly let my best friend talk me into coming to see her.
I
look across at Lucy, who is poised elegantly on the edge of one of the purple
cloth-draped chairs. We’re both wearing trendy business suits and expensive
shoes, and we’re groomed to near perfection. We definitely don’t belong in this
gaudy shop with five-pointed stars and crystal balls.
But
I’m a good friend, I guess, and that’s why I’m here.
“Are
you sure you want to do this?” I ask Lucy. She darts her gaze to meet mine and
I see the determination in her eyes. There’s no way I’m getting out of this
now.
“I
have to know, Candace,” she says simply and then turns her attention back to
the ornate dragon sitting on the table next to her.
I
do my best not to roll my eyes, but it’s not easy. Poor Lucy is convinced her
boyfriend back in New York is cheating on her. I’m convinced he’s not.
Apparently, she’d rather hear it from Madame Antoinette than me.
“Good
afternoon, ladies.” The hanging beads in the doorway click and a woman appears
before us. She has frizzy red hair, kept somewhat in line by a dark purple
scarf. Her dress makes her look like a bawdy pirate wench, and she clicks and
clanks with every movement thanks to all her bangles and beads. I’m going to go
out on a limb and say this is Madame Antoinette. Maybe I should invest in a
ridiculous get-up so Lucy will listen to me and not drag me to the worst part
of Paris for psychic readings ever again.
With
a flick of her head, Madame Antoinette turns and walks back through the beaded
curtain. Lucy is out of her chair, following behind, as if she’s in some kind
of trance. I take a deep breath and follow as well.
I
can’t help but notice the grime that lines the floorboards as we walk down the
long corridor, and suddenly all I can think about is getting back to the hotel
and taking a long, hot shower. I just hope Lucy gets her answers quickly.
At
the end of the corridor, Madame leads us into a room on the left, and I have to
stifle a giggle as we walk through the door. What a joke! I can’t believe my
best friend thinks this woman is going to have the answers she needs. I mean,
seriously, there’s a large, foggy crystal ball in the middle of the table,
which is draped with the same purple cloth as the chairs out in the lobby. I
look around for hidden cameras, because surely we’re being taken for a ride.
“Have
a seat,” Madame says, gesturing to the chairs at the round table. She takes her
own place in front of the crystal ball. “Now, what is it I can help you with?”
Lucy
shoots me a quick glance and then turns back to Madame Antoinette. “I think my
boyfriend may be cheating on me.”
The
woman smiles as if she understands completely. “You have been together a long
time, no?”
“Since
high school,” says Lucy, a goofy girl-next-door smile coming to her glossy
lips.
“And
what makes you think he is cheating on you, my dear?”
Lucy
blushes and I know it’s because she doesn’t want to sound like a crazy person.
I wish I could lean over and tell her she could never sound as crazy as Madame
Antoinette, but I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t go over very well with either of
them.
“I…I
kind of found a text from another woman.”
“Aha.
And what did this text say?”
Lucy
blushes again. Oh, good Lord. What does it matter what this woman thinks of
her? There’s a bottle of Bordeaux with my name on it back at the hotel, and I’m
getting antsy.
“I
don’t actually know,” she says, and Madame Antoinette’s eyebrows rise until
they nearly disappear under her hair. “I just saw the name—Kelsey Attwater—but
I didn’t see what she wrote. I’ve never heard of her, and Steve was acting kind
of weird after he read the text.”
Madame
nods and then turns her attention to the crystal ball before her. She closes
her eyes, which begs the question, how will she see what’s in the crystal ball?
This thought tickles me and a bubble of laughter rises to my throat. I stifle
it as best I can, but not well enough apparently, since Lucy shoots me a
scathing look. Which makes me laugh even harder. It’s not until she kicks me in
the shin with her pointy toe that I gain control of my faculties.
“Yes,
yes,” mumbles Madame Antoinette. She’s swaying in circles and her eyes keep
rolling back. I’m waiting for her head to start spinning around.
Lucy
is on the edge of her seat. I roll my eyes. God, this is such a waste of time.
Steve isn’t cheating. I know him, and he would never do that to Lucy. If he
did, I would lose faith in love and men altogether. Not that I have a lot of
faith in those things to begin with. But Lucy and Steve are the perfect pair.
If they can’t make it, then I’m surely doomed.
Madame
opens her eyes suddenly and trains them on Lucy. “Your hunch is correct,” she
says.
My
mouth drops open. What a load of crap!
“I
knew it!” shouts Lucy. “See, Candace, I told you!”
I’m
biting my tongue so hard I can taste the blood. I take a deep breath and look
from Lucy to Madame Antoinette with my stoniest of glares. Who is this woman to
tell Lucy what Steve is up to, anyway? She doesn’t know Lucy and she certainly
doesn’t know Steve, and she doesn’t know them together.
“What
should I do?” Lucy begs the strange woman for advice. I can’t help but feel a
little jealous. She never asks for my advice with such fervent desperation.
Actually, I’m not sure she ever really asks for my advice at all. What a sucky
thing to realize about your best friend.
“You
should confront him, of course,” says Madame Antoinette.
Lucy
reaches into her handbag and retrieves her phone.
Is
she serious? “Luce, not now,” I say to her.
“It
is not your responsibility to direct your friend’s path.” Madame is staring at
me now. “If she feels the need to call in this moment, then it is important she
does.”
“I’m
sure it is, since you’re being paid by the minute, Madame.”
“Candace!”
Lucy hisses while she waits for Steve to pick up.
“I’m
sorry, Luce, but this is ridic—”
“Hi,
honey, it’s me.” Lucy has turned away from the table and she’s talking to Steve
in hushed tones. “Yes, I am, but…we need to talk.”
I
glare at Madame. I’m so over being polite right now.
“You
are angry with me,” she says.
She
should get a medal for her ability to state the obvious. I say nothing.
“I
understand,” she continues. “Your friend is taking advice from a stranger, and
now you doubt the friendship.”
“I
don’t doubt our friendship.” This woman is infuriating. “But I know Steve’s not
cheating. He loves her and he would never do that to her. They’ve been together
since high school, for God’s sake!”
“A
person’s love for someone does not necessarily keep them from being
unfaithful.” I can’t stand her all-knowing tone when she says this.
And
if what she says is true, I’m never going to fall in love. I’m not about to get
heartsick over someone and devote years of my life to him, only to have him
cheat on me.
Lucy
is in the far corner of the room now, her whispers more emphatic than before.
Crap. Things aren’t sounding good. I really don’t want to have to eat my words.
I’d rather eat steak tartare at the Michelin-starred restaurant in the hotel.
“You
are twenty-eight, no?” Madame says.
I
look up at her, shocked. “How did you know that?”
She
shrugs and peers into her crystal ball. “Hmm.”
Hmm?
What the hell does hmm mean? Against my will, my butt scooches forward
on my seat, and I lean in to see what’s in the ball. “What are you doing?” I
ask, trying to sound more perturbed than intrigued.
“You
will be twenty-nine soon,” she says. Lucky guess. “And you will see some very
interesting changes in the coming year.”
Oh,
wow. That’s not vague at all.
“I
see a career change in your very near future.”
Career
change? A pit forms in my stomach, but I can’t tell if it’s from excitement or
nerves. “What do you mean?” Maybe I’m going to get that promotion, after all.
The one my boss promised me almost two years ago. I’m sorry, Can, I really
thought it was going to be this quarter, but it’s just not going to happen. I
promise in September the position will be yours. Maybe it’s finally going
to happen. Maybe Celia isn’t just blowing smoke up my skirt this time.
“You
enjoy baking,” she says as if it’s a fact.
I
burst out laughing. “Ah, no,” I say. “Not at all, much to my parents’ chagrin.”
Madame
Antoinette cocks her head to the side as she stares, confused, at the crystal
ball. “But…”
We’re
both distracted by the sniffles coming from the corner. I look at Lucy. Her
back is to us and she still has the phone up to her ear, but her body is
shaking with sobs. Crap. One for Madame Antoinette; Zero for me. Now I’m torn.
Do I want to know what Madame is going to say, or do I want to hear about what
a creep Steve is?
I
turn back to the psychic. I’m desperate to wipe the smug smile off her face,
but annoyingly, she’s sparked my interest with this comment about baking. It’s
probably just a coincidence, but still…
“So,”
I say, re-focusing my attention back on her. “What’s this business about
baking?”
She
looks into her crystal ball again, her eyes fixed on the nothingness inside.
God, what is wrong with me? Am I really so desperate to know my future that I’m
turning to Madame Antoinette? I’m at once irked and curious. I mean, she did
call that situation with Steve.
I
glance again at Lucy. She’s still on the phone, but now she’s sitting on the
floor, her knees pulled tightly to her chest as she rocks in place. Gross.
She’ll have to get that suit dry-cleaned.
“Yes,
I am still seeing the same thing,” Madame says, and I return my focus to her
and the crystal ball. “A career change will find you…baking.” She turns her
hands up and shrugs.
“That’s
impossible.” I peer around to see if there’s anything for a normal person to
see in the ball. Nothing. Just cloudy smoke. “I mean, maybe not entirely
impossible, but…no, it is. It is impossible. That’s not my path. I deliberately
stayed out of the bakery growing up. I hate baking. Hate it. The kitchen is
hot, it’s messy. The few times I helped my mom out I nearly broke my hand
trying to pull the heavy pans out of the oven. No. No, no, no, no, no.”
“I’m
sorry,” says the psychic. Ha! Some psychic. Clearly, she knows nothing about me
or she would know that what she’s seeing is hogwash. “I do not make these
things up. I only relay what I see.”
“Well,
what you see is ridiculous,” I tell her, trying to keep my cool. I mean,
seriously! Me? In the bakery? I don’t think so.
“Fine.
Then I will not tell you about the handsome stranger I see in your future as
well.”
Damn
it, she’s tricky. I grit my teeth. I don’t want to seem interested, but Luce is
still bawling over in the corner, and since we’re paying anyway…
“What
handsome stranger?” I say, completely against my will.
“Aha.
I see now how to get your attention.” She stares intently at the ball. “You
will meet him this fall. September, perhaps. You will be working together.
Closely. And you will fall madly in love with him.”
“And
what about him? Won’t he fall in love with me?” I can’t help but feel a little
indignant at the idea that I might love someone who won’t love me in return.
“It
all depends on how you handle yourself, my dear. I will warn you now, be
careful how you use your powers.”
Powers?
“Sure. My powers. Thanks for that hot tip.” Now I know this woman is a hoax.
She really had me going there with the bakery and all, but does she really
expect me to leave my job when I’m on the fast track to being an executive? And
I probably will meet a handsome stranger this fall. I meet handsome men
all the time, but I’ve yet to fall in love with any of them. The likelihood of
that happening this fall is pretty slim. Especially after this debacle with
Steve and Lucy. If they can’t make it…
“You
do not believe me.” She’s still staring at me.
“No,”
I say. “I’m sorry, I don’t.” I toss a wad of French bills onto the purple table
and stand up. “I think we’re done here.”
“You
do not have to believe me,” she continues. Now I’m getting annoyed. “But Madame
Antoinette is never wrong.”
I
ignore her as I pick Lucy up off the floor. The phone is still open and Steve
is still on the line.
“Hi,
Steve,” I say, my voice as stony as I know how to make it.
“Candace!”
The excitement in his voice throws me. “You have to talk to her. Tell her it
was a mistake. It was just a one-night stand with some chick. I don’t even
remember what she looks like. I probably couldn’t even pick her out of a
line-up.”
I
ignore him, too. I really can’t deal with this right now. “Listen, Steve.” My
tone is businesslike, which feels weird since we’re pretty good friends. “Luce
will call you when we get back to the states. Bye.”
I
slam the phone shut and put my arm around Lucy’s shoulder. She’s still bawling
and mumbling about how it’s all her fault and she should have agreed to certain
things in the bedroom.
That
Bordeaux is sounding better every second.
“I
think you should heed my advice, mademoiselle.”
Ugh.
Not her again. The chaos in the small room is starting to get to me. With Lucy
bawling in one ear and Madame Antoinette yapping in my other, I’m desperate to
just get the hell out. I push Luce through the beaded door and down the
corridor. She’s so devastated she can barely walk. Her three-inch Prada pumps
aren’t helping, either.
The
psychic is close on our heels, and she’s still shouting warnings about me using
my powers for good and not for selfish gain, blah, blah, blah. Where did Lucy
find this quack, anyhow?
Finally,
we spill onto the sidewalk into the blaring sunlight. It was darker in there
than I’d realized and I have to squint to see. I walk Lucy toward the street
and look left and right in desperate search of a taxi stand. There’s none in
sight. I shudder at the thought of taking the Metro. But it’s either that or
walk, and these Christian Louboutins aren’t going to get me very far.
“Come
on, Lucy,” I say, dragging her away from Madame Antoinette’s. “A hot shower and
some good wine will make you feel much better.”
Lucy
only nods. The tears are still flowing freely down her cheeks, and we’re
getting odd looks from the passersby. Great. Just what I want. To draw
attention to ourselves in this seedy part of town.
After
walking for what seems like forever in a random direction, it’s clear we’re
getting farther and farther away from civilization. The storefronts are getting
shabbier, and most are closed for business. And despite the fact it’s close to
rush hour, there are very few people out and about. I don’t want to admit that
I’m lost. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. It’s not like Lucy is in a state of
mind to help us get out of this area. Deciding I have no other choice, I stop
the nicest looking man I see.
“Pardon,”
I say in my best French accent. “Ou est le Metro?”
The
man starts rambling to me in French, far too fast for my high school French
education to be of any help. Thankfully, he’s gesturing, too. I catch a few
words I recognize, and by the time he’s done, I’m pretty sure I know where
we’re heading.
“Merci!”
I yell as we take off in the direction he’d pointed.
We
walk a few more blocks until we reach the street I was sure he’d said to take a
right onto. My toes are already starting to blister and the pads of my feet are
burning. These shoes were definitely not made for walking. I look right and my
stomach sinks. Oh, my God.
“CanCan,”
Lucy says in her teary, little girl voice. “We don’t have to walk up that, do
we?”
I
want to cry right along with her. San Francisco has nothing on this hill. But
the good news is that it’s way more populated here. We must be in some kind of
tourist-y area. You’d think that would mean taxis, but there still aren’t any
to be found.
I
grab Lucy’s arm and give her a tug. We fall into the fold of the masses that
are heading up the hill and begin to climb. Within seconds, my legs are
burning, and I’m cursing Christian Louboutin’s name all the way. Who gave
permission for men to design women’s shoes, anyhow? I’d like to see him walk up
this monster hill in these four-inchers.
“My
feet hurt,” Lucy whines, much to my annoyance.
“I’m
not having a picnic here, either,” I say and immediately regret my tone.
Lucy
sniffles. “You don’t have to be so mean. I just found out my soul mate’s been
cheating on me!”
I
want to roll my eyes and tell her that if he’s cheating on her, he’s probably
not actually her soul mate, but I know that won’t help. “I’m sorry, Luce.
Listen, we’ll be back at the hotel soon and then we can sort all this out. Maybe
it’s just a misunderstanding.”
“Okay,”
she says, her voice small. And then, out of nowhere, she begins to wail like a
banshee. “But it’s not just a misunderstanding! He cheated on me!”
She’s
stopped walking now, and we’re creating a scene in the middle of the busy
sidewalk. I never knew people could rubberneck while walking, but apparently
they can.
“Luce,”
I say in a hushed voice as if I’m talking to a toddler. “Listen to me. You have
to pull yourself together, okay? We just need to get back to the hotel and then
you can cry and scream and throw things ‘till your heart’s content. Okay,
Lucy?”
She
nods and opens her tear-filled eyes. Damn it, I’m going to kill Steve for doing
this to her. What a jerk.
I
look back up the hill. We’re not even halfway. I’m not sure my feet will make
it, and I’m pretty sure they’re bleeding underneath the leopard print pony
hair. But we have no choice. Still no cabs to be found.
Another
five minutes of walking vertically up the hill and we finally make it to the
top.
“Oh,
thank God!” I’m panting hard. My quads are burning. And I’m more than ready to
trade these damned heels for the fluffy slippers at Georges V.
“Where’s
the Metro?” Lucy asks, looking around the area. Trees cover us overhead and
before us is a staircase that’s so long, I’m certain it leads straight to hell.
“Pardon!”
I grab a woman’s arm and she shoots me one of the most intimidating looks I’ve
ever received. Huh. I’ll have to practice that one in the mirror. As an
executive I’ll need a really intimidating glare. “Le Metro, s’il vous plait?”
She
rolls her eyes as if I’m the greatest nuisance to ever enter her life and then
points down the staircase. As she moves on, I squint to try and see what’s at
the bottom. It looks more like a subway station for ants from this vantage
point, but I can just make out the sign that says “Metropolitan.”
“All
right.” I grab Lucy’s arm again. “Let’s go.”
We
begin the descent down the long flight of stairs with the hundreds of other
people, and I can only hope they aren’t all going to the Metro. Much to my
dismay, they are. All of them. I feel like I’m in a swarm of bees tunneling
into the hive. It’s absolute chaos when we finally reach the bottom of the
stairs in the station.
Already,
I’m dreading this experience. I’ve been to Paris a hundred times, and this is
the first time I’ve been subjected to a subway ride. It’s no small feat
figuring out how to purchase our rides and getting the still-distraught Lucy
through the turnstile.
Once
we’re on the platform waiting for the train, Lucy looks around as though she’s
just waking up from a deep sleep. “Where are we?” she asks, clearly perplexed
by the foreign environment.
“What
do you mean where are we? Good grief, Luce, haven’t you been with me for the
last thirty excruciating minutes?”
“Not
really. I’m kind of devastated over here.”
I
nod. “I know.” I put my arm around her and give her a half hug. It’s in this
inopportune moment, while we’re stuffed like sardines onto a French subway
platform, that I realize how badly I need to pee. Crap. How often do Metro
trains come? And how long is the ride back to the hotel? It could be five
minutes or it could be an hour. I’ve never been underground, but I do know it
took about twenty minutes by car to get to Madame Antoinette’s. Surely it’ll
take longer to get home by train. Can I hold it?
I
close my eyes and try to distract myself with thoughts of work. Tomorrow’s my
big presentation to Le Roi and, in all honesty, I probably should not have
taken the afternoon off to come with Lucy to see the psychic. What was I
thinking? I should have talked her out of it like a good friend and gone over
my presentation like a good employee. Then I wouldn’t be in this blasted
predicament.
I
pull out my phone, hoping something on there will distract me. I don’t have
service, but I do have about a hundred missed calls from my mom and three
messages from my boss. Oh, God. I’m not nearly as worried about the calls from
my boss as I am the ones from my mom. Why did she call so many times? Is it
Dad? Oh, my God! What if he’s sick? Or worse! Or maybe it’s about my sister. I
told her not to go to Cabo with that guy, but did she listen? Of course not! No
one ever listens to me, which is why I’m standing in a stupid Metro station
instead of drinking wine in my deluxe suite at Georges V.
I’m
dancing from foot to foot now and clenching my vaginal muscles so hard I could
probably crack a walnut. But nothing is helping. The sensation is just getting
worse. And worse.
The
woman next to us pulls out her water bottle, and I almost let go right then and
there. She swishes the water around, takes a drink. More swishing. I’m going to
lose it.
“Luce,
I have to find a bathroom,” I say in a rush.
“What?”
She turns to me in alarm. “We’re in a subway station.”
“I
know, but I can’t hold it.” Desperate, I turn to a somewhat friendly looking
stranger beside us. “Est ce qu’il y a un toilette ici?” I have no idea
if that was right, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.
The
man points toward the exit and rambles something I’m too crazed to even try to
understand. But it doesn’t matter. It appears there is a bathroom, so I push
through the crowd and take off in search of it. I hear Luce’s heels clicking
behind me as I make my way back through the station, the same way we came,
keeping an eye out for anything that looks like it could be a bathroom. By the
time we get back to the top where the turnstiles are, I’m still searching. But
there’s nothing. And now I’m certain the man was trying to tell me the
bathrooms were outside. Damn it!
I
glance behind me. Luce is still there; we’re both fighting the mobs of people
who are trying to get to the trains.
“I
have to go up!” I yell back to her.
“But
we already paid!”
How
can she worry about money at a time like this? Or at all, for that matter? The
shoes we’re wearing would pay most people’s mortgages. For several months. A
piddly subway fare was hardly of any concern.
I
race through the turnstile and up the stairs—not easy to do when everyone else
is coming down. I barely even notice the excruciating pain in my feet anymore.
All I care about is that little booth that stands about 200 feet from me now.
By this time, I’m pretty sure my vagina could win a weight lifting contest.
I
feel like William Wallace as I battle my way there, and finally, it’s before
me. I breathe a sigh of relief as I tug on the door, only to discover it’s
locked. Oh, my God. This can’t be happening.
Okay,
deep breaths. It wants me to insert money. That’s all. No problem. “Change,
Luce! Do you have any change?”
Poor
miserable Lucy hobbles up to me, her tear-streaked face looking mutinous. “No,”
she says.
She’s
no good to me. I have to get into that bathroom, but where can I get change? I
look around and see a newspaper vendor across the street. I’ll get change
there. I’m about to step off the curb when I hear the blessed sound of the door
opening behind me. I spin around, frantic.
“Hold
the door!” I yell. The perplexed woman holds it open, but is rambling on in
French as she does. “I know,” I say, assuming she’s upset that I’m trying to
get in without paying. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money. Je n’ai pas…money!”
I
run past her into the little stall and try to shut the door, but the woman
hangs on to it.
“Let
go!” I yell.
She
yells something back in French and tugs the door open a little more. I tug it
toward me. She tugs it toward her. I’m seriously going to pee all over her.
With one final superhuman yank, I pull the door shut. It slams and locks. I
hike up my skirt and pull down my panties. I squat over the toilet and then a
whirring sound begins. I look up, wondering what it is, but I don’t have to
wait to find out.
“Ahhhhhhh!”
I’m screaming bloody murder as a thousand jets of soapy water hit me. I want to
keep it off my face, but there’s nowhere to turn that the jets can’t find me.
Luce
is pounding on the door. “Candace! Candace, what’s wrong? Oh, my God! Candace,
are you alive?”
Thirty
seconds later, it’s all over. The bathroom is wet, but quiet. I’m dripping from
head to toe. Outside, I hear Lucy bawling and begging for help because her best
friend was just attacked by the bathroom. I realize that in the chaos, I peed
down my legs, all over my Christian Louboutins. I know I should care, but I’m
just so relieved. And since the rest of me is drenched, I’m pretty sure no one
will notice.
Carefully,
and with as much dignity as I can muster, I replace my panties, pull my skirt
down and open the door.
“Oh,
my God! Candace, you’re alive!” Luce comes running and throws her arms around
my neck. “Why are you wet?”
I
close my eyes and sigh. “Self cleaning toilets.” I want to cry, but I can’t.
Instead, I burst into laughter as I spy a taxi stand about a hundred paces
away.
Jerrica
Knight-Catania left her "glamorous" life as an actress in favor of
becoming a romance author, where she could write about truly glamorous lives.
She currently resides in southeast Florida with her real-life hero of a
husband, their shy Russian Blue, Dr. Snuggle, and their beautiful daughter who
is most definitely a princess-in-training.
Visit Jerrica's official website to learn more about her other books, the
Wetherby family and to see what's new in her writing world!
Connect with the author at:
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