Little Matchmakers
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Jennifer Greene
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They were single parents who believed they were giving their sons all they could ever need. But a meeting with their boys' teacher had Tucker MacKinnon and Garnet Cattrell realizing what they really needed was each other. Since Tucker's boy craved a woman's influence and Garnet's son would benefit from some outside experiences, a trade seemed to be the perfect solution. So one day a week they'd swap kids. And maybe just see one another in passing. This was just for the boys' sakes, of course. But when two intelligent kids decide they want to be brothers, heaven help the parents who didn't see this plan coming. Because a couple of little matchmakers were about to launch Project One Big Happy Family.
Chapter One
Tucker MacKinnon took the sharp curves of Whisper Mountain at daredevil speeds. Typical of a June morning in South Carolina, the sun burned hotter than a bad temper and the humidity was claustrophobic.
His mood was just as miserable.
Anyone in the MacKinnon family could testify that Tucker had never owned a temper. He was the go-to guy in a tornado. Heâd handled rattlers and black bears. Hell, heâd made a career of handling people no one else could get along withâkids with attitude, adults in trouble, personnel wars in small companies. Those challenges were downright fun. But not this.
Nothing was fun about this.
He braked for a stop sign at the base of the mountain, and then it was only a skip and a jump to the elementary school parking lot. His stomach immediately began pitching nerves. Today was the last day of school, as witnessed by the squalling behavior of honking cars and chattering parents. He had to scramble to find a parking spot. Kids were leaping and shrieking as they bounded out the door, free for the summerâŠexcept for the few hanging tight in the school entrance.
Those few kids had been singled out. They werenât allowed to get their report cards until a parent talked to their childâs teacher.
Tuckerâs ten-year-old son was one of those hovering in the doorwayâŠuntil he spotted the familiar silver truck, and then he galloped straight for his dad. Will had his fatherâs genetic build, which pretty much meant he came out of the womb looking like a beanpole, long and lean. For certain he was the tallest kid in elementary school, but right now, his usually sun-brushed skin was pale, his first words gushing from a pent-up dam.
âI didnât do anything, Dad. Honest. Whatever Mrs. Riddle says, it wasnât me. It couldnât have been me. I donât even know what itâs about.â
âHey.â Tucker cuffed an arm around his sonâs neck. âWould you quit worrying? Whatever it is, weâll fix it.â
âI keep trying to think what I did wrong. Iâve been racking and racking my brain. I canât always answer her questions, so maybe thatâs it. But she never calls on me when I raise my hand. She only calls me when I donât. I mean, how could she be mad at me about that?â
Tucker had no idea why the infamous Mrs. Riddle had held back Willâs report card, but he was hopingâfor her sakeâthat she had a damned good reason. He walked into the cool, dim hall, and felt his stomach churn another stress ball. Everyone in the MacKinnon family was a major academic achiever except for him. Heâd never liked grade school. Or middle school. Come to think of it, heâd never liked school altogetherâand schools had never much liked him. He was thirty-one now, of course. Only two things really mattered to him in life. His work on Whisper Mountain.
And above everything else, a hundred times over, was his son.
Mrs. Riddle had better not be unfairly picking on his son, or some major fur was going to fly.
âHow about if you just hang by your old locker? Stay inside where itâs cool. And youâll be able to hear me if I call.â
Will slumped off, and Tucker rounded the corner and trekked down the long hall to the last classroom. Not that Mrs. Riddle had a reputation for being a sharp-nosed martinet, but all the other teachers had ditched the place as fast as the kids. Her doorway was the only one with a pair of parents still waiting.
Right off, Tucker recognized the woman just ahead of him.
She was Petieâs mom.
He could only see the back of her. Didnât matter. A bad marriage was supposed to cure a guy of believing in hopeless causes. Didnât matter. His son was and needed to be his whole world right now.
For darn sure, that mattered. But that didnât stop a guy from admiring the view.
Her hairâthe color of lush dark honey, ribboned with sun streaksâswayed past her shoulders. Heâd often seen her in the same âuniformââa yellow polo shirt with dark green shorts. The top had a Plain Vanilla logo over the pocket. It was the name of her store, a fresh spice and herb shop tucked in a curve of Whisper Mountain. By any logic, the shop should have failed; the location was obscure, and whoâd travel out of their way for a spice or two?
His opinion, not for the first time, had proven dead wrong. Everyone on Whisper Mountain knew the place, shopped there, heaped praise on her for what she was doing.
Tucker wouldnât know tarragon from paprika, but that wasnât to say he didnât appreciate spice. The fit of her shorts, for example. The shape snugged over the cup of her fanny, and led straight down to unforgettable thighs and calves. She worked outside and it showed, from the sun-golden tint of her skin to her trim, tight body.
She had a major flaw, seeing that she was as short as a shrimp. He doubted she could reach five-three unless she was standing on a rock.
The rest of the package intrigued him every time he saw her. She wasâŠinteresting. Natural, earthy. No pretensions to her. Sensual.
A parent left Mrs. Riddleâs classroomâa mom, flush-faced and exiting at a fast jog. Petieâs mom drew a breath, and then headed into the classroom to brave the dragon, leaving him still thinking about her.
Her name was Garnet. Garnet Cattrell. Sheâd captured his attention last September, the first day of school, but he never seemed to capture hers. She always answered a âhiâ with a âhiâ back and a smile, but two seconds after initiating conversation with her, she always found a way to move off.
She wasnât unfriendly exactly. It was more likeâŠshe didnât see him. He could have been a lamppost. A brother. A catalog in the mail. An entity that was easily ignorable.
Naturally, Tucker had backed off. He was in no hustle to make any more mistakes with the female gender. Maybe she didnât like six-three guys with blue eyes. Maybe she had an allergy to size-fourteen feet. Maybe his voice was too low, or his hands too calloused.
Whatever.
The only thing that mattered right now was her being here. Because if her kid had a problem with Mrs. Riddle, it must be time to start counting animals and climb on the ark. Armageddon couldnât be far down the road.
Tucker leaned back against the cool cement wall, not planning on eavesdropping, but damn. It was so easy. Voices carried through the open door. Mrs. Riddleâs voice had a high nasal quality. Garnetâsâlike the gemâhad a rich, quiet softness to it.
âI canât imagine what problem you could have with my Pete. As far as I know, heâs been getting all Asââ
âOf course he is. Heâs a very bright boy. Iâm going to miss having him in my classroom,â Mrs. Riddle said stridently. âBut Iâve called in all those parents who, I believe, need some guidance. Middle school is not an easy transition for some children. There are things you might try over the summer to help Peter adjust more comfortably.â
Tucker couldnât hearâor seeâGarnet bristle. But for the first time, he heard something stiff and testy in her voice. âDo you have some reason to think Peter wonât do perfectly fine in middle school?â
âI think heâll do perfectly fine academically. But possibly not socially. Peter is an academic,â Mrs. Riddle said authoritatively. âBut heâs left out whenever it comes to sports. Nor does he ever âhang out,â as they say, with a male peer group.â
âButâŠhe seems to get along with other kids. Heâs never mentioned a problem with anyone. He just isnât a highly social kid.â
âHeâs an old soul,â Mrs. Riddle explained. âAnd his nature is on the quiet side. I understand all that. But I suspect you have quite a time getting his nose out of a book, or off the computer.â
Tucker heard nothing for a minute. Then Garnet again. âThatâs true. But itâs not as if I havenât encouraged himââ
âMrs. Cattrell. Iâm not criticizing you. And you can take my advice or leave it. But I strongly suggest that you use the summer to find some outdoor or athletic activity that he might like. Give him the opportunity to develop a skill in something outside the academic arena. It doesnât matter which sport. The issue is widening his world, giving him confidence. Kids can become merciless in middle school. You donât want Peter singled out.â
They talked for a few more minutes. Not long. When Garnet strode from the classroomâŠTucker would have talked to her, said something. But she moved past as if not seeing him or anything else, her expression looking something like a kicked puppy. Stricken. Hurt. Worried.
And then, of course, it was his turn to get beat up.
Mrs. Riddle was holding court from behind a desk older than sinâthe elementary school was less than ten years old, so she must have brought the scarred-up thing with her. Her hair was steel-colored, springy, her eyes a gray-blue, like flint. Nobody messed with Mrs. Riddle.
She started right in with the stick-up-the-behind tone of voice. âMr. MacKinnon. For once, your Will had a decent semester.â
âAll homework in on time. Studied for tests. Kept his nose clean.â
âYes. Well, we wonât go so far as to call Will a saint, now, will we? But heâs a good boy. The other children all like him, particularly the boys. Heâs a fine young athlete. Iâve enjoyed having him in my classroom. If I needed help with anything, I could always count on Will to volunteer.â
âWellâŠgood.â Tucker scratched behind an ear. He wasnât about to relax, but if all she was going to report was good news, he was even more confused why heâd been summoned in here.
âBut here is the issue, Mr. MacKinnon. Will is going to enter middle school next year. And he has much more physical maturity than most boys his age. If he hasnât noticed girls already, he certainly will soon.â
Tucker was still waiting for a headline. No news so far.
âLet me be frank, Mr. MacKinnon. I donât know your situation, as far as Willâs mother, but I believe he seriously needs a helpful female influence.â
âWait. Why?â
âBecause heâs become afraid of girls. He turns beet-red when any of the girls talk to him. He walks into walls. He stumbles over his own feet. At the start of the school year, he was fine. But I believe some hormones have caught up with him at this point.â
âWell, yeah. Iâm sure they have. ButâŠâ
âYou work primarily with men, donât you, Mr. MacKinnon? Men. Or boys. There are very few women in your business.â
âThatâs true. But itâs not because I planned it that way,â Tucker said defensively. âItâs just that the nature of my retreat and adventure programs seem to appeal more to males than females. And itâs not as if thereâs never a woman aroundââ
âWomen who Will has frequent occasions to talk with? I donât mean family. I mean women, where heâs had the opportunity to form some sort of relationship, even if itâs only casual.â
âWell, sure he has.â He hesitated. âI think. Well, maybe not.â
âI thought not. So my suggestion to you, over the summer, is to arrange some activities where Will is more exposed to some female presence. A sport that both genders play. Chores where both genders are involved. Something to ease that nervousness he feels around females.â
âIs he that way with you?â
Mrs. Riddle sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling. âMr. MacKinnon. Do I strike you as the nature of woman who would make an adolescent boy stutter?â
Tucker readily recognized there was no possible way he could answer that. Admitting she looked like an army tank didnât seem the right thing to mention. She ruled with an iron hand. Kids came out of her class thrilled to be freeâbut by reputation, they all considered they learned the most from her compared to the âeasyâ teachers. AnywayâŠhe had to admit he understood what her concern with Will was about.
Tucker abruptly recalled the last time theyâd stopped for burgers and fries. Will had tripped over a chair looking at a pigtailed tween on the other side of the room. So yeah. The kid had turned into a bumbler with girls.
Tucker got his sonâs report card and clipped out of the classroom, feeling edgy and frustrated. How was a father supposed to fix something like that? Sure, Will had a shy side with girls. But he was ten. Every boy had a bumbling stage around girls when they started adolescence.
Still, there was a nick of truth that bugged him. Will really didnât get exposed to many females, because of their lives, and Tuckerâs job, and where they lived. That never seemed to matter before. Will was a happy kid. Now, though, Tucker could see how a guy-dominated environment could add up for Willâparticularly since the only relevant female in his life, his mother, was hardly a role model.
StillâŠhow to approach this topic with his son? And what would he tell Will about the meeting with his teacher?
He whipped around the cornerâand charged smack into someone leaning against the wall. OrâŠnot someone. Her. Petieâs mom. Garnet.
* * *
While Pete needed a stop in the boyâs bathroom, Garnet leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes. She replayed every second of her conversation with Mrs. Riddle. Then did it all over again.
The lump in her throat refused to disappear.
Sheâd always been a marshmallow. A soft, peace-loving marshmallow. Confrontations always gave her nightmares.
Still, where her son was concerned, Garnet could change from happy wallflower into riled-up mama porcupine in two seconds flat. Nobody hurt her son. It was hard for her to hear even the smallest criticism of Petie for the obvious reason.
He wasnât just the best thing in her life. He was the best kid in the entire universe.
For Mrs. Riddleâs sake, the teacher was lucky she hadnât picked on Petie.
Instead, sheâd picked on Garnet.
Normally Garnet was braced for criticism. Lots of people had found fault with herâparticularly in her own family. Lots of people claimed sheâd disappointed them. But no one had ever suggested that she wasnât a good mother. At least before today.
Garnet still had the lump in her throat, the stab in her heart. Mrs. Riddle hadnât exactly said that she was an inadequate mom, but sheâd implied it. A boy needed male role models. Sheâd failed to provide them. And that didnât bite just because the teacher said it. It bit because Garnet had worried about the same darn thing for eons now.
Absently she lifted a hand and immediately discovered a ragged cuticle.
Dang it. She loved working with dirt. Dirt, herbs, spices, flowers, plants of all kinds. But she always wore gloves when she was working outsideânot because she was vain about her hands, but because of this. The instant a nail split, or a cuticle got ragged, she couldnât stand it. She had to fix it. She couldnât think with a frayed cuticle.
She was just biting the offending cuticle when a Mack truck ran into her.
The air whooshed out of her lungs. Her head hit the cement wall at the same time the Mack truck tire connected with her footâŠthe vulnerable, naked foot in the green Teva sandals.
âAw, hell. Aw, hell. Iâm really sorry. I wasnât lookingâare you all right?â
If she were unconscious and in a coma, sheâd have recognized that low, wicked baritone. Tucker. Tucker MacKinnon.
It just wasnât fair. Being hit with a real Mack truck, she could have coped with. Freight train, no problem. Bulldozer, ditto. Anything or anyone but Tucker.
He was undoubtedly trying to help, by steadying her, then rushing his hands down her arms, his gaze searching, seeking any injuries. She certainly had some. The back of her head was gushing something warm and wet, and so was her right foot.
None of the injuries were lethal. She was just going to be stuck with a couple of bruises. He was big; she was small. That was the total equation. Itâs just that if she had to have an accident, she wished it could have happened with anything but Tucker. Anyone but Tucker.
âIâm fine,â she said. Although temporarily she was pretty sure her right foot was broken in fifty or sixty places.
âYou canât be fine. Youâre not fine. Damn. The back of your headâs getting a goose egg, and thereâs blood.â
Undoubtedly. Sheâd scraped her head against the cement wall. Something had to give, and it hadnât been the wall.
âLet me see.â His eyes were suddenly close enough for her to experience that electric-blue color close up. âThe schoolâs so deserted I just wasnât expecting anyone to be there. I was waiting for my son, thinking, not looking where I was going. Listenââ
After checking out her head, his hands cuffed her shoulders again. He was still squinting. Still searching for injuries. She was still dying, but more from embarrassment by then, particularly when he hunkered down.
âBroke your big toenail.â He winced in sympathy. âJust hope I didnât break a toe. Or two.â
He had. But who cared? Once the football hero of the countyâthere was no one in the county who didnât know the MacKinnon nameâand he was kneeling at her feet. âIâm sure you didnât.â
âHow about if you just sit down right here, in the hall. Iâll run into the office. They have to have some Band-Aids and first-aid supplies around here.â Again, he tilted her head, not to look for injuries this time. He met her eyes. âGarnet, I couldnât be sorrier.â
âItâs okay. Honestly. Donât bother. Iâve got first-aid stuff at home.â
Heâd always made her nervous. It wasnât his fault, nothing he did. It was her. Sheâd always felt goofy around him. Drawing attention to herself over a hurt only made it worse.
âNonsense. You donât want to trail blood into your car. And I think we should get some ice on your head. Just hold up. Iâll be back in two shakes.â
Heâd barely taken three strides before Pete charged out of the boyâs bathroom, saw her and sprinted over. He seemed to recognize Tucker as an afterthought, and immediately frowned. âMr. MacKinnon. Did you hurt my mom?â
âNo, Pete. Well, yes. I mean, I did, but it wasnât intentionalââ
âPete, Iâm totally okay.â
Pete, even if he was built on the small side, could turn more protective than a marine. He pushed his round glasses higher on his nose and faced Tucker. âWhy would you hurt my mom? What happened?â
The commotion must have been heard from a distance, because from the office hall, Tuckerâs tall son suddenly charged into view. âDad. Hey. Whatâs going on. Mrs. Cattrell, how come youâre bleeding?â
âYour dad hurt my mom,â Petie informed him.
Willâs jaw dropped. âNo way.â
âJust look at my mom if you donât believe me. Sheâs bleeding all over the place.â
âBut my dad would never do anything like that. Thatâs dumb.â
Tucker had to raise his voice to be heard. âBoys. Both of you. Go to the office. Ask for a first-aid kit and an ice pack.â
Both boys laid out an âokayâ and galloped together down the side hall, looking a lot like Mutt and Jeff. Garnet wanted to echo again that she was fine, and just wanted to go home, but it was like arguing with a freight train.
Tucker hunkered down again. âI know. Youâre going to live. But it wonât kill you to have those two places disinfected and covered up.â
âI know. I just hateââ
His tone changed, turned quieter. âGarnet. I heard what Mrs. Riddle said about your Petie. And this is obviously a poor time to pursue the subject. But I think we might both benefit from talking together.â
âTalk aboutâŠ?â
âMy Will. Your Pete.â He hesitated. âItâs probably easier for me to get away than you. I could steal an hour around seven tonight. You free then?â
Free was a relative word. Like the song said, freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose, and looking at Tucker, Garnet knew perfectly well that she had a ton to lose by spending any time with him. Her dignityâŠalthough sheâd already lost most of that, by bleeding all over the school hall. Her prideâŠthough, she still had her pride. Something sheâd guarded tighter than gold for the last few years.
âI just want to talk about the boys,â he said. âA half hour? Your place?â
The boys. Truth was, she wouldnât mind talking about Petie. If there was an alpha male in a three-state radius, it was Tucker. After Mrs. Riddleâs comments, Garnet really wouldnât mind hearing his opinion.
âA half hour,â she conceded uneasily.
He smiled. A smile that knocked her common sense to its knees.
And then the boys descended on them, carrying a pan of water, most of which sloshed onto the floor, an ice pack, a brown bottle of betaine and a giant first-aid box. The principal and school secretary trailed right behind the boys.
Garnet closed her eyes and wished she could click her heels together three times and land in Kansas. How much worse could a bad day get?
