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This Matter Of Marriage
Debbie Macomber
Perfect for fans of Maeve Binchy' - CandisThe alarm on Hallie’s biological clock is buzzing. She’s hitting the big three-O and there’s no prospect of marriage, no man in sight. Hallie, an organized, goal-setting kind of person, gives herself a year to meet Mr. Knight…In Shining Armor. But all her dates are disasters. (There’s the cheapskate and the sex fiend and…well, never mind.)Too bad she can’t just fall for her good-looking neighbor Steve Marris–who’s definitely not her type. Anyway, Steve’s busy trying to win back his ex-wife, Mary Lynn, who’s busy getting married–but not to Steve. Life would be so much simpler if he could fall for someone else. Like…Hallie.They’re friends, though–and sometimes friends become lovers. Sometimes friends become more.
Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author DEBBIE MACOMBER
“Debbie Macomber’s gift for understanding the souls of women—their relationships, their values, their lives—is at its peak.”
—BookPage on Between Friends
“Macomber offers a very human look at three women who uproot their lives to follow their true destiny.”
—Booklist on Changing Habits
“Macomber is known for her honest portrayals of ordinary women in small-town America, and this tale cements her position as an icon of the genre.”
—Publishers Weekly on 16 Lighthouse Road
“Debbie Macomber is one of the most reliable, versatile romance authors around. Whether she’s writing light-hearted romps or more serious relationship books, her novels are always engaging stories that accurately capture the foibles of real-life men and women with warmth and humor.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“Macomber’s women serve as bedrock for one another in this sometimes tearful, always uplifting tale that will make readers wish they could join this charming breakfast club.”
—Booklist on Thursdays at Eight
“Debbie Macomber is one of the few true originals in women’s fiction…. Her books are touching and marvelous and not to be missed!”
—Anne Stuart
“As always, Macomber draws rich, engaging characters.”
—Publishers Weekly on Thursdays at Eight
“Debbie Macomber shows why she is one of the most powerful, highly regarded authors on the stage today.”
—Midwest Book Review
This Matter of Marriage
Debbie Macomber
For Paula and Dianne.
You know why.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I remember watching the Academy Awards and wondering just how long it would take for the awards winner to spout off all the names of those who’d helped along the way. The list seemed endless. While I’m not an Academy Award winner—at least, not yet—I have my own list of people to thank, so please bear with me.
Thanks, first and foremost, to my husband, Wayne, who loved and believed in me enough to allow me to follow my dream. To my agent, Irene Goodman, who held my hand all through contract negotiations. To my best friend, Linda Lael Miller, who taught me everything I needed to know about power-shopping. And thanks to Susan Wiggs for our twice-a-month neurotic lunches.
No writer has been blessed with a better support team. Thank you, one and all.
Working with MIRA has been a writer’s dream. Everything in life should be this much fun. Thank you, Paula, Dianne, Randall, Candy, KO, Stuart and Brian. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.
Contents
One: Starting Now
Two: Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
Three: Seven Down, Three To Go
Four: First There Was Paul, Then George…
Five: Bachelor #1
Six: The Loan Ranger
Seven: Make Mine A Double
Eight: Bachelor #2
Nine: Bingo!
Ten: The Lady With The Curve Ball
Eleven: Disappointments
Twelve: Bachelor #3
Thirteen: Bring On The Ice Cream
Fourteen: Does He Wear Panty Hose?
Fifteen: What Friends Are For
Sixteen: Not My Type
Seventeen: She Bakes
Eighteen: Aunt Hallie
Nineteen: Take It Like A Man
Twenty: Chicken Soup For The Heart
Twenty-One: Back In The Saddle Again
Twenty-Two: The Girl Next Door
Twenty-Three: Back In The Game
Twenty-Four: Four Blind Mice
Twenty-Five: When Todd Met Donnalee
Twenty-Six: Second Chance At Love
Twenty-Seven: Large Women Wearing Helmets With Horns
Twenty-Eight: The Movies
Twenty-Nine: Love Is Better Than Chocolate
Thirty: Mr. Nice Guy
Thirty-One: Goodbye, My Heart
Thirty-Two: Wide Awake And Dreaming
Thirty-Three: The Wedding
Thirty-Four: The Wedding Bouquet
Epilogue
One
Starting Now
January 1
A new year generally starts out with me writing a few inspiring lines about how I’m going to lose five pounds—let’s be honest, it’s ten—and pay off all my credit cards and other high expectations like that. It’s the same every January. But this year’s going to be different. Oh, I still want to lose those extra pounds, more than ever, but for a different reason.
I want a husband. And eventually a family.
And that means I need a plan. Being a goal-oriented person, I usually begin by identifying what I’m after (MARRIAGE!!) and then I work out a logical procedure for getting it. Which, in this case, includes looking good. (Not that I look bad now, if I do say so myself. But I’m talking really good. Are you listening, thighs?) Because, as I’ve learned in advertising, packaging counts.
Putting all this into words is something of an eye-opener for me. I’ve come a long way from those college days when I refused to give in to what I called the “female escape route,” like some of my friends. Cassie, Jamie, Rita and Jane all got married within six months of graduation, and as far as I could see, the only reason they did was because they found the real world more of a challenge than they’d anticipated, and used marriage as a cop-out.
Not me. Oh, no, marriage was much too conventional for me. I wanted to kick some butt in the business world first. Make a name for myself with my very own graphic arts firm. And I’ve done it! Now I feel like I’ve come full circle. I’ve accomplished a lot , and I won’t minimize my achievements, but this Christmas I realized there’s more to life than getting the Woman of the Year award from the Chamber of Commerce.
So, last week I made the decision: Marriage!
It’s time to let a man into my life. Until now I’ve viewed relationships like…dessert. Nice occasionally, but not with every meal. My friends have been tossing potential husbands in my direction for years, and I’ve frustrated them again and again.
I’m too picky, that’s what Rita says. Not true. I have my standards; every woman does. But my work’s the reason I haven’t married. I’ve poured my heart into making a success of Artistic License. For the past six years my focus, my talent and all my energy have been with the business. It’s filled every waking minute.
Then, this Christmas it hit me. I want more . I suspect this has something to do with losing Dad last June. Mom’s still struggling, but then so are Julie and I. The holidays were really hard without him. Somehow, the celebration seemed empty and sad, and we were all kind of weepy thinking about the Christmas things he used to do—getting the tree every year and making a big deal out of hanging the decorations Julie and I made when we were kids. Reading the Nativity story on Christmas Eve. Putting on his Santa apron to carve the turkey. Things like that.
I’m so sorry Dad missed his granddaughter’s first Christmas. I knew Julie’s baby would help Mom through the grieving process, but I didn’t expect little Ellen to have such a profound effect on me.
I’ve always thought of myself as the strong independent type. I haven’t wanted a man around for fear I might be forced to admit I need someone. I don’t know why I’m like this. (Then again, I’m not sure I want to know, either.) The point is, I feel differently now.
It started when Julie gave me the baby to rock. I swear my heart melted when I held her. In that moment I felt something I can only describe as maternal instinct, and I realized this is what I want. This is what’s been missing from my life. A husband, a family.
With the right husband, I know I can have it all. Home, family and career. Plenty of women do it, and I can, too. Funny how a little thing like holding a baby can change a person’s attitude. I’m ready. Past ready. Starting now, my life’s taken an abrupt turn. What was vital a month ago has shifted to the back burner.
So, yes, I admit it.
I want a husband and children. Obviously, what I need first is the man. (I plan to do things in the right order!)
Mom always says that once I make up my mind I don’t let anything stand in my way. I’ve set my goal, made my plans, and I figure I should find a husband in two, three months, tops. This time next year, I expect to be a married woman. (Maybe even a pregnant one!)
Just how difficult can it be?
S weat rolled down Hallie McCarthy’s forehead, dripping in her eyes and momentarily blurring her vision. Using the towel draped around her neck, she wiped her brow. Although she’d promised herself she wouldn’t, Hallie glanced at the timer on the treadmill.
One minute left.
Sixty short seconds. She could endure that. With a renewed sense of purpose, she picked up her pace and waited impatiently for the buzzer.
The treadmill had all the bells and whistles, as it should, considering what she’d paid for it (plus the three designer running suits, color-coordinated with the treadmill). At the end of her workout a digital message would flash across the four-inch computer screen, complimenting her on a job well-done.
Donnalee had suggested she join a gym to meet men, and she would, Hallie told herself, once she was at her goal weight. But not now. She wasn’t about to go prancing around a gym with thighs that resembled ham hocks. Which, she supposed, was something like cleaning her house before the cleaning lady arrived—but she’d done that, too.
Huffing, her heart feeling ready to explode, Hallie gripped the sides of the treadmill as the timer counted down those final seconds. This last minute was proving to be the longest of her life.
Needing a distraction to take her mind off the physical agony while she raced toward an imaginary finish line, Hallie turned to look out her living-room window at the luxury condominium next door.
Hey, she was getting a new neighbor. A moving van was parked in front and a crew of able-bodied men—very able-bodied, she noted appreciatively—unloaded its contents. A big truck that probably required a step stool to climb into was parked behind it. The license-plate frame was one of those customized ones. Squinting, she was able to make out the words: BIG TRUCK. BIG TOOLS. Hallie groaned aloud and rolled her eyes. Men and their egos! Two muscular guys wandered into her line of vision, and she wondered if one of those good-looking hunks might be her neighbor.
Willow Woods, the condominium complex where she’d moved six months earlier, had all but sold out. She’d speculated it wouldn’t take long for the place next to hers to sell. Especially since it was a three-bedroom unit, the most spacious design available. Must be a family moving in. She was definitely cheered by the thought of having neighbors.
The timer went off, and the treadmill ground to a halt. Hallie heaved a sigh of relief and rubbed her sweat-drenched face with the towel. Her cheeks felt red and hot and her short curly hair was matted against her temples. Her old gray sweats—she didn’t feel comfortable sweating in her new color-coordinated ones—were loose around the waist. A promising sign. The temptation to run into the bathroom and leap on the scale was strong, but she’d made that mistake too often and vowed she’d only weigh herself once a week. Monday morning, bright and early—that was when she’d do it.
She’d lost five pounds in twenty-one days. The first two had fallen away easily, but the last three had been like chiseling at a concrete block with a tablespoon. She’d starved herself, exercised faithfully. She’d counted fat grams, carbohydrates, calories and chocolate chips to little avail.
Her best friend, Donnalee Cooper, claimed Hallie was putting too much stock in the physical, but Hallie believed otherwise. It was that packaging thing again. The men she knew based their reactions to women—at least their initial reactions—on looks. It didn’t matter if the woman had a brain in her head as long as her waist was tiny…and her other assets weren’t. Of course, attracting a man wasn’t Hallie’s only incentive for becoming physically fit. She didn’t exercise nearly enough, had taken to skipping breakfast and was downing fast food on the run. Not a healthy lifestyle. Donnalee seemed unconvinced when Hallie explained this, though, pointing out that she hadn’t worried about her health before.
Donnalee was single, although she’d had a brief disastrous marriage in her early twenties. To Hallie’s delight, when she’d shared her goal of finding a man and marrying within the next twelve months, Donnalee had decided to join forces with her. She said that she’d never meant to wait this long to remarry, and like Hallie, she wanted children. But Donnalee brought a different strategy to their marriage campaign.
“Just be yourself,” she’d advised.
“Being myself hasn’t attracted a whole lot of attention so far,” Hallie complained. That, at least, shut her friend up. Dating opportunities had dwindled to a trickle in the last few years, but she was determined to improve the situation.
Hallie showered and changed clothes, then phoned her mother who lived across Puget Sound in Bremerton, on the Kitsap Peninsula. Hallie and her father had been close, both in personality and in appearance, but it was from her mother that she’d inherited her artistic talent. Despite her ability, Lucille McCarthy had never worked outside the home. It had always troubled Hallie that a woman so genuinely talented would be content to do little more than keep house. Not until she was an adult living on her own did she recognize her mother’s contribution to the family. Over the months since her father’s sudden death, Hallie had come to appreciate her mother’s quiet strength. At Christmas, she’d encouraged her to take up oil painting, and Lucille had recently begun a class.
