one of the most successful real estate agents in San Antonio, was never one to miss an opportunity. “I made some visits.”
“That explains why you’re wearing an eight-hundred-dollar outfit to a child’s birthday party.” Dini had been with her when she bought the blouse and shoes.
“Well”—Arya looked Dini up and down and up again—“at least I have an explanation for my outfit. You look like a punk rock Tinkerbell.”
“Exactly what I was going for,” Dini countered good-naturedly. She’d chosen a multicolored toile tutu, black leggings, Doc Martins, and her well-worn leather bomber jacket over a hot-pink turtleneck. “Now, show me to the hostess.”
Arya’s daughter Beatrice (called Bea with two syllables—Bee-yah) came barreling into the front hall and wrapped her little arms around Dini’s waist, burying her face in the tutu. Bea alone was granted such physical dispensation, and Dini patted her hair—all twisted up in a pretty princess do.
“I can’t wait for Auntie Dini’s magic.” Bea looked up adoringly, her cheeks dusted with glitter.
“It’s not magic,” Dini said, prompted by Arya’s familiar scowl. “Just illusions, remember? I play little tricks on your eyes. Now, go. I need to get back to the kitchen so none of the guests will see me before the show starts.”
Bea ran off, up the stairs, with a confidence that spoke of a familiarity with the house. She wasn’t merely a guest at the party, she was a friend of the birthday girl. The realization brought the usual pang, a reminder that Dini had no such memories of birthday parties or childhood friendships. The life she lived now began just eight years ago, marked by the death of her parents and, being alone in the world, given over to Arya and Bill Garner, who served as foster parents specifically for teens. She lived with them for three years, homeschooled by Arya. After earning her GED, the two of them enrolled in St. Phillips Community College, where their previous roles as guardian and child cemented into this unlikely friendship.
“There’s a few other parents here too,” Arya said, “and I’ll introduce you to Jessica. She’s a bit high-strung on any given day and is feeling some party pressure, so give her some slack, okay?” She led Dini past a pristine living room and through to an enormous family room where the furnishings had been moved to the edges of the space. It was decorated with streamers and balloons—all in the pink-and-gold theme—with the brick fireplace embellished to look like the outer wall of a castle. One end was screened off, and the young man from the front was wheeling Dini’s trunk behind it.
“I’ve never been to a kids’ party with valet parking before.”
“Don’t be too impressed. They’re dispersing the cars up and down the block so the driveway doesn’t look crowded. One of them is the older brother of the birthday girl, and the other is his buddy. I think Jessica is signing them off as school community service hours. Anyway, more important things…There’s going to be a guy here, owns his own air-conditioning repair service, divorced”—this she whispered—“with the cutest little boy. His name is Marcus, the dad, not the boy, and—”
“Stop,” Dini said, drawing the word out with a good-natured laugh behind it.
“No, really. This guy is maybe thirty-four? Thirty-five? Probably younger. And super handsome, in that blue-collar, manly man kind of way. I met him at the kids’ Valentine’s Day party and had to convince Jessica to make this a boy-girl party so he could come and meet you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have.” Dini was used to Arya’s matchmaking attempts—men from her church, her gym, her monthly Do You Need a Realtor? seminars. Thus far, Dini had agreed to a handful of dates: Bea’s pediatric dentist, the bass player in the church’s praise band, and a widower finally ready to sell the house he and his wife enjoyed for their five-year marriage. But none got past a third date.
In fact, she wanted to tell her friend about Quin—not that Arya would appreciate the encounter. Her sole purpose was to find Dini the perfect man so that she could embark on Arya’s vision of a stable, conventional life, and a few conversations with Quin Carmichael were not going to result in that end. Still, it was the first time in—well, maybe ever—that Dini had the words I met a guy … burning on her lips.
Jessica—thus far known to Dini only as Mrs. Vee in their email and text exchanges—was a tall, stringy woman wearing a powder-blue sleeveless