His Ideal Match. Arlene James

God for an aunt and uncle willing to help out, she tried not to worry. Hilda could manage three small children, and it was a very large house. Surely they would be all right for one day. With a man like Phillip Chatam around, she dared not risk more, and the same went for grief support meetings.

      She didn’t need those meetings anyway. Tom had been gone for four years now; emotionally, she’d come to terms with his loss long ago. Aunt Hilda and Uncle Chester were trying to help her prepare for what was to come, of course, but Carissa didn’t believe in borrowing trouble. After all, didn’t the Bible say not to worry about tomorrow? Each day, according to Matthew, had enough trouble of its own. She could certainly vouch for that. It seemed to her that it was time for things to go right for a change, if only for one day.

      Just one day...

      Chapter Two

      Tiny Grace Hopper possessed a miniature version of her mother’s face, framed by board-straight, light red hair cut raggedly just below her ears. That and her mother’s rich blue eyes made for an adorable combination. Phillip couldn’t help being entranced, just as he couldn’t help being dismayed that Carissa Hopper was the mother of three kids.

      Children had never figured into Phillip’s life. He didn’t have anything against them, he just didn’t feel any particular need to have them. Plus he knew less than zilch about them, even though his mother was a well-respected pediatrician. Still, he knew cute when he saw it, and Grace Hopper was cute with a capital C. He laughed when, upon spying a small basket, Grace hopped up and down, clapped her dainty hands and squealed, “Muffins!”

      Her brother, the one without the glasses, ran across the room and tore into the ginger muffins with all the finesse of a starving hooligan. Before Hilda could stop him, the older boy did.

      “Stop it, Tucker! That’s rude.”

      “Ginger muffins. Mmm...” Tucker argued, his mouth full of the same.

      Phillip watched as Hilda quickly parceled out the muffins then shook his head as she trundled toward him.

      “You,” he teased, “are a woman of mystery. I know you have a son and daughter and grandchildren, but no one ever said anything about nieces.”

      The fiftysomething cook waved a hand. “Silly man. Chester’s brother Marshall has two girls. Carissa is the oldest.” Hilda sobered then, quietly confiding, “No one has a clue where the youngest, Lyla, is. Crying shame. Marshall isn’t well. Lung cancer,” she whispered.

      “Sorry to hear that,” Phillip murmured.

      “I’m going to tell!”

      The pounding of small feet accompanied the threat. First one small head then another dashed past Phillip and out the door.

      “Tucker! Nathan!” Hilda scolded. “You come back here.”

      Phillip stepped out of the way, but before Hilda could squeeze past him, the boys shot through the central corridor and into the back hall. Huffing, Hilda sent Phillip an aggrieved look that he read too well. Wryly, he went after the boys. They had caught Carissa Hopper before she’d even made it out of the house and were arguing loudly about a stolen muffin.

      Phillip broke into a jog as Carissa ordered, “Lower your voices. Now.”

      “He stole my muffin!”

      “You weren’t going to eat it!”

      Arriving on the scene, Phillip quickly intervened. “There’s plenty for everyone. No need to argue.”

      The older boy whipped around, snarling, “It ain’t none of your business.”

      His mother gasped. “Nathan Alexander Hopper,” she rebuked firmly. “You apologize this instant.”

      Sullenly, the boy dropped his head, but after a moment he muttered, “Sorry.”

      “I expect you to look after your brother and sister, not misbehave,” Carissa went on. “You know I depend on you.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “And, Tucker, you mind your manners,” she instructed the younger boy.

      “Yes, Mama.”

      “Go now, both of you.”

      After some grumbling, the two boys reluctantly started back down the hallway toward the sunroom. Carissa gave Phillip an exasperated look, as if he were somehow to blame, and spun sharply on one heel.

      “Now, wait a minute,” he began, piqued.

      “I’m sorry,” she snapped as he fell into step beside her. “It’s just that I have to work.”

      “And that,” he said, as they reached the door, “makes me the bad guy?”

      “No,” she answered drily, drawing out the single syllable even as she reached for the doorknob.

      “Great,” Phillip said, putting up an arm to block her way. “Then maybe you’ll tell me what sort of work do you do.”

      “Telemarketing,” she answered succinctly, folding her arms but refusing to look at him.

      Phillip waited. She glanced up and huffed.

      “My husband was a software engineer. He taught me everything he knew. He believed that good computer skills would ensure anyone a job. Unfortunately, in a lousy economy, without the diploma to back up those skills, no one will give me the time of day, even if I can write code better than anyone, which is why I sell tech support over the telephone rather than perform it.”

      “So you’re good with computers, then,” Phillip said.

      She tossed her head, fixing him with a narrow stare. “If by ‘good’ you mean I can tear down a computer to its most basic elements, fix any problem, put it back together again and write the software that operates it, then yes, I’m good with computers.” She parked her hands at her hips. “Now, what about you?”

      “Oh,” he answered cheerfully, “I can turn on a computer, click a mouse, even type, if you’re not in a hurry.”

      One corner of her mouth curled in a reluctant smile. “I mean, what do you do for a living?”

      “Ah. Nothing, at the moment. I used to climb mountains, but I am, as they say, between jobs.”

      “And I am trying not to be,” she said pointedly.

      He dropped his arm, opened the door and stepped out of the way. She swept out onto the redbrick stoop and went quickly down the steps. He had closed the door behind her before it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen her vehicle parked beneath the porte cochere.

      Suspecting that Hilda had told her not to park there for fear of blocking his car, he hurried through the house to the front door, stepping out onto the deep front porch in time to see Carissa Hopper climb into a battered little minivan with a missing rear hubcap and rusty passenger door handle. She drove away without so much as a wave of farewell. He wandered back into the foyer and leaned against the curled banister at the foot of the marble staircase, thinking about what she’d told him. The sound of a distant crash had him breaking into a run as a plaintive cry rose from the vicinity of the sunroom. It would only be the first of many.

      Over the next two hours, Nathan and Tucker would manage to knock over a table, two chairs and a potted plant the size of a grown man. After the first altercation, Phillip decided to pitch in with the kids. Otherwise, he feared that no one would get lunch. Hilda’s husband, Chester, his aunts’ houseman, had driven Aunt Hypatia—or Auntie H—into town. Kent, Aunt Odelia’s husband, had gone down to his pharmacy to help out his young partner, while Odelia—Auntie Od to her adoring nieces and nephews—was taking a “spa day” in their suite, and Aunt Magnolia—affectionately known as Mags—was puttering around in the flower beds, as usual. If Hilda was going to get into the kitchen, Phillip had no choice but to watch over the scamps.

      The