The Matchmaker's Plan. Karen Whittenburg Toller
let them plot to their hearts’ content. It would come to nothing, anyway. He and Peyton had agreed. And as far as he was concerned, that was the end of it.
PEYTON PUSHED her plate away, hoping no one would notice that she’d managed to massacre the cheeseburger, mangle and scatter the fries without eating a single bite. But, of course, no one would notice. The waiter was just trying to survive the lunch crowd. He didn’t care what food she left on her plate as long as he received his tip. Her lunch companion was even less interested than the waiter. Scarlett, at fifteen, was consumed with her own orbit, and barely aware that anyone else had a life apart from how it intersected with her own.
“You are not going to believe what she said after that.” Scarlett talked with a French fry, waving it like a baton before dipping it into first ketchup, then mayonnaise, then biting off the end. “‘It’s the silver Donna Karan or the blue Vera Wang, Scarlett.”’ She imitated their mother’s voice down to the imprecise slur of her Louisiana drawl. “‘You cannot have both. You do not need both. You may choose one, not both.”’ Scarlett double-dipped and bit again, chewing the fried potato as she pondered their mother’s complete ignorance. “I mean, puh-lease! As if I’d be caught dead in Karan or Wang! How can she think for one second I’d want to wear anything by a designer she likes?”
It was taken for granted, of course, that Peyton would agree. She was Scarlett’s main sounding board. At least when it came to discussing their mother. “How could Mother think you’d be interested in a dress by either of those very famous, very talented designers?” Peyton said. “Honestly, sometimes I think she does it just to torture you.”
Scarlett raised her perfect eyebrows and leveled a ketchup-smeared French fry for emphasis. “Don’t side with Mom, Peyton. Just because they couldn’t afford to buy you nice clothes when you were my age is no reason I should have to wear something I hate.” The ketchup end of the fry went into the lump of mayo and from there into Scarlett’s mouth. “Besides, this is a very special date for me. It’s important, and the dress has to be perfect.”
Here was the subject Peyton wanted to talk about and she chose her words carefully. “To impress Covington?”
“No, to impress Covington’s mother and father.” Her green eyes nailed Peyton’s best intentions. “I want Mr. and Mrs. Locke to see that even Louisiana swamp rats look pretty good in expensive clothes.” Scarlett was quick and had that uncanny teenagers’ knack of putting others on the defensive. “You have such a chip on your shoulder, Peyton. I don’t know why you bothered to move up here with us if all you’re going to do is find fault with every single boy I like just because he can trace his ancestry back to Plymouth Rock!”
“That’s not fair, Scarlett. I simply think Covington is too old for you.”
“He’s twenty. Five freaking years. Big deal.”
“At fifteen, five years is a big deal. He’s halfway through college. You’re still in high school. That difference in experience is a very big deal.”
“Mom doesn’t think so.” She played her ace casually, picked up another fry, changed the routine by skipping the ketchup, dipping only in the mayonnaise. “She likes Covington and thinks he’s perfect for me. She knows I’m very mature for my age.”
“So, as long as her opinions coincide with yours, then she really knows what she’s talking about.”
“If she thought Covington was too old for me, you’d be saying how smart she is. So why is it such a freaking sin that this time she happens to agree with me?”
Peyton had hoped to have a reasonable discussion. She’d thought she could say what neither of her parents would. She’d believed, foolishly it seemed, that Scarlett would listen to her. “Mother is easily…dazzled. She wants you to fit in so badly that she’s not giving you appropriate guidance. You’re fifteen. He’s twenty. Twenty, Scarlett. You should be dating boys your own age and, quite frankly, Covington should not be interested in dating someone so much younger than he is.”
Scarlett’s eyes flashed fury at the criticism. “That just shows how little you know, Peyton. For your information, Covington tells me I’m a lot more mature than the college girls he knows.”
“You’re underage, Scarlett, no matter how mature you may be. You have no business going to fraternity parties and he has no business inviting you. It’s not fair for him or anyone else to put you in situations you shouldn’t be in, situations that require choices you’re not ready to make.”
“How would you know? You never went to a fraternity party. You hardly ever even went out on a date. You went to class and came home. That’s it. You didn’t even live on campus.”
“I had to stay with you,” she retorted in self-defense. “Mom and Dad were working, and I didn’t live on campus so I could stay with you.”
“I never asked you to do that. I’ll bet Mom and Dad didn’t ask you to, either. You did it because you were too scared to go away to school. Or you did it because you liked feeling needed. I don’t know why you did it, and I don’t care.” She tossed the French fry onto her plate, wadded up her napkin, glared across the table. “I’m not going to make the mistakes you did, Peyton. By the time I’m twenty-seven, I’ll have had a million times more fun than you ever thought about having. And I’ll still turn out to be a whole heck of a lot smarter than you are now.”
That stung. Because it was true. Scarlett would have to be incredibly stupid, even at fifteen, to wind up in the situation Peyton now found herself in. Found herself. As if she hadn’t had a thing to do with getting there. As if she hadn’t, against every atom of good judgment, every molecule of good sense, willingly and willfully, made a really, really bad choice. And now she found herself without options.
Or at least without any options she wanted.
“Thanks for lunch.” The chair scraped across the floor as Scarlett pushed up from the table. “And thanks for caring, but the truth is I already have a mother. I don’t need another one.” She spun on her heel and flounced across the restaurant to the door, her slip of a purse bouncing against her slim little hip, her long dark hair swishing across her shoulders, her flippy strut and flippant attitude signaling her indignation.
And she was right.
Totally wrong in what she wanted, and was being allowed, to do. But absolutely right in thinking a sister had no authority to correct a parent’s mistake.
Peyton folded her own napkin, laid it beside her plate and waited for the bill to be delivered. She didn’t know why she’d ever thought talking to Scarlett about this was a good idea. She hadn’t been able to get her mother to see sense. Or her dad. So what had made her think she could persuade Scarlett? What had made her believe it was her duty to try?
She’d given up any claim to being a role model the night of Ainsley Danville’s wedding, the night she and Matt had gone looking for Scarlett.
They hadn’t found Scarlett or Covington, though it hadn’t been for lack of searching.
Oh, no, the lack had come later.
But she wasn’t going back over that night again. Not the worst of it. Not the best of it. If she could turn back the clock and change it all, from start to finish, she would. She’d stay at the party, stay out of Matt’s car, stay away from any possibility of finding herself in this…this untenable situation. But that door was closed. She had slammed it shut behind her, and now she had to follow the detour she had impetuously, and so unwisely, chosen.
The waiter brought the check; she gave him money and he returned with change, and she left it all on the table. She drank her ice water and let him refill the glass twice before, finally, pulling on her gloves, her coat, her scarf and heading out into the cold December air.
She hadn’t planned to see Matt Danville this afternoon, but the day was already ruined, her stomach already knotted with tension. And it wasn’t as if there would ever be a good time to face him and say the words that needed to be said. Nothing about this