Bachelorette Blues. Robyn Amos
the return address.
With a jewel-handled letter opener, Shayna sliced through the envelope and pulled out a wrinkled, wideruled sheet of notebook paper.
Just her luck. Her nine-year-old niece, Tiffany, had sent her a chain letter. Shaking her head in amusement, Shayna read the childish scrawl.
This is not a joke or a prank. It is very serious. If you follow these instructions carefully, you will find true love. Within seventy-two hours, you must copy this letter six times and mail it to six friends who are looking for love. At midnight, on the third day, drink a glass of water and say the name of a boy or girl you like. He or she will be yours forever. If you break the chain, beware. Bad luck will be yours. Forever.
With a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, Shayna picked up the phone on her desk. She normally called her sister Nicole on Sunday afternoons, but this just couldn’t wait.
“Hi Nic, it’s Shayna.”
“Shayna? What’s wrong? Are you switching from Sundays to Wednesdays?”
“Come on, I’m not that bad.” Shayna was used to being teased about her predictability, but she didn’t let it get to her. The talent for organization was her unique gift.
“Girl, I knew you were ‘that’ bad when you started color coding your underwear with the days of the week. Yellow on Sundays, pink on Mondays…”
“Nicole, stop. I was only eight. That was just a phase.” She still wore blue on Tuesdays, but Nicole didn’t have to know that.
“Yeah, a phase. That’s why you make your living creating schedules and routines for other people to follow.”
“I make good money as a life management consultant, and you know it.”
Knowing what Shayna was like in high school, Nicole, of all people, should understand. Shayna had never had her sister’s easy popularity and self-confidence. For years, if anyone was tripping over bleachers at football games or spilling drinks at parties, her name was Shayna. Carefully planning for every possibility had helped her pull herself together.
“Anyway, I called about Tiffany,” Shayna said, pushing old memories aside.
“Uh-oh.” Nicole’s voice took on a resigned what-has-my-child-done-now? tone.
“No, no. It’s nothing bad. I just wanted to tell you about the letter I got from her today.”
“Tif sent you a letter?”
“A chain letter.”
Nicole’s hearty laugh cut through the miles that separated Delaware from Maryland. “That’s my girl. Do you want to talk to the little troublemaker?”
“Please.”
“Hi, Aunt Shay,” Tiffany said with a burst of excitement. Shayna could picture the girl’s bright smile curving her caramel-colored cheeks.
“Hi, Tif. I got your chain letter today.”
“Well.” Tiffany sighed dramatically the way only nine-year-olds could. “You’d better get started right away, Aunt Shay. Mom says you’re long overdue for a boyfriend.”
Shayna made a mental note to strangle her sister.
“That’s why I called, Tiffany. Chain letters and other superstitions don’t really work. If you want something in life, you have to get it for yourself by working hard.”
“Oh, but it does work. Last week, Ricky Jacobs invited me to a pizza party. Then I started liking Jimmy Hunter…”
As Tiffany continued, Shayna couldn’t help noticing that a fourth grader had a more interesting social life than she did.
“Anyway, Amy Morton broke the chain, and boy, did she have it rough.”
“What do you mean?” Shayna asked despite herself.
“First she got a D on her math test, then her parents stopped letting her watch ‘Melrose Place’ and then—”
“Tiffany, those were just coincidences.”
“No. Her bad luck didn’t go away until—What? Okay, Mom. Mom says it’s time for dinner. I gotta go.”
“I’ll talk to you on Sunday, Tif. We can make plans for our slumber party.”
“Aunt Shay? Please don’t break the chain. I want you to find true love, not bad luck.”
Shayna smiled. “Thanks, Tif.” She hung up the phone, shaking her head. Apparently everyone knew she needed a man. She was nearing thirty, and according to her life plan it was time. But thank goodness she knew the proper way to go about finding the right man. Not chain letters. Not crystal balls or tarot cards. Just careful planning, plain and simple.
Shayna looked at her calendar. Each important date was color coded by event. Blue for business appointments, green for social events like movies or dinner, and purple for special occasions. She reserved red for dates with that special someone.
Unfortunately her calendar hadn’t seen red ink for months. There hadn’t been room in her schedule for dating. But that was about to change.
Shayna touched the purple lettering written in the block for next Saturday. “MBO Cocktail Mixer.” The local chapter of the Minority Business Owners, a support group for the self-employed, had been her salvation for the past three years. Now that her consulting business was taking off, the organization was going to help her find the perfect man.
Through careful research, Shayna had compiled a list of the MBO’s most eligible bachelors. They were all successful enough to be her equal, intelligent enough to bring good genes to the union and handsome enough to give her goose bumps. Any of the three men would be a good catch, but Phillip Browning, Jr., the owner of SoftTech Computer Consulting, headed the list. He dressed impeccably, spoke articulately and still had all his hair.
Shayna casually tossed the chain letter into her recycling bin as she reviewed her well-laid plans for Saturday evening. Yes, Phillip Browning, Jr. had definite potential, and in just four short days, she would know if he was “the one.”
Max Winston turned onto Wisconsin Avenue and headed for the Chevy Chase Holiday Inn. His windshield wipers were keeping perfect time with the old Motown song playing on the radio. The digital clock on his dashboard read 7:45. He was fifteen minutes late. Normally he didn’t worry about things like that, but he knew Shayna would be one of the first to arrive. In the six months he’d been a member of MBO, he’d learned that he could set his watch by that woman. She was so organized, he’d bet she color coded her underwear by the days of the week. Black on Mondays, red on Tuesdays…
Uh-oh! Max stepped on the gas pedal, trying to make the yellow light up ahead. It wasn’t wise to think about Shayna Gunther’s underwear while driving.
As he sped through the intersection, he heard a wild shriek. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw a bag lady wrapped in a garbage bag. She was bent over, trying to hold a sheet of newspaper over her head while struggling with an umbrella the wind had turned inside out. Max grimaced. Apparently he’d sloshed her good when he’d driven through a mud puddle.
“Sorry!” he called, tooting his horn, knowing she couldn’t hear him.
Twenty minutes later, Max swirled his cocktail and scanned the lounge again. Still no sign of Shayna. She was the only reason he’d bothered showing up in the first place. Now she was nowhere to be found, and he was stuck listening to the most boring guy in the room—Phillip Browning, Jr.
What was with this guy? Didn’t he know that no one cared how many copies of some duller-than-dirt accounting program he’d sold this week? Of course he didn’t know. He was too busy impressing himself.
Max surveyed the room again, this time searching for a way to exit the conversation. Hot damn. Both his prayers were answered at once. There