My Darling Jane (The Darlings)
My Darling Jane: Chapter 1

There’s probably nothing worse than ending a first date with a face full of crotch.

“He didn’t!” I say into the phone as the bell over the bookstore door jingles. A pair of teenage lovebirds walks in with their hands intertwined. Inwardly, I smirk. Oh, to be young and naive again.

“You think I’d joke about something like that?” Freida snaps on the other end of the line.

Freida is an acquaintance from my modeling days, but she may never speak to me again after this fiasco.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She tuts and grumbles under her breath. I picture her flipping her wavy brown hair over her shoulder inside her apartment on the Upper East Side. She’s probably wearing her signature coral lipstick. “We had a lovely time, and he was a gentleman,” she says, “up until we were saying goodbye. Before I got out of the car, I gave him a kiss, nothing crazy. Then he pushed my head toward his pants! How does he go from a clumsy good night kiss to fellatio?”

I cringe. “Did he say anything?”

“‘Suck it.’ He didn’t even say ‘please.’”

“No,” I say, anger spiking.

This isn’t just about bad dates; it’s about respect, something Stefano Marks clearly lacks.

“Yeah. Apparently, according to him, I owed him because he spent all that money on the sign-up fee for Cupid’s Arrow. Pig.”

A long exhale comes from my chest. “If I’d known he was like that, I never would have let him become a member. He was vetted, I assure you. I’m so sorry.”

“He probably lied through his perfect teeth.”

Positioned behind the counter of the bookstore, I track the pair of teenagers as they meander down the aisle toward the self-help section. My bet’s on them making a beeline for the Kama Sutra.

They disappear from my view, and I focus back on Freida.

“Let me check his account.” I don’t have my laptop near me, so I reach under the counter and grab my folder of paper copies of the membership forms. I keep it handy whether I’m at home or here at the store. Technically, I’m working as a manager today, but Emmy, my older sister who owns the store with her husband, has given me a pass to work on my business here. I’m even using the office to vet clients.

I replace his file. Stefano Marks. Thirty-two. Attorney at a top firm. Recommendations from three references? Check. No criminal record and a good credit score. Check. The photograph I have of him is handsome with a great smile.

On paper, this man is golden. There’s nothing in here that says creep.

Not only that, but the match was also perfect. Besides the interviews with me personally, the algorithm gave them a 90 percent chance of success. They both liked sushi. Both were career oriented and interested in travel and cooking. They even had a similar five-year plan—they wanted to move to the country and open a bed-and-breakfast or a general store of some type. I couldn’t have imagined a better couple if I tried.

But something went wrong.

I draw an X over Stefano’s face and crumple the page in my hand, noting my list of eligible men is growing thin. “Everything checked out with him, but obviously he isn’t the kind of client I want. He’ll be removed from the database. I’m really sorry, Freida. If there is anything—”

“I trusted you to do better than this,” she says, cutting me off. “I asked for someone wealthy, someone with similar goals, and you did deliver that, but he’s a total prick. Whatever. It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. My lips tighten. If my business is ever going to take off, I need client satisfaction. Word of mouth is key.

“I can replace someone else for you,” I offer quickly as I page through my thin list of eligible men. Gil Davis. “Here’s one. He’s a doctor—”

“Forget it. I think I’ll take another chance on Tinder.”

Otherwise known as the ninth circle of hell.

I scramble for what to say. “Again, I’m deeply sorry, and if you decide to try again, just—”

“Yeah, Jane. No thanks. Maybe give up on the matchmaking gig. I’ll see you.”

Freida hangs up, leaving me reeling as I slump over the counter. My fist beats on the counter as I cry out in frustration. It’s been three months since I started my venture, and my bottom line is still in the red. I invested twenty grand, and the idea of it all going down the drain makes me want to weep.

I’m so deep in thought that I almost don’t hear the slurp.

I glance down the self-help aisle and witness a full-blown teenage make-out session. The boy is attacking her face like a lion devouring prey, while casually holding the Kama Sutra in his other hand. I have to applaud him for his multitasking abilities. Not that I would know, seeing as my own sexual experience has been on hiatus since my daughter was conceived.

My vagina might as well be a ghost town out West with tumbleweeds and cobwebs.

Or I’ve grown a new hymen. Who knows.

I move in their direction, inhaling the comforting smell of coffee as I walk. My favorite scent in the store is the woody aroma of the shelves. It’s like I’m in a forest right in the middle of Manhattan.

The Darling Bookstore is a historic three-story building near Central Park, with a marble rotunda entrance and a gorgeously carved staircase that spirals up to the other floors. It’s a special place. I grew up running around the shelves, reading in the hidey-holes, and eating in the kitchen. My gran used to work here, and now my sister and her husband own it.

But it’s the customers I adore the most. Some are quirky, some are charming, and some are downright wacko.

But when it comes to two teens, their intentions are less of a mystery.

“Guys. Break it up,” I call out to them. “That book isn’t just about s-e-x, you know. It’s about living a balanced life. It’s about being happy.”

They separate, and the young man, maybe seventeen or eighteen, gapes at me in surprise. The hardcover book drops to the floor, and I wince. It’s a pricey book.

What must it feel like to be so in love that you don’t even notice other people?

I cross my arms. “Do you even know the author? The importance of the book?”

“Um . . . sorry? Who are you?” He shakes his head as his gaze darts around the store, looking for an escape, but I’ve blocked the aisle.

I smile thinly. “I’m the manager. The author is Vātsyāyana. The book is actually an ancient Hindu text written in the third century during the golden age. He was a philosopher, I suppose, and his book is really about the science of love. It’s not just a sexual-position manual that you can come in and try out when you’re bored.”

“Okay, fine, whatever, we’re leaving,” the young girl says as she edges away from me, grabbing her boyfriend’s hand.

I follow them down the aisle on their heels. “It discusses how to live a good life. True, he did focus on the sexual aspect, which must have been revolutionary at the time, but he wanted people to embrace our desires and be in harmony with other responsibilities.” We reach the rotunda. “You may go now. Unless you want to buy the book? It’s fifty-two dollars.”

“What? No way,” the boy mutters as they fast walk to the exit.

“I didn’t think so. Bye,” I say cheerily as they vanish.

I head back to the shelves and bend down to scoop up the book. My fingers trace over the cover. As I flip through the pages, my eyes widen at the Queen of Heaven sex position. The woman’s legs are squished up to her chest as the man enters her. Cocking my head, I study the couple, noting that while it does look difficult, it also looks kinda hot. With a sigh, I remind myself that my matchmaking business is my priority now, not my depressing sex life. Maybe someday I’ll give it another shot, but for now, I’ll stick to playing cupid for others.

Still. This position is interesting, the way she has her body. I tilt my head, studying the book as I lean against the shelf and raise one of my legs—

“If only you had a man to practice those moves with,” a voice says from the stacks.

I yelp in surprise as I snap the book closed and glance through an opening in the shelves, where Babs smirks at me with a knowing look. With her sleek red bob and green pantsuit, she’s a tiny tornado of fashion and sass. There’s twenty-five years between us, but she’s become my bestie since my sister, Emmy, got married.

Shoving the book in the space to block her out, I mutter a “No, thank you,” and mosey back to the register like she didn’t just catch me being weird in the stacks.

Yes, I am pathetic. Yes, I’ve only felt the intimacy of a vibrator in the past five years.

I feel her gaze (and her) following me as I flounce away, but I can’t resist turning back to give her a pretend withering look.

She comes up to the counter holding a stack of books that could topple her five-foot-two frame. “I heard you on the phone. Was that another satisfied Cupid’s Arrow customer?”

“Far from it. Freida said that her date wanted a blow job.” I take a sip of my latte.

She nods as if she understands. “Not everyone will be good for the business, man or woman, but you’ve spent hours interviewing people. You’re really trying, Jane. Those other apps don’t care what happens to their clients.”

I go through my files and show her the heavy stack, probably seventy-five pages. “These are all the eligible single women in the database.” Most of them are acquaintances I met while modeling. The majority of them haven’t paid the full fee to be part of the service. To jump-start my client list, I gave a “friend” discount to them.

Then I whip out the other stack.

“And these are the single men. I have twenty. I’m doing something wrong. Maybe I need more online ads or another marketing campaign.”

She wrinkles her nose. “We should go to a man convention. When’s the next boat-and-RV show in New York? I bet we’d replace some nice guys there.”

“Sure,” I say, then sigh. The irony of being a matchmaker doesn’t escape me. I’m trying to build a career on love, a concept I’ve never truly experienced.

But the magic I witnessed between Emmy and her husband, Graham, did spark an idea.

Cupid’s Arrow wasn’t born from a fairy-tale fantasy, nor was it based on an encounter I had with someone who made my heart skip a beat.

Please. I’m not a romantic.

I’m merely focused on using the idea of love. Starting my business was strategic, a decision to capitalize on a universal emotion.

To me, love is simply a tool, a powerful force that can be harnessed and used to make my business a success. I want to build an empire from the ground up, something different from the usual dating apps like Tinder.

What I had with Tomas, Londyn’s sperm donor, wasn’t real. I was barely twenty and a virgin, and I knew nothing about relationships.

I imagined him to be soulful and deep and mysterious.

He was none of those.

I shove the memories away and organize the Cupid’s Arrow business cards. I smile at the logo, a bright-red heart with a golden arrow piercing through it. I want to be a success. So much. At twenty-five, I don’t have a college degree and I don’t have time to get one. The truth is, I’m not sure I could sit still long enough to do the studying it would take.

Emmy is the one with the college degree, but I’m just a former model who was pushed out of the business when I had a baby. Not that I wanted to go back into modeling. I was done with it after Londyn was born. It wasn’t stable enough to support us.

“Once word gets out about your business, people will line up,” Babs says as she grabs a warm orange-cranberry scone off a tray before an employee puts them in the bakery case.

“You’re only saying that because you snagged an awesome guy,” I say. She and Ray are one of my success stories. I’ve even got a sweet picture of them holding hands on my website.

“He’s now a master of all the positions in the Kama Sutra.” A giggle comes from her. “Of course, I taught him everything he knows. Splitting the Bamboo, now that one is my fave. It’s where—”

“Nope. I don’t need to know.”

She bats her lash extensions. “Yes, you do. I encourage you to buy that book and take it home. Ray’s favorite position is the Lotus Blossom. You do it like this.” She drags a chair over and points at the seat. “He sits there, and I get in his lap . . .” She sits on the chair backward and lets her head fall as she juts her hips back and forth and makes sex noises.

I shake my head at her. “Stop before someone sees you. You need help.”

She smiles sweetly as she stands up. “No, dear, you do. Find a teachable man like Ray. There’s nothing better than a man who will listen.”

“True,” I say.

Despite his accounting job in the financial district, he always takes time to bring Babs lunch on days when she’s too swamped to get it herself. He never fails to come with a smile, a kiss, and her favorite chicken curry. And the best part? He became a Cupid’s Arrow client through one of my business cards. He came into the bookstore one day, and I dropped one in his bag when he checked out.

Babs watches me as I fiddle with a pen, twirling it between my fingers.

“Are you getting one of your ideas?”

I fidget, dropping the pen and tapping my fingernail against my latte with increasing intensity. “We could make a book club exclusively for men. Select thrillers and nonfiction books that cater to their interests.”

She gets a glazed look on her face. “A bookstore full of men. Yassss.”

I perk up. “And we could partner with a local brewery or whiskey distillery and offer top-notch spirits. That will definitely draw quite the crowd.” The image of our bookstore bustling with men discussing their favorite novels, sipping on fine whiskeys, flashes before my eyes.

“Then we’d be stuck with a store full of drunk men,” she says, frowning. “That’s no fun.”

My shoulders slump. “True. It might have some kinks, but . . .” I sigh. “Anyway, I’ll need to run it past Emmy.” She and her husband are currently on an extended vacation in the Greek Isles with their baby, Hazel.

I glance down at the paper files, my mind going back to the conversation with Freida. “This is the third bad date I’ve set up this month. Can today get any worse?”

Babs snorts. “Now you’re just asking for karma to bitch-slap you.”

I grab my phone to check my messages. I confirm that I have no texts. I open my email, saying a prayer under my breath for good news.

Instead, I see Tomas Vincent.

And that’s when I realize Babs is right.

Things can get worse.

You’d think I wouldn’t have any heart left for him to crush, but the ache blooming in my chest says otherwise.

My finger hovers over the open icon, anxiety trickling down my spine as I stare at the unopened email. After almost five years of raising Londyn on my own, his name flashing on my screen feels like a ghost from the past, jolting me back to a time I’ve worked hard to move beyond.

A rush of questions floods my mind. Does he want to see Londyn? My heart clenches at the thought. He’s never seen her, never wanted to. And now, out of the blue, he emails.

I take a deep breath. I can’t forbid him from seeing her, not legally. He’s her father, after all. But the fear of what this means for Londyn grips me. I can’t bear the thought of her facing the disappointment I’ve felt. The idea of him promising to be there for her and then vanishing.

I close my eyes, gathering my courage. Londyn is my world, and I’ve been both mother and father to her. She’s happy and loved, and she’s never known the absence of her father.

I open the email, heart hammering as I brace for words that might shatter the equilibrium of our lives. But no, it’s not what I feared, nor anything I could have imagined.

It’s an invitation.

A save-the-date wedding invitation.

To someone named Savannah Wood.

The screen blurs as I stare at it, mouth agape, emotions swirling. Mr. You-Can’t-Tie-Me-Down, the man who fled at the mention of fatherhood, is getting hitched in the armpit of the world, New Jersey. The irony is a bitter pill, lodging itself in my throat.

My legs wobble, and instinctively I reach out, grabbing the edge of the counter for support.

Why would he invite me?

Is this some twisted way of reaching out, or did he just want to hurt me?

“What is it?” Babs’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She’s by my side in an instant, her concern evident as she grabs the phone from my hand. Her eyes widen as she reads, and she gasps in disbelief. “The asshole is getting married. And he invited you? Why?”

I shake my head, hollow laughter bubbling up. “I have no idea,” I manage to say.

After every milestone he’s missed with Londyn, he surfaces with an invitation to witness his commitment to someone else. It feels like a joke, a mocking reminder of what he couldn’t give us.

I quickly bring up a news article about Tomas’s TV show, Dr. Romantic, and sure enough Savannah Wood is the real name of one of the actresses on the show, where Tomas plays a brooding doctor with a troubled past. She’s one of the doctors on the show.

My throat tightens. I’ve never watched it.

I can’t bring myself to see him be successful, and maybe that makes me a terrible person.

Babs puts an arm around me. “He shouldn’t have sent that, and I’m sorry for it, but you’re better off without him.” She glares at the invitation. “And honestly? Email invites are so tacky. Doesn’t he have money now?”

I swallow the lump in my throat as Babs goes on a tirade about how society is losing all sense of etiquette, but I’m barely listening. The memory of the time I told him I was pregnant plays in my head like a movie. That day inside our favorite café in Chelsea, I was wearing a turquoise floral dress, the one he liked because it brought out the green of my eyes. I’d ordered us both coffees and croissants and waited, my mind grappling with the pregnancy test I’d taken two days before.

I recall the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of cups inside the café.

I was terrified. I was a little thrilled. We’d only been together for six months.

He sat down across from me, buzzing about a minor character part he’d gotten on a show. I listened, trying to replace the perfect moment, and with my dress crumpled in clenched fists under the table, I told him.

His eyes, the ones I thought were soulful, turned icy.

“My career is on the rise. I want nothing to do with a kid, Jane.”

For the thousandth time, I’m left wondering how someone I loved so fiercely could treat me with such disregard.

You never really know someone’s heart until something difficult appears.

You figure out who sticks around and who runs.

He ran.

Five years ago, his rejection devastated me, leaving me to question if I was even lovable, if anyone would ever want me. To him, Londyn and I were burdens too heavy to bear.

She’s not a burden. She’s a gift, my strength in life.

I force my eyes to move over the words of the invitation again. It’s in four months. The date stares back at me, bold and mocking.

“Well, good news,” Babs says after a few minutes, checking the clock. “It’s almost time to close. I’ll lock up, and you go home early. Grab a couple of smoothies for you and Londyn on the way. Then tuck her into bed and sink into a bubble bath. That’ll make you feel better.”

That’s usually the recipe to put a smile on my face. But I can’t today.

I reach for my heart-shaped purse, the one Emmy gifted to me after I shared my fledgling idea for the matchmaking company. The thought of disappointing her tightens a knot in my stomach. She devoted her life to raising me and has never wavered in her belief that I could be more, do more.

I need to believe in myself.

I clutch the purse and feel a surge of determination.

I can’t let fear dictate my future—or memories of Tomas.

I need to make this dream a reality.

I pile my business cards in my hand. I still have an hour and a half before I pick up Londyn from her preschool. “There’s a bar two blocks down that opened a few months back. I talked to the owner last week, and she said I can pass out cards there.”

I’ve already hit up Marcelle’s—the martini place across the street—and a few other places close to the bookstore. I might as well try the new place.

“There have to be some normal guys there. Right?” My voice is hopeful.

“Are you going to wear that outfit?”

She means the toga I have hanging in my office. A wry laugh comes from me. “Yep. It always gets questions.”

She pouts. “It’s so weird, dear.”

“But it works.”

She’s still talking about how gaudy it is as I head to my office at the back of the store on the first level. I shut the door and lean against it. The truth is, I needed to get away from Babs so she wouldn’t ask any more prying questions about Tomas. I haven’t told my family all the details about what happened. Mostly, I didn’t want my sister and brother hunting him down and forcing him to be in Londyn’s life. I don’t even want his money—not that he had much back then.

I swap my usual slacks, blouse, and heels for a long white toga, adorned with glittery pink and red hearts. I attach the fluttery white wings with a sigh.

Slinging a small bow and quiver of little wooden arrows over my shoulder, I try to channel some confidence. My long honey-blond hair, usually left to fall around my shoulders, is now twisted into a neat, no-nonsense bun. Bright-red lipstick adds a splash of color, and a swipe of mascara attempts to mask the paleness of my face.

I practice a smile.

Look out, men, here comes cupid.

I wave goodbye to Babs and head out the door and down the street. My cupid getup earns a few curious glances, but this is New York and strange is the norm.

Pushing open the door to Carson’s bar, I step inside. The room buzzes with energy, its walls covered with flat-screen TVs broadcasting sports events. Neon signs and sports memorabilia decorate the space. It’s not upscale by any stretch, but it’s got a laid-back vibe.

I take a moment to scan the room, just another patron.

I can’t help but inwardly groan at the scene.

The women are cute. The men, on the other hand . . .

There’s a fellow at the bar who’s rummaging through the peanuts with the fervor of Indiana Jones on an archaeological dig. Another guy, in a biker vest, nonchalantly cleans his nails with a toothpick. And then there’s Mr. Jukebox, who throws me a wink. His toupee seems to have a life of its own.

Welcome to the dating pool, Jane.

You’re going to need more than arrows to navigate this one.

Steel nerves and a bright smile in place, I remind myself that there might be someone worthwhile. With a shrug that’s more for my benefit than anyone else’s, I make my way to the bar.

That’s when Indiana Jones Peanut Hunter, mid-dig, looks up. Our eyes meet, and a sheepish grin replaces his intense focus as if he realizes how funny he must look. Or maybe he thinks I look funny.

He does a somewhat comical sweep of peanut debris off his hands before offering one to me. “Sorry. I missed lunch today,” he says. “I’m Mitch.” He seems to be in his thirties, his brown hair styled off his face with a friendly smile revealing a dimple. His hazel eyes meet mine with a respectful look, seemingly unfazed by my toga’s bare-shoulder reveal. Dressed in blue slacks and a dress shirt, he has a certain put-togetherness, and my eyes flick to his hand—no wedding ring. Score one for Jane.

Finding a diamond in the rough like Mitch might just be the sign I need that Cupid’s Arrow is on the right track.

I return the handshake. “Jane,” I say briskly as I take the stool next to him and prop my chin up with my palm. I give him a blinding smile as I pop a peanut in my mouth. “So, Mitch, I’m a matchmaker. As you can see, I’m playing cupid tonight. Are you looking for someone special in your life?”