Love Match

By Amy J. Bates

Meet Abbie Arden, a quirky young woman who at last realizes her life's passion: the written word. Abbie, fledgling editorial assistant, is assigned to the American Open, a tennis tournament held each August, where, among other things, she must interview Max Tadeo, a gorgeous, Spanish, professional tennis player (poor Abbie has a fetish for accents), and, well... Max is a tad unusual himself. Abbie encounters a few problems on her mission to become "superjournalist": she thinks tennis is for people who enjoy chasing green balls (boring!); she has sworn off all men (even sexy Spaniards); and last but not least, Abbie wants "real" stories, not tennis fluff! Within the pages of Love Match, a sense of belonging envelops Abbie out of the blue, new friendships develop and investigative reporting takes a life-threatening twist. Love Match follows along as the neurotic but lovable heroine ultimately has to choose to live for love or for fear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257170760

Book preview

Love Match

9781257170760_0003_001

Amy J. Bates

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

LOVE MATCH

Copyright © Amy J. Bates, 2005

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of Amy J. Bates except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

First Paperback Printing: December 2005

Lulu Enterprises, Inc.

3131 RDU Center, Suite 210

Morrisville, NC 27560

Visit our website at www.lulu.com

ISBN: 1-4116-6475-2

eISBN: 978-1-25717-076-0

For the sublime muses, subliminally

And for quirky tennis fans everywhere

PROLOGUE

My story begins here.

Wait. Maybe I should tell you some background information first. I’ll feel a whole lot better divulging to you if I tell you a bit of who I am beforehand. I couldn’t stand it if we were strangers; it would be too stiff and awkward, and who wants that?

I hope I didn’t ruin anything for you by being so forward. I assumed that you knew you would be reading about someone’s (my) unique journey when you picked up this paperbound mini world and flipped through, deciding whether to commit to it or not. It’s the exchange that we’ve bargained for without either one of us being aware of it: I get to tell you about it and you get to visit my world for a while, first row seat. Pretty routine, as far as the book and reader relationship goes. But you will probably surmise as you read more of my story that, as for me, I’m a tad...unorthodox.

So this will be a brief cross-section of my life as it was then: a single woman of 26-ish (all right, 27 and one half), uncomfortably tied to an Editorial Assistant/really, really junior writer/gopher/indentured servant position at a small, local newspaper in a small, well-to-do town, somewhere on the east coast of America. Which town, in which state, is irrelevant, really. Let’s just say it’s Everytown, USA to protect the innocent (and to spare the guilty a public lashing or whatever).

So this single woman, whose given name is Abbigail (yes, with two b’s, but it doesn’t matter in the least because I prefer Abbie, which already has two b’s) Arden, toils her fingers away at previously mentioned newspaper, hoping for the break that would facilitate her dream of cursing out her tyrannical boss, Mr. Kruger, as she leaves that stifling place for the last time, headed out to parts unknown to breathe.

Thus far, it hasn’t happened.

After college, I tried, I honestly did, to find a respectable position in business administration (my father’s exact words), but it didn’t take. I envisioned gray and green office interiors, endless rows of cubicles and wearing sneakers to work with little balls on my socks layered over pantyhose, and gagged. In this vision I tried to cheerily change into corporation appropriate navy blue pumps (more gagging noises, louder now) once I got to my two square feet of desk space, and knew that life wasn’t for me. My father was disappointed to say the least. But, I’m not conventional, no matter who wants me to conform. My unwritten rule is this: if it’s expected, I do the opposite. It seems to be physically and psychologically impossible for me to do what’s normal. Not that it’s a conscious effort; it just happens, as much to challenge myself as to infuriate those around me, I think. But, I’ve finally learned to stop fighting it and make it work for me--in theory, anyway. There are occasional shorts in the wire, though, when I foolishly believe I can attempt to conform. For instance, I heard my mother’s advice to find a nice man to marry and let him support you while you raise my only grandchildren, but I knew that wasn’t enough for me and to force myself to attempt it would only lead to unhappiness all around, so obviously, I didn’t process what I’d been told. Maybe I should look into why that is, huh?

Anyway, it was through doing every menial, personally and monetarily unrewarding job in existence that I gradually came back to the one thing I forgot that I loved: words. I neglected the hushed voices inside of me that told me which career path I should follow. I ignored the many, many nights that I de-stressed from a day’s work by getting lost in a paperbound world. Regardless of how unbearable my job of the moment was and how much I hated to get up each morning, I knew at home waited an escape that would let me stay as long as I wanted.

One quiet day, when I was receptive to my intuition, I glanced around my living room and saw the evidence of my love for words glaring at me. I could almost hear the voices of those thousands of words within hundreds of books whispering, What are you waiting for? It’s us you love! Make us yours! Enough looking the other way, terrified to try (that’s what it amounted to for me). No, scratch that: terrified to fail. I admitted to myself that if I could, I would have books floor to ceiling in every room. Not in a freakish, never-clean-anything-up sort of way, but in a distinguished library/study private office room where, if a visitor wanted to wear a dress jacket and an ascot tie, they would be welcome to, and would feel at home (just no smoking cigars, okay?).

I decided that this love of words could not go on in vain. From somewhere deep down came the commitment to make the scary leap. One Sunday I saw an ad in the paper, interviewed for, and subsequently miraculously landed the Editorial Assistant position at the Prescott Times, the small newspaper I mentioned earlier. It was a beginning point, and that’s what I needed.

I came to realize that I had learned a great deal in the three years I had worked there, including how to battle with a coffee machine that spit hot water at me, and only me, how to tune out a verbally abusive boss with a suspected direct link to the devil, and on the better end of the scale, how to do just about everything a good journalist should do. I had been given more and more responsibility over the years, which of course led to me making larger, more weighted mistakes that I was reprimanded for in double time. Large-scale, practical journalism experience was all that I lacked, right? As I followed the path I laid out for myself, I waited for my big break, and trying to figure out how to make it happen occupied a great deal of my time as well as a substantial portion of my brain space. Sometimes I felt hopeless and filled with panic; like, what if this isn’t the right choice? Then what? What will I do with myself then? I didn’t have the answers.

Hmm. And if you’re wondering, since I haven’t mentioned it yet, my love life might have been halfway decent if I had found that nice man my mother had in mind for me. Don’t think she didn’t try her very best to locate him for me. Let’s see...courtesy of Mom there was the divorced 42 year old with five kids and as many ex-wives, the 27 year old who looked absolutely normal, but ruined everything and nearly made me vomit when he spat on the floor and scratched his privates, simultaneously, inside of a restaurant. If we had been outside and he had done this, I would have run. As it was, I discreetly slipped away between dinner and dessert.

After that horrible night, I notified my mother that if she ever tried to set me up with anyone ever again, I would have my ovaries removed and pickled. Not a peep since!

It’s not just my mom who picked winners for me. I did quite well on my own. That’s not exactly true; at a certain point I gave up on the whole male species (yes, they are a separate species) for a valid reason. His name is Matthew, but I prefer to call him M and not expend too many perfectly good letters or too much effort recalling him. Ahh, the old true love heartbreak. Oops, let me rephrase that: the what I thought at the time was true love heartbreak, but in actuality was a lopsided relationship between a young woman who took a while to learn her lesson, and a doofus who probably couldn’t find his way out of a walk-in closet. With five years invested, it had to work out. M had different ideas about a successful relationship that made my theory that longevity in a relationship provides security obsolete. Apparently, he thought he would give everything he had to Cara and Michelle and, well, you get the idea. After I threw his belongings over the balcony to the parking lot below one very rainy day, I decided that no man would ever hurt me like that again.

So that leads up to the real beginning of my story. Not to give too much away, but if you’ve never believed in children’s fairy tales, you know, happily-ever-after and all that; if you’ve thought the tales are the work of malicious authors intending to make your life seem imperfect and dissatisfying, then you might relate to my story. It’s nowhere near a traditional fairy tale, not with me as the heroine.

CHAPTER ONE

"Arden, what are you doing?" Kruger roared at me until the scarlet color overtook not only his face but also his neck. His rotund body couldn’t handle much more anger. True, I was hoping for the fatal heart attack any day now, but he was one of those guys that would outlive everyone I ever knew because the devil was keeping him alive to do his bidding. You know the type: evillll.

Mr. Kruger, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is there something specific that I can help you with? I acted innocent because it usually succeeded in making him more upset. Remember, we’re going for the fatal attack here...

Arden, why is the type face backwards on the tennis piece? Didn’t you check these for errors? And why in God’s name does it read, ‘Slater lost to Reed: in love sex’ below this photograph? These images and text come to us as they are meant to run! There should be no mistakes! The entire office was, by now, listening intently yet appeared to be working diligently. I knew their tricks. Not that any of them would be singled out if they committed a terrible crime, even. Nooo…one of them could set the building on fire in the light of day while the rest of them stole all of the office equipment and no one would hear a single negative word uttered in their direction. I’d try to extinguish the fire and return all the equipment and I’d get blamed for the entire fiasco.

I stifled my laugh at the ‘love sex’ thing as he waved the paper under my nose. As he did I could smell the fresh ink tickle my nostrils. Ahh, ahh, ahh, CHOO! Fresh newspaper ink makes me sneeze every time (I know…What am I doing working at a paper, right?), ironically, this time, right upon Mr. James Kruger.

Sniffling, I said, Mr. Kruger, I can see that you’re upset, but that type face mix-up is not my fault. You’ll have to see Maggie about that; I had nothing to do with it. And the caption under the picture is supposed to read something like, ‘Slater lost to Reed: final set was six-love.’ I smiled hopefully at him and ignored Maggie’s eyes as they bored into my skull. "That was my fault; I must not have proofed it. I always proof, but I had twenty things going at once and I was trying to get the community outreach programs list done and write the attempted ATM machine abduction piece. Besides, I don’t know the first thing about tennis. There might be some bizarre ‘sex’ term or something; they use ‘love’ as a score, don’t they? So why not use ‘sex?’ It seems a logical next step in the relationship." I shrugged my shoulders while Kruger glared at me.

Uh, but it does sound a bit unusual, I’ll give you that much, I snickered.

And for the record, I don’t expect I will ever need to know anything at all about tennis, I added defiantly after he had turned away, a loud declaration of my independence from all matters sporting. Organized sports and I never got along and we weren’t about to get chummy then. I disliked even the mention of having to venture into our tiny sports department for coffee filters. It gave me the creeps, and I believed everyone when they said Kruger kept the filters in there to rattle me. They all said it was payback for the one and only softball game I played with the paper’s team, The Prescott Pirates. It wasn’t my fault the other team won. You can’t expect someone to catch a ball flying right at her face, can you? Well, you shouldn’t.

Kruger didn’t miss a beat, but he never did. He narrowed his eyes and said to me, That’s where you’re wrong, Arden, and I have the perfect assignment—just for you.

9781257170760_0013_001

I sensed Kruger was militant, and let’s face it, insane, when I accepted the job. The spin I chose to put on the situation was that I would develop a stronger character and a better ability to handle difficult people while gaining experience in my chosen field.

My mother, always ready to offer her opinion, invariably saw it differently. Dear, this man Mr. Kruger sounds dreadful. From the behavior you have described he is being abusive to you again, she said in her soothing yet insulting way, mildly distracted by the errors in the proof of the invitations to her annual Soirée Under the Stars. She pursed her lips as she found another mistake and circled it in red pencil. The small paper was starting to look like a mini murder scene, for all the red scrawled on it.

I just don’t understand why you wish to subject yourself to an unrewarding job like this, Abbigail. Your father has offered you numerous positions in his company and you stutter at the mere mention of it. I will never understand you. Over the rim of her small reading glasses she stared at me in bewilderment. I stared back with what was most likely a similar expression.

Mother, I can’t work for Daddy. We’ve discussed this approximately sixty-two times. Daddy is an accountant. He deals with numbers and he enjoys it. I like words. Words and numbers usually don’t mix well. I don’t know why you refuse to accept that. I popped two grapes into my mouth and watched her continue to butcher the invitation.

Are you sure it’s in English? I asked as I nodded toward the paper.

What dear? She looked up at me absently.

Never mind, I gotta go, Mom, I mumbled as I sighed and left her kitchen and made my way out to the foyer.

Bye, dear, do call me once in a while, hmm?

Although she can be maddening, my mother uses her beauty and innate elegance to even up the scales. She has luxurious blonde, flowing hair, alabaster skin, petite yet elegant facial features, pure green eyes and to top it all off (literally) she’s about six feet tall. Her name even sounds beautiful: Catherine Elisonde Richmond Arden. She successfully modeled in the sixties, after college but before she met Dad. Mom’s family owned several department stores called Richmond’s. They’re all closed now; the chain was bought out when Granddaddy died in the back in the 80’s because none of his children wanted to run the business.

When she met Dad, otherwise known as Richard Jamison Arden, she went from model to trophy wife, a career/lifestyle that suits her personality quite well. She’s enjoyed it from the start, or so it seems from the photos I’ve seen. Glowing and shiny at the center of attention, she alluringly smiled into the camera’s lens as if it was the guest she had been anticipating all evening long.

Then I came bounding along. When I was three, I ate birdseed because I thought it was granola. And I was always hurting myself due to inborn clumsiness, which I get from my father. His clumsiness shows up on the golf course, unfortunately. He has come home from a round with a broken finger, a smashed club and a flat tire on his golf cart (on different days, thank goodness). He has also run over two squirrels and hit a goose head on. Dad told me he never ran so fast in his life as when he saw that goose’s mate bounding toward him. Needless to say, I don’t drive with Dad, and neither do his golf partners.

As far as appearances go, I don’t resemble either one of my parents, which I have always found curious. In fact, I look so dissimilar, that for many years I assumed I was adopted. Since I have no siblings, I couldn’t compare myself to others with the same basic DNA combinations to disprove my adoption theory. After interviewing (some may say interrogating, but I think that’s a bit harsh) every extended family member for hours on end, I decided that his or her stories were similar enough to drop it.

I have a curly mane of red hair, freckles (I don’t tan, I crisp), a relatively short stature and a healthy-sized frame (mostly due to the fact that I like ice cream very much; but don’t fret: I do work most of it off at the gym). I have mom’s cat eyes; though gray blue rather than green. I consider my eyes my best feature (when you can see them from behind my glasses, that is), following my brain. But most people notice my hair first off. Yes, it’s really red and no, it’s not a perm, is the monologue I give when people get that look of wonder in their eyes and persistently ogle my hair. My explanation usually does the trick, though I occasionally find myself ducking away from weirdoes who try to touch my hair. In this scenario, it’s best to swat first and then run.

In addition to accepting not only my wild woman hair, I have come to terms with a few additional points, as of late. I want to earn my money and feel exhausted euphoria at the end of the day, not sponge off of my generous parents. I will remain in the tiniest apartment known to man and keep the crappiest car tied together with rope if I have to, and for as long as it takes me to succeed. I just hope it happens soon. Soon seems to pass by so quickly.

CHAPTER TWO

The Tuesday morning after Kruger cursed me with that upcoming assignment, I was called into his office to receive my sentencing. I was glad I had worn black that day; it seemed appropriate as I walked the thirty paces to his office, my colleagues looking solemn, offering me words of encouragement, as if they’d never see me again. I thought maybe I should grab a muffin on the way in, in case it was to be my last meal.

You’ll be fine.

Hang in there.

It will be over before you know it.

I sat down in the chair and held on tight to the armrests.

Arden, last week I told you I had an assignment for you, he grinned as he spoke with his usual evil fervor.

Yes, I remember, I replied warily, narrowing my eyes.

Well, today you are going to get started. Take these, he grumbled as he shoved a large box in my direction. I lowered the leaden package to the ground and saw that it contained about twenty VHS tapes.

My eyes shot open in reflexive alarm.

Watch all of these tapes. On them you will find matches of the top male tennis players in the world. He stopped speaking to take in my pure shock and grinned when he recognized it. You’ll know tennis when you are finished watching these, Arden, and you’ll need to know it because you are going to cover the biggest tennis event in this country next August. Have you any idea what this event is?

Is that a trick question? My mind numbly began to reel. Sports? I hate sports! This is a waking nightmare, like being picked last in gym class all over again. Can’t I cover a murder case or a corrupt politician? A festering, gangrenous wound on some important person’s butt?

Arden, it’s the American Open. He shook his head like it was obviously an event everyone in the country had known about for 175 years, except for me.

"Now, as you know, small papers can’t afford to send reporters to these types of events, but we can this year due to a private donation from