The Perils of Paulie (A Matchmaker in Wonderland), Page 2

  “No, of course not,” Angela said, her voice as calm as my father’s was emotional. Two large men with no necks and distressingly gruesome tattoos on their arms and hands stood flanking the door to the study. “But this opportunity seems heaven-sent, and I would hate to see her miss out on it. You remember me speaking of my niece Mercedes, don’t you?”

  “Boys,” I said, deliberately being obnoxious. Boris—the no-neck on the right—had frequently been assigned to follow after me when I threw caution to the wind and went out on my own. He had no sense of humor and delighted in tattling on me to my father. Igor, his buddy, was almost as bad, although he was less bright, and sometimes I could bribe him into leaving me alone in a store for an hour.

  “Paulina Petrovna,” Boris acknowledged in return, using both my first and patronymic names in the manner that he knew I disliked.

  “I bet there’s a wall outside you guys could find to hold up,” I said, sailing through the doorway. “Preferably the one where the revolutionaries are taken to be shot.”

  Igor cast a worried look to his comrade. “How does she know about the wall?”

  I spun around to look at them in horror. Boris just smirked at me and closed the door in my face, leaving me trapped in an L-shaped room that was partially lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with books that had never felt the touch of human hands. I stalked forward, making a mental note to ask my father if the boys had been joking, but the argument soon drove that thought away.

  “Is not your niece I worry for,” Daddy was saying when I rounded the bend of the room and found them both standing at a massive oak desk. “Is others. You want her to go to Belarus? To Russia? She would be taken from me instantly.”

  “Not if people didn’t know who she was, and there’s no reason to tell anyone her surname. She can use her mother’s name, after all.”

  “Who can? Are you guys talking about me? Dad, you’re going to have a stroke if you don’t stop huffing and puffing like that. Your face is bright red.” I stopped at the desk, my interest piqued at the word “Russia.”

  “You do not your mind about my face,” he snapped, but sat down with a grunt. “Your stepmama is crazy. Without brains at all. Is crazy idea.”

  “It is not crazy. It is perfect. Paulie, dear, do you remember me telling you how my niece Mercy married an Englishman and went to live in England?”

  “She wants me to visit her? I’ll do it!” I said, not caring about pesky things like details.

  “No, it’s not that.” Angela smiled, and I was distracted enough by the genuine affection in her eyes to slip my arm through hers.

  “Sorry I interrupted you, darling. You go ahead and tell me what it is you want me to do that Dad thinks is so crazy.”

  “Is crazy.” Daddy waved his big hands around in the air, his eyes narrowing until he was squinting at us. “Will not happen. Too dangerous. Rostakov has too many enemies.”

  She patted my arm. “It really is ideal, because you’d have people around you, you see, so your father couldn’t say you weren’t protected. And Mercy’s brothers-in-law—two or three of them, I don’t remember exactly—would be there, too, and I just know they’d watch after you.”

  “I don’t need watching after—” I started to object, but bit it off so she’d continue.

  “And then of course there is the film crew. They’d be with you every step of the way, too.”

  “You want me to be in a movie?” I asked, confused. “With your niece and her English family?”

  “No, no, I’m not explaining myself well at all,” she said, a bit flustered now. “Let me tell it from the beginning.”

  “Is no matter. Paulina is not go to Russia,” Daddy said darkly, slamming his fist down on the desk. “I am spoken.”

  “Have spoken, dear,” Angela corrected automatically, then led me over to a red-and-yellow-striped love seat and sat down with me. “Mercy’s husband’s family is some sort of minor nobility. They had a television crew filming them at an archaeological dig two years ago, and now that same film crew wants to make a reality show about a race.”

  “Like The Amazing Race TV show, where people go all over the world and do weird things?” I frowned. “I really don’t want to eat bugs or repulsive parts of animals.”

  “Not that sort of a reality show. Oh, let me show you Mercy’s e-mail.” Angela pulled out a piece of paper from her pocket and gave it to me.

  I smoothed it out over my knee while my father rumbled objections and threats, both of which Angela and I ignored.

  Relive one of the greatest races of all time! [the promotional copy read] From the studio that brought you A Month in the Life of a Victorian Duke and the wildly popular Ainslie Castle Dig comes the re-creation to end all re-creations! Relive the thrilling 1908 New York City to Paris race that spawned legends!

  “Wait a minute,” I said, pausing to look up at Angela. “Is this about that movie with Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis? The one where they race all over the place?”

  “It’s all there,” Angela said, smiling and nodding at the paper.

  Watch as participants don the clothing of a century ago and race across continents in authentic period cars! Thrill as they fight for superiority across dangerous lands! This one-month race will take its participants from the flat Midwest plains of the United States to the exotic locations of China, Russia, and Europe.

  “Oooh,” I said, my blood seeming to come alight with the sense of adventure that fairly oozed off the paper. “It is like that movie!”

  “Is dangerous!” Daddy growled. “Too dangerous. Better you stay home with Papa and Mama.”

  “I’ll do it,” I told Angela, not even bothering to read the rest of the information.

  “But, dear, you don’t know what it will entail—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, standing up, my heart beating so fast I wanted to dance and sing and crow to the world that, at last, adventure was going to be mine! “I’ll do whatever job this production company wants. I’ll be a gofer. I’ll be a script girl. I’ll be a personal assistant. I don’t care—I just want to be a part of it.”

  “They will want you to be in one of the cars,” Angela said in her placid voice. “I’m afraid you will need to dress up.”

  “Like Nellie Bly?” I asked, my spirits soaring. “Oh my god, could this be any more perfect?”

  “Read Mercy’s information,” she said, nudging my hand.

  “No. Is no good to read. She stays here, where she is safe,” Daddy said, getting to his feet again.

  “I’m twenty-nine years old, Dad,” I said, snapping at him. “I’m an adult, and you do not have a say in this.”

  “I have say,” he said, reeling back in a dramatic manner. He’s such a drama queen. “I am Papa!”

  “You are a domineering man who thinks he gets his own way on everything, but I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m going.”

  “You are not!” he bellowed, loud enough that the door opened and Boris stuck his head into the room.

  “Go upstairs and take her message so you can read the information,” Angela said, urging me toward the door.

  I obediently went toward the hall but cast a worried glance back at my father, who was now shouting to Boris and Igor that he would not allow Angela to throw his only child into the hands of his enemies. “Are you going to be OK with him in that mood?”

  “Oh, heavens yes,” she said with a chuckle. “He just wants a little soothing. Once you’ve read the information, if you still want to do it, let me know and I’ll have Mercy connect you with the production company.”

  “Tell her to connect away, because I’m doing it no matter what it takes!” I announced, then turned on my heels and ran up the stairs, my imagination already flying.

  Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures

  JULY 16

  1:45 p.m.

/>   My bedroom

  So much to do! So many things to get ready! I’m all aflutter, and probably would be running around like a chicken without its head if not for Julia and her magical planner o’ organization. At least, that was the idea.

  “So,” Julia said after I demanded she come to my house two days after the Great Emancipation, as I shall henceforth think of it. “I get the part about the global race, which is really a cool idea so long as you don’t have to eat any bugs or camels’ scrotums.”

  “I know, right?” I made a face and pulled up the Web site that Mercy had sent me to for more information. “But this show doesn’t sound like that sort of thing at all. Here, see? They are going to duplicate the route of the original 1908 race, and use cars of the same time period, although Mercy says the producers are going to put modern engines in the cars so that it doesn’t take months to finish the race.”

  “That doesn’t sound bad,” Julia said, looking at the Web site. “You get to go through a lot of countries.”

  “Thank god I managed to get a passport a couple of years ago without Dad knowing.”

  “All right, so you’re following the same race path, but why don’t you need to take a lot of clothes with you? You’re going to be gone for over a month.”

  “That’s the best part. The production company wants to make this like that Great Race movie that had themed cars. Because this is reality TV, the producers are creating teams of people so they have lots of interaction to film, like people fighting and storming off, and making googly eyes at each other, and having jealous scenes, and all that sort of thing.”

  “Typical reality TV fodder,” Julia said, nodding. “I still don’t understand about the clothing.”

  “Well, Mercy has arranged for me to be in a car with two other women. We’re supposed to be suffragettes, you see, so we get to wear 1908 suffragette clothing.”

  “Oooh,” she said, her eyes alighting with costuming fervor. “Big hats.”

  “Feather boas,” I said, nodding.

  “Long skirts, though,” she warned.

  “Flattering to the figure,” I pointed out, looking down at where my abundant curves were lolling about.

  “There is that.”

  “According to the e-mail I got from the producer, I can wear my own clothes in off periods, but during the race hours I have to be in costume.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.” She squinted at the screen and read aloud, “‘There will be checkpoints where teams must rendezvous for interaction with the camera crew. Avoidance of these points will earn the team negative points.’ What’s all that about?”

  “The teams get points for going through various cities, and if you don’t stop and let them film you, you get demerits or something.” I waved away that concern and piled a bunch of underwear into a large duffel bag. “I don’t really care about the race per se, although the winners do get twenty grand each, but it’s the experience I’m excited about. I’ll be out there doing the same thing that Nellie Bly did. She made an around-the-world journey, too, and wrote a book about it. I’ll be able to take notes, and interview my fellow racers, and post things to a blog that I’ll later turn into a book. It’ll be just like I’m a modern-day Nellie.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Julia scrolled down the page. “Holy moly, will you look at that!”

  “What?” I asked, setting down a handful of bras to look at where she was pointing.

  “There’s a list of teams with pictures of the racers. Well, a couple of pictures—the rest are blank.”

  “That’s because they’re filling in people who dropped out or who they haven’t booked yet, or so Mercy told me,” I said, going into my bathroom to sweep up a collection of body washes, shampoo, conditioner, and various other sundries. Those I dumped in a cosmetics bag, and tossed that into the duffel as well.

  “Yeah, but these two are booked already. And aren’t they yummy?”

  I looked, blinked a couple of times, and agreed. “Wow. Dibs on the one on the right.”

  “Silly, you can dibs them both, since I won’t be in the race and you will. I wonder if they’re single. Oh, wait—you can click on their names. Let’s see . . . Mr. Right—ha!—is Dixon Ainslie, thirty-two, estate agent at Ainslie Castle in England.”

  “That must be one of Mercy’s brothers-in-law. I think Angela said the family name was Ainslie.”

  “It doesn’t say anything about a wife . . .”

  I returned to the bed, where I’d dumped the entire contents of my closet and dressers. “Put your list-making skills to work and help me decide what to take and what I don’t need.”

  “Hmm . . . I don’t see anything bad in his bio. You have my blessing to pounce on him.” Julia’s eyes glittered with mirth. “If you hooked up with him, you could live at a castle!”

  “Meh,” I said, shrugging, feeling a bit overwhelmed trying to decide what to take with me. “I live in a huge house. I’d much rather have a small little cottage with an adorable garden filled with rabbits and hedgehogs and friendly deer.”

  “If you had all that, you wouldn’t have much of a garden left,” Julia said, clicking on the other man. “Looks like Mr. Left is Dixon’s brother. He’s two years younger and is a commercial artist.”

  “Bully for him. Come on, you organizing fiend, let’s get the to-do and to-take lists going. I was thinking a couple of pairs of jeans, one nice dress for any dinners out, and a couple of skirts that won’t wrinkle. Two blouses, two sweaters in case it’s chilly at night, a couple of tees, and my flats and tennis shoes.” I started sorting clothes into stacks.

  “How can you be worried about mundane things like clothing when there are handsome Englishmen to ogle?” she asked, clicking on other people shown on the race site. “Nope. Those two are definitely the cream of the crop.”

  “I’m not interested because I’m looking for adventure, not a man,” I said, holding up a gauzy broomstick skirt. “Is this too casual to wear in Europe? You know how stylish everyone there is. I don’t want to look like a backwater boob.”

  “You’re not married, not dating anyone, and not gay. Of course you’re looking for a man.”

  “Not me. Do you know the sort of background check my crazy father would demand for anyone I was interested in?” I gave a little shudder and tossed the skirt into the no-go stack, picking up instead a maxi skirt made of a pretty blue-and-purple-paisley cotton. “It’s just not worth it.”

  “You can’t tell me you don’t get lonely, because I’ve seen you go googly-eyed at those superhero movies where the yummy actors wear skintight suits,” Julia persisted, looking at me over the top of the glasses she wore to read things on the computer.

  “Pfft,” I said, trying to dismiss the subject. The last thing I wanted to do was focus on my lack of a love life.

  “You haven’t dated anyone in almost four years.”

  “Blame my father for that,” I said, picking out the best of my jeans.

  “I won’t, because you’ve had boyfriends. It can be done. You just won’t put yourself to the trouble of finding a man.” I was about to protest when she continued, stabbing a finger toward the screen. “Here’s the answer. You’ll be thrown together with a bunch of men without your father being able to have a say in who or what you do.”

  “Boy, you really want me to get laid, don’t you?” I asked, laughing.

  “Are you saying you don’t?”

  “No, of course not. I enjoy sex as much as anyone. It’s just that . . . men are so much work. You have to be on your best behavior for the first few months, lest you scare them off. You have to consider their needs before yours because that’s how men are. And you have to let them think they’re smarter than you, which is almost always not the case. I just don’t have time for that.”

  “That’s because you’re meeting the wrong type of man. I don’t have to do any of tha
t with Sanjay.”

  “That’s because your Sanjay is a saint, and a very smart man.”

  She smiled smugly. “He is that. But this is about you, not me. Don’t be so stubborn about hooking up with someone who turns your starter crank.”

  “Ha! Starter crank. I see what you did,” I said, stuffing the reject clothing back into the dresser.

  “After all, you must get . . . needy.”

  “That, my dear, is what battery-operated devices are for.” I shook out a forest green floor-length dress and posed with it. “What do you think? It looks pretty nice on me, and it’s made of material that doesn’t hold its wrinkles.”

  “Fine, fine,” Julia said, giving it a swift glance before returning to the screen. “Oooh, there’s some guy from a TV show going to be racing, too.”

  “You’re a poop,” I told her, laying the dress next to the duffel bag. “You’re the one with all the planning expertise, and here you are spending all your time drooling over a bunch of men you’ve never met.”

  “I’m just trying to help you become as deliriously happy as I am with Sanjay,” she said, and laughed when I threw a button-down oxford shirt at her head. “All right, all right, I’ll leave your potential husbands alone and start the list making. Where’s the paper? Thanks. OK, let’s start with the necessities. Toothpaste and toothbrush.”

  “Check.”

  “Tampons and ibuprofen.”

  “Check.”

  “Cleansing products: facial, body, and hoohaw.”

  I paused in the act of stuffing pairs of socks into a side pocket. “Why do I need vaginal cleanser?”

  She tipped her head toward the laptop. “You’ll want to feel springtime fresh if you’re going to snag yourself a hunky Englishman.”

  “For the love of Pete, Julia!”

  She giggled. “Now, about your underwear. I’ve seen it, and I think you should dump it and go with thongs. Men like thongs.”