HeavenSent.com by Stefanie Worth
from the Holiday Brides anthology
ISBN: 978-0-8439-6319-9
from the Holiday Brides anthology
ISBN: 978-0-8439-6319-9
| (c) 2007 Stefanie Worth |
Chapter One
“Sunday School heaven was all cherubs and choirs,” Kay muttered. “Now they tell me there’s more
work?”
Certainly grateful to pass the Life Inspection Application Process, Kay wasn’t sure she liked the
unexpected promotion that resulted. If they’d asked, she would have declined this job and opted for a
role more appropriate.
“I would’ve figured that a life – albeit, short – of faithful service, daily prayer, and eager witnessing
deserved more than being appointed Official Babysitter of Fickle Grown Folks.” Miffed and disappointed,
Kay lamented her plight. “At least it’s only for twelve days.”
“Maybe it’s my profile picture.” At the end of the year, in less than two weeks, Brenna’s Campbell’s online
match guarantee would expire and no one would be able to view the photo no one seemed to want
anyway. “After five months, two weeks, and six days as a member of HeavenSent-dot-com can’t you find
one single man to send my way?”
She stared at happily hitched couples proclaiming their finds and contemplated revising her Perfect
Mate criteria. When Brenna first joined the site, she’d spent so much time agonizing over the
questionnaire, the thought of re-working her heart’s desires in order to snag a suitor was unbearable.
A dialogue box appeared at the center of her screen: YOUR FREE MEMBERSHIP EXPIRES ON
DECEMBER 31ST. CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE.
“So does that mean you think there’s hope for me yet, or that I need a full year of rejection to prove my
lack of compatibility?” She asked the laptop its opinion since none of her family, friends or co-workers
knew she’d reached the online dating level of desperation.
To Brenna, a goal was a goal. Five years of failing to achieve marriage meant she needed a change in
strategy. That’s why, as another year wound itself to a fitful close, she found herself assessing her life
list of things-to-do:
Spiritual life: check.
Healthy eating, regular exercise: check, check.
Job, savings, good credit rating: check, check, check.
But no matches to her personality profile meant she kept falling short of one particular aim, signaling a
personal low that she had no tactics to address: Brenna still hadn’t managed to find a man.
“Nobody wants me.” She clicked on a video featuring a man supposedly searching for his soul mate.
Or could it be that they don’t know I am what they’re looking for?”
A split second pause in thought let the background sounds of Sunday night television news seep to the
forefront of her consciousness. According to recent reports, she heard, about half of all African American
women had never married, nor would ever.
“Oh, please let me be on the other side of that unwed half,” Brenna begged the universe, suddenly
even more motivated to find her perfect someone among the profiles of HeavenSent.com.
Not as though she hadn’t tried this exercise before; skimming the pictures, searching for the optimum
mix of rugged features – gentle smile, mysterious eyes, touchable hair – and then reviewing the selected
faces’ profiles to see what they claimed to be about. Lastly, she looked at the qualities of the women they
professed to want.
Most of them had entered few choices other than, No preference.
“You don’t care what my religious, political or relationship philosophies are?” Hmmm. “No man is that
easy going.”
Yet, Brenna extended Nods – quick “I’m-interested-are-you?” notes – to five men in their late thirties,
telling herself they were more likely to be ready to settle down than twenty-somethings. Last time she
took this approach, no one Nodded back.
She could hardly wait to see who appeared in her results this time.
“I just don’t get this,” she whined to the laptop. “Maybe five-ten is too tall or they don’t like layered bobs. I’
m brown-haired, my full lips and well-placed curves are original factory equipment, so to speak. So why
is it that HeavenSent makes me feel outdated and used up?”
She tapped the SIGN OUT link and shut down her computer.
The chances of landing the man who made her heart flutter and let her check off the last item on her to-
do list seemed dismally slim this close to the end of the year.
Singsong tones on her computer indicated the laptop was going to sleep and she probably should,
too. She closed its lid, turned off her desk lamp, and swept her hand across the desk’s mahogany
surface to shovel a palm full of the day’s dust and paper crumbs into the waiting wastebasket below.
She picked up her PDA in time to catch an incoming text message.
The note from HeavenSent proclaimed Mr. Decent Nodded back! Login to meet up.
“Why not?” she whispered. A quick glance at the desktop digital clock let her know she’d be just shy of
her eight hours of beauty sleep if she started tinkering around online once more. But she did it anyway;
opening the laptop, signing on, and pulling up HeavenSent.com to read the message from the self-
proclaimed Mr. Decent.
A face she wouldn’t notice if it passed her on the street, messaged, Hi! You’re beautiful!! When can we
hook up??!!!
Her stomach flipped. “The profile says he’s thirty-eight, but he’s using teenage jargon. Maybe he’s
trying to be cool. Maybe he thinks this is the booty call site.” She stared at his ordinary face, devoid of
facial hair or personality. Her stomach flopped.
“It is your first nibble, girlfriend,” she argued with herself. “Bite back.”
His real name, he said, was Ron. They exchanged a flurry of polite electronic niceties and decided they’
d meet for lunch on Tuesday at a spot of her choosing. Brenna opted for a familiar downtown eatery,
public and escapable, in case he turned out to be a psychopath.
Tuesday at 2, she typed in confirmation, trying not to read more into the line than the words on the
screen said.
Evan Shephard sensed his serial dating days ending. Possibly tonight.
Thirty-seven, he’d been told he could be a model with his looks, an athlete with his tall, stocky build, or
a politician with his charm. None of the above, he still considered himself one of Detroit’s most eligible
bachelors; though lately he’d started to question the title’s so-called perks.
In reality, with forty no longer far away, stranger sex had long ago become boring and Evan caught
himself admitting the unthinkable: what he wanted was a real woman, an honest relationship, and
maybe even marriage.
“I used to feel differently,” he said to the ebony-hued woman across from him, rating her cute-kid-
producing potential. “But, I don’t think it’s right to bring children into the world without two parents and a
stable home. What about you?”
“What’s that option on the HeavenSent questionnaire? ‘Not for me.’” She laughed, sealing the
statement with a smoky gaze that implied dinner was in the way of her true plans for the evening. Her
gray eyes sparkled above a sultry smile of perfectly shaped, bleached-white, soldier-straight teeth that
could only be veneers.
Evan tried not to frown at the fakeness that explained the extra-long lashes. He wondered if her pupils
were colored by contacts, how much of the hair bouncing on her shoulders was a high-priced weave,
and whether or not he’d be able to feel her scalp if he ran his fingers through her hair. Some fellas liked
that stuff. He preferred the real thing.
“What did you say you do for a living?” he asked just to make conversation – and see if tonight’s
answer matched the job in her profile.
“I’m an automotive engineer. At least for now,” she giggled, and tossed her hair.
He laughed along with her, sympathetic to the nervous insight that represented Detroit’s uncertain
economy, particularly its crumbling automotive sector. “Will you stay local if things don’t work out?”
“Not so sure. Depends on how they let me go.” She shrugged. Her nonchalant demeanor took on a
sullen cast. “That’s one good thing about being single with no kids. If I need to move on, I just can pick
up and go.”
He wasn’t so sure she painted the best future scenario at a first-date outing, though he appreciated
her candor. “How’s your dinner?” he asked, changing the topic from work and thoughts of a tomorrow
that wouldn’t be shared with the woman across the table.
“It’s wonderful. Never met a lobster I didn’t like.” She stabbed the last forkful and washed it down with a
final swig of wine. “What time’s the show?”
Evan glanced at his watch. 7:13. “Eight o’clock, but it’s right around the corner. We have plenty of time.”
“I can always have a cup or two of coffee while we wait for the cab.”
Evan had no intention of hailing a cab. She expected him to pay for parking and cover a cab to ride two
blocks away? “Think I’ll have that caramel apple flan. Dessert for you?”
He could see she’d already staked out the tiny sweets menu, but asked out of courtesy.
They ordered the meal’s last course and then sat in silence for a minute or two.
“So you like the theater?” She asked him.
“Season ticket holder,” he spoke proudly. The kind of woman he wanted appreciated a cultured man.
“Seems odd for a technical guy to like soft, fluffy creative undertakings.” She raised her eyebrows.
Was she trying to feel out any Down Low tendencies?
Evan ignored the probe. “It’s all about the intricacy.”
“You mean in-ti-ma-cy.”
“I meant a sense of complexity, so-phi-sti-ca-tion.” He mimicked the way she’d drawn out her
statement to him, hoping to impart a small dig. “Weaving a plot and pulling together the elements of a
production is a lot like building a computer network. Theater uses songs and situations to connect
people. I use wires.”
“Never thought about it that way.” She looked at him with wide-eyed awe, as if she’d just discovered he
had a brain. “How long have you been doing installation?”
“I don’t.” Evan ran a mental check of his HeavenSent.com profile, knowing full well he’d listed himself
as an IT Administrator. He’d even spelled out Internet Technology on his page to simplify the
explanation. She still didn’t get it. Or him. “I manage my company’s computer systems.”
“Oh, like when my screen freezes at work. I’d call you, right?” She giggled excitedly.
“You got it!” His employers didn’t. They seemed to think stuck software, lost passwords, and deleted
files were all he was good for. He couldn’t wait for the day he’d be able to exercise his real abilities for
creating complex security interfaces.
At the moment he was biding his time workwise until the recession let up. The way he was biding his
time with tonight’s date until the curtain went down on this play they were about to see. Evan raised a
forefinger to signal the waiter.
“Check please,” he called, flashing his own fake smile.
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