Page 61 of Under Pressure

Plus, The Palms had Samantha. She’d run everything with military precision—even if the real manager, Mr. Richardson, hadn’t shown up, and probably wouldn’t. The man was an idiot who pushed all of his work onto Samantha. And Samantha loved the residents enough to just do what needed to be done and not complain.

The chatter of whispered voices wafted out into the hall from the conference room, letting Don know his friends had all beat him there. He hated being last.

“What are we going to do?” Winnie whispered.

“Anything we can,” Nancy said. “This kind of thing isn’t always easy—”

Don burst into the room, the door slamming against the wall with a thud, and conversation stopped. His friends stared at him with wide eyes. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” He made his way to the murder/matchmaker board and flipped it around to the other side of whiteboard, then picked up a marker—it smelled like licorice. He drew three stick figures: one of Sean, one of Bluebell, and one of Jonah. “We’re going to take exhibit A.”

“Is that Sean?” Winnie asked.

He nodded. “And exhibit B.”

“We know that’s Bluebell,” Harry said, tugging at his mustache. “Because of the long hair.”

And an “x” through Jonah.

“And there’s the fiancé,” Walt said. “Because of the x.”

Don drew a heart around Sean and Bluebell. “We’re going to get these lovebirds together.” Don faced his friends, squeezing the smooth-sided, plastic marker in his hand. “Any questions?”

“Yes.” Polly pursed her red-tinted lips. “Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind?”

Don looked at his drawing. Seemed pretty clear to him.

“We don’t. Do. Breakups,” Nancy said in a clear, crisp tone that brokered no arguments.

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Heat rushed to Don’s face. “We can’t let her end up with that . . . that . . .”

“He’s a perfectly nice man,” Rosa said with a soft voice. “Very handsome and polite.”

“The guy kicked Sweetie and Bear out of the house.” He pointed behind himself.

“He’s allergic to dogs,” Polly said, tossing up her hands.

“Sean and Bluebell are meant to be together,” Don said in the calmest and most collected voice he could muster. He’d spoken to generals with less respect than this group. “We’ve bent the rules before. Remember with Essie?” Both of her guys had been perfectly nice guys, and they’d still meddled.

“She wasn’t dating either man when we started match-making her,” Rosa said.

“And we were split on who we thought she should end up with,” Walt reminded him, tipping up the bill of his NASA hat.

Nancy stood from her chair at the head of the table, moved to the board, and erased Don’s stick figures. “We’re not here to talk about Sean and Bluebell.”

Don slammed the marker down on the tray under the whiteboard with an audible clink. “Then why in tarnation are we here?”

“We’re worried about you,” Winnie said, voice unwavering.

Don stared wide-eyed at his friends. Walt’s mustache twitched. Harry stared at the table. Rosa wrung her hands in front of her, while Winnie stared at him with glassy, emotional eyes. Polly tapped her moccasin-covered foot on the floor with a soft whap, whap, and Nancy held her ground in front of the table, her gaze never wavering.

Darn it all. It’s an intervention.

“I’m fine!” he bellowed.

Rosa flinched.

“Don, you’re not fine,” Nancy said. “And that’s okay. You don’t need to be, but you do need to grieve.”

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