Blame it on Cupid by Jennifer Greene Page A

the real picture. Under all that was such a vulnerable little girl. “But I am guessing that Mrs. Innes will suggest that you see a counselor.”
    â€œI don’t need any stupid counselor! Why? ”
    â€œBecause it’s so hard to lose someone. Hard to deal with the grieving. People can help you—”
    â€œLike somebody can bring my dad back?” Charlie rolled her eyes. “I’m not talking to some stranger about my dad. The whole thing’s stupid. It’s something grown-ups want to do to make themselves feel better.”
    Merry said slowly, “You’re right.”
    â€œI’m trying not to cause trouble. To do anything wrong. I know, I messed up in school this week—”
    Okay. The kid was breaking her heart. She was just so inhibited, so repressed. So tight. So trying to survive something hugely over her head. “Look, Charlie. We have to see Mrs. Innes. We don’t have any choice. It’s a court mandate. But that’s not happening until Monday. A long time away. Let’s work on today.”
    â€œYeah, you said. We gotta clean the house. And I said I would.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNo,” Merry said firmly, and swept the breakfast dishes to the counter. “I may not know how to do engine parts and guns, kiddo. But I do know how to have fun. Come on.”
    â€œCome on where?”
    â€œOut.”
    The poor deprived child had never Rollerbladed before. Never gone into a department store and tried on fancy hats. Never driven down the road singing at the top of her lungs.
    â€œYou’re not normal,” Charlie said.
    â€œOh, thank you.”
    That won a smile.
    By then, Merry gave herself credit for winning quite a few smiles—just no outright natural laughter. Charlie went along with her, didn’t argue, didn’t complain about anything. But she just couldn’t seem to really let loose and relax.
    Merry worked harder. The day was only half done. After picking up fast food for lunch, she drove around a while longer, trying to think up fresh ideas at the same time she got a better feeling for the town. It was an old-fashioned New England–looking town, with white spired churches and brick houses and lots of streets named after trees—Oak and Maple, Sassafras and Chestnut. But it was awfully hard to get her bearings when the roads were all so curly, swirling around hills, dipping down into valleys.
    Eventually, Charlie said in awe, “You really couldn’t find your way out of a parking lot, could you?”
    â€œHey,” Merry said in an injured tone, but on the inside, she was delighted. It was a real live insult. Surely that meant they were making progress? And just then, as she turned down a street she’d never seen before, she caught the sign for a craft shop.
    â€œI don’t do crafts,” Charlene insisted.
    â€œWe’re not going to do crafts. We’re going to do painting.”
    â€œBut I don’t paint, either.”
    Neither did Merry, but the idea had sparked a project. Anything would be better than the ghoulish contemporary art in the house, right? So she coaxed Charlene into the store and emerged two hundred bucks poorer—two hundred bucks she couldn’t afford, because she doubted anyone’d believe this was a guardian expense—but they had canvases and brushes and a zillion cans of colorful paint.
    â€œI don’t get what we’re going to do with all this stuff.”
    â€œPaint some pictures for the walls.”
    â€œBut I can’t paint. Really.”
    â€œSure you can. I know we can paint better than the Green Skeleton Girl.”
    Charlie knew the painting she meant. “But that’s art, Merry. That’s why my dad bought all those pictures. He said they’d be worth a bunch of money some day.”
    â€œMaybe they will be. And they’d be great. You can consider that ‘found money’ if those