Enter Mrs. Macchiato

Chapter 2

Enter Mrs. Macchiato

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Maurice was comfortably past his twenties, though his precise age remained an elegant mystery, gently hinted at by subtle greys at his temples and a striking tuft of white nestled in his bangs. Each ivory strand whispered a story. And were one to listen attentively, each tale would unfold an experience—a quiet revelation of age and character. Yet the cover of a book and the outward appearance of a man can reveal only so much at first glance; one must linger over each chapter, patiently reading the quiet truths between the lines to fully grasp the epic story each person embodies.

He plied his curious trade along the coast, moving northward in harmony with spring’s slow advance, as winter’s harsh grip yielded gracefully to warmth and bloom. Love, Maurice observed with quiet irony, blossomed much like the flowers, and the ardor of townsfolk rose steadily alongside the mercury.

He had rented a modest shop just off the quay, where on sunny days the door would stand propped open, inviting in the maritime breeze, salty and lively with the cries of seagulls and the gentle murmur of waves. It was upon one such sunlit afternoon, the sea’s fragrance gently perfuming the air, that Mrs. Macchiato and her daughter appeared in his doorway.

Mrs. Macchiato halted dramatically on the threshold, squinting into the dim interior as if peering into a dubious cave. She swiftly assessed the scene within a couple engaged in what appeared to be spirited negotiation with a young—no, decidedly grown—man pacing energetically behind the counter.

The shop floor bore a richly patterned rug, bold and pleasant, valiantly masking the wear beneath. Despite attempts at tidiness, sand and dust stubbornly clung to the edges and cracks, remnants of the ceaseless inshore breeze. Mrs. Macchiato cast a critical eye over the rest of the interior, finding it festooned with ribbons, banners, and candles arranged in what struck her as distinctly dubious taste. It evoked, she thought with pursed lips, something akin to a poor man’s brothel.

She shielded her daughter, Anabel, from entering, visibly wrestling with her internal debate – her very presence a testament to her desperation. A matchmaker who relied on a trained bird to determine romantic suitability seemed positively absurd, yet hadn’t she exhausted every other avenue?

She had dutifully sent Anabel to the proper schools for a young lady of learning. Anabel had graduated from the sixth grade at the head of her class – a fact that should have been commendable, if not for the consequences that followed. The schoolmarm, a severe woman with chalk-stained cuffs and an unusual fondness for reason, had gone so far as to suggest that Anabel was better suited for advanced studies than any boy, she had taught in Tuscana since arriving a dozen years prior.

This, naturally, only worsened the situation.

Emboldened by such praise, Anabel had gotten it into her head that a woman might -brace yourself – pursue a career in academics. The audacity! She began reading at all hours, questioning everything, and referring to Mrs. Macchiato’s carefully orchestrated plans for debutante training as “ornamental pageantry.” It was as though the girl had been raised by philosophers instead of by proper society.

Even the esteemed Mrs. Malarky’s debutante classes every Monday and Wednesday had failed her daughter—or perhaps her daughter had failed them. Anabel had, after all, proved infuriatingly uncooperative; rather than mastering the delicate arts of laughter, posture, and rouge application, she stubbornly preferred to retreat into quiet corners, lost in books and contemplation.

What, Mrs. Macchiato lamented inwardly, was a mother to do?

Maurice, concluding his current business, glanced up and offered a courteous smile to Mrs. Macchiato. “Please, come in. I shall be with you momentarily. Thank you for your patience.”

Mrs. Macchiato forced a tight-lipped smile—a smile not unlike one conjured by the painful necessity of slipping dainty shoes onto overly large feet blistered by coals. She cleared her throat, signaling discomfort more eloquently than words might.

“Ahem!” Her voice carried the authority of uncertain dignity. “Perhaps we are in the wrong establishment…”

Maurice raised an inquisitive eyebrow, silently inviting her to continue.

“Well, there is no sign outside, and your—establishment,” she paused delicately, selecting her words as carefully as one chooses produce at market, “seems rather bare. Is this truly the matchmaker’s shop?”

Maurice’s smile broadened gently, causing Mrs. Macchiato’s apprehension to deepen.

“Are you Maurice, the matchmaker?” she pressed, as though clarity might somehow improve the shop’s appearance.

“Indeed, madam,” he replied smoothly, with a small, reassuring nod. “You are precisely where you ought to be. Please, do make yourselves comfortable—I will be but another minute.”

Mrs. Macchiato hesitated briefly, an internal battle waged clearly upon her brow. “Well, we’ve come this far,” she said.

Finally conceding, she motioned Anabel forward. Her daughter, stepping into the shop, seemed more amused than troubled, eyes bright with curiosity – her eyes scanning the mismatched banners, her fingers brushing a ribbon with idle interest, as though cataloging curiosities in a museum of misguided intentions.