Interviews & Essays
Heart to Heart Interview with Susan Elizabeth Phillips
Heart to Heart: In Match Me if You Can, Annabelle Granger is trying to build a contemporary matchmaking service on the bones of her grandmother's old matchmaking firm. What a wonderful premise! What kind of research did you do in this field before writing the book, and did any of it surprise you? We notice that Annabelle doesn't think much of the Internet dating services.
Susan Elizabeth Phillips: Personally, I think some of the online services can be good tools for meeting people, but that's just me, the clueless author, and I'm smart enough not to mention this to Annabelle, who believes in the personal touch. (Sometimes way too personal, in my opinion.) As I talked to matchmakers while I was researching the book, I was most surprised by how guarded they were, very concerned about projecting a professional image and making sure no one confused them with an escort service. Talking to them was almost as bad trying to pry information out of the Secret Service while I was researching First Lady.
HtoH: Is this the last book in your Chicago Stars series? Or can we expect a sequel of some kind, even if it features a member of a rival team?
SEP: A rival team? You think I'd write about a rival team? This interview is over! (All right, I've done some deep breathing, and I'm going to assume you didn't intentionally set out to insult my team loyalty.…) This Heart of Mine, as my readers know, was supposed to be the last of the Chicago Stars books, but then Annabelle and her matchmaking business came along. She needed a client who was hardheaded, fiercely competitive, sexy, and difficult, which always makes me start thinking about football. And, since Jerry Maguire is one of my favorite movies, Heath Champion, Kevin Tucker's shark of an agent, was born.
HtoH: What are the special challenges and pleasures of writing a series of connected novels, with some of the characters who have starred in other books making cameo apearances in others?
SEP: Just like my readers, I love catching up with old friends, but since I never planned to write a series, I didn't keep a detailed chronology as I was going along. This means I'm constantly going on my web site bulletin board (www.susanelizabethphillips.com) and asking my readers about a former character's hair color, jersey number, or one of a thousand other details I've forgotten and am too lazy to look up. My research methods are mildly embarrassing, but effective.
HtoH: How did your writing career begin? Did any particular authors influence you?
SEP: It's a fairly long story, which I've posted on my web site, but here's the mini version. I began writing a historical romance with a friend when my children were small. We were doing it just for fun and couldn't have been more shocked when the first publisher we sent the manuscript to bought it.
I suppose I was most influenced by The Boxcar Children. I was seven years old when I opened those magical pages for the first time and discovered the power of reading. Life has never been the same since.
HtoH: What 's coming up next?
SEP: I just knew you were going to ask that, and I'm mortified to confess it's another Chicago Stars book. This really is the last one! And it's not my fault. A character wandered into Match Me if You Can who knocked my socks off, and I couldn't resist finding out more about him. I have a feeling that everyone who reads Match Me will be able to pick him out. Hubba hubba.
Read an Excerpt
Match Me If You Can Chapter One
If Annabelle hadn't found a body lying under "Sherman," she wouldn't have been late for her appointment with the Python. But dirty bare feet stuck out from beneath her nana's ancient Crown Victoria. One extremely cautious glance under the car revealed they were attached to a homeless man known only as Mouse, who was famous in her Wicker Park neighborhood for his lack of personal hygiene and fondness for cheap wine. An empty screw-top bottle lay near his chest, which rose and fell with the sounds of his wet snorts. It testified to the importance of her appointment with the Python that she momentarily considered trying to maneuver the car around the body. But her alley parking space was too tight.
She'd allowed plenty of time to get dressed and make the trip downtown for her 11 a.m. appointment. Unfortunately, obstacles kept creeping up, beginning with Mr. Bronicki, who'd caught her at the front door and refused to leave until he'd had his say. Still, this wasn't an emergency yet. All she had to do was get Mouse out from under Sherman.
She gingerly prodded his ankle with her foot, noting as she did that the emergency mixture of Hershey's chocolate syrup and Elmer's glue she'd applied to a scuff mark on the heel of her favorite pair of strappy sandals hadn't entirely camouflaged the damage. "Mouse?"
He didn't stir.
She prodded him more vigorously. "Mouse, wake up. You have to come out of there."
Nothing. Which made it time to revert to more drastic measures.With a grimace, she bent over, gingerly picked up one filthy ankle, and gave it a shake. "Come on,Mouse.Wake up!"
Nada. If itweren't for his slurpy snorts, he might have been dead.
She shook him more vigorously. "This happens to be the most important day of my professional life, and I could use a little cooperation here."
Mouse wasn't interested in cooperation.
She needed more leverage. Gritting her teeth, she carefully slid up the skirt of the buttercup yellow raw silk suit she'd bought yesterday for 60 percent off at a Field's Day sale and crouched by the bumper. "If you don't get out from under there, I'm calling the police."
Mouse snorted.
She dug her heels into the ground and yanked on both filthy ankles. The morning sun beat down on her head. Mouse rolled over just far enough to wedge his shoulder under the chassis. She yanked again. Beneath her jacket, the white sleeveless shell she'd chosen to complement Nana's pearl teardrop earrings had begun to stick to her skin. She tried not to think about what was happening to her hair. This hadn't been the best time to run out of styling gel, and she prayed the ancient can of industrial-strength Aqua Net she'd found under the bathroom sink would tame the bedlam of her red curls, always the curse of her existence but especially so during a humid Chicago summer.
If she didn't get Mouse out in the next five minutes, she was in serious trouble. She made her way around to the driver's-side door. Her knees cracked as she crouched down again and peered into his slack-jawed face. "Mouse, you have to wake up! You can't stay here."
One grimy eyelid flicked open then slid shut again.
"Look at me." She poked his chest. "If you come out from under there, I'll give you five dollars."
His mouth moved and a guttural rumble oozed out, along with a string of saliva. "G'way."
The smell made her eyes water. "Why did you have to pick today to pass out under my car? And why my car? Why not Mr. Bronicki's car?" Mr. Bronicki lived across the alley and spent his retirement coming up with new ways to make Annabelle crazy.
Time was running out, and she was starting to panic. "Do you want to have sex? Because if you come out, we could maybe talk about it."
More drool and another putrid snort. This was hopeless. She jumped up and dashed toward the house.
Ten minutes later, she managed to lure him out with an open can of beer. Not her best moment.
By the time she'd maneuvered Sherman from the alley to the street, she had only twenty-one minutes left to navigate the traffic into the Loop and find a place to park. Dirt streaked her legs, her shirt was crumpled, and she'd broken a fingernail when she'd opened the beer can. The extra five pounds that had accumulated on her small-boned frame since Nana's death no longer seemed like such a big problem.
10:39.
She couldn't risk the construction gridlock on the Kennedy Expressway, so she cut over to Division. In the rearview mirror, another curl sprang free of her hair spray, and perspiration glistened on her forehead. She detoured down Halsted to avoid more road repair. As she maneuvered Sherman's tanklike bulk through the traffic, she scrubbed at her dirty legs with the damp paper towel she'd snatched up in the kitchen. Why couldn't Nana have driven a nice little Honda Civic instead of this bilious green gas-guzzling monster? At five feet three inches, Annabelle had to sit on a cushion to see over the steering wheel. Nana hadn't bothered with a cushion, but then she'd hardly ever driven. After a dozen years of use, Sherman's speedometer didn't quite register thirty-nine thousand miles.
A cab cut her off. She laid on the horn, and a trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. She glanced at her watch. 10:50. She tried to remember if she'd put on deodorant after her shower. Of course she had. She always put on deodorant. She lifted her arm to make sure, but just as she took a sniff, she hit a pothole and her mouth bumped against the buttercup yellow lapel, leaving behind a smudge of tawny lipstick . . .
Match Me If You Can. Copyright © by Susan Phillips. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
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