Elin Hilderbrand - The Matchmaker

Riley took a right onto Cliff Road, and Agnes began the lookout. She checked the driveways of all the grandiose homes on the right that overlooked the Sound. Maybe some friends had appeared from off-island and persuaded Dabney to play hooky from work and from Business After Hours? Her friends Albert and Corrine Maku sometimes showed up and demanded spontaneous fun. There might have been other people Agnes didn’t know about-maybe one of her couples from 1989 or 2002 or 2011?

Really, what other explanation could there be?

Riley fiddled with the radio and, finding nothing satisfactory, turned it off. He said, “So, Agnes, do you have a boyfriend?”

“A fiancé,” she said.

“Oh, okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Your mother didn’t tell me you were engaged, and you’re not wearing a ring.”

Nope, Agnes thought guiltily. She had taken off her ring. Agnes had accidentally seen the receipt for the ring lying on CJ’s mail table; it had cost him twenty-five thousand dollars. Agnes had nearly fainted. A twenty-five-thousand-dollar ring. Agnes could never, ever wear it to Morningside Heights, nor could she wear it on Nantucket as she led biking and rock-climbing excursions. The ring was in its box on her dresser. It was pretty but useless, a caged parakeet.

“My mother didn’t tell you?” she said.

“No, but like I said, I’m not exactly privy to office secrets.”

“It’s not a secret,” Agnes said. “Although maybe my mother wants to keep it that way. She doesn’t approve.”

“No?”

“No.” Agnes sighed. “You do know, right, that my mother is a matchmaker?”

Riley threw his head back and laughed into the evening air.

“She’s set up forty-two couples,” Agnes said, “all of them still together. She’s famous for it. She sees an aura-pink if it’s good, green if it’s bad. And my aura with CJ is green, so she can’t give her blessing.”

“You’re kidding,” Riley said.

“Not kidding.”

“I told you I was only seeing the tip of the iceberg,” Riley said. “She’s a matchmaker! No wonder she was so excited when I told her I played Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof.”

Agnes smiled. It was impossible to sustain a bad mood with this guy: he was too happy-go-lucky. “You’d better watch out,” she said. “I think she has plans for you and Celerie.”

“You think?” Riley said. “I was considering asking Celerie out, actually.”

Ridiculously, Agnes experienced a pang of jealousy at this statement. Oh my God, what was wrong with her? “You should!” she said.

“But I think she has someone back home,” Riley said. “In Minnesota.”

“Minnesota is pretty far away,” Agnes said.

“You’re right,” he said. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll ask if she wants to go up to Great Point with me on Saturday.”

Another pang of jealousy: Agnes loved Great Point. To her, the perfect summer day was a cooler full of drinks, a couple of avocado BLTs from Something Natural, and a trip up to Great Point in a Jeep like this one-top down, radio blaring.

Agnes watched as Riley negotiated the curves of Madaket Road. He and Celerie would make a good couple. Agnes had thought that when she saw them together at the office. But earlier, at the office, she hadn’t known Riley. She hadn’t heard him play “Puff the Magic Dragon,” she hadn’t watched him eat pizza, she hadn’t talked with him about her job. It was amazing how, after the past hour, she now felt like she had some sort of claim on him. The thought of him bestowing his affection on Celerie with her bouncy ponytail and her cheerleader moves and her favorite this and other-favorite that was upsetting.

No-what was really upsetting was that Agnes couldn’t locate her mother. They weren’t going to find her driving out to Madaket, of this much Agnes was suddenly certain.

“Would you mind taking me home?” Agnes asked.

Riley hit the brakes and the case of his guitar bumped against the back of Agnes’s seat, emitting a dissonant chord. “What? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Agnes said. “This is silly. It’s a wild-goose chase. I’ll just wait for my mother at home.”

“Oh,” Riley said. “Okay, no problem. But just so you know, I’m happy to keep looking.” He sounded wistful. Well, he had been enjoying the adventure, and now it was over. It had nothing to do with Agnes.

“I appreciate that,” Agnes said. “But I’d like to go home.”

Riley’s cute face with his perfect, straight white teeth settled into an expression of something like hurt or regret. But that would be erased, Agnes was sure, once he asked out Celerie and Celerie said yes. It would, no doubt, be rosy auras all around.

It was ten thirty when Dabney finally walked in the door. Agnes was sitting at the kitchen table with an empty glass of milk in front of her. She had eaten half a dozen of her mother’s oatmeal cookies and had let three of CJ’s phone calls go to voice mail.

Dabney was clearly startled to see Agnes; she nearly dropped her Bermuda bag. “Oh! Darling, I’m sorry…I didn’t expect…what are you doing…what?”

Agnes studied her mother. She was wearing the same navy polo shirt and madras skirt, penny loafers and pearls that she’d been wearing when she’d left that morning. Her hair was smooth in its headband. But something was different. What was it? She looked like she’d gotten sun. Had she been at the beach? Agnes wondered. She thought of Riley and Celerie up at Great Point, but that served only to irritate her further.

“Where have you been?” Agnes said. Her voice had a jagged edge. She could remember using such a tone with her mother only once before.

Dabney’s expression was inscrutable at first. This woman, whom Agnes had believed to be so transparent, was hiding something. Tip of the iceberg, indeed!

“Tell me right now!” Agnes said. She was only too aware that she sounded like the parent in this scenario. “You left work at noon. You didn’t answer your cell phone! You skipped Business After Hours! Where. Have. You. Been.”

Dabney’s eyes shone defiantly.

“Out,” she said.

The reversal, Agnes thought, was complete.

She was utterly predictable; she never failed to act exactly like herself. The only surprising thing she had ever done in her life was to start this extramarital love affair.

But it was Clendenin Hughes. He had plucked her heart out of her chest when she was fourteen years old and she had never been able to reclaim it.

Love was her only excuse.

As soon as Dabney opened the door to Clen’s cottage, she smelled garlic and ginger. Clen was at the stove; when he turned around, he didn’t look surprised to see her, which she found maddening. She handed him a bottle of Gentleman Jack; she had stopped at Hatch’s on her way to his house.

He said, “Only you would bring a hostess gift to a sexual rendezvous.”

“That’s not what this is,” she said.

He said, “Wanna bet?” And in one fluid movement, he scooped her up with his strong right arm, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her to the bed.

There was only one thing to do: she laughed.

“Stop!” she said.

“What?”

“Turn off the burner on the stove,” she said. “You don’t want to burn the house down.”

“Wanna bet?”

It was the same, it was different. She didn’t have time to say what was which or which was what because there was no thinking involved. It was, in fact, like going up in flames. His mouth devoured every part of her, his skin burned against hers, his size crushed her, but as much as he gave her, she wanted more, faster, more. He sucked her nipples and she groaned, pressing herself against his thigh, leaving him wet there. How long had it been since she’d felt this way? When he thrust into her, she nearly broke in half; she opened her mouth and howled like an animal. She had slept with only two men in her life-Clen and Box-but Clen now was a third person. She was intoxicated by his physicality. His tongue, his lips, the way he tasted, the way he smelled, her hands in his thick hair, her cheek against his beard, skin on skin. It had been years since she’d even remembered she had a body, desire, needs.

When it was over, he peppered her face and neck with kisses as the sweat cooled on her body. She reached out and stroked the curve of his stump. The skin there was as soft as a baby’s skin.

She closed her eyes. She saw cherry blossoms, bubble gum, and raspberries so ripe and juicy that they fell from the branches with the slightest touch.

When it was time for Dabney to head home, she started to cry.

Clen said, “Oh, Cupe, don’t.” Which made her cry harder.

“Come tomorrow,” he said.

“I can’t!” she said.

“Just for five minutes,” he said. “Please.”

The next day, Dabney signed out on the log at noon, writing errands/lunch.

“More errands?” Nina said slyly.

Dabney gave her a pointed look.

“I don’t think you should sign out on the log when you leave,” Nina said. “Just go. Vaughan hasn’t checked the log in years.”

Dabney appreciated Nina’s leniency and her willingness to be an accomplice, but signing out on the office log had become a discipline of working at the Chamber, and Dabney couldn’t bring herself to abandon it. She would conduct her love affair during business hours, but she would still sign out, thereby holding fast to one shred of her personal integrity.

The “five minutes” turned into an afternoon by the pool. Clen made watermelon margaritas and they floated on blow-up rafts. Clen was still a good swimmer, despite his missing arm; he moved through the water cleanly, with power. Dabney gazed at him with amazement and he said, “I bet you thought I’d go in circles, didn’t you?” The water brought out his playful self; they splashed and dunked each other and poured more margaritas and generally acted like the teenagers they had been, so long ago.