Elin Hilderbrand - The Matchmaker

Just before we were to be seated for dinner, Dabney grabbed my arm.

“I’m moving you,” she said.

“What?” I said. I held a place card that said Indigo Table, which Dabney snatched out of my hands.

She said, “I haven’t been a very good or attentive friend the past few years, I know that. But I am going to make up for it now. Follow me. I want you at the Pink Table.”

The Pink Table was up front, at the edge of the dance floor, where the orchestra would soon be playing. I felt like I was on an airplane, getting bumped to first class, or at a hotel being upgraded to an oceanfront suite. I hoped Dabney wasn’t moving me solely because she felt guilty about neglecting our friendship. We had had a great time laughing in the shop about “the Man from Nantucket,” but we had also bonded on serious topics-her mother leaving, her all-consuming romance with Clendenin, my unwanted role as the “other woman.” I loved Dabney, I was always going to love Dabney, no matter where I was seated at her wedding.

Then I saw Brian. Blond guy with nice broad shoulders and little glasses.

“Genevieve,” Dabney said. “This is Box’s second cousin once removed, Brian Lefebvre. He just graduated from Harvard Law School and he’s setting up a practice on the island.”

Lefebvre, I thought. He’s French. Harvard Law School. Moving to Nantucket.

I took a seat next to him and smiled. It all sounded good, but I was wary.

“Nice to meet you, Brian,” I said. “I’m Genevieve Martine.” We shook hands. He seemed very nervous, which I found charming.

Dabney said, “I’ll let you two get acquainted. I have to go smile for the camera.”

I saw Brian reach out and touch Dabney’s arm. I saw him mouth the words thank you, and I busied myself with unfolding the pink linen swan on my plate and placing it neatly in my lap.

He said, “So, Genevieve…” Off to a good start because he pronounced my name perfectly. “What do you do on the island?”

“I’m the office manager for Dr. Ted Field’s family medical practice,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “And are you…single?”

“Yes,” I said. “Are you?”

He nodded his head emphatically. “Yes,” he said.

He wasn’t wearing a ring, but as I had learned, this meant nothing.

“Really?” I said.

“Well,” he said.

And I thought, Yep, here it comes. He’s separated, but divorce is pending. He’s married, but his wife lives overseas. He just said he was single because he was stunned by my beauty; what he really meant was that he is married.

“I was married,” he said. “A long time ago. Five years ago. It lasted seven months, no kids. I like to think of it as taking a mulligan.”

“A mulligan,” I said. “Like in golf.”

“Right,” he said. “Where you get to start over without being penalized.”

I narrowed my eyes, still skeptical. “But you are divorced, right? Legally divorced?”

“Not only divorced,” he said. “Annulled.” He leaned closer to me and whispered, “I’m Catholic. The annulment was very important to my mother.”

I couldn’t believe it. I said, “You’re telling me the truth, right?”

He said, “Dabney told me to bring my divorce papers along to show you. She told me to bring my annulment signed by the bishop. But I thought she was kidding.”

I laughed mightily at that. “She told you to bring your divorce papers?”

He smiled and blushed and in that moment was just about the most adorable man I had ever laid eyes on.

And then I realized what was happening. We were at the Pink Table. Pink-of course!

He received an e-mail from the Department of the Treasury: the president and the secretary needed him in Washington. He let the e-mail sit unanswered for nearly twelve hours while he decided what to do. Then, somehow, an aide tracked him down at the Connaught, and left a message with the front desk. A girl just out of university handed the message to Box with wide-eyed awe. It probably seemed to her like something from a movie, but to Box the news was merely tiresome. He threw the message away.

But when he awoke in the morning, there was a voice mail on his cell phone from the secretary himself. The president badly needed his consult; he was getting a lot of pressure from Wall Street about interest rates and trade sanctions in North Korea. Things were a mess now, but they might be looking at an even bigger mess, and “we all know how the president feels about his legacy vis-à-vis the deficit.” And, “Please, Box, as a favor to me personally, as a service to your country…”

Box sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled. First-term presidents were worried about reelection; second-term presidents, their legacies.

Dabney hadn’t wanted him to come to London at all. He couldn’t imagine her reaction when he called and asked if he could extend his trip for a week in Washington.

But it was the President of the United States, and the Secretary of the Treasury, and, more important, it was work. As at least one of his students pointed out each semester, most economic theory had no actual bearing on people’s lives. But this would. If Box didn’t go and put his hands on it, someone else would, and he or she would muck it up.

He called Dabney.

“Darling,” he said. He then launched into his careful argument: the Secretary of the Treasury, the nation’s economic policy, another week away, he was sorry. But even with a side trip to Washington, he would be back on Nantucket by the Fourth of July.

Dabney surprised him by saying, “Of course, darling, by all means, if the secretary needs you-go! I’m so proud and thrilled for you. What an honor!”

Box had to agree with her: it was an honor. He was glad that Dabney was back to her supportive and agreeable self. She was far more encouraging than he’d anticipated.

“Thank you, darling,” he said. “For understanding.”

“Don’t be silly,” Dabney said.

Her voice was light, even joyful. She must be feeling much better, he thought.

Box called the secretary back.

Nina walked into the office wearing a chic new pair of glasses and announced that she had a date with Dr. Marcus Cobb for the following Wednesday night.

Dabney was nearly speechless. “Who is Dr. Marcus Cobb?” she asked. The name sounded familiar, but Dabney couldn’t place it. It sounded like the name of one of the guys Oprah had elevated to celebrity status-Dr. Phil, Dr. Oz-but that wasn’t right.

“The eye doctor,” Nina said. “He joined the Chamber earlier this week.”

“Right!” Dabney said. She had just processed his application yesterday. “I am losing it!”

“He asked me out when he came into the office,” Nina said.

“Did he?” Dabney said. She was surprised that this was the first she was hearing of it. “Where is he taking you?”

“To the Galley for dinner,” Nina said.

The Galley Beach was not just a good first date, it was the best first date. “I can’t believe it,” Dabney said.

“You can’t believe someone would want to take me out?” Nina said.

“No!” Dabney said. “It’s not that.” She didn’t know how to explain what she was feeling. If Nina was finally going to go on a date, Dabney had wanted to be the one to set her up. She wanted to redeem herself for the Jack Copper debacle. “When do I get to meet him?”

“I’m not sure,” Nina said. Her face held an expression that Dabney couldn’t decipher. “I think maybe I’d like to take this one slow…maybe keep it to myself for a while…would you understand if I didn’t introduce you right away?”

“I promise not to say anything,” Dabney said. “I know I messed up with Jack, Nina. I would love to meet Dr. Marcus Cobb, just get a look at him, and I swear not to say a word about auras or smoke. I swear!”

“Dabney,” Nina said, “I’m asking for space with this one. Okay?”

“Oh,” Dabney said. “Okay.” She tried not to feel hurt. She supposed she should be glad that Nina had taken care of things on her own. Dabney was terribly busy.

She and Clen had been spending nearly every afternoon together-either at the pool or at the beach. Clen preferred the pool. It was less of a hassle and the wind didn’t ruffle his newspapers and there was indoor plumbing, as well as the blender for margaritas. Dabney was becoming accustomed to frozen drinks and homemade sandwiches-one more delectable than the last-delivered to her chaise.

Dabney preferred the beach because to her, the beach was Nantucket, and it returned her to the summers of her youth. Once upon a time, Dabney and Clen had been the King and Queen of Madequecham Beach. Clen was in charge of bringing the keg each Sunday, and Dabney organized the firewood, the charcoal grills, the hot dogs and hamburgers and marinated chicken thighs, the chips and potato salad and brownies. They played horseshoes and touch football and they threw the Frisbee. They listened to the Who and the Boss and Van Morrison. Making love in the green grass, behind the stadium with you, my Brown-Eyed Girl.

They had good, long talks during those afternoons. Clen told her the story of how he’d lost his arm, which was so horrific and disturbing that Dabney couldn’t bear to think about it. She would reach out periodically and stroke the skin of his stump and think of what a brave man he was, what a resilient man.

She signed out on the log nearly every day, writing, errands. Her errands were: Beach. Pool. Sandwiches. Talk. Love.

Love.

Clen had said to her, “Take the words back. I want to hear you take them back.”

She laid her hand on his cheek and looked into the green glen and weak tea of his eyes. “I take them back.”

I don’t love you.

“Tell me you didn’t mean them when you said them.”