Elin Hilderbrand - The Matchmaker

“Okay.” Dabney hoped that if she agreed to this, he would let her off the hook.

“And another thing,” Box said. “When I was talking to that philistine Hughes at Elizabeth’s party, he said the two of you had bumped into each other on Main Street. You had a conversation with the man and didn’t tell me. But that isn’t the worst thing. The worst thing is that you told him I was in Washington consulting with the president!”

Oh dear God, she thought. Now was the time. She just had to say it. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“He’s a journalist, and by all accounts, a bloodthirsty, ruthless wolf. I don’t want my involvement with the administration reported to the Times or the Journal, or anywhere else!”

“Of course not, darling,” Dabney said. “Clen would never-”

“We don’t know what he would never do.”

“He would never turn anything I told him into a news story,” Dabney said. “That I can assure you.”

“I didn’t realize you had forgiven him so wholeheartedly,” Box said. “I didn’t realize you two were on such chummy terms.”

“We aren’t on ‘chummy terms,’” Dabney said.

“Don’t lie to me!” Box screamed. He had spittle on his lower lip and his glasses had slipped to the edge of his nose; they looked in danger of dropping to the floor. He had officially become someone else.

“Please,” Dabney said. “Please stop yelling. You’ll wake Miranda.”

“I don’t care about Miranda!”

“I think she has feelings for you,” Dabney said. “She’s been rosy ever since she got here.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass if Miranda is rosy or not!” Box said. “And I am most certain the answer is ‘not.’ She’s engaged to be married, Dabney.”

“But she loves you,” Dabney said. “I can see it.”

“You can see it! You can see it!” Box said. “I don’t give a good goddamn if you can see it! I have heard enough about rosy auras and perfect matches to last me the rest of my life! I don’t believe in it, Dabney. I don’t believe in it at all!”

“I’ve never been wrong,” Dabney said.

“You are wrong about me and Miranda! That much I can assure you!”

At that very moment, Dabney saw Miranda’s form at the top of the stairs.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” Miranda said. “I didn’t realize…I…I didn’t realize things were…so difficult for you.”

“No!” Dabney protested. “Please stay! We’re having a picnic at the beach tomorrow. And we have dinner reservations at the Boarding House.”

Miranda swayed on her feet. Even in the shadowy dark, Dabney could see her rosy aura.

“Let Miranda go,” Box said. “She wants to go.”

“I don’t want to go,” Miranda said. “But I feel I should.”

“She doesn’t want to go!” Dabney said.

Box squared his shoulders, then turned to address Miranda properly. “With apologies, Miranda, I think it would be best if you left tomorrow. I need some time alone with my wife.”

Agnes

In all her growing up, Agnes had never heard her parents so much as quarrel. On a rare occasion, they disagreed-Box was a Republican, Dabney a Democrat, so there was an endless debate about politics. And every so often Box would want to go to the Boarding House for dinner while Dabney would want to branch out and go to Cru or Ventuno. Agnes knew that her parents had their deeper issues-Dabney’s matchmaking, Box’s slavish devotion to work-but those issues were never, ever aired within Agnes’s earshot.

So the screaming match at midnight was startling. Agnes heard every word, Box yelling and Dabney screaming. Miranda’s voice eventually breaking in. She was a brave woman, braver than Agnes, who was cowering in bed like a child. Agnes was upset enough to reach for her phone and call CJ, but CJ would offer little in the way of support. CJ would take Box’s side.

The person Agnes really wanted to call was Riley. Agnes had been out earlier with Riley and Celerie at the bar at the Summer House, listening to the piano player, drinking champagne cocktails, having what Celerie called an “adult evening.” Celerie had trailed Agnes to the ladies’ room, and in one of those confidences that could take place only in a cramped bathroom after three champagne cocktails, Celerie had said, “Riley likes you, not me.” She had said this in a resigned, nonconfrontational way; she was merely stating a fact. It sounded like she was also giving Agnes permission to like Riley back.

Agnes knew that Riley liked her and not Celerie. It was obvious in his body language and in every word that came out of his mouth.

Agnes said, “I’m engaged.”

Celerie had shrugged. “Yeah, but you can’t deny that he’s a great guy, and he likes you. That has to feel good.”

Riley was a great guy, a warm, companionable presence, he was funny and smart and charming, he was a gentleman, and Agnes loved to listen as he sang along with the piano player and tapped out the rhythms on the bar. It did feel good to know that Riley liked her, and as Agnes listened to her parents below, she knew she could call him and explain the situation and he would have something soothing to say. He understood Dabney and appreciated her and valued her idiosyncrasies the way few people but Agnes did.

But as soon as Agnes decided that she would call Riley, the fighting stopped. It was over. Agnes heard footsteps on the stairs and bedroom doors closing.

Did you stop anywhere? Did you see anyone?

Box was only now asking the questions Agnes had been asking for weeks.

Forbearance: In the morning, she went for her power walk, waving to the same people, petting the same dogs. When she got home, the rest of the house was still asleep, so she set about squeezing oranges for juice, frying bacon, and making blueberry pancakes.

She was at the stove when Miranda came downstairs with her suitcase packed.

“I’d really like you to stay,” Dabney said. She hoped that the smells of the kitchen would indicate a return to normalcy. “Emotions were running high last night and we’d all had a lot of wine. I know Box wants you to stay.”

A shadow crossed Miranda’s face. It looked for a second like she might cry, and Dabney thought, I will then be in a position to comfort the woman about her unrequited love for my husband. She thought, How do I get myself into these predicaments? She thought, My matchmaking is going haywire. Agnes is still going to marry CJ, Clen went on a date with Elizabeth Jennings, and I have managed to make a grand debacle of Box and Miranda.

“Please stay,” Dabney said.

Miranda sighed. “I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t.”

Monday after work, Agnes bade her campers goodbye and drove out the Polpis Road toward number 436. Her heart was banging in her chest. She was petrified to discover her mother’s secret, and yet she had to know.

Again, she wanted to call Riley. It was he who had done the legwork. He should rightly be her sidekick, the Watson to her Sherlock Holmes.

She found the mailbox for 436 and turned into the driveway. She was buzzing with nerves. What was she going to find?

She eased down the long shell driveway, the Prius’s tires crunching along until she came to a clearing, a huge summer home not unlike other showstopping summer homes on the island-it was a fantasy of decks and balconies, gray cedar shingles and impeccable white trim, with a half-moon window over the front door. The house looked unoccupied; all the windows were shut and there was no sign of humanity. Agnes felt an easing in her chest, but also a letdown. This was the address Riley had given her, but it was nothing.

Then Agnes noticed that the driveway diverted behind the house and she followed it. She passed a beautiful rectangular pool shielded by privet. Agnes saw a table and chairs, a red canvas umbrella, a gas grill. And then she saw a smaller dwelling, the guest house, she supposed.

And a man, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, smoking a cigarette. He was eyeing her warily, and Agnes panicked. She was trespassing, no doubt about it, but she could just say that she’d turned down the wrong driveway; she was lost. She was looking for her mother, Dabney Kimball Beech. Would she be brave enough to say that?

The man dropped his cigarette into a jar of water. He stood up and moved out of the shade of the porch, into the late-afternoon sun. The man, Agnes saw, had only one arm. There was something about him. She had never met him before, she thought, but she knew him somehow.

She put down her window so that they could speak, although the man was huge and bearded and scary-looking and might easily have been dangerous. The man peered into the car at Agnes and his face opened in surprise, and she thought, He recognizes me. And the thought that tumbled right on top of that was Oh my God.

It was her father.

Couple #14: Shannon Wright and David Kimball, married sixteen years. Couple #29: Shannon Wright Kimball and Hal Green, together four years.

Shannon: I am the only person Dabney has set up twice. The first time, of course, was with her father.

I started working with David Kimball at the police department in 1973. My father had been on the job in Brockton, and so even though I came to Nantucket in the summer of 1972 intending to wait tables and get a good tan, it was no surprise that I ended up as the dispatcher at the Nantucket Police Department.

I met David the year before his wife disappeared. My first impression was: solid guy, Vietnam guy, maybe a bit angry, with the bitter edge of any vet. He was patriotic, serious, dedicated to his job in law enforcement. He was a fourth-generation islander, he had inherited some pretty nice real estate, and I’d heard he’d married a fancy summer girl, a Sankaty Beach Club member and all that. He had a young daughter named Dabney; he kept a picture of her on his desk, but I never saw the wife or the daughter in person that first year. They didn’t stop by and say hello like some of the other families.