Elin Hilderbrand - The Matchmaker

Celerie picked that moment to pop out of the back office for her lunch break. “What is this?” she said. She eyed the white-haired man holding the water and the plum. “You aren’t by any chance Professor Beech?”

He gave a little bow. “I am.”

“Your husband!” Celerie said, as though introducing him to Dabney. “And he brought you fruit and water. How lovely!”

Dabney was stymied. What was going on here? She took the plum and the Perrier, and, at a loss for the words to make both Box and Celerie disappear, she bit into the plum. It was succulent, and juice dripped down her chin. From his pocket, Box produced a napkin. He had thought of everything.

“You must be Celerie,” Box said, offering his hand. “I’m John Beech, but please call me Box.”

“My roommate is going to die when I tell her I met you,” Celerie said. “She was an econ major at Penn. She used your textbook!”

Box was used to this kind of godlike status among the collegiate and newly graduated. “I hope she doesn’t actually die.”

Celerie clapped her hands together at her chest, as if prepping for the next cheer. Dabney had to get out of there, but how? She made eyes at Nina, who was nervously sucking on her gold cross.

Nina said, “Dabney, you should go. You’ll be late.”

“Go?” Box said. “Go where? Where do you have to go?”

Nina said, “Dabney has a meeting with a potential Chamber member.”

Dabney had never loved Nina Mobley as much as she did at that very moment. On her way home from seeing Clen, she was going to call and order Nina a fresh bouquet of flowers.

“Really?” Box said. “Who’s the potential member?”

Nina laughed. Dabney thought, Who is the potential member? Nina said, “Oh, who can remember? The phone has been ringing all day.”

“It sure has!” Celerie said, her blond head bobbing.

Box said to Dabney, “Surely you must know whom you’re meeting with.”

“Yes,” Dabney said. She took another bite of the plum, then wiped her lips. “Internet start-up.”

“An Internet start-up is joining the Chamber?”

“Nantucket based,” Dabney said. She threw the plum pit and the napkin into the trash. “I have to go.”

“Cancel your meeting,” Box said. “I’m taking you to lunch at the Yacht Club.”

“Awwww…” Celerie said. “Sweet!”

“I can’t just cancel my meeting,” Dabney said. “I was supposed to leave five minutes ago.”

“Cancel,” Box said. “I’m not asking you.” His voice was stern. This was suddenly a showdown, and Dabney reared up. She didn’t like Box telling her what to do. She didn’t want to cancel her imaginary meeting; she wanted to be with Clen.

Celerie suddenly seemed to realize she was in the middle of something. She signed out on the log, then headed for the stairs. “Toodaloo!”

“Nice meeting you!” Box called out after her. Box checked the log. “You wrote ‘errands’ on the log,” he said. “I thought you had a meeting.”

“I do,” Dabney said weakly. “I was going to run errands after my meeting.”

To Nina, Box said, “Nina, please cancel Dabney’s ‘meeting.’ I’m taking my wife to lunch.”

Dabney wasn’t able to text Clen until nearly ninety minutes later, after she had suffered through lunch at the Yacht Club. In reality, lunch at the Yacht Club was lovely-a table outside overlooking the harbor while Diane played standards on the piano, a blue crab and avocado salad, iced tea for Dabney and a glass of white Bordeaux for Box, children wearing life preservers headed out for their sailing lessons, couples in white coming off the tennis courts sweaty and chuckling. Dabney wished she could relax and enjoy it, but it was all she could do to keep her toe from impatiently tapping. She wanted to text Clen at the very least to tell him she couldn’t make it; she hated to think of him sitting on the porch in the granny rocker, waiting in vain. He had probably made sandwiches and possibly margaritas; Dabney had tucked her bathing suit into her bag, anticipating a swim in the pool.

Every man and woman over the age of eighty who was eating lunch at the Yacht Club wanted to stop and talk to Box and Dabney. All of them wore hearing aids, hence much of each conversation had to be repeated two or three times. These were friends of her father’s and the parents of her old summer friends and some were acquaintances of Box’s who wanted to know why their investments were doing so poorly. Box was an economist! Dabney wanted to scream. He dealt in theory! If people wondered about their investments, they should call their stockbrokers!

“Dessert?” Box asked.

“God, no,” Dabney said. “I have to get back to work.”

She texted Clen: Sorry, Beast, I got ensnared in a situation I couldn’t get out of. Can I come see you at five o’clock?

Clen texted back: I have plans at five o’clock.

He was like a starving man standing at a groaning board. He had to keep from stuffing his face like a glutton. He wanted to know everything about Agnes. When had she learned to ride a bike? Who had taught her piano lessons? What book had changed her life? Had his name ever been mentioned around the house? What kind of movies did she like? Why Dartmouth and not Harvard, where the economist taught and Dabney had gone? What size shoe did she wear? Did she sneeze in sets of three like he did?

“Yes,” she said to this last question. “Actually, I do.”

And they laughed.

She wanted to know about Vietnam and Cambodia and Thailand, his life there. Twenty years, and yet his lasting memories were few, and they were general rather than specific-the oppressive heat, the air so thick it was like agar or jelly, you could practically chew it. The stink of diesel fuel and cigarette smoke. The trash, the traffic, the seemingly endless streams of people, so many people, how did one distinguish himself?

Babies on motorbikes, young girls in brothels, the same question repeating on ticker tape through Clen’s mind: Who is in charge here?

Clen said, “Tell me about your fiancé.”

She wasn’t sure what to tell Clen about her fiancé, who was technically no longer her fiancé. Agnes had sent the ring back by Federal Express with a note that said, “I’m not sure what I want. Please don’t call or text me. I need time to think. I will call you when I return to New York on the first of September.” She had tracked the package; it had arrived the afternoon before, and there had, surprisingly, been no phone calls to either her cell phone or the house. He was respecting her wishes. Training camp for his NFL players was less than a week away; CJ was probably busy trying to finalize a deal for Bantam Killjoy. There might not be room for hurt feelings about Agnes. He might look at the ring and think that Agnes clearly didn’t know a good thing when she saw one, that she was being influenced by her evil witch of a mother; he would take the ring and give it to the next woman he dated, after he wooed her with presents and flowers and his special table at Nougatine.

To Clen, Agnes said, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Clen said.

Right. Clen was a good, neutral person to talk to about this.

“Has my mother told you anything about CJ?”

“Not really,” Clen said. “Only that she doesn’t approve. No rosy aura or whatever. Not a perfect match.”

“She doesn’t approve,” Agnes said. “But that’s not why I did what I did. Or not the whole reason, anyway.”

“What did you do?”

“Sent the ring back,” Agnes said. “I’ve been away from CJ for three weeks and two days, and I feel great. I’m my own person again.”

Clen raised his eyebrows.

“CJ is very confident,” Agnes said. “Very Master-of-the-Universe. He snaps his fingers and things happen. Front-row seats to the Knicks, and to Broadway shows, backstage passes to Madison Square Garden. A car service all the time with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot on ice because he knows it’s my favorite champagne. Flowers at work, love notes on my pillow. Victor Cruz, who plays for the New York Giants, showed up in Morningside Heights to sign autographs for my kids. Really sweet stuff. And he’s smart…and he’s funny…” Agnes blinked. What had she done? Had she made the world’s biggest mistake? “He’s a lot older than me, eighteen years older, and he expects certain behavior from me. I’ve spent the past year wanting to be his good girl. Maybe I was looking for a father figure.” She looked at Clen and laughed unhappily.

He said, “Well. That’s not impossible.”

“But since I’ve been at home, I realized that my relationship with CJ isn’t healthy. He’s very controlling. I’m like a marionette. I can’t disagree with him, I can’t make my own decisions. He hated my friends, so I don’t see them anymore. The relationship looks good to most people-Box loves CJ, they’re best buddies-but it’s bad. Really bad. My mother was right.”

“She usually is,” Clen said.

“She always is,” Agnes said. “It’s weird.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Then Clen brought two glasses out of the cabinet.

“Bourbon?” he said.

“Please.”

“You haven’t told your mother you sent back the ring?”

“No,” Agnes said. “I don’t want her to know yet. I don’t want her to know about CJ, and I don’t want her to know about you.”

“I feel sorry for the guy,” Clen said. “Losing out on a future with you.”

“He’ll find someone else in two minutes,” Agnes said. She threw back the bourbon. “I kind of like this guy who works for Mom. His name is Riley, and he’s studying to be a dentist.”

“I’ve heard her talk about the dentist,” Clen said. “He surfs and plays the guitar. I thought maybe your mother kind of liked him.”