The Friends We Keep (7 page)

“Mom!”

“Sit. I made those brownies you like for dessert, the ones with the walnuts.”

Jake pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and plopped into it. “Are you trying to give me heart disease before I'm twenty-five?”

“You're skin and bone! You could stand to put on a few pounds.”

“My body mass index is right where it should be, Mom. And I work at keeping it that way.”

I put the roast chicken on the table. “Does that mean you won't have a brownie?”

“No, Mom. I'm sure one little brownie won't kill me.” Jake grinned. “Maybe two.”

I beamed. Brad could have his twenty-four-year-old girlfriend. I had Jake.

17

 

“Is it my imagination or are we getting a lot of calls today?” I asked Ellen.

“No, it's not your imagination. I finally told Eric to only put through the calls from men. My time is too precious to waste.”

“What?” I asked.

Ellen perched on the edge of my desk. “Counselor,” she said, “the town is abuzz with the news. One of the most eligible bachelors in Boston is looking to settle down.”

“What?” I repeated. Maybe not the most eloquent reply.

“Oh, yes, it's true. People have nothing better to talk about than the imminent change in your domestic habits.”

“People,” I said, “are idiots.”

“Be that as it may, I've had more than one offer of a gift certificate to a spa in exchange for some inside information about your tastes and preferences.” Ellen held out a pink memo slip. “Usually,” she said, “I don't even bother to take down the names and numbers, but in this case, I thought you might be amused.”

I frowned, doubting I could ever find amusement in this situation, and took the slip of paper.

“I know this woman,” I said, looking up at Ellen in disbelief. “She's sixty if she's a day. Is she kidding?”

“Oh, I think she's quite serious. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we get a delivery of daylilies sometime this afternoon.”

“Daylilies?” I repeated stupidly.

“Yes. I told her they're your favorite flower.”

“They're not my favorite flower. I don't have a favorite flower.”

Ellen shrugged. “Well, she wanted to send you something. Besides, I like them.”

“Good. Then you can take them home with you tonight. This is insane.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “How did word get out that I'm—that I'm changing my ways? I never said a word to anyone about—” Suddenly, I felt massively embarrassed. “About maybe, you know, wanting to get married.”

Ellen looked at me with pity. “Women are highly perceptive, John. And the particular women who've launched this attack have been watching you closely for years. You miss a party, you leave a bar early, they know something is up. Once it's determined you're not having a torrid affair with a socialite holed up at the Ritz, the answer to your unusual behavior becomes clear. John Felitti is finished sowing his wild oats. He is, finally, bagable.”

“Bagable?”

“Yes, able to be bagged. Just waiting to be dragged down the aisle.”

“Oh, God.” I rubbed my forehead. “Who else has called?”

Ellen recited the names of three women who until that moment had been, as far as I knew, as devotedly single as I. “And suddenly, they want to get married,” I said numbly.

“They want to get married to a handsome, powerful, and, above all, wealthy attorney.”

I cringed. “So it's not about me at all, is that what you're saying?”

“That's right.”

“I suppose I should find that insulting. But I don't. I find it pitiful.”

But not pitiful enough to turn down the offer of a date with Vanessa Lambert, a very successful, reasonably attractive tax attorney I'd met on a few occasions. I didn't remember much about our brief conversations, but neither did I have a memory of being bored by them.

I did hesitate for a moment before agreeing to meet her. I'd heard about Vanessa's romantic habits. She picked out the man; she picked out the restaurant. But when it came time to pick up the check, that's when Vanessa took a powder. Literally. The check arrived and Vanessa sailed off to the ladies' room.

But, I thought, what the hell? So she's got a thing about not paying for dinner. I usually paid for my dates, anyway. And I was absolutely certain there was no way that Vanessa, a woman who really did seem to have it all, would be interested in marrying anytime soon. I'd pass a few pleasant hours with her, maybe pick up a tax tip, and be home—alone—by ten.

 

The best-laid plans of mice and men . . . We were seated no more than a moment or two when Vanessa said: “I don't have to have kids, do I?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” she said, her gaze frank and forthright, “I like everything to be clear up front. I think that's best when negotiating a deal, don't you?”

“Uh,” I said eloquently, “yes, but—”

“Good. So, if we get married I don't have to have kids, right? I mean, that's not part of the deal, is it? Because if it is—”

I put up my hand, as if flesh and blood could hold back this craziness. “Part of what deal, Vanessa?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

Vanessa gave me a look that seemed to say,
“Don't be coy, it's annoying”
and said: “Look, John, everyone knows you're in the market for a wife, it's all over town.”

“It is?” I asked, though, of course, I already knew as much.

“Yes,” Vanessa replied briskly. “And everyone knows there's no way you're going to settle down with some subpar woman with a poor education, a dead-end job, and a cheap haircut.”

“Oh.”

“So,” she went on efficiently, “as the kind of woman everyone knows you're going to pick to be your wife, I'm asking: Kids aren't part of the deal, are they? Because I've never been interested in doing the mommy thing and I'm not about to change my mind at thirty-five.”

Love? Wasn't love supposed to have something to do with marriage? Clearly, not for Vanessa. I was being interviewed for the job of husband; she assumed she was being interviewed for the job of wife. I was an unwilling participant in a very strange sort of corporate merger.

I cleared my throat. I didn't need to but I did. Vanessa was looking at me in expectation, hands folded on the table.

“Well, Vanessa,” I said. “I'm sorry. I guess this meeting—I mean, this date—is over because you see, I do want kids. Lots of them, four or maybe five. And I've been considering the benefits of homeschooling. Of course, the mother would be in charge of that. And of getting dinner on the table for the kids by six.”

Vanessa's face registered nothing, not even minor disappointment. “Negotiable?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I'm afraid this issue is one hundred percent nonnegotiable.”

Vanessa absorbed this for a moment, then unfolded her hands and sat back. “Well,” she said. “Okay. It's too bad, really. I could see us being married. We look good together, don't you think?”

Yikes, I thought. This woman brings shallow to a whole new level.

“That's irrelevant at this point, Vanessa.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Vanessa picked up her menu. “Let's order anyway. I've been dying to come here for ages. I hear the food is fabulous.”

“You want to stay and have dinner together?”

Vanessa shrugged. “Sure. Why not? No hard feelings, right? It's just business.”

I looked at her Botoxed face, at her lifted eyes and thought:
No feelings whatsoever
. But, I hadn't eaten since breakfast. “Sure,” I said, “no hard feelings.”

And if this really is just business, I thought, maybe there's a way I can expense this dinner.

18

 

I stared up at the white ceiling. I put my hands over my face. I pulled my hair. I stared up at the white ceiling.

I felt as if I'd gotten involved in something almost sordid. I felt slightly disgusted with myself.

Listen to me. Almost sordid. Slightly disgusted. Why couldn't I come right out and damn my mindless behavior?

Here's the truth: By going home with this stranger named Cat—this woman next to me in bed—I'd proven that I wasn't in any way master of my domain. And if I couldn't do something as basic to maturity as control my appetites, sexual or otherwise—not my needs, but my desires—then how the hell did I expect to find and sustain a marriage, that ultimate commitment to something larger than the self: the union?

I snuck a peek at the body lying next to me. The sheets were in a tangle around her. Her mouth was open. Her hair was a mess. The small tattoo of a rose on her shoulder looked muddy in the weak, early-morning light.

Her name was Cat. I didn't know her full name. “My friends call me Cat,” she'd said. As if I was a friend, or about to be one. As if friends were a dime a dozen.

Catherine. Kathleen. Something more exotic, like Catalina. I suppose I owed it to her to know her full name; I had, after all, had sex with her. But I just couldn't bring myself to wake her and ask.

Instead, I slipped out of bed and into my clothes, and left.

By lunch I'd made up my mind. After the disaster that was dinner with Vanessa (something I easily could have avoided) and my stupid one-night stand (ditto), I no longer felt confident in my ability to date wisely. It was clear I needed help. And—with some trepidation—I knew just where to turn.

19

 

“Do you know how many years I've been waiting for you to ask me to fix you up?” Teri asked.

“A lot?” I guessed.

“Since you were thirty. Mom's been dying to see you married. She's going to flip when she hears—”

“She's not going to hear anything,” I said firmly. “Not until there's a ring on someone's finger and that might never happen.”

Teri considered. “I suppose she could get all worked up for nothing. But knowing that you're finally considering marriage might really give her something to live for.”

“She has Dad to live for,” I pointed out. “And her grandchildren. Come on, Teri, don't make this tougher on me than it has to be.”

Teri sighed magnificently. “Oh, all right. I won't say anything. But I can tell Chrissy, can't I? She might know someone, too.”

“Okay,” I agreed with some hesitation, “but make sure she knows what kind of woman I'm attracted to. I mean, she should be intelligent and well educated and, you know, pretty.” Just like the woman Vanessa and her ilk are sure I'll be choosing. Assuming I can find someone who will have me.

“What are we, stupid? Do you think I'd set you up with a moron?”

“No, but . . .” Maybe, I thought, this wasn't such a good idea after all. “Look, don't go out of your way,” I said. “It's really no big deal. Just, if you happen to meet someone you think I might like, you might mention me to her. Don't push it.”

“Don't worry,” Teri said wryly. “I do have a life, you know. I can't afford to spend all my time finding a girlfriend for my brother.”

“Thanks, Teri. I appreciate your help. And I appreciate the fact that you haven't ribbed me about how pathetic I am, forty-two years old and asking his little sister to fix him up.”

Teri laughed. “Oh, inside I'm ribbing away. Look, I've got to go. But I'll talk to you soon. We'll have you walking down that aisle in no time.”

“Okay,” I squeaked, imagining a groom's stiff white collar strained around my neck. “Okay.”