The Matchmaker (22 page)

T
he day Miranda left, Box announced that he realized that for the past three or four (read: eight or nine) years, he had bungled his spousal duties. He had not paid Dabney the kind of attention she deserved, he had not loved or appreciated her ardently enough. But now, all that was going to change.

He didn’t leave Dabney alone for a minute.

When she awoke, he was downstairs in the kitchen fixing her coffee. He let the
Wall Street Journal
lay on the table, untouched, and instead engaged Dabney in conversation. How had she slept? What had she dreamed about?

“What did I
dream
about?” Dabney said. “Who can remember?”

She said this to cover for the fact that she had dreamed about Clen; she dreamed about Clen all the time now. Last night, she and Clen had been naked, holding hands, circling. They were models for Matisse’s
La Danse.

Next, Box asked what was going on at the Chamber. How were the information assistants working out, had a love affair started between the two of them? How was Nina Mobley, her kids must be nearly grown by now. Were any of them applying to college? And what of George Mobley? Did he still have a gambling problem?

Dabney stared at Box, nonplussed. It was possible that three or four or eight or nine years ago she had yearned for Box to take an interest in the daily minutiae of her life this way. For years, decades even, she had rattled on about this and that with only half, or a quarter, of his attention. It was as though he had stored up every detail she had ever told him in some mental vault that he had only now magnanimously decided to unlock. She wished he would pick up the
Journal
and let her drink her coffee in peace. Was it horrible of her to think this way?

Box wondered about the date and location of the next Business After Hours. He wanted to go with Dabney; there were people he hadn’t seen in years whom he wanted to catch up with. And what about trying a new restaurant this week? What about Lola Burger, or The Proprietors? Should he include Agnes, or would it be more romantic just the two of them?

Romantic?
Dabney thought.

She said, “I’m going for my walk now.”

“Dabney,” Box said.

She stopped at the door and turned around.

“You have to make a doctor’s appointment,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “I realize this.”

“If you don’t have time to call,” Box said, “then I’ll call for you.”

“I’ll call,” Dabney said.

“How’s your pain?” he asked.

“You have no idea,” she said.

Thank heavens for work. At work she was free, Nina knew all, so Dabney didn’t have to lie or pretend. She spent all morning planning the next Business After Hours, which would be held at Grey Lady Real Estate and catered by Met on Main. Dabney chuckled as she thought about how quickly Box would renege once he found out the locale. He detested all Realtors. In the spirit of Holden Caulfield, he believed them all to be phonies, and horrible gossips on top of it. And he had never wanted to go to Met on Main because there was a branch on Newbury Street in Boston that was supposed to be far superior. No, when push came to shove, he would pass on Business After Hours.

In the back office, both Celerie and Riley were on the phone; the rush leading up to August was upon them.

At noon, Dabney said, “I’m going to run some errands.”

Nina nodded her assent, and Dabney signed out on the log.

On top of the filing cabinet behind Nina’s desk were the wilting remains of the lilies Nina had received the week before from Dr. Marcus Cobb. Nina and Marcus Cobb were falling in love, and they were doing so without any help from Dabney. If Dabney interfered at this point, she would only mess things up. Her matchmaking ability seemed to be stuck in reverse.

Dabney turned to go, but at that moment they both heard the door downstairs open and then slam shut, and they heard footsteps on the stairs. Dabney worried that it was Vaughan Oglethorpe, and that at any second the office would be suffused with the smell of embalming fluid. Dabney would have to deal with Vaughan, and then light her green-apple-scented candles. She wanted to get to Clen; it had been four days since she’d seen him, and, like Nina’s flowers, she was starting to wilt.

“Hello, ladies!” The person walking into the office was…Box.

Nina gasped and Dabney felt so startled at the sight of him that she grabbed the edge of Nina’s desk.

“Darling!” Dabney said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was at home working when I had a revelation,” Box said. “I remembered how much you love that poem by William Carlos Williams, and so I brought you a cold plum.”

Dabney gaped at him.
That poem by William Carlos Williams?
“This Is Just to Say”—yes, Dabney had always loved that poem. In the years of Agnes’s growing up, a copy of the poem had been taped to the refrigerator door. It was an apology poem—
forgive me, they were delicious, so sweet and so cold
. Box was holding out the plum and a bottle of chilled Perrier with a silly grin on his face.

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.

H
e 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.”

S
he 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.”

“She has too many men as it is.”

“Agreed,” Clen said.

As Agnes pulled out of Clendenin’s driveway that evening, a blond woman driving a Mercedes pulled in. They nearly collided, but the Prius was small and handled well, and Agnes scooted out of the way, giving the woman a little wave. The woman looked at Agnes with great interest, then finally offered half of an uncertain smile.

It wasn’t until Agnes was out on the Polpis Road that she wondered who the woman was. The owners of the big house didn’t arrive on island until August, Clen said. It might have been the cleaning lady, but what kind of cleaning lady drove a Mercedes?

A friend of Clen’s? A woman he was dating? Of all the surprising emotions Agnes had felt this summer, here was one more: Agnes felt jealous on her mother’s behalf.