The Matchmaker (24 page)

 She was relieved when Nantucket came into view—historically preserved homes and lighthouses, ponds and moors, the blue-and-white ribbon where the ocean endlessly hit the shore. The only thing Dabney had wanted, all day long, was to be back home.

 In the car driving home, she decided that she would wait until Monday to tell everyone the news. She thought of Dr. Rohatgi saying,
Take things a moment at a time.
She wanted to go to the Levinsons’ Backyard BBQ on Saturday night, she wanted to dance, she wanted to drink wine and laugh and have fun.

She wanted to have one last perfect summer weekend.

Box asked first, and then Agnes, then Nina, then Clen:
How did it go at the hospital?

 Dabney said, “I had a lot of tests. One thing I know for sure is that I do not have a wheat allergy.”

Dabney would someday be too sick to go to a party, but she wasn’t too sick yet, and so on Friday morning she signed out of the log, writing
errands
—but instead of going to see Clen, she went to Hepburn to buy a new dress. She selected a white Dolce Vita sundress with a racerback and fringe around the waist that would swing when she danced. Despite her fear and confusion, she decided that she would dance. This, after all, might be her last chance. She bought new white sandals to match the dress—flats, nothing fancy. Dabney loved the new sundress and the new sandals and she hung the dress on the door of the closet, where she could look at it. When she woke up in the middle of the night, she saw the dress glowing white; it looked like a ghost.

Would she haunt this house after she was gone?

She supposed anything was possible.

Box brought a glass of wine up to the bedroom as Dabney was getting ready for the party.

“Here you go, darling.” Box set the wineglass on her bureau. “A dressing drink.”

Dabney moved into an embrace with her husband and clung to him in a way that probably qualified as histrionics, but what did it matter now? Surprisingly, Box reciprocated. He said, “It’s nice just to hold you.”

Dabney squeezed her eyes shut. There was no pink with Box, there had never been pink with Box, but he was a good man.

He led her over to the bed, and she worried for a second that he had intentions, possibly he wanted to try to make love to her, an endeavor that would surely embarrass them both. But Box sat on the bed next to Dabney, with her hand in both of his.

He said, “I have a confession to make.”

“You do?” she said.

He said, “I have been dreadfully jealous of Clendenin Hughes. Since the minute I learned of his existence, really. But even more so now that he’s back on Nantucket.”

Dabney stared into her lap.

Box said, “I know your past relationship with him is complicated, possibly beyond my limited understanding. I’m sure you still have still some residual feelings for him, and although I don’t know what form those feelings take, I want to apologize, because there have been some anomalies in my behavior this summer that have to do with my jealousy of him.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Dabney said.

“I just want you to know that I am not as hard-hearted as you may think. Nor am I unreasonable. You should work out your feelings for Hughes, and when you come to a resolution and sense of peace regarding your relationship with him, do let me know so I can finally put the green-eyed monster to rest.” Box patted Dabney’s hand. “I’m sure it’s difficult to have him back on the island.”

“Well, yes,” she said. It was a relief to finally speak a few true words about Clen. “It is, actually.”

“Thought so,” Box said. He stood up. “Let’s go have fun tonight, shall we?”

At the party, there was valet parking; a pretty blond girl from the catering company was stationed at the entrance next to a table of deep-orange cocktails. Dabney was so entranced by the color of the drinks that it took her a second to realize the pretty blond girl was Celerie.

“Dabney!” Celerie shouted.

Dabney startled, then tried to recover quickly as Celerie gave her a power squeeze.

Dabney said, “You’re working for…?”

“Nantucket Catering Company!” Celerie said, her hands forming a V in the air. “And Riley is here, too! He’s playing the guitar in the garden!”

“Oh,” Dabney said. “How did you…?”

“My roommate works for NCC and they needed extra hands tonight, so I said I’d help out, the money is great, and I hooked Riley up.” Celerie beamed. “When the Levinsons found out we both worked at the Chamber, they were
so excited
!
They love you! They said you
matched them
!
”

Celerie was using what Dabney thought of as her stadium voice, and Dabney was a bit embarrassed.

“Yes, well,” Dabney said. “That’s what I do.”

Box wisely sidestepped Celerie and the bright orange drinks—tangerine cosmos, Celerie announced—and entered the party ahead of Dabney. When she stepped through the trellised archway, she found Box shaking hands with Larry Levinson. Marguerite Levinson was on Dabney immediately, taking both of Dabney’s hands in hers.

“Dabney,” she said. “How are you
doing
?
”

Dabney had adored Marguerite Levinson since they’d met a dozen years earlier up at Tupancy Links with their dogs. Dabney’s chocolate Lab, Henry, had still been alive, and Marguerite’s golden retriever, Uncle Frank, had been little more than a puppy. Larry had frequented Tupancy with
his
golden retriever at the time, Arthur Fielder. Dabney had introduced her brand-new friend Marguerite to her more established friend, Larry, and there had been pink auras before a Frisbee had even been thrown.

How
was
she doing?

I’m dying,
she thought.
And my soul aches for Clen.
Box had made such a kind and thoughtful speech in the bedroom, he had proved himself to be an evolved person, he had been trying to tell Dabney that whatever her feelings were for Clendenin, he would understand. She had had her chance…but she had blown it.

Forbearance.
To Marguerite, she said, “What a beautiful night! This is my favorite party of the year, you know. I can’t
wait
to dance!” Dabney shook her hips, and the fringe on her white dress shimmied.

Marguerite whooped and said, “Great! Let’s have us some fun!”

Dabney finished her tangerine cosmo. It was surprisingly good, and she might have gone for another one but she thought it best to keep her forward momentum and not go back and distract Celerie from the other guests. Dabney stood in line at the bar to get a glass of wine for herself and one for Box. It was a crystal-clear, bug-free, blue-skied stunner of an evening and the Levinsons’ property at Abrams Point faced south over the harbor. There was enough breeze to keep the flag lazily waving and to carry Riley Alsopp’s voice over the lawn.

Take things a moment at a time.
There were few moments of her life that had been as aesthetically pleasing as this one.

Wine in hand, Dabney found Box and together they headed to the raw bar to attack some oysters.

There were people to talk to, endless people. Dabney knew everyone, although certain people she knew only because she saw them at this party every year—Donald and Irene from Newport Beach, California, and Marguerite’s unmarried brother, Charles Baldwin. Charles had a stick up his ass and a bad case of lockjaw; he was a private-equity guy with a house in Potomac, Maryland. But he was lonely, Marguerite had confided, and Marguerite was perennially hoping that Dabney would set him up with someone wonderful. Charles had used every Internet dating service known to man—eHarmony, Match.com, It’s Just Lunch—but none of them had worked. Dabney had promised Marguerite that she would keep Charles in mind. Years ago, she had nearly set him up on a blind date with Nina Mobley, but then she’d thought better of it. Dabney had to admit, she probably didn’t have an arrow in her quiver meant for Charles Baldwin.

Take things a moment at a time.
She enjoyed her conversation with Charles, or rather, she enjoyed listening to Charles and Box converse (Box excelled with the stuffy) while Riley sang James Taylor, and she tasted all the hors d’oeuvres—the coconut shrimp with mango-curry aioli, the pork satay, the phyllo cups of lobster and corn salad—and she enjoyed the mellow sunshine on her face.

At the end of the James Taylor song, there was a smattering of applause and Riley caught Dabney’s eye. She floated over to him.

“Look at you!” she said.

He stood up and moved away from the microphone. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m moonlighting,” he said. “I realize I probably should have asked your permission.”

Dabney laughed. Had anyone used the term
moonlighting
since 1989?

She said, “I’m thrilled you get to show off your talent and make a little extra money in the process.”

He said, “Yeah, what they’re paying me is ridiculous.”

Dabney’s mind wandered away like a puppy left off a leash. She thought,
Please,
Riley, do not leave the Chamber.
Riley had a chocolate Lab named Sadie, a fact that had captured Dabney’s heart because she missed Henry, missed him so profoundly that she had never gotten another dog. She wished she could go back to the days of Tupancy Links with Henry and Uncle Frank and Arthur Fielder—rolling green hills overlooking the Sound, half-a-dozen Frisbees in the air at once, red and purple and yellow disks against the blue sky. Agnes had still been in high school then, and Clen was living in a place so far away that it seemed imaginary. Riley Riley Riley—he would be perfect for Agnes. How much easier it would be for Dabney to leave this world if she knew that Agnes had Riley Alsopp in her future. Agnes would inherit the house on Charter Street. She and Riley could bring their children to Nantucket for the summers, Dabney’s grandchildren, the grandchildren she would never meet. Dabney thought that she would like to be a ghost in that house; that way, she could set eyes on her grandchildren and kiss them as they slept.

Riley, it seemed, was asking her something.

“I’m sorry?” Dabney said.

He said, “Where’s Agnes tonight?”

Dabney blinked. Where
was
Agnes? Dabney and Box had left before Agnes got home from work. Dabney had written a note saying there was chicken salad in the fridge and homemade cheddar scones if Agnes wanted supper. Agnes had been out on her own a lot lately, it seemed, and the one time Dabney had asked her about it, Agnes said she had stayed late at work. Dabney wondered if Agnes was interested in Dave Patterson, her boss. That would be good. They weren’t a perfect match, but any relationship that took Agnes away from CJ was welcome. Anyone but CJ! As Dabney thought about it, she realized that she hadn’t heard Agnes talk about CJ in a while, a week or ten days at least, and neither had Dabney heard Agnes on the phone with CJ in her bedroom. And of course CJ hadn’t shown his face here on Nantucket. Dabney wondered now if maybe she should have pried a little deeper into what was going on with Agnes—but Agnes was twenty-six years old, an adult, and the last thing she wanted was to explain her every move to her mother. If Agnes wanted to talk, she would come to Dabney.

However, Dabney had been self-absorbed. To say the least.

“I don’t know where she is,” Dabney said.

A
s she was leaving work, a call came to her cell phone from an unfamiliar number. Agnes was afraid to answer it, so she let it go to voice mail. She didn’t listen to the message until she had pulled into her driveway. It was Rocky DeMotta, one of CJ’s partners at work. Agnes had met Rocky at the U.S. Open the preceding September. Rocky was calling, he said, because CJ was…missing. AWOL. The ink had just dried on Bantam Killjoy’s contract with the Chiefs, and training camp had started the day before, and CJ was supposed to
be
in Kansas City
with
Bantam, but he had never shown up for his flight. Nor had he come to work, or called in, or even checked his e-mail. He wasn’t answering his calls or texts.

Rocky said, “We’re all a little worried about him. Worried enough that I grabbed your number off the office records, sorry about that, but would you
please
call us if he’s there with you, or if you’ve heard from him.”

Agnes sucked in her breath and thought,
He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, I killed him.

She listened to the message again. Rocky sounded panicked, of course he sounded panicked; CJ was never, ever out of touch, he carried a BlackBerry, two iPhones, and a laptop. What reason would he possibly have had to miss his flight to Kansas City? Had he hanged himself in his apartment, leaving a suicide note weighted down with the returned engagement ring?

It was about two hundred degrees in her closed-up Prius, and yet Agnes shivered. She was so, so cold. She headed inside. She needed her mother.

But the house was empty, although there was a note on the kitchen table about the things Dabney had left for Agnes’s dinner. The end of the note said, “Daddy and I are at the Levinsons’. Don’t wait up—hopefully we’ll be home very, very late!”

The Levinsons. Dabney loved the party at the Levinsons’; she had really been looking forward to it. Agnes could not call Dabney or Box at the Levinsons’ and ruin their night out just because CJ wasn’t answering his phone.

Agnes sat at the kitchen table and bit her nails. She tried to come up with a plausible reason why CJ had missed his flight. If he’d hurt himself or gotten sick, he would have called in to the office. What else could it be? Had he gotten hit by a bus? Had he gone on a weeklong Dirty Goose bender once he received the ring back, and was he now passed out facedown on a bar somewhere? Should Agnes call someone? Both of CJ’s parents had passed away; there was a brother somewhere in Upstate New York, but he and CJ no longer spoke. CJ knew a million people, but he wasn’t close to anyone, really, except Agnes. And Rocky…he played squash with Rocky. He had gone to high school at Collegiate, on the Upper West Side, and then had a PG year at the Berkshire School before going to the University of Florida. He never talked about anyone from high school or college, except for the Gators, who had later become his clients. Agnes then thought of Annabelle Pippin in her waterfront home in Boca Raton. Should Agnes call Annabelle and ask about CJ…about…Charlie Pippin, her ex-husband? Was it weird that CJ had changed his name after his divorce? Agnes had all but decided that she wasn’t going to marry CJ, at least not right away—so why did she care that he was missing?

No answer for this, but she did care. She felt responsible.

What to do?

She called Riley. Riley would be able to calm her.

But her call to Riley went straight to voice mail, which was unusual. Agnes considered driving to Antenna Beach to see if he was surfing. She stared at her phone. She needed more friends. It was CJ’s fault that she had no friends.

She tried Riley again—straight to voice mail. Then, she called Celerie. Celerie wouldn’t be able to help at all but Agnes craved someone’s positive outlook—and, well, Celerie was a cheerleader.

Her call to Celerie also went straight to voice mail, which was even stranger than Riley’s call going to voice mail. Celerie lived and died by her cell phone.

Agnes wondered if maybe Riley and Celerie were on a date somewhere. She wondered if they were in bed together. She had to admit, the thought bothered her.

What to do? Call her mother? Drive out to Antenna Beach in search of Riley? Call back Rocky DeMotta?

Almost against her will, she dialed CJ’s number, then racked her brain for what she might say in her message. Should she say,
Hey, it’s me?
or,
Hey, it’s Agnes?
Now that she had returned the ring, she figured she had pretty much given up the right to say,
Hey,
it’s me.

“Hello?”

Agnes was so startled, she nearly dropped the phone. CJ had answered.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice sounded bright and normal, but her thoughts darted around like a school of frightened fish. What was she going to
say
?

“Hey, Agnes,” CJ said. His voice was calm, and a little flat. “Where are you?”

“On Nantucket,” she said. “At my parents’ house. Where are you?”

Click.
CJ had hung up.