The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay (23 page)

“I did. Unlike you, I cannot keep off the art blogs.”

“Some of the critics loved the potatoes. Especially when they sprouted.”

“Yet Mitchell was still upset?” Jenny asks, faux innocently.

“The artist wouldn't shellack them. Part of his rider—no use of petrochemicals. The potatoes molded quickly under the lights. Returned to the earth from whence they cameth. The artist actually used the word ‘cameth' in his statement. Mitchell took a bath on the affair, and the artist, once back in D.C., immediately went back to the clay-pot thing, making his regular gallerist a fortune.”

Jenny nods her head knowingly. “Art.”

Colleen shakes her head less knowingly. “Is it any wonder no one thinks the emperor is wearing any clothes?”

“Half the time, he's not,” I say.

“I'm seeing early interest in your works,” Jenny says out of nowhere. “You, at least, don't seem to be standing in front of a crowd naked.”

I color. “I feel like I am most of the time.”

“That's your job,” she says. “Mine is to disabuse you of that notion. I had three people in today to look at your work.”

“What? Really?”

“Exclusive showings. Demanded by important local buyers. Retired bankers, all. They always want to think they're the first to know.”

My stomach clenches. I was in the back studio all day painting a few inches of dark-bright-gray-neon-blue sky, and meanwhile a few hundred feet away, my work was being appraised by a stream of collectors. I try not to ask what they said.

“They were impressed,” Jenny says into the void.

“Don't tell me anything,” I say, waving my hands in front of my ears. “I can only survive this business if I don't ever think about the actual
business.
I have to just trust people to take care of it for me.”

Jenny looks to Colleen. They share something, one of their secret looks. But neither says a word to me. “What?” I demand.

“Oh, nothing,” says Jenny. “Just … perhaps that's how you got into this situation in the first place.”

“I'm not in a situation,” I say, trying to sound unaffected. “I was, and then I caught a few lucky breaks, and now I'm not. Situation, unsituated.”

“Oh! Well, then,” says Colleen good-naturedly. “In that case, would you prefer to pay your hotel bill in cash?”

“Your point has been taken,” I say. “But you've been in no hurry to get me out.”

Colleen shrugs. “It's the only way I can feel semi-honest about keeping your five-figure painting. The more nights you stay, the less I feel like I ripped you off.” The bistro bill arrives just then, and Colleen snatches it up, slides a card in the wallet, and hands it right back to the server. “Speaking of.”

“I hope you're running a tab,” I say. “At the rate I'm moving, I very well may use up my surplus.”

Again, Colleen and Jenny exchange meaningful glances. They are starting to make me nervous, and I'm about to press them to disclose when my cell rings. I look at the screen.

“Oh, crap! It's Mitchell. I forgot to tell him I wasn't coming tonight. He must be worried sick.”

“Must be,” says Jenny. Even though I have already hit the answer button, there is no missing her sarcasm.

“Mitchell!” I say into the phone, while excusing myself from the table and heading for a quiet hallway by the bathrooms. “I'm so sorry I didn't call.”

“Hm? Oh, did you say you would?”

“I said I was going to be back in Chicago last night, remember? I got held up.”

“Where?”

“In Minnow Bay. I got a flat tire.”

“My goodness. That town sounds like a living nightmare,” he says.

Strangely, I bristle at that. “Well, I'll be back on the road tomorrow,” I tell him, ignoring the twinge. “Leaving before noon, hopefully. Should we have dinner?”

“On a Tuesday night?” he asks, like I just told him to tattoo my name on his neck.

“Uh…”

“Sure, Lily, that would be lovely. I can't wait to see you. Special weekday date. Why not?”

Does he always talk to me this way? Like the simplest request is asking for the moon? I shake my head. The wine seems to be making me touchy. “What's up, then?” I say. “If that's not why you called?”

“Just some news I couldn't wait to share.”

My mind flashes back to the museum—it hasn't been far from my thoughts all day. “The exhibition company?”

“What exhibition company? Oh, right, right. Your thing. You've got to learn some patience, Lily. I'll get it all carved in stone in due time. No, this is about my upstairs neighbor. The ancient blowhard with the stomping problem?”

Mitchell has, to his own mind, the world's loudest upstairs neighbors in his chic North Shore condo building. It's actually a little old man who lives alone, and granted, he does stomp a bit, but Mitchell also complains that the guy's toilet flushes too loudly, and I don't think that's actually a thing.

“What about him?”

“He's dead!” Mitchell announces gleefully. “Terrible, of course. But his apartment is up for grabs!”

“Oh, wow. That's too bad. All those grandkids.”

“No, no, don't you see, Lily? His apartment is directly over mine. It's perfect!”

I pause, confused. Then I think I start to understand. “Mitchell, I'm touched you thought of me, but there's no way I can afford your building, even with all the good news you told me this morning.”

There is silence on the line. Finally Mitchell laughs, and his laugh is so smooth and charming, it almost feels greasy. “You're adorable, Lily, but you can barely afford a cardboard box in the Chicago real estate market. Besides, I already bought it. It's a dream come true. I'm finally getting my duplex!”

“Oh! Oh.” Slowly, slowly my brain catches up. Damn you, Zinfandel. “Wonderful news. I'm so happy for you.”

“Be happy for
us,
” he says grandly. “This changes everything, you know.”

“It does?”

“Of course it does,” he says. “Have you been drinking? Never mind, we can talk about it when you get back. When will that be?”

I'm pretty sure I told him five minutes ago, but I repeat myself. “Hoping for tomorrow late. Dinner?”

“Of course. Come over to my place. We can talk about remodeling plans. What do you think of his and hers walk-in closets?”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Sounds lovely,” I say. “Mitchell, I…” I'm cut off by a beeping sound coming through the phone.

“Yes—me too,” he says before I can finish my thought. “Other line—I've got to take it!”

“Ok, well, uh—” I mumble before I realize I'm on a dead line.

When I get back to the table, I am still staring in confusion at my phone. But as I look up I get that icky, you-are-being-talked-about feeling you have when you realize that an animated conversation has ended abruptly at the exact moment you came into earshot. I try to dismiss it.

“Sorry,” I say into the silence, but there is a question mark in my voice. “He just…” I struggle as I try to decide on the fly if I should tell the girls about this surprising turn of events with Mitchell, or demand to know what they were just talking about, or what. “It was just, um, a check-in,” I finish.

Colleen smiles so broadly I question my momentary distrust. “Was it about the museum show?” she asks. “That is so exciting. Jenny and I were just saying we would drive down when it opens and surprise you. But I can't do surprises, obviously. So can we come?”

I laugh, filled with relief. They were only talking about the museum showing. “I would like nothing better. But it wasn't about the museum. I'm not really sure what it was about, actually.” I furrow my brow.

“Maybe he just misses you?”

“Maybe.” Though he said not a word about missing me. But he did just ask me to live with him, didn't he? Which should make me happy, but actually only makes me terribly suspicious. When I was evicted, Mitchell wouldn't hear of me moving in. Now that he is taking on a second mortgage, he suddenly wants a roommate? Or is it about the museum breakthrough? Or … could it be as innocuous as missing me while I'm here, and realizing he wants us to be together more?

“You look like you might enjoy one last glass of wine,” Jenny says, and pours out the rest of the bottle evenly among the three of us.

I nod gratefully as she does. “Do you guys ever have that weird feeling where you can't tell if someone genuinely cares about you or if you are being used?”

Jenny and Colleen pause for a moment, both with glasses aloft. Then they both answer at once, “No.”

“So it's just me?” I say sadly into my own wine.

“'Fraid so,” says Colleen. “Oh, speaking of being used, though. Can I prevail on you to drive me to an appointment tomorrow? Early, while they're working on your tire at the garage. We'll take my truck. I need a tiny little procedure, but they suggested I get someone else to drive me home just in case I need to take some pain medication. No big deal.”

“Are you okay?” I say, concerned, forgetting Mitchell's confusing phone call instantly.

“Perfectly fine. It's basically nothing bigger than a mole removal.”

“And I have to do another showing in the morning,” says Jenny. “Or I'd take her.”

“Of course,” I say. “I'm happy to help. But you're sure you're okay?”

“Perfectly sure. And now I'll have a friend along so I'll be even more okay.”

“Well, I'm glad to do it,” I say. Because, yes, I do think of Colleen as a friend, and it's nice that she does as well. Jenny, I am not so sure about. The gallery business has me a little turned around. Is she a predator, as Mitchell suggests? Or a tender-hearted sucker for drowning artists? Or just a businesswoman, running a nice gallery that caters to rich vacationers, trying to make a good living doing what she loves? I want to trust her. But I don't. Not yet.

Colleen, though, with her quiet disapproval of Ben's bad behavior, coupled with her complete acceptance of mine, has won me over completely. Add in her generosity in letting me stay at the inn, her sweet sunny spirit, and her uncanny ability to take everyone she meets exactly as they are, and I realize I will be quite sad to say good-bye tomorrow. Back home, even I have to admit that I am surrounded by confusing relationships with people who push and pull with no discernible rhyme or reason. Here in Minnow Bay, the women I meet only seem to want me closer.

It's enough to make me fantasize about a different kind of life.

One that feels entirely out of reach.

 

Fourteen

It is beginning to get through my thick skull that Colleen is trickier than she first appears. My big clue? The fact that we've been driving for an hour and are not yet at her doctor's office. Another hint? In that hour's time, we've passed a Farm and Fleet with the following emblazoned on the front:

Tires.
And we are nowhere near Duluth. Rather, we've gone in the opposite direction, and I've learned a bit about the geography of Minnow Bay, and the North Woods. While remote in many ways, I believe the case has been somewhat overstated for Colleen's own interests. Namely: matchmaking.

And another misrepresentation—the routine nature of this medical appointment. I know, because we do not arrive at a doctor's office when we finally reach true civilization after an hour and a half of driving. We arrive at a hospital.

“This is it!” Colleen chirps merrily. “They validate parking. Just go to the ramp.”

Though Colleen seems in perfectly good health, she did insist I drive both ways, and now, from the driver's seat, I look at her carefully, studying her for signs of … what? Dying-ness?

“Colleen…” I say, warily. “What exactly is going on here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why are we at the hospital? They don't do mole removals at the hospital.”

“Did I say it was a mole removal?” she asks innocently.

I think back. No, technically, she said it was
like
a mole removal. Apparently the “like” was literal, and not the usual verbal tic. “I suppose not,” I admit. “What is it, exactly, we're doing here?”

“Oh, it's just a hysterosalpingography. No biggie.”

“A hystero what now?” I can't even remember the word she just said two seconds ago. “That sounds horrifying. Plus, we're at a hospital. How is that not a biggie?”

“It's a hospital
and
clinic,” she says, gesturing to the signage above the building.

“What is it exactly you're having done?”

“A hysterosalpingography. I told you.”

“And what is a hystero-sal-ping-og-raphy?” I stutter.

“It's a test for infertile women,” she says nonchalantly.

Silently, I negotiate the twists and turns of the parking garage. “I see,” I say when I think to speak. The closet in her attic quarters blooms into my mind. But now instead of yellow and green pastels, it takes on a dark, murky feel, as though someone has cried all the color out of each little onesie.

“They shoot some dye in my hoo-hah, I think. Then they take pictures of where the dye goes. To find out why I can't get pregnant.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. I feel intrusive, and want to back away from this. Want her to stop talking. “It's none of my business.”

“If I didn't want to tell you, I wouldn't have made you drive me here. It's no state secret: I can't conceive. I need to find out why.”

I put the car in park. “I'm sorry,” I say again. Out of the corner of my eye I look at her face. It's neutral. Bland, even. Not the look of a woman brought low by the trials of infertility. Or is this
exactly
what that looks like?