Miss Match

by Leslie Carroll

  She laughed nervously. “How very European.”

  “Oh, no. I was born in Canada. Toronto, in fact.”

  He was so literal. “Oh, well. How very . . . Canadian, then!”

  Glen didn’t smile.

  Kathryn shook her curls. “I’m an idiot, what am I thinking? It’s a first date, for God’s sake. I’m sorry, Glen. I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot.”

  “You are a hundred percent forgiven, my dear.”

  Actually, Glen’s manners were kind of quaint. Kathryn sort of liked how he had kissed her hand, the way he called her “my dear”—there was something charmingly retro about it. And he wasn’t bad looking at all.

  “Well, shall we see the Caravaggios?” Ah, yes. Caravaggio. Glen extended his arm. She gave him an uncomfortable glance, and reluctantly linked her arm through his. He looked at Kathryn admiringly. “Lovely. Simply lovely. I should like to stroll through the medieval exhibits before we boldly venture into the Italian Renaissance.”

  “Where no man dares to go.”

  “What?” Glen registered his confusion.

  “Oh, nothing,” Kathryn said. “ ‘To boldly go where no man has gone before’ or something like that. I think it’s from Star Trek; my bad paraphrase. I have a . . . friend . . . who’s into Star Trek, so I’ve seen a lot of it lately. Never mind.”

  Glen and Kathryn promenaded through the small, dark rooms of Byzantine madonnas staring forlornly back at them, then through the large hall of the famous Unicorn Tapestries—the ones that weren’t on display at the Cloisters uptown—and into the exhibition of Arms and Armor, where lance-wielding knights in hand-hammered plate armor, sword and shield at the ready, threatened to bear down upon them from their lofty perches atop stuffed stallions.

  “Oh, yes, I think this is truly your era,” Glen said. He slid his arm out from underneath hers and opened his worn leather satchel, removing a small silver camera. “Let me just take a photo of you here.” Glen carefully posed Kathryn by the side of one of the charging horsemen. “Look up at him as though he is about to do battle for your honor. Ivanhoe for the brave Rebecca, as it were.”

  Kathryn winced, but the drama teacher in her decided to make the best of it, so she looked up at the armored figure and acted the part.

  “Lovely, simply lovely.” Glen snapped the picture.

  “I hope your film is fast enough for this light,” Kathryn said helpfully. She wasn’t quite sure what she had gotten herself into.

  “Oh, there’s no film in the camera,” Glen answered mildly.

  God, this man was weird. “No film? Then why did you take a picture?”

  “It’s digital. It doesn’t take film. I develop this and I can put the pictures on a floppy disk and give it to you, so you can download it onto your computer.”

  And who else’s, Kathryn wondered. “Does this mean you can put my photo on the Internet?” she asked, uncomfortable.

  “If I wanted to, I certainly could. But I’d rather not share you.”

  Damned if I do and damned if I don’t. His answer was sort of creepy, but Kathryn decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was simply eccentric—a harmless sort of weird. After all, a highly respected private school trusted him to teach their kids. Still, she decided not to reassume the medieval arm-linking position when they toured the Caravaggio exhibit.

  The rooms were dimly lit, making it difficult to appreciate the painter’s mastery of light and shadow known as chiaroscuro. “Look!” Kathryn exclaimed. “Did you know his real name was ‘Michelangelo’? Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.”

  “I suppose with a name like that, he was destined to become an artist.” Glen took a pair of bifocals from the brown leather satchel and balanced them on the bridge of his nose. He perused the biography of the controversial painter. “Goodness! What a brawler he was. ‘He was imprisoned for several assaults, and killed a man over a disputed score in a game of court tennis.’ ”

  Kathryn continued to read. “ ‘After receiving a pardon from the pope, he was wrongfully arrested and imprisoned for two days. A boat that was to bring him to Rome left without him, taking his belongings. Misfortune, exhaustion, and illness overtook him as he helplessly lay watching the boat depart.’ Wow. I wonder why no one has ever made a movie of his life. The Caravaggio biopic, starring—Keanu Reeves.”

  She and Glen walked through the rooms filled with images of biblical figures, common peasants, and beautiful young men, most of the subjects depicted as tortured souls. Here, right in front of her was “The Sacrifice of Isaac” she had seen in a photo on the Internet. In the painting, the young boy’s face was contorted in anguish, his eyes desperate and unbelieving, his twisted body so apparently racked with pain even in anticipation of the plunge of his father’s raised, sharpened blade. The angel seemed to be applying brute force to stay Abraham’s hand. With a few strokes of his brush Caravaggio had somehow managed to depict the dent made by the pressing of the father’s thumb into his son’s cheek. It made Kathryn wince. “I look at these paintings, and I feel like I need a drink,” she said.

  “Then perhaps we should go to the café now, my dear,” Glen suggested, offering his arm to her again.

  “I think I need something stronger than coffee, after looking at all this anguish. His work is brilliant, but a little goes a long way. It’s striking, but smothering . . . very claustrophobic.”

  “You have quite a vivid imagination, my dear.”

  Kathryn shrugged. They paused in the Great Hall to listen to the chamber music.

  “Ahh. Bach’s ‘Concerto for Two Violins in D minor.’ ” Glen closed his eyes and swayed a little to the music.

  “I’m impressed. I know very little about classical music. I just know whether or not I like it. I never know who wrote it.”

  Glen continued to sway to the music, playing air violin. “I studied for twelve years,” he said, without opening his eyes. “I wanted to be a concert violinist. But I ended up as an English teacher, nonetheless.” He continued sawing the air with his imaginary bow.

  “And I am sure that Trinity is a happier place for it.”

  Glen opened his eyes. “Where do you teach again?”

  “Briarcliff. In Riverdale. I try to get a bunch of sophisticated teenagers who think they already know it all to let go and allow themselves to make discoveries about the theater and about themselves. Depending on the annual crop, I have occasionally met with some success.”

  “I think there is no nobler profession than teaching,” Glen said as they headed toward the café. That’s what Rick Byron had said, too. Was this the new hot pick-up line? Was there a magazine they all read: this month in Testosterone—“How to disarm the schoolmarm.”

  Kathryn nodded her head. “Unless you count firefighting. But that’s what I keep telling my father, who firmly believes that his daughter should do something that makes lots of money. He doesn’t share my viewpoint, which is: the nobler the service, the more money it should command.”

  They were seated at a small table in a quiet corner of the museum café. Kathryn perused the menu. “Well, at least I can get a glass of wine.” She looked over at the center of the room. “Didn’t there used to be a fountain here? With dancing figures made of bronze, and people threw pennies in the fountain. For luck.”

  “There was a children’s book about that,” Glen said, as he looked at the menu.

  “From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler,” they said in unison, remembering the title at the same instant. “Jamie and Claudia hid out in the Metropolitan Museum and they fished out the pennies and used them to buy food,” Kathryn added with glee, the memory of the story coming back to her.

  “And they slept in that big red velvet Renaissance bed in the period rooms,” Glen chimed in. “Now wouldn’t that be fun? Trying that today.” He leaned toward Kathryn conspiratorially. “Shall we give it a whirl? I can take pictures, just to prove that we got away with it.”

  Kathryn hoped th
at Glen hadn’t seen her cringe. She motioned to the waiter and ordered a glass of cabernet sauvignon. “I think some things are better left as fantasies, Glen. Besides, I can’t afford to get arrested.”

  Glen asked for a cappuccino without the steamed milk. “Spoilsport.”

  Kathryn shrugged. “Been there.”

  Luckily, Glen assumed she was kidding; thankfully, he didn’t pursue the subject. “Well then, what other adventures shall we embark on, milady? What glorious quests can I sally forth on to continue to merit your favor and kind regard?”

  She looked at her date, amused. “Oh dear. I’ll have to think. I’m not currently aware of any dragons I require you to slay, unless I count Briarcliff’s principal.”

  Kathryn sipped her wine. She wasn’t sure what to make of Glen Pinsky, whether he was truly strange, or whether he felt he had to act a part in her presence for whatever reasons. “Did you play with toy soldiers and knights in shining armor when you were a boy?”

  “I used to build models of castles and villages. But my therapist has explained where a lot of that comes from. My father was in and out of institutions for paranoid schizophrenia; when he was home, he used to beat us—myself and my mother. He hated me because I was puny and pale.” Glen spoke dispassionately, in a detached voice. Kathryn watched him intently. Glen’s childhood seemed to account for a significant portion of his eccentricity.

  “My father finally left us when I was ten years old. Walked out of the house for a pack of cigarettes and a quart of milk and never came back. He didn’t even smoke. My therapist says that as a result, I developed a fierce drive to protect my mother.”

  Kathryn quietly sipped her cabernet, listening.

  “It’s hard for me to meet women I feel I can have a relationship with,” Glen continued. “Because, frankly, it’s difficult to find someone who could possibly hold a candle to my mother. I still live with her, so it’s awkward for me to invite my dates home. They have to be a very understanding sort. I should like you to come home with me and meet my mother, my dear.”

  Kathryn heard herself saying “I should like that very much,” although she wasn’t at all sure whether she should. Then she added, “Not this evening, of course. I have a . . . houseguest.”

  “Perhaps you are right. We should take things slowly.”

  “There’s no rush, is there?”

  “No, mother will keep.”

  “Like you, Glen, I haven’t had much luck with the dating scene lately. Actually, I was engaged until I broke it off several months ago.”

  “Do you want to be married?”

  “Well, yes, eventually. That’s why I’m not shying away from climbing back onto the horse, but Lance turned out to be as self-absorbed as I initially thought he was.”

  “Ahh. Lance. Lancelot. He really wasn’t all that much of a good guy when you come down to it. Why didn’t you trust your first instincts, then?”

  “At that point, I was so thrilled that anyone wanted to marry me, that I saw what I wanted to see. I never thought I could change him. That’s usually the biggest mistake we women tend to make—thinking we can change a man by, or after, marrying him. But that wasn’t the mistake I made. I was just hoping against hope that there were more facets to Lance than self-absorption and blond highlights. When I found out there weren’t, it was a good thing the invitations hadn’t been engraved yet.”

  She finished the glass of wine. “And when it comes to instincts, I’m trying hard not to let my first impressions of people turn into a judgment. Because then I fear I’m not giving people a fair chance.”

  “And what do your instincts tell you about me?”

  Kathryn debated whether or not to tell him the truth— that he was, well—weird. “Let’s just say that you already appear to have more facets than Lance.”

  Glen reached over and took Kathryn’s hand in his, then lifted it to his lips again. “Fair enough, fair lady. I should very much enjoy the pleasure of your company on another occasion. In the not-too-distant future, dare I hope? I should like you to come home with me to meet Mother.”

  Kathryn withdrew her hand, and placing it discreetly in her lap, wiped it with her napkin. “May I call you next week about a date? I need to look in my calendar, and I didn’t bring it with me this evening.” She knew she was stalling, but she wanted to give herself time to mull over the evening’s events, and decide after a few days’ hiatus, whether or not she wanted to see Glen again. She deliberately didn’t ask for his number. If she did opt to phone him, she could always get it from his dossier at Six in the City . . . or ask Bear to bring it home to her. Home. Bear. Kathryn realized how much she was looking forward to seeing him sprawled out on her sofa, remote firmly in hand. From the outset she’d resisted the idea of his staying with her, but now the arrangement was beginning to fill her with a sense of pleasurable anticipation. Particularly after spending an evening with the eccentric Mr. Pinsky, in the company of morbid artwork, the return home to Walker’s comparative normalcy—however fraught the situation was with emotional pitfalls—was infinitely preferable. She would miss the big lug when he eventually moved back up to the penthouse.

  Kathryn asked Glen to escort her to the Fifth Avenue bus stop and no farther. He kissed her hand yet again before she boarded the bus; and after Kathryn located a seat, she looked out the window only to see Glen dramatically placing his hand on his heart. Her radar wasn’t up to its usual speed. Kathryn couldn’t decide if his quirks were charming or just plain creepy. Too bad Eleanor hadn’t gone along on the date. She’d always been better at winnowing out the weirdos.

  Valerie kicked off her shoes and sank onto Kathryn’s plush velvet sofa. “How about that drink, sugar,” she asked, slipping slightly into a Southern drawl she hadn’t used all evening.

  Walker’s ears pricked up at the change in Valerie’s tone. He wasn’t sure whether or not he liked it. He searched through Kathryn’s bar and found two sherry glasses, somehow pleased that they weren’t crystal—just ordinary glass. Less romantic. He congratulated himself on not knocking anything over. Finding a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, he poured two fingers’ worth for each of them, then turned to the sofa to hand Valerie her glass.

  What he saw was a trail of clothes: the mustard-colored coatdress, a black lace demi-bra, the sheerest thigh-high nylons draped over one of the lace doilies on the arm of the sofa. He gasped. “Valerie! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He gazed down at the attorney, lying on Kathryn’s carpet like a naked Maja, her abundant voluptuousness inviting him to join her.

  She stretched out a lithe, pale arm, and beckoned to him with her manicured hand. “So what about that massage I’ve heard so much about?”

  “I don’t recall you hearing anything beyond my admission that I’ve given massages professionally.”

  “So sue me.” She tugged on his leg, trying to bring him down to the floor with her.

  Walker struggled to maintain his balance and his composure. “I can’t give you a massage, Valerie. My table is upstairs, and it will take too long to bring it down here and set everything up. I’m just a houseguest here, and my friend should be back soon.” He gazed at the attorney’s spectacular body, and decided he should be awarded purple hearts, blue ribbons, and perhaps the Nobel Prize for Self-Restraint.

  Valerie showed no signs of moving. “We can do it on the floor,” she suggested seductively. “Just a quickie.” She smiled that Ultra-Brite beauty queen smile. “I’m sure you’ve done that before.”

  Walker stood over her, still between the Devil and the deep blue sea. The attorney was not taking ‘no’ for an answer, and he made the decision that it would be quicker to get it over with and hustle her out the door, than to prolong his hesitation. “Well, all right, I’ll just give your back a quick massage.” He searched through Kathryn’s linen closet for a flat sheet and brought it out to the living room. “Here, just let me place this on the rug. Roll over for a minute.”

  The curvaceous brunette co
mplied, rearranging her body to afford Walker the most comprehensive view. Walker put the sheet down on the carpet and asked Valerie to roll back onto it and lie on her stomach. Then he folded the remainder of the sheet over her lower body.

  “I’ll be just a second,” he said, as he loosened, then removed his tie, followed by his blue oxford cloth shirt. “I can’t give a massage when I’m dressed like an executive,” he said, heading into Kathryn’s bathroom to hunt for some oil or lotion. He emerged, bare-chested, with a bottle of delicately scented Body Shop massage lotion.

  “I’ll be right with you,” he advised Valerie uneasily.

  “Take your time, honey,” his date murmured huskily. “I’m the one who’s got all night.”

  Walker hunted up a CD of relaxing, new-age music and put it on the stereo, then lowered the lights.

  He knelt beside Valerie and tried to massage her while still on his knees alongside her body, but he couldn’t get proper leverage, and the last thing he wanted to do was work her muscles incorrectly and risk injuring her. She wouldn’t have to go far to sue him for malpractice. Against his better judgment, he straddled Valerie’s relaxed, prone body, and started to feel for the tension in her upper back, as the matrimonial attorney seemed to melt into his strong hands.

  “Buenos noches, Carlos,” Kathryn said, when she entered her lobby.

  “Buenos noches, pobrecita,” the doorman responded. Or at least that’s what Kathryn thought she heard.

  As she approached her door, she heard the strains of a Windham Hill CD emanating from the stereo. And a couple of groans—or were they moans? She turned the key in the top lock and heard a gasp from the other side of the door. Then she turned the bottom lock and opened the door.

  There, lying on the living room floor, was a poor man’s Yasmine Bleeth, wearing nothing but Kathryn’s damask-patterned bedsheet and a surprised expression. Above her stood Walker Hart, an unflattering shade of crimson spreading from his embarrassed face down his bare chest.