Staying Cool

by Catherine Todd

  I would have to be straight with her. “Yes.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I’m curious about her. I was on the jury that convicted her murderer,” I said.

  I expected some reaction, but all she said was, “You didn’t know her?”

  “No.” I waited.

  “I see,” she said. She seemed to digest this. “Well.”

  “Does this affect your wanting me to see the house?” I sensed that she was testing me in some way. I hoped I wasn’t wrong, that the best way to approach her was straightforwardly.

  She smiled and shook her head. “On the contrary.” She handed me the folded paper with her address. “Come for lunch on Wednesday, if you’re free.”

  “I’ll be there,” I assured her.

  12

  Studies show that people who use dating and/or matchmaking services are more outgoing and have a better self-image than the control group. They aren’t desperate. They don’t settle for anything they can get.

  It takes a person with exceptional self-confidence to join a matchmaking service or insert a singles advertisement, because the behavior is (perhaps unjustly) stigmatized by Society…

  “No losers need apply, I want only the best, and you’re lucky if I give you my name, much less my number.”

  —A Rules woman, obviously.

  —From an interview with Cynthia Weatherford

  Cynthia’s notes were edifying, but they didn’t do much for my self-confidence when I scheduled my initial appointments at Kathleen Wyndham and Ivanova Associates. In fact, so far from feeling assertive and selective—a chooser, not a loser—I was almost paralyzed with dread. I didn’t think I could ever develop a real journalist’s mental calluses, and I certainly couldn’t envision myself as a sincere sampler of the personal ads, just because I’d exhausted my network of dating possibilities. Exceptional self-confidence, my foot. You’d have to have the hide of a rhinoceros.

  Entering the dating fray at age forty-four, even as something less than a full-fledged participant, seemed to me an act of almost giddy abandon. What was I doing, relinquishing my hard-won equilibrium in favor of nominal service to the Pleasure Principle, at an age when too much excitement was more likely to cause stomach upset? Besides, I didn’t know any of the rules—or Rules—any more. I mean, “Be a creature unlike any other” will take you only so far. I was coming to the process tottering under the weight of my history and the baggage of the past, and I still wasn’t sure who was supposed to open the car door.

  Michael, how could you do this to me?

  The coordinator at Kathleen Wyndham must have been used to Nervous Nellies and Neils, because she was professionally soothing and supportive. I might have been making an appointment for a makeover at Elizabeth Arden.

  “Are you interested in our Executive Service?” she asked.

  “I’ll meet anyone suitable,” I told her. When I was nervous, I often made smart-ass bad jokes. I couldn’t help myself.

  She chuckled politely. “For our international clients or those unable to meet with Ms. Wyndham personally for some reason, we offer the possibility of services based on written documentation alone, but our Executive Service refers to the exclusive personal attention of Ms. Wyndham. Face-to-face,” she added slowly, as if she were explaining to a child. “Most of our clients insist on nothing less.”

  “I’d prefer that,” I said. “Could you tell me what’s involved?”

  “You’ll need to schedule an interview with her,” said the receptionist calmly. If she was pleased that she had snagged, through sheer snob appeal, another customer willing to pay an astronomical sum to meet the owner personally, no hint of it crept into her tone.

  “And then what?” I asked her.

  “Then Ms. Wyndham will decide what happens next,” she said firmly. “Not all of our would-be clients are suitable for our services. A successful match is very complicated. Ms. Wyndham is very intuitive, and she never accepts anyone as a personal client until she has had the opportunity to assess his or her needs.” She hesitated. “Naturally, there will be no fee until after Ms. Wyndham has accepted you.”

  “I see.” It sounded more like getting into Harvard than plunking down several thousand dollars for discreet introductions. As a marketing strategy, it was effective. They didn’t accept just anyone. If I were really the rich and lonely Widow St. James, I would have been reassured. As it was, I signed up for an appointment, two days hence.

  Ivanova Associates was even more exclusive. When I called, they turned me down.

  “I’m sorry. Ms. Klein is not accepting any private clients at this time.” She made it sound like a very tony sanitarium in Switzerland. The doctor was clearly in demand. “However, one of her associates would be happy to see you, if that’s acceptable.”

  “I’m extremely sorry to hear that,” I said, surprised. I would have thought business would be hurting, after the death of Natasha. Maybe the publicity about her death had attracted a whole new clientele. I considered the implications of this and shuddered. “I was particularly referred to Ivanova Associates, but I simply can’t accept anyone other than the head of the company.” I thought I might as well employ their own psychology against them. “I’ve already spoken with Kathleen Wyndham…. Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

  “Just a moment, Ms. St. James. Who did you say referred you to Ivanova Associates?”

  I crossed my fingers. “Both Jordan and Mira Jensen and Patrice and Dennis Nugent were quite complimentary,” I said, in what was a vague approximation of the truth. “That was in the time of the late owner, however.”

  “I’m sure you would find Ms. Klein equally satisfactory,” sniffed her assistant. “She had Ms. Ivanova’s complete trust, and since…since Ms. Klein has headed the firm, our clientele base has actually increased.”

  “That’s reassuring, but I’m not sure…”

  “Won’t you please hold for a moment, Ms. St. James? I’ll just check whether there might not be some time when Ms. Klein is free to see you.”

  She was back on the phone in a few moments. “Ms. Klein has an unexpected opening this week,” she said in a tone indicating that I was improbably fortunate. “May I just confirm that you are interested in marriage? We like to make it clear to our clients that this is much more than a dating service. Much more.”

  “I appreciate that,” I told her. I swallowed. “Yes, I’m interested in marriage.”

  “And your marital status is…”

  “Single. I’m single.” My voice came out in a croak. I wondered what the other possible answers were.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You do understand that we have to know certain things about you.”

  “Yes. Yes, I understand.”

  I pressed the “off” button softly, replaced the receiver, and turned toward the living room.

  My daughter was regarding me with what can only be described as astonishment.

  “Mom, what are you doing?” Andrea asked me, sounding more like nine than nineteen. Then nineteen won out. “Sorry. It’s not my business.”

  “Andy, it’s not what you think,” I said. I felt as if I’d been caught using the vibrator in the bathroom.

  “Oh, Mom,” she said, her voice full of compassion. “I know I urged you to go out, but I didn’t think…I didn’t mean…” She touched my arm. “If you don’t want to go out with Mark, maybe he has some friends…”

  “Andy, you make it sound as if I’d signed up for The Dating Game or some Darwinian video mate-finding service. Besides, it’s just research. I’m not really looking for a match.” I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “Darwinian?” she asked.

  I tried not to reveal my disappointment when she asked me questions like that. “Natural selection. Survival of the fittest,” I explained.

  She still looked blank, but maybe it was just shock.

  “Tacky dating services,” I said. “It’s
nothing like that. Anyway, as I said, it’s research. You remember, I told you I was working on an article with Cynthia Weatherford?”

  “Oh, right,” she said uncertainly.

  “Well, this is part of that. I can’t go into the whole thing, but there is absolutely nothing for you to worry about.”

  Her eyes widened. “Mom, I hope you realize you’ve been acting really weird since you were on that jury. I hope you know what you’re doing, that’s all.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” I said. Well, what else could I do under the circumstances but lie? I was in totally uncharted waters, but with my daughter, it was second nature to pretend more confidence than I felt.

  “Well, anyway, maybe you should consider it for real,” she said softly.

  I thought I must have misunderstood her. “Consider what?”

  “Trying to find someone. To end up with, I mean. Someone like Dad. Not through some dating service, necessarily, but just by getting out more. I don’t want you to be alone for the rest of your life.” She laughed suddenly. “Maybe you could find someone to save you from the Family Curse.”

  I smiled. “You have to save yourself from the Family Curse. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “You always said Dad saved you,” she pointed out.

  “We saved each other,” I pointed out.

  “Tell me how,” she said.

  She wants to hear it again. Retelling the family stories over and over stitches up our history, like a quilt. So I tell her how Michael always said that friendship should begin slowly, quietly, not with the startling notes of Beethoven’s Fifth. Save the crashing chords for later. There has to be room to expand, he said. I tell her how he noticed everything about me—whether I’d cut my thumb or changed the way I wore my hair. How he went to three stores looking for my favorite brand of instant coffee. Massaged my feet after a long walk. Or how once, when I’d had too much to drink at a party, he supported my head while I vomited beside the road.

  So, when he told me he loved me, I believed him. It is as simple as that.

  “I’ll love you forever,” he said, “no matter what happens, no matter what we do or where we go. That will never change. Count on it.”

  I do.

  “Sometimes I can’t remember what Dad was like,” Andy told me, not meeting my eyes.

  My heart constricted. I knew what she was trying to say. She was afraid of losing him.

  “That’s natural,” I told her. “It’s painful, but it’s natural. It happens to me, too, sometimes.”

  She looked at me with Michael’s eyes, dark and intense. I wondered if she knew how much she reminded me of him sometimes. “Really?” she asked.

  I nodded. There was a pile of photo albums upstairs, but sight was only one sense. The other senses had memories, too, and they were fading. “There’s nothing you can do to stop time,” I told her. “Things change, whether you want them to or not.”

  She looked at me. I wasn’t sure she knew what I meant. There are things you’re not supposed to know too young.

  “Andy?”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “I think we need a diversion. What about taking in Emma before it leaves the theaters? Or when it comes out on video? I’d really like to see it.”

  She looked suspicious. “Isn’t that, like, some literary movie?”

  I sighed. “Right. Jane Austen. I loved the book.”

  Andy laughed. “You never stop, do you, Mom? What if we take a rain check? I have volleyball practice right now. Maybe later.”

  Two hours passed, and my doorbell rang. I knew it would be Mark before I opened it.

  “I can’t believe you’re really doing it,” he said, sweeping past me into the room. “Why didn’t you ask me first?”

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” I told him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your interrogation?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Ellen. You know why I’m here. Andy came over to talk to me. She’s a little concerned.”

  “Well, she shouldn’t be. I’ve explained to her that there is absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Famous last words.”

  “Won’t you sit down?” I asked him formally.

  He surveyed me narrowly. “Now don’t be offended by this, Ellen, but are you by any chance experiencing any symptoms of—” He caught my look and broke off.

  “You mean, is this an attack of menopausal madness? Mark, you are such a complete dinosaur, I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, it happens sometimes. As your doctor—”

  “And you’re not my doctor, either. Right now, I’m not even sure you’re my friend. Why are you so upset? I seem to remember that you were defending the whole idea of using a matchmaking service not more than a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Well, in principle it’s okay, I guess, but I don’t like the idea of your actually doing it. Who knows who you might meet?”

  I tried to sound lighthearted. “I thought that was the general idea.”

  He stared at me. “Tell me you aren’t going to use Ivanova Associates,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, Ellen. You don’t mean it.” He sounded stricken. “Is this another one of your post-trial obsessions? I really don’t think this is healthy.”

  I couldn’t help feeling a bit alarmed by his tone. I shrugged.

  “I told you I’d heard things,” he insisted.

  “Well, you weren’t very specific. If you know something I should know, then I wish you’d tell me straight out, because I don’t know how to decipher all these gloomy hints.”

  He sighed. “It’s a doctor-patient thing,” he said.

  “Then you can’t tell me, so don’t.”

  I knew this would drive him to find a way. If I begged, he would stand on principle.

  “I can’t be specific with names or details or anything like that—”

  “Of course not. Don’t tell me anything.”

  “—but you remember that I told you that some of the clients were unhappy with their matches?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Some of them were losers.”

  He made a face. “Apparently it can get worse than that. One of my patients, a very well-off woman—well, let’s say of a ‘certain age’—confided to me recently that she knew Ivanova and was introduced to a man who is now her husband.”

  “And? That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “Yes, but now she wonders if he married her just because she has money. She is seriously depressed, I mean seriously. And she has a heart condition to boot. I’m deeply concerned about her, actually.”

  “Well, she could just be neurotic, couldn’t she? Besides, if he has money, too…”

  “That’s the point. She thought he did, but he doesn’t. She feels used.”

  “I thought that wasn’t supposed to happen. I thought the service was only for a very exclusive clientele.”

  “So did she.” He shrugged. “Look, I don’t want you setting yourself up for disappointment. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Thanks, but there is absolutely no danger that anyone will want to marry me for my money.” I said it flippantly, but I was actually touched by his concern.

  “That’s true,” he agreed, “but a lot of other unpleasant things might happen.”

  “What an optimist,” I said. “Honestly, I appreciate your concern, but since we’re sharing improper confidences, I’ll let you in on one of mine. I’m not really doing this to meet a man. I can’t be more specific than that, but it’s more like a research project.”

  “That’s what Andrea said,” he said doubtfully. “She said you’re doing research for some magazine article.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t say anything about it,” I told him. “I’m supposed to be a bona fide client. She wasn’t supposed to tell anybody.”

  “I’m not anybody,” he sniffed.

  “Very true. But I still don’t want you to t
ell. Anyway, at least you know you don’t have to worry about my losing my heart to a handsome gigolo.”

  “Maybe,” he said skeptically. “Maybe not. I can’t believe you’re making jokes about it. Look, just make sure, if you do anything, that the guy uses protection. I mean, he might protest, but you’ve got to insist.” He shook his head, while I stared at him openmouthed. “I wouldn’t mention it, but you’ve been out of circulation for a long time, and—”

  “Good God, Mark,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control, “I’m not going to be sleeping with any of them. I just told you, this is research. An orgy is not part of my plans.”

  He rolled his eyes. “This is precisely why I’m worried about you, Ellen. You are so damned naive.”

  “Oh, come on, Mark,” I said, trying to laugh. “Times haven’t changed that much.” At least I hoped they hadn’t. “Besides, I’m not exactly at the age when I have to beat off sex maniacs with a stick. Even in my friskier days, I didn’t hop into bed with the first thing in pants that offered to buy me dinner. Stop worrying.”

  He sighed. “Have it your way. My conscience is clear.” He went to the door, opened it, and hesitated. He cleared his throat.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I can get you a prescription for replacement hormones,” he said.

  “Not necessary,” I said and shut the door on him.

  Okay, so maybe I was a little too blithe about the sex part. Although I tried to tell myself I was in it for the research, dating strange men did open up the possibility of sex. At least eventually.

  I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

  Inside, a part of me would always feel like Michael’s wife. If I gave myself up to somebody else, would I be losing him for good?

  On the one hand, I had always felt the most profound pity for people who left gifts—stuffed animals and birthday cards and snapshots—at the grave sites of the people they had loved. It seemed to me that the true purpose of mourning should be to detach your life and hopes from the dead, not to tie weights to your heart that tether you to the past.