"Your retirement is so far off," I said, "that Luke could give you a grandchild that could end up being twice as good at matchmaking as I am."
Dad snapped his fingers. "Ah-ha! So you admit it! You are good at it."
I just folded my arms and silently stared at him.
Dad leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. "You know, I could force you to come back."
"You could force me?"'
"When you were five, maybe six?" he said with that tone of voice that he always got when he started reaching back in his memories. "I do believe that you made a special promise. A promise to follow in my footsteps, because you thought there was nothing more wonderful than love and helping two people find it."
I stared at my Dad. "You know, I'm a lawyer now."
"It has come to my attention."
"That little story of yours isn't legally binding."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Don't be ridiculous. The heartfelt promises of a child are always binding."
"Not in court, they aren't." I opened my laptop and made a show of checking my email.
"But in matters of the heart, they are," Dad replied.
I sighed. "Dad, it's not gonna happen. I'm not coming back. It's not me."
He waved a hand around the office. "And this is?"
"As a matter of fact, yes it is. You know, I rather like my job."
"You're better at matchmaking."
"But I don't want to be."
"That, Emma, dear, is why they call it fate."
"Fate?" I echoed.
"Yes, I believe you're familiar with the concept," Dad said. "I went on about it enough when you were younger."
"Oh, yes you did." I dropped my head to my desk. "Why? Why me?"
"I'm pretty sure that I already covered this. I cannot possibly imagine what is so awful about what I do."
I looked up at my Dad. "Because."
"Because?"
"Because," I repeated.
"In terms of one word answers," Dad said. "'Because' doesn't really qualify."
"Because," I paused to inhale, taking the moment to come up with something that sounded good. "Because it's not real."
Dad frown. "I'm pretty sure that I have thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of happy couples that would disagree with you."
"You know where those happy couples usually end up?" I smacked my desk. "Here. They end up here, getting a divorce."
"That, is a very jaded point of view."
"It's the truth, Dad."
"While it might be the truth in your little corner of the world," Dad said. "It doesn't make my work any less real. You used to love the idea of being a little matchmaker."
I rolled my eyes. "I also used to think that being a ballerina was a valid career choice."
"There are professional ballerinas," he pointed out. "It is a rather valid career choice."
"That's not my point," I snapped. "My point is that I grew up. I cast aside my childish things and I grew up."
Dad leaned forward in his seat and spoke softly. "Emma, it's not childish to believe in love."
"Are we living in the same world?"
"I thought we were."
I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers catching a few knots. I looked around for my hairbrush. "Does Luke even know that you're here?"
"Of course he does," he replied. "This wasn't some kind of clandestine operation. Your brother is very aware of his faults."
I checked my bottom desk drawer and muttered, "Probably because Mom's always pointing them out."
"What was that?"
"Nothing," I said. Where was my hairbrush? I pointed to the NY Post. "Look, even if I did come back, which I'm not, what could I possibly do to fix this?"
"Nothing."
I stopped looking for my brush. I couldn't believe my ears. "Nothing?"
"No, this little hiccup with the singer and her date is something I'll need to take care of myself," Dad said. "I need you to reunite Mr. and Mrs. Draper."
Chapter Four
I gawked at my Dad. Did he just say what I thought he just said? No, he couldn't have. That would have been crazy. My Dad was many things: a romantic, a family man, a proud parent, an excellent matchmaker. But he wasn't crazy.
Well, at least he wasn't crazy crazy.
"Are you crazy?" I asked anyway. It couldn't hurt to double check.
Dad was taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"
"I need to make sure you're not crazy," I said.
"Why?"
"Because if you're not crazy, you should be." I shook my head. "The Draper's just got a divorce. A divorce that I helped orchestrate."
"Yes. And now they need to get back together," Dad said it so plainly, like he was discussing the weather.
"Just get them back together?" I asked. I snapped my fingers. "Just like that?"
"Well, I don't think it's going to be that easy," Dad responded. "I mean, after all, they did just get a divorce."
I moaned loudly. "I can't believe this. Give it to somebody else."
"Somebody else? Who else should I give this to?"
"I don't know," I said. "And I don't care. Just as long as it's somebody else."
"You know them better than anybody else would right now."
I shook my head vehemently. "No, I do not."
"And besides," Dad added. "You're the one that broke them."
I threw my hands up. " I did not break them!"
"Well, they needed help and instead of helping them, what did you do?" Dad waited a second, like I was really going to answer him. "Please, tell me what else it could be called other than breaking them?"
"They were already broken when they got here." I pointed to my office door. "It says divorce attorney out there. People want a divorce, they come to me and I help make it happen. This is what I do."
"It wasn't what you were supposed to do with the Draper's," Dad said.
"Actually, considering that Mrs. Draper came to me asking for a divorce, I think it's exactly what I was supposed to do."
"Just because somebody asks for something, that doesn't mean it's what they need."
"Now you're just talking in riddles," I grumbled.
"I’m speaking as plainly as I can."
"Really? Do I need to record you so you can hear how riddley you're being right now?"
"Now you're just making up words."
I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. Nobody ever won an argument with my Dad by acting like a crazy person. Not that I was being the crazy person here. I mean, he was more of a crazy person right now than I was. But it was important that I didn't come off as a crazy person to him. I needed to make him see. To help him understand. And he wouldn't do that if he thought I sounded like a crazy person.
I exhaled and looked at my Dad. "The Draper's hate each other."
"They do not."
"I'm sorry, two seconds ago you were just telling me that I knew them better than anyone else right now," I said. "So if I say that they hate each other, I think I know what I'm talking about."
"To hate somebody is to want somebody dead," Dad replied. "I doubt very much that either of the Draper's wants the other dead."
Okay, well, that kind of made sense.
"Fine." I thought about it for a second and then said, "There's no love lost between them."
"Actually," Dad replied. "I think that's exactly the problem. The love between them is lost."
"Oh, boy," I muttered.
He steepled his fingers. "It's possible that they simply need to be reminded of what they once had."
"That's not how it works, Dad."
"Of course that's how it works. That's how it always works with affairs of the heart."
"Except for the fact that they wanted, and got, a divorce."
He held up a finger. "A divorce that isn't finalized until next Monday, I believe."
I looked at him suspiciously. "How do you know that? You're not supposed to know that."
"The
same way I know that you'll do the right thing and help these two poor souls."
"I'm not helping anybody, least of all the Draper's," I said. I paused and then added, "I mean, I'm not helping them anymore than I already have. Besides, it would be horribly unprofessional."
"Not if you worked for me, it wouldn't."
"But I don't," I continued. "I was Mrs. Draper's attorney. I can't go and poke around in their personal lives and find out what made their love tick. It's unprofessional. It's rude. And it's the exact opposite of my job."
"But if you don't," Dad said, "who will?"
"Not my problem."
He frowned. "I thought I raised you better than that, Emma."
"You raised me to take responsibility for my actions. You taught me to be respectful of my elders-"
"I don't know that that particular lesson ever really set in," he interjected.
"-I'm pretty sure at no point did you teach me to go around forcing people into relationships they have no interest in being in," I finished.
"You're not forcing anybody to be in anything they don't want to be in," Dad said. "The Draper's already love each other very much."
"Could have fooled me."
"Well, clearly they did," he said. "Somewhere along the way they got off their path. And now they need you to right their ship."
"I think it's a little late, considering their ship sank."
Dad made a wishy-washy gesture with his hand. "I like to think that it's still sinking and that there's plenty of time to patch those holes and start pumping the water out."
"Well, I think you're looking at the boat from a distance," I said. "Whereas I'm right alongside that boat and I can clearly see that it's beyond all hope."
"If you're right alongside that boat then you're in the perfect position to lend a helping hand," Dad countered. "Instead of just punching bigger holes in its hull. Wouldn't you agree?"
I opened my mouth and then paused. This ship metaphor had gone way too far and was making too much sense.
Dad smiled, probably from the confusion on my face. "Exactly."
I shook my head. "No, I didn't agree to anything."
"Of course you did," he said.
"I am not coming back to the family business."
"Of course you are."
I dropped my head back to the desk. "I don't want to."
I heard my Dad get up. He patted me on the head. "Rarely do we always get what we want."
What was that supposed to mean? I think I was a little old for those sort of 'Because I said so' nuggets of wisdom. I'm twenty-seven years old. I pay my own electric bill.
On his way out Dad paused and turned back to say, "By the way, your Mother wanted me to pass along an invite for dinner tonight. It'll be at seven and she says that you needn't bring anything other than a healthy appetite."
Perfect. Just perfect.
Chapter Five
After Dad made his sales pitch, I decided to blow off work for the rest of the day. I couldn't focus. Since most of my day was scheduled around the morning meeting with the Drapers, and since that meeting was over in about ten minutes, I told Suzy I was going home early. Besides, how could I be expected to focus on drawing up the final divorce papers after that conversation with my Dad. Of course, nobody else in the office knew about that conversation, but it was still a good excuse as any to beg off work and call the one person who could help me clear my head.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Fiona Stacy was my best friend. She was tall, redhead, a little flighty and what you might call artistic. We had been friends since college, where she went from a promising degree in medicine to a Masters in Art. These days she lived and worked out of a loft that was larger than my apartment, but considerably messier. We usually spent our time together there or at art shows like this one, where Fiona could obsess over other people's talent.
I had been staring at something else, a ridiculous reinterpretation of a Van Gogh classic. At least, that's what it said on the label. Personally, I thought it looked more like a butchering of a Van Gogh classic. But then, I wasn't the art major.
"What?" I asked, turning to follow Fiona's gaze.
She was gawking at a free standing display cordoned off with those velvet ropes that were all over the place. I don’t know how I missed it, it was made entirely of bathroom cleaners.
Fiona cocked her hips to the right and pointed at the display. She said, a little too loudly, "It is, what I think it is, right? I mean, I know what one looks like and all. I'm not asking because I've never seen one. I've seen plenty. But that’s definitely-"
"Please stop." I cut her off. I knew exactly where she was heading and I didn’t want to go there with her.
“What?” Fiona frowned.
“Don’t say the word,” I replied.
"So, I’m not crazy. It’s definitely-."
I cut her off again. “Seriously. Come on.”
“It’s just a word.”
“I don’t think it’s a word that we’re supposed to say in an art gallery.” I looked around nervously.
Fiona rarely left the house without any makeup. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I had seen her without any makeup. She was fond of dark red lipstick. It worked for her. Her lips just popped out. I won't lie: I was a little jealous. I knew for a fact that nobody ever looked at her and thought that she put her makeup on in the dark.
I glanced quickly at the display and said definitively. “It’s not that.”
“You obviously think that it is, though, otherwise you wouldn’t have stopped me from saying-”
“Stop,” I cut her off again.
“Exactly.”
“It’s not that,” I repeated, turning away from the display. I really didn’t want to look at it anymore.
Fiona studied it for a moment longer. “I don’t know."
"Can we please go look at something else?" I asked. "I'm pretty sure I saw, like, a series of blank canvasses around here somewhere. I know how much you hate artists who pass off blank canvasses as art."
Fiona pointed to the display. "See how the toilet brush is standing up there and then you’ve got the two soap dispensers.”
I closed my eyes and wondered why I thought it was a good idea to meet Fiona here. Oh, wait, that's right, I didn't. I wanted to meet at Starbucks, like normal girlfriends.
I hated art so much. And yes, I was using the word 'hate' exactly the way my Dad used it. I would very much like for art to just die. Well, at least this kind of art. I’m more of a Norman Rockwell style kind of girl. Give me a pretty picture like that any day of the week. This stuff? I could do without it. I'm pretty sure the whole world could probably do without it.
“Come on,” Fiona said. “I can’t very well have a discussion about art by myself.”
“Even if it is what you think it is,” I said, “it’s disgusting.”
“Well, it’s art,” she said.
"Is that supposed to make the fact that it's disgusting okay?" I asked. "Because I'll tell you right now, it doesn't."
“The piece is called, 'This Entire Experience Has Left Me Feeling Rather Dyspeptic,'" she read from the sign at the front of the display. “The artist is a J.C.G.”
“No, there is no artist, because this is not art,” I said. “This is vulgarity.”
“Art can be vulgar, Emma. And seeing as we’re at an art show…” her voice trailed off.
I frowned. "That's not much of an argument."
"I'm not arguing with you."
"It's disgusting," I repeated.
She nodded. “I don’t disagree with your assessment.”
“Who would even come up with something like this? Why would they even come up with it? It’s vulgarity for the sake of vulgarity,” I said.
"Now you're just randomly saying things."
"I'm saying things that are right and true. Why can't we go look at empty canvasses? Or, for that matter, why can't we just go to a coffee shop like normal people?"
She tapped a pink nail against her lips, staring intently at the display. "I wonder what he's trying to say."
"What whose trying to say?"
"The artist," Fiona replied. She glanced at the display again. "This J.C.G fellow."
“Does he have to be saying anything?”
"Of course he has to be saying something. It's art, if it's not saying something then it's not art," Fiona said. "Besides, you just know he's one of those pretentious asses."
"Excuse me?"
“You know the kind,” she said. “The guy who thinks peeing in the snow and then taking that snow and shaping it into a snowman is a commentary on the human spirit or some crap like that.” She pointed at the display. “That’s what this reeks of. It’s like somebody never bothered to tell him he was a talentless hack. Or maybe they did and he ignored them. This is Mr. I’m-Not-Mainstream, only he hasn’t realized that not being mainstream is being mainstream. And you know what? When this piece of crap doesn’t sell, you know who’s fault it’s going to be? Not his, never his, but his audience. It'll be their fault, because they just don’t understand his ‘greatness.’”
She fell silent and I waited patiently.
Fiona looked at me. “Yes?”
“Are you finished?” I asked.
She sighed. “I guess.”
“Good. Because I wanted to say that the mainstream bit really didn’t make any sense,” I replied. “But I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were in the middle of a rant.”
“That was very considerate of you.”
I shrugged. "It's what friends do." I grabbed her arm and steered us away from the display. “Come on, let’s go find a painting of dogs playing cards or something. I need to cleanse my palette. I feel so dirty now.”
"I just don't know what I'm going to do," she said. "How is it that hacks like that are getting their work on display and I'm reduced to selling my paintings on eBay?"
"eBay isn't as evil as you think it is," I replied.
"You haven't dealt with their customer service staff."
"You know, not that I'm not sympathetic towards your plight, and I am," I said. "But I kind of thought that we could talk about me for a change."
Fiona sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm a terrible friend."
Cupid's Daughter Page 3
