So it’s no surprise that my ringtone is a Fratellis song, by an organic indie rock band I fell in love with after my boyfriend, Sean, took me to their concert last spring. We drank too many Blue Moons, danced until a blister formed on my pinkie toe, and then, wired and giddy, fooled around like teenagers in the back of his Audi A4. Which, by the light of day, isn’t as fun as it sounds. I limped around for the better part of a week with a cup-holder-shaped bruise on my left hip.
Allowing Nixon another minute, I sort through my mail, tossing away pamphlets advertising last-minute Ensenada cruise deals, free cash, and low auto insurance rates. I then order three rolls of Christmas-themed wrapping paper from my landscaper’s granddaughter who’s fund-raising for a field trip to the San Diego Zoo. They’re $24.95—per roll—but who can say no to a pigtailed second-grader with a gap between her front teeth?
Nixon still types.
Okay, that’s long enough.
“Medical emergency?”
He says nothing.
“Beached whale?”
“Hmm?”
“Should I take cover because we’ve launched into World War Three?”
Nixon lifts his focus to offer a what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about scowl.
“We’re discussing your life, remember?” I point at his phone. “What’s more important than love?”
“Look.” Nixon clicks off his screen. “I appreciate your help. I really do. But you know this whole arranged-dating thing isn’t me. I’m here because my mom forgets I have a business to run and insists . . . actually, commands . . . that I have a date on my arm for my cousin’s wedding. If I don’t, she’ll have to explain to friends and neighbors, the caterer, the florist, and anyone else within earshot that the Voss family name is in jeopardy because I haven’t married and spawned a grandchild, which in her eyes is equivalent to the earth slipping off its axis. So, according to my mom, if I don’t have a girlfriend at the party, I’ll be responsible for the end of humanity.”
“Be nice.” I fiddle with a file, trying not to laugh at Mrs. Voss’s expense even though Nixon’s not off base. I recall her phone call several weeks ago—she noticed my billing statement on his counter and jotted down my number—explaining with an unwavering tone and heavy Spanish accent that each passing day is one less she’ll be alive to spend with her grandchildren. And the Amado Jesús can strike her dead before she’ll allow niños without marriage. She’s giving Nixon until his cousin’s wedding before Mamá steps in and finds a daughter-in-law herself.
Yes, her approach is abrasive, but I admire her conviction, her certainty. All she wants is to share her love with her family. Who can fault a woman for pinpointing exactly what she desires from life? And, though Nixon may disagree, he’s a lot like his mom, confident and steadfast. But the two differ in the sense that work is his baby. Poor Mrs. Voss, how is she supposed to spoon-feed mashed sweet potatoes to a Fortune 500 company?
“Let’s be honest.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and drop my elbows on my thick glass desk. “You’re not here because your mom said so. You’re here because you’re a thirty-five-year-old man with no one to share your life. Your house is cold and sterile. There’s probably expired milk in your fridge. And more than likely, gray hairs are sprouting up in inappropriate places. Your comfort zone is shrinking and, at the end of the day, you’re alone.”
“Shit, Bree. Don’t sugarcoat it. Give it to me straight.”
“I know it sounds harsh.”
“It sounds like you’re stalking me.”
“Only when your shutters are open.”
He laughs.
“All kidding aside, love isn’t easy. Don’t get discouraged because we’ve had a few misfires. And don’t let my casual attitude fool you. I take my business seriously. And I’m good at what I do.” I thumb toward the wall behind me, which is blanketed with framed pictures of some of the happy couples I’ve introduced over the last six years. “I’ve attended countless weddings. Seven of my clients have named their firstborn after me, and the newly married owner of Dutch’s Safe Haven Zoo dubbed his last rescue in my honor.”
“Well, you know you’ve made it when that happens. What was it? Majestic lioness?”
“It really doesn’t matter.”
“California condor?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Rarely seen snow leopard?”
“A squirrel, all right?”
“Squirrel?”
“Yes, I know. Nothing that unpredictable can be trusted. Moving on”—I scoot toward the edge of my seat—“I’ve facilitated relationships between aging lounge singers and triathletes. I’ve married pilots to prison guards, CEOs to sanitation workers, vegans to paleo dieters. Bree Caxton and Associates is one of San Diego’s most prolific matchmaking companies. I’ve devoted my life to finding love and I have a ninety-eight percent success rate.” I lean closer toward him. “Do you realize, Nixon Voss, you’re my two percent?”
“Are you really afraid of squirrels?”
“I wish you’d take this seriously.”
“Is it the soft, bushy tails or the doelike eyes that terrify you?”
“Very funny.” I reach for his date’s head shot. “Here is a perky blonde with a Colgate-worthy smile. She’s adorable. You chose her. So tell me, what killed it?”
“I don’t know. She seemed too obvious, a little young.”
“Young? That’s what I’ve said for months. And for months, you’ve overridden my choices and selected girls—eleven to be exact—that aren’t your right match. And for some crazy reason, I’ve allowed it.” Mrs. Voss’s voice plays through my mind. Mi familia. “Your mom is right. No more.”
“No more what?”
“This.” I wave his date’s picture in the air. “You think you want a twenty-something model/actress with big boobs and a tight ass, but you’re wrong.”
“How are big boobs and a tight ass ever wrong?”
“Think of it this way. You’re a venture capitalist who negotiates with financiers across the world, right?”
“Right.”
“You speak three languages and have a master’s degree in business.”
“I do.”
“How can you expect to find a connection with some barely legal play toy? It isn’t probable. You don’t share the same energy. Girls that age don’t care about exchange rates or investment returns. They don’t care about variances in sea levels or the shipping economy. They care about bikini waxes, polishing their nails with the color of the season, and mango-flavored vodka. That’s who they are. That’s who they should be.” I point at Nixon. “But that’s not you.”
“It’s not?”
“It’s not. You need a thirty-something, strong, independent, less obvious woman who is filled with a driving passion. Someone who challenges you.”
Nixon leans against the chair’s backrest and studies me for a few seconds from head to toe. My neck muscles tighten from his scrutiny.
A mischievous corner smile curves his lips. The same smile that I’m certain paved Nixon’s way into countless women’s panties. Not that it matters to me, but the smile does have its charm.
“So . . .” he says, “I need someone like you?”
“What? No, not like me.” I reach for a pencil, though I’ve nothing to jot down. “Well, yes, technically, I suppose . . . exactly like me.” Bree, what have you done? You’ve given Nixon the wrong impression with your sassy “you’re my two percent” garbage. Some expert you are, leading the poor guy on. I pull the lapels of my blazer closer together, then with the eraser tap the framed picture of Sean and me paddleboarding in Cabo. “Sorry, Nixon, not me. I’m here for you professionally.”
“Whoa, I’m totally kidding. Did you think . . . me and you?” He laughs loud enough to grab a glance from Andrew seated across the room.
It
isn’t that funny.
“You’re too old anyway,” he says.
I shoot him a look, without admitting that his comment stings, more so since I filled out a health insurance questionnaire two weeks ago. Thanks to my thirty-first birthday last year, I had to check a lower box. A lower box.
At what age will my eggs shrivel up?
“I’m just giving you a hard time,” Nixon says. “You’ve made yourself clear.” He nods as if about to say something more but stops. For the briefest moment, his jawbone clamps tight and he stares at his feet.
I’ve struck a nerve.
Two seconds ago I considered kicking Nixon in the shins—hard—but now, a wave of loneliness washes over me. Not for me. For him. Nixon’s a good man. Yes, a tad smug, making a mockery of my livelihood, but all the same, he deserves a loving relationship, someone to hold hands with when shopping for air filters on Saturday afternoons or to snuggle close to watching Arrested Development reruns on lazy Sunday mornings. The type of effortless connection I have with Sean.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the dozen white roses he sent me last week, the day before we met with a financial advisor. As I think about my boyfriend of four years, a sense of calm replaces my unease. I think about how his beach-colored hair reflects the season, dark like wet sand in the winter and light as dry sand in the summer, a result of surfing and impromptu weekend volleyball games. His skin bronzes the color of a mocha latte, and we mark the calendar noting how long his swim trunks tan line lasts. January ninth is the record. My sun-screened Irish-skinned body never makes it past October first.
We hardly argue—aside from him getting upset when I fall asleep during a Tom Cruise movie (try as I might, his acting is like a horse tranquilizer to me), or the few times I didn’t laugh at one of Sean’s lame lawyer jokes. Honestly, the one about the public defender, the prostitute, and the lamppost isn’t that funny. But at the end of the day, there’s a treasured comfort level that we share, a priceless familiarity. History.
In my purse rests the Post-it note Sean stuck on my office door this morning before I arrived at work.
Antonio’s. 8:00 p.m.
Leave it to Sean, scrawling a note about our evening. That’s so him. Such an adorable little quirk he has, writing everything down on stickies. I swear there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t find something scribbled and stuck somewhere: on his apartment’s medicine cabinet, the dash of his Audi, the upper right corner of his latest deposition. I suppress my smile as I remember the one time I found Sean naked in my bed with a smiley face drawn on a Post-it and stuck on the tip of his—
“Bree?” Nixon redirects my attention. “Wasn’t it you who chewed me out for not being present?”
“Sorry. Yes, let’s continue with your situation. You’re paying me to find you love, so it’s time to let me call the shots and—”
“You win.” Nixon raises his hands in surrender. “My cousin’s wedding is a few weeks away, and my mom will see right through me if I show up with a piece of arm candy. Get my mom off my back so I can focus on work. You pick the woman this time.”
“Finally!” I raise my fists in victory.
“Settle down, crazy lady.” He laughs. “Just find me my lovely.”
I sit upright, pulled like a puppet on a string, caught by the tenderness of his words. My lovely. “Why, Nixon Voss. Underneath this smooth-talking, systematic, number-crunching, all-business-all-the-time exterior is a mushy center.”
“There’s nothing mushy about me.”
“A soft underbelly.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Beneath your thick crust, you’re as gooey as a marshmallow.”
He smacks his knees, then stands. “And that, folks, is my cue to go.” But before turning away, Nixon braces his fingers on my desk’s edge. For the first time, I notice tiny specs of brown sprinkled in his blue eyes and catch a whiff of his Giorgio Armani cologne. I recognize the woodsy scent because I bought Sean a bottle last Christmas.
He exchanged it.
“So, how long until the release?”
“My book? Six weeks. October eleventh, to be exact.”
“Claiming your spot?” He nods toward the bestseller Web page.
“Oh, no.” I feel my cheeks blush. “I . . . no . . . I don’t expect to make the list. Heck, I’m thrilled just to get my book published. The Times is something my grandmother and I follow. We keep tabs on the big guys.”
“Well, good.” He points at the screen. “Because that list isn’t the only threshold of success. Be proud of your accomplishment. I am.”
He is? “Um . . . thanks, Nixon, that’s very sweet.” I reach for my pencil again.
“So, you’ll find me the right woman?”
“You know what they say, twelfth time’s the charm.”
“Sounds good. See you later.”
“God, that man is highly attractive,” Andrew says, joining me at my desk. “One of those silent but deadly types.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, the kinda guy that’s aloof and guarded just enough to be sexy, but not conceited.” He watches Nixon leave. “You don’t see it?”
I follow his gaze, stifling a laugh. Yeah, I see it.
The paper clip is stuck to Nixon’s butt.
That’s what he gets for calling me old.
two
I work through lunch interviewing prospective new clients. The one that looked to “bump uglies with a banging chick” was shown the door. I pay my electric and credit card bills online, order a sugar-pearl KitchenAid mixer off Bed Bath & Beyond’s wedding registry for one of my soon-to-be-married couples, then type a quick e-mail reminding a client with a date tonight not to drink too much Pinot Grigio and mount the bronze horse outside P. F. Chang’s. Like last time.
“Andrew?” I glance in his direction. “Bring the profiles, will you?”
A moment later, he sinks into the chair, then opens his laptop on my desk’s edge.
When I hired Andrew six years ago to help answer phones, I never expected him to stay on this long. Figured I was a stepping-stone to bigger and better things and once my business established itself, he’d pursue his teaching interests or venture into something kid-related, a mentor or guidance role of some sort.
“Teaching little nuggets, that’s where my heart belongs,” he’s said more than once.
But one month rolled into two, one year into another, and now I can’t imagine this office without him. Plus, clients love Andrew—one hairstylist we married to a plumber drops off hair gel and fancy shampoos all the time, while an insurance adjuster we paired with a veterinarian takes him out for ice cream every year on his birthday. Andrew’s an integral part of my company, and I’m damn glad to have him.
“What are we looking for?” he asks.
“Who do we have for Nixon?”
“Besides me?” Andrew teases, clearly aware of the Bree Caxton and Associates strict no-dating-the-clients policy.
“What happened to the FedEx guy?”
“Didn’t I tell you? When he picked me up the other night, I looked down at his feet and said, ‘Now that’s a nice-looking pair of Crocs.’”
“You did?” I say with an arched eyebrow.
“Of course not. Has anyone ever said, ‘Now that’s a nice-looking pair of Crocs’?”
“Oh, sweetie,” I say between laughs, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I read my horoscope today and it said true love is on the horizon.” Ever since the lucky numbers on Andrew’s daily forecast won him a thousand dollars from the California lottery a couple of years ago, he lives and breathes by their predictions.
“That’s promising.”
“More promising if it listed his GPS coordinates.”
“Well, how about for now we search for Nix
on’s potential true love, twenty-eight to thirty-five years old, career type, educated.”
Andrew opens the client database and clicks through a few head shots before a particular woman comes to mind. “Find Sara, the art curator.”
“Nice choice,” he says. “Thirty, college educated, likes to travel. And look, she lives close, in Pacific Beach.”
“What’s her coffee preference?”
Andrew scrolls to the answer. “One sugar.”
“Excellent.” Had he said something fussy like a half-caf soy latte with medium foam and a whisper—not a sprinkle, nor a smidgen—of cinnamon, I might have reconsidered Sara as a viable candidate.
Coffee preferences are a lot like ringtones.
“She looks like Sandra Bullock,” Andrew says. “Remind me why she’s still single.”
“Married her college sweetheart who developed second thoughts on their second anniversary. She drove her anger and free time into her career at the gallery and has been single ever since. Look at her, she’s perfect for Nixon.” I return to my chair. “Let her know he’ll be calling. Better yet, see if she’s available to stop by my office today. I’d like to meet with her in person, make sure we’ve cleared the air from last month’s fiasco.”
“Cut yourself some slack. The guy’s background check came back clean.”
“True, but spending a Saturday night decked out in heels and a classic black shift dress, dodging taunts by drunks, druggies, and derelicts while being fingerprinted and questioned by the cops because your date picked you up in a hot-wired car is less than an ideal evening.”
“Sounds more exciting than holding hands with a Croc-wearing delivery man.” Andrew closes the laptop. “Want me to call Nixon, too?”
“Yes, tell him about Sara. And remind him, no coffee.”
“Got it.” He scribbles a note, then looks at me. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just remembered something I said to Nixon.” Dinner is the slow seduction. “Oh, and mention that bar and grill with the fire pits on Prospect.”
Can I See You Again? Page 2
