Family Trust

by Amanda Brown

  She knew she had to shine. The clothes in her office had been hanging there, except for their refreshing rotations through the dry cleaner, for the better part of five years. She had some new things at the Stearns’ apartment, but couldn’t bear the thought of running into Edward. If she ran into him, he might question her about her plans. So she had run over to Prada and bought a purple dark-bordered minishift.

  She smiled to herself as she shut her door to get dressed. She lifted the dress from its hanging bag, reflecting tenderly on the color Emily had brought into her life. Before she met the little rose-cheeked cherub, she had thrown together a careless, efficient wardrobe of gray and black. She might have been mourning, to look at her back then, Becca thought, her eyes twinkling with hope. But Emily had changed everything.

  She was not going to lose her.

  It was already five-thirty. Becca stretched her long legs into her hose and wiggled herself into comfort. She had tried on a new pair of shoes at Prada, but decided that tonight was the wrong time to break them in. She expected to be on her feet quite a bit, jumping from table to table—or was that what the men would do? Smiling, she had a sudden thought of Eddie. If he were there, he would insist on changing tables so the ladies could sit, and he’d give that little half-bow if anyone stood up, and he’d be so quick to offer his handkerchief—he carried a handkerchief!—and get the door for anybody. Becca shook her head sadly, smiling with tenderness for his silly, gallant old customs. She wondered if they’d stay friends, if he’d resent what she was doing to keep Emily. Would he understand? A new life had been handed to her one day: a better one. She couldn’t give it up.

  Catching a glimpse of the Eastern Standard clock on the wall, Becca shook her head and hurried to her desk for her earrings.

  The BlackBerry buzzed at her, but she ignored it, as she ignored the ringing phone, the blinking laptop. A simple pair of diamond studs shone at her from behind a little pile of binder clips on her desk, where she had placed them unmindfully days ago when she was going to use the treadmill. She was prone to leaving things around, as Becca lived at a hurry-to-do-something-more-important-than-tidy-and-file pace. Diamonds, scarves, clunky-heeled shoes, bags full of bagels, and coffee cups were scattered here and there around her office. In the past she had only herself to look after, and if she didn’t care, what was the difference?

  She scooped up the earrings and put them on, trotting around her desk to give herself a final once-over in the mirror by her sink. Her teeth, freshly brushed and flossed, glittered magnificently. She felt a little strange with the makeup on, like a little girl playing Becca Reinhart rather than Becca herself, but she was satisfied with the overall impression.

  “You look beautiful!” came the little voice behind her.

  Becca gasped at Emily, bright, happy, and chocolate-stained.

  “You forgot to say ‘boo!’” reminded Edward, poking her in the back.

  Emily giggled. “Oh yeah. Boo!” she squeaked. “Surprise!” She rushed toward Becca to feel her soft dress.

  Becca’s startled eyes turned hastily toward Edward. “Eddie,” she stammered. “What…what a surprise.”

  “Becca! We saw the dinosaurs!” Emily exclaimed. She began talking at a wild pace, but Becca, noticing nothing in her shock, merely stood staring at Edward. She didn’t even notice he had removed her FAQs from the coffee table.

  “Essential Points of Modern Fatherhood,” he read, smiling wryly at Becca. “Is this for me?”

  Emily was tugging at her dress. “Can we bake the cake? Can we see the dinosaurs again? Hello! Becca!”

  She tore from Emily’s grip to grab the paper from Edward.

  “Eddie!” she exclaimed. “Give me that!”

  “Can I see it?” asked Emily. “Becca? What’s wrong? Becca!” Emily was tugging at her dress. “You’re purple?”

  Regaining her composure with an extraordinary effort, Becca leaned down toward Emily.

  “I’m sorry, Em,” she said, wanting to hug her but wary of her sticky dress. With the chocolate and strawberry on her cream-colored linen, Emily looked like a cone of Neapolitan. She leaned down to kiss her instead, stroking her hair for a minute while her mind raced.

  “Do you want to play the Dragon Tales game on my computer?” she offered, walking nervously to her computer to punch in the PBS site.

  Emily raced to the keyboard, leaving Becca facing Edward alone.

  “Hi,” he said, shyly. He was surprised to see her dressed so flamboyantly. What did he really know about Becca? Did she have a different life here?

  She returned his greeting with a cautious eye, walking quickly to retrieve the Essentials of Fatherhood. She folded the page and put it in her purse.

  “We missed you,” he began.

  That was it, Becca thought. How could she avoid it? Here he was, the poor lemishke, in her office, for her blessing. Should she be happy?

  “Yeah,” she said, stepping backward, away from him. In front of Emily, she could see the colorful dragons hopping over rainbows on the computer. She looked past it, at Edward, and her heart was heavy. Edward was watching her intently, but he dropped his eyes, suddenly thinking a better thought. Who was he to Becca? She was carrying on because nothing had set her back. So Eddie got engaged. What was the difference to her? Obviously she was in some form of denial and hadn’t come to terms with the fact that the married guardian would gain custody of Emily. Once that hit her, she would be less buoyant. Did this make him happy? What was wrong with him? But he couldn’t quiet the relentless thought that, if she realized the consequences of his engagement, she would need him. Perhaps she would act in some way that he didn’t dare.

  As she approached him, her eyes were warm and spoke of the pleasure it was to see him. Or perhaps he was kidding himself. Or maybe she was glad to see Emily. He wanted to stay in her world, on some terms. He wanted her to think the same of him. He couldn’t bear, suddenly, to think about a time when they wouldn’t stand together like this.

  “Congratulations, Eddie,” she said, looking right into his eyes. “I hear you’re getting married.”

  “Yeah,” he said, shrugging his shoulder. “Don’t mention it.” And I mean that literally, he thought to himself.

  He looked at Becca’s dark, loose hair, groomed for whatever she had planned tonight, admiring her radiance, her fire tempered by tenderness. He was making a mistake.

  The thought, which had only played at the edges of Edward’s mind, occurred to him strongly, but still he fought it. He had always been expected to marry Bunny Stirrup: His mother set her heart on it, and now hundreds of thousands of New York Times readers were in on the glorious plan. But he felt that the life he looked ahead to, and that he looked behind at, were secure only at the price of being screened. The only real life he felt he had ever experienced was standing before him, staring deeply at him. And her eyes were pleading for him to explain.

  “It was a big surprise,” he said, unable to suppress a shrug that communicated his overwhelming detachment.

  She dropped her eyes and stepped away from Edward. He had no courage to be straight with her, she thought, seeing his calm, even exterior as a weakness. Edward was too damned polite. He probably thought he’d spare her feelings by keeping his engagement from her, she thought, angered in a flash of pride. Becca never considered the possibility that Edward might have kept the matter to himself to spare his own feelings.

  “I guess so,” she heard herself saying, walking away from Edward. She needed to displace Emily from the computer, somehow, so she could move on. She had a big night ahead of her.

  Edward drew close behind her, and with a gentle touch turned her toward him. His fair hair glinted in the fading sunlight. The Indian summer they had spent together, a sudden gift as suddenly withdrawn, was coming to its inevitable end. Standing before her in the sunshine, his blue eyes so wide and serious, Edward seemed young, and Becca couldn’t help the tender smile that crossed her face.

  “Becca,” he sai
d, his voice earnest, his desire to explain immense. “Becca,” he repeated, “it’s not the way they said it in the paper.”

  Becca sighed, leaning gently against her desk. She was supposed to feel sorry for Edward now? She was on her way to a Jewish cattle call so big they had to hold it in a ballroom, with a number pinned to her own chest. Nobody makes a guy get married, she thought, folding her arms as she looked at him, trying to understand, but overcome with frustration.

  “Hey, Ed,” she said, as gently as she could manage. “Here’s a tip. If you don’t like swimming, don’t jump in pools. Okay?”

  Edward’s cheeks colored with embarrassment. How absurd she must think him! Becca didn’t know how things worked in his family. How could she know? He shook his head, his eyes flashing. He reached for her, grasping her forearm with his hand.

  “I didn’t jump in the pool,” he said to her. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  She laughed out loud. “Sure, Eddie, I should have guessed. Nobody jumps. You were pushed.”

  He nodded. That was it! “Exactly,” he said.

  “So who’s the culprit?”

  “My mother,” he answered, and noted that her instant reaction was surprise.

  Then she laughed at him. “Your mother? What is this, the twelfth century?”

  “You haven’t met my mother,” he said simply. Then he put his hands in his pockets and watched her, saying nothing. It was too hard to explain.

  Becca checked the clock, noticing with a gasp that it was already six, and hurried to gather her purse. She slipped her hand into the Prada bag, making certain her Essentials of Fatherhood notes were in place, and went to Emily, promising her gently that she could play another time, but that Becca had a meeting.

  “I’m sorry,” Edward said, taking a seat on her couch. “We were hoping to steal you away for a night on the town. The Screening Room is showing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Can you believe Emily’s never seen it?”

  “And then we can get ice cream at Rumplemeyer’s!” Emily added, jumping away from the computer to tug at Becca’s dress. “Please, Becca?”

  Becca hesitated. Here was what she was trying to keep. Here, in front of her, tugging her, needing her. She wanted to stay, and she put down her bag.

  Suddenly Philippe’s voice came over the speakerphone. “Your car is here. Also there’s a fax.”

  “Read it to me.”

  “Front sheet says it’s from—” Philippe paused. “This is weird—the company name is Blintzkrieg: Jewish Speed Dating. The fax says that they can guarantee there will be room for you tonight…”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Becca had colored to crimson, and stood with her mouth open, about to scream. Her hands flew to cover her mouth, and her eyes, as wide as plates, focused on Edward, who was making a gentlemanly attempt to conceal his glee. But one trill of laughter escaped.

  Now Becca did scream. Emily, seeing that a joke had caught on, began laughing too, chasing Becca and tugging on her skirt.

  Becca’s eyes teared with tattered pride. She leaned down, kissed Emily on the head, grabbed her purse and raced out of her office faster than ever before, too fast to speak to anyone, too fast to be apprehended with questions, with anything. She ran for the elevator, and then hastily, rather than waiting for it, Becca took the stairs.

  It was ten or eleven flights before she realized she could exit and take the elevator from a different floor, and so she did, collecting herself as effectively as possible, on her way to meet a new father for Emily. But when she looked at her face in the cab (asking the cabbie to twist his rearview mirror for her since she didn’t carry one), Becca looked every bit the shattered, baffled mess that she felt.

  “Truth in advertising,” she thought with indifference. The cab pulled over in front of the Etoile on Fifty-sixth between Park and Lexington. The ride was quicker than Becca had expected. She paid the driver, breathing deeply at the sight of a crowd forming at the door. Reaching into her purse for the list of Essentials of Fatherhood talking points, Becca stepped out of the cab to meet her match.

  CHAPTER 25

  Game, Set, Match

  The crowd, as she had feared, was assembled for Blintzkrieg: the mating call of the efficient professional had trumpeted from the hills, and many had heeded it. Though Becca tried to convince herself that quantity worked to her advantage, she felt as unique as a small black ant when a number was pinned on her chest. The women wore odd numbers, the men wore even. She was sixty-one. This number suggested to her that she was in the company of at least one hundred and twenty Jewish date-seekers.

  In that assumption, Becca was incorrect. There were two women for every man in the room. The total assembled dating population fell just under one hundred. Becca had a high number because she had signed up late.

  The Etoile ballroom looked like a polling center on Election Day. Organizers had set up folding tables and chairs by the score to serve as meeting centers. Each individual center was shielded by a double curtain on a single rod. An open curtain would mean a new date was free to enter; a closed curtain meant an introduction was in session.

  Women were to remain seated behind the tables in the curtained spaces, with their chairs facing outward; men were to switch places when the whistle blew every seven minutes. Since there were more women than men, there was the possibility of an idle seven minutes, but as the organizers pointed out, it was a chance for the woman to make notes, assess her approach, or refresh her lipstick.

  The whistle would sound every seven minutes, at which time conversations were halted and all men were to stand outside of the curtained spaces, turning, at the second whistle, to the next participant. To guard against liability, there was also a single bell on each table, which a woman could ring if she felt uncomfortable for any reason with the man in her tent. The men had promised, in that extraordinary case, to leave their chairs without another word and exit the space at once.

  A dating commando in a headset ran around with flapping arms. Once the women were seated, drink servers circulated carrying heavy trays dripping with cocktails. There were only two choices: gin martinis and vodka tonics. Becca picked a vodka tonic, hoping for inspiration. While the men were organized into approach units, Becca looked over her questions.

  Who is your favorite character in children’s literature?

  What is your position on overnight camp?

  Are you more of an Ernie or more of a Bert?

  Do you consider bed-making to be an essential life skill?

  How would you handle a four-year-old vomiting on a plane?

  There were more pages, but she kept the less controversial ones on the top sheet, her ice-breaker page.

  After reviewing her talking points, she ran her eyes over the regulations. Each person had a name and e-mail address with the registrar, tracked by dating number. The participants were to keep track of the eye-opening dates by number, and make choices at the end of the session. If two people chose each other, the dating facilitators would distribute to both the essential contact information to follow up. If you were picked by anyone you did not choose, your case was closed. Nobody would be contacted who didn’t express interest in the contacting party. But allowance was made for serendipity: There was a twenty minute open-chat period, in which the participants could make whatever private arrangements they desired, at the end of the session.

  In total, the speed dating session went on for an hour. You could meet up to eight potentials in that time, announced the dating facilitator, who had grabbed his clipboard to get things started.

  With a whistle, he called the session to order. “Ladies, remain in your seats. Gentlemen,” he said, his voice cracking with laughter, “start your engines!”

  Some “vroom!” sounds were met by tittering laughs but Becca kept her eye on her fact sheet.

  “Go!”

  Number forty-four leapt into Becca’s tent. His eyes widened with approval. Good chemistry on the first shot! He stuck his hand forward, but
Becca shook her head no.

  “No touching,” she cautioned him.

  Short, slight, and excitable, forty-four withdrew his hand to his lap. He stared at her with contact-lensed eyes of swimming blue, his hand shooting up to cover, and then explain, the hair loss that was making progress from the crown of his head toward his eyes, like the spot of an alleged UFO landing.

  “Barry Sidwell,” he said, breaking the rule against last names in his eagerness to impress.

  Becca nodded without giving her name.

  Barry, without thinking to ask about Becca, trumpeted his stats in a hurry. “Multimillionaire software developer,” he crowed. “Drive a Porsche, house in the Hamptons, picked number forty-four myself so you can remember my age. Unassuming and warm, sincere, attractive, divorced. Harvard JD; dropped that life, went for the millions in software, and hit it big. Want to share my heart with a leggy—”

  Barry paused to look under the table. Becca crossed her legs and tapped her pen on her notepad.

  “Whoo!” he exclaimed. “Leggy! Wait a minute—want to share my life with a leggy, well-educated people person.”

  She smiled at him as he caught his breath.

  “What do you mean ‘people person,’ Barry?” she asked, leaning toward him.

  “You know,” he attempted. “Like, someone comfortable with people.”