Have Gown, Will Wed

by Killian McRae

  “Personal assistants, chief accountants, and estate managers? My, you do get around, don’t you?”

  Xavier nodded. “Professionally speaking, yes. I don’t want to invade your privacy or make you feel uneasy. Follow me around, and if there’s somewhere you don’t want me to look at or if it makes you feel uncomfortable, just say so. When you’re ready…”

  She couldn’t help but give a teasing grin as she hid her Kung Pao in the fridge.

  “First, and I admit, this is partly out of curiosity as well as cause, why?”

  She followed the direction of his stare as he went through the contents of her kitchen cupboard.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Not really. How you choose to answer is part of my observation.”

  Ah, so it was one of those the answer is in the question things. “Um. So, I used to be part of this group of friends. We were all students at Stanford together. I am still part of it, I guess. But over the last few years, we’ve seen each other less and less. I don’t know why; they got busy, I got busy... I was at Google after college, then left to form BetaHouse. I guess we all just went our separate ways over time. But the other night, my best friend, Kamakshi, told me she was getting married. She! Kamakshi I’m-So-Not-Meant-to-Sit-Home-and-Make-Gobi Pure. And suddenly, it all seemed to make sense.”

  He sniffed a container of tea, a favorite blend of hers only sold in a few shops around the Bay Area and only for a few months out of the year. “It?”

  “Marriage,” she said with a huff. Wasn’t that obvious? “I mean, I’m not one of those ultra-feminist types. I’m not anti-marriage, per se. I just never thought of it as something meant for someone with my kind of ambitions.”

  “So you’ve never had any serious relationships?” he asked.

  “No, I’ve had a few, just none where the topic came up. Then, Kamakshi told me why she was getting married, that she didn’t see the point of everything she was doing if it was just for her and not shared with someone else. Suddenly, I knew that was the path for me. I knew that’s where I needed to be.”

  His inspection led them to what could be described as a living room, if it had walls. As Xavier Hommes’s eyes surveyed the spines of a neglected DVD collection, Strudel in turn observed him with the same amount of care and suspicion.

  “You have a penchant for black and white films.”

  A statement, not a question. Yet, it put her on the defensive. “I watch classics almost exclusively. So much of what gets made today is porn disguised as plot or a cheap excuse for someone with a CS bachelor’s to show off his animation skills.”

  His eyes were already skimming over the shelf above loaded with CD’s. “Got it. Not an FX fan. Doesn’t like porn.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with porn.” Had she actually just said that? He looked at her amusedly, as though asking himself the same question. “I mean, it’s not my thing, I just don’t like when something or someone tries to pass itself off as something it’s not.”

  He gave her an acknowledging nod. “Very keen, Ms. Betters. That’s exactly what I was thinking. Also, I get a lot out of seeing that you have a taste for black and white films.”

  “Especially Mae West.” She leaned forward and pointed at the spines in turn. “Klondike Annie, My Little Chickadee, I’m No Angel. She exemplifies to me what it is to be a strong woman. I like Ginger Rogers, too. With or without Fred.”

  “That ever a problem in any of your past relationships?”

  “What part?”

  Again, he waited, not deigning to clarify.

  “Ah, another test,” she said. He nodded. “Okay, so, yeah, on occasion. My tastes aren’t normal for someone of my generation. It’s hard to find someone who doesn’t want to run out to see some graphics-heavy summer hit in lieu of something with actual good dialog and perhaps, a little dancing.”

  Xavier beamed at her. “Very interesting. You are a smart one, aren’t you?”

  “It seemed to answer every scenario of ‘what’.”

  A few more minutes spent looking through the items on her work desk, which books lay on the bookshelf, and Xavier’s eyes turned toward the bedroom. Her cheeks burned crimson as she sucked in her lower lip.

  Xavier’s hand hesitated on the door knob. “I don’t have to go in.”

  She swallowed her nerves as she stared at her feet. As though sensing her unease, Strudel took defensively to her side.

  Finally, she cleared her throat and her unease. “Um, no, that’s okay. Go.”

  She didn’t follow him. There was no reason to. He wouldn’t find anything revealing or insightful about her in such a bland space, unless the fact that her sheets were 1000 count said anything. Bed, white sheets, white pillows, night stand with one white lamp and an alarm clock with an integrated iPhone charger. Walk-in closet with a collection of clothes that hung in prescribed fashion, from lightest to darkest. Shoes arranged on shelves in the boxes in which they’d come. A pair of slippers she’d lifted from the Shangri-La Hotel in Singapore, aligned perpendicular to the bed. In short, a room full of function, totally lacking in form.

  Hence, when after just a minute, he reemerged and pulled the door closed behind him, the brevity came as no surprise. When she looked up to meet his eyes, however, the expression threw her for a loop. Something akin to sympathy filled his features. Simultaneously, she felt dismissive and defensive.

  “I’m barely ever at home,” she found herself babbling, apropos of nothing.

  Xavier scratched the back of his head. “Um, I have a few more questions. Maybe we should sit?”

  “Sure, how about there?” She pointed at the couch. Strudel followed, seating himself in guard dog position on the floor beside her feet.

  “She is a pretty dog,” Xavier offered as he reached out to scratch the dog’s ear. Strudel accepted the gesture, but took no aims to acknowledge it. “Does she stay here alone all day?”

  “He, actually. No. Strudel comes to the office each afternoon and sleeps under my desk. We run in the mornings before I leave. I have a dog walker that picks him up around one each day, runs him about an hour, then brings him to BetaHouse.”

  For a few moments, he hesitated. Then finally, softly, he asked, “What about sex?”

  Rosalind squirmed under his stoic gaze. “Is that really something we need to discuss at this point?”

  “No, we can come back to it later. You’ll forgive my bluntness on the matter, Ms. Betters. I am attempting to be forthright without being disrespectful. Normally when I’m developing the concept of the type of person I’ll put forward to fill a position, I must ascertain the employer’s desire in the way that candidate will handle the key tasks for which they’ll be responsible. If I offended you…”

  His voice trailed off, leaving Rosalind to determine if this subject would indeed be addressed here and now. She sniffed in some courage, and tried to keep her voice flat.

  “I think that’s part of a marriage, but I won’t make a decision about a spouse based on his sex appeal. If all I wanted was a pretty face or rock-hard abs, I’ve passed on opportunities for that one already.” In her mind’s eye, an image of Chris’s face, chest, and… um, other parts of his anatomy, teased her memory.

  “Are you sure this is the way to handle this, Ms. Betters?”

  She leaned in, grinning contemptuously. “This, Mr. Hommes?”

  When his eyes met hers and his face screwed up, she regretted the momentary lapse in professionalism. Boundaries would keep her from embarrassing herself.

  “Touché,” he finally said, dragging his eyes away. “But there’s nothing to be gained from being imprecise. I’m talking about this approach to finding a spouse. I can understand the appeal. In some unexpected way, coming to someone like me even makes sense. I guess what I do for a living isn’t that different from a matchmaker in some cultures, even if my pai
rings tend to be more about work relationships than working relationships. However, you’re not… It’s just…” He seemed to be as uncomfortable with the place in the conversation as she had just been. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to have difficulty finding someone.”

  “I’m sure I could, if I had the time,” she sighed. “Rest assured that I hesitated, but I know what I want, and I know now’s the time. I don’t have time to start dating a sea of men, playing all the little character-discovery games you have to play to figure a person out, hoping they measure up to your expectations, developing a relationship that may or may not go anywhere. I just want to bypass all that. I want to get to point B by the fastest route possible.” Her hand came to rest on the sleeve of his jacket. “I want you to help me do that.”

  His eyes trained on her fingers. On him.

  Her gaze met the misty expanse of his. “I will.”

  “What cologne are you wearing, Mr. Hommes?”

  Confusion helped clear some of the tension. “Acqua di Gio?”

  Leaning in, she closed her eyes and inhaled. When her eyes opened again, she was certain she probably looked intoxicated. It’s certainly how she felt.

  “I adore a fine fragrance. Maybe that’s something you can add to my list of necessities? An appreciation for fine cologne and perfumes.”

  “And you said you already have a dress?” His look turned clinical.

  Oh, goodness. She had forgotten that she’d mentioned that. Pinpricks of heat danced over her cheeks. “Yeah, but it’s not what you think.”

  “You have no idea what I think,” he cautioned. “Nonetheless, I’ll admit, there’s more behind the question than just idle curiosity. If you were formerly engaged…”

  He let the statement linger. Was it another test? Would her reaction inform him of something?

  However, the truth was pretty bland. Though she felt like it nudged her comfort to share this with someone she had so recently met, she couldn’t think of a good reason not to, given the situation. “No, I’ve never come close to taking the plunge before. Like I said, I’ve been a career girl for all my adult life. The dress was my mother’s. She got it from her mother. Both asked me to wear it, if I ever found someone.”

  “For someone who works on the cutting edge of technology and has heretofore shunned the altar, you have a very interesting traditional streak, Ms. Betters.” His eyes took a study of her shifting features, and Rosalind felt in that survey something much more than curiosity. She felt like she was being catalogued. “You almost make me wonder if I should take this search international. Your temperament doesn’t exactly reflect local social norms.”

  “My mother used to say that fate brings people together when they’re ready, and you don’t need to cross an ocean to find a shore.”

  His eyes twinkled. “And yet, you hired me.”

  Rosalind shrugged. “In my experience, Fate doesn’t get great customer feedback.”

  When his hand reached out and rubbed her arm, she felt a chill shoot through her. Rosalind knew he shouldn’t be so informal on their first meeting, but she’d forgotten how pleasant it was to have a man touch you with tenderness. Even if it was an independent contractor.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I have much higher client ratings than Fate.”

  Before Rosalind could reply to that statement, the whistle from her phone nearly made her jump out of her own skin.

  “Sorry.” Leaping to her feet, she plowed across the loft to where she’d left her phone by the entry. “I’m expecting several important messages. Just in case, I better check that.”

  “And it’s getting late, and I should probably go,” Xavier said.

  How he moved so quickly behind, and yet, away from her, she’d never know. She had barely breezed through the text and quit her phone’s sleep screen when he had his coat back on and his hand at the front door handle.

  “I’ll start to put all this together and call Carmen to set up another meeting. Because of the far-reaching impact of this position, I’ll need opportunities to observe you in several environments before I can begin the selection process. Of course, I’ll keep this whole assignment under the strictest control, and exercise care that only candidates meeting all your expectations—and mine—are approached. In the meantime, feel free to contact my office if you need anything.”

  He paused for a moment outside her door. His finger raised meaningfully and he turned his gaze back over his shoulder, until it looked like he thought better of it. Instead, Xavier merely ran a finger over the rim of his hat before tipping it in acknowledgement while stepping on the elevator.

  Kamakshi’s message was still waiting for her when she turned her eyes back to the screen. “29 May in Mumbai! Mark your calendar and book your tickets!”

  Thank God, May 29th. Now, when Rosalind married on June 21st, she wouldn’t be stealing Kamakshi’s thunder.

  Assuming, of course, that Xavier Hommes delivered.

  The Onus of Crazy

  “Mario Bellini. Let’s see. He’s got a PhD in Classics. A junior professor at UC-Berkeley. Speaks his native Italian, several dead languages, English, of course, and oddly enough, Swedish?” Xavier took off his glasses and gazed up at the man sitting on the other side of his desk for further clarification. “Italian, English, and Swedish? Is this right?”

  Jack Colbon made sure to give his full attention to his caramel latte before answering. He sipped off the foam like a man for whom leisure came free. “Yup,” he finally said, popping his p. “I thought that was weird, too. Did a little more digging, and turns out he was married to a bikini model from Stockholm until a few years ago. Must have been trying to impress the in-laws. I learned Spanish to make Javier’s family love me.”

  Jack Colbon: always the one to fish for compliments.

  Xavier tossed down his pen and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out behind him. “Jack, Jack. How could they not? You’re so completely lovable. Like a giant plush toy or the guys from that Some Direction group.”

  The pasty man with thinning white hair and a tire rack around his waist faux-blanched. “No need to bring my size into it. But you’re right. They adore me. Now…” He took up the file folder again and examined the contents with more scrutiny. “What are we saying on il professore here? Yes, no, or maybe? I’m thinking a definite yes for a follow up call at the very least. Then again, I’ve always had a weakness for Italian men, and he does look so dulce.”

  “Il professore è un no.”

  Jack’s face contorted. “For those of us who don’t know Italian?”

  “No to the professor,” Xavier amended, closing the file and tossing it on his desk. “A man like that is only looking for the hottest model to upgrade to, if you’ll forgive the pun. I don’t think our client would be interested in only being the latest gadget.”

  Three piles of recycled manila folders lay before them, the most towering of which had a sticky note on the table before it labeled N-O in a shockingly bold script. For the last two days, he and Jack made and reviewed profile after profile. It had actually come as a surprise just how many eligible bachelors met the precursor of Rosalind’s criteria up and down the west coast. Of course, elsewhere in the country, Xavier was certain pickings would be slim. Ambitious, career-minded folks in an acceptable age range for Rosalind tended toward the left coast. The culture here nurtured and honed ingenuity and business acumen. New York might be the financial capital of the country, but any industry requiring technical know-how and a hotbed of risk-taking capital venturists migrated west. He was suddenly reminded of one of his favorite quotes from Frank Lloyd Wright, “They turned the country on its side and everything loose fell into California.”

  Unfortunately, meeting Xavier’s own criteria proved more difficult. Out of eighty initial candidates, fifty-nine got tossed on to the no-pile. Sixteen were borderline, getting added to
the maybe stack. That left only five… five candidates from the pool who he deemed proper and worthy of approaching in confidence. He had really hoped to offer her more of a choice than that. The express lane at the local In-n-Out had more variety.

  Xavier began to peruse the edge of the maybe pile again. “Maybe I should pick a few more from here, just in case.”

  “It’s your call, boss. So, you going to tell me finally how Rosalind Betters succeeded in getting you to play Yente? I was positive when I batted it to you, you’d turn her down flatly.”

  Xavier looked up from his newly opened file. “I’m sorry, play what?”

  Jack had the nerve to look annoyed. “Not what, who. Yente, the matchmaker in Fiddler on the Roof.”

  A fact Xavier could see from Jack’s expression that the latter man believed a self-evident truth, but to which he could only return silence.

  Jack swung forward in his seat, guffawing. “Seriously? Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Fiddler.”

  Xavier’s answer was as empty as his stare.

  “Oh, for the love of Ethel Merman. If Mozart or Puccini didn’t write it, you’re hopeless. But it’s only one of the most famous Broadway plays and, oh, by the way, movies of all time. You know the song… Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. Find me a find, catch me a… yada yada yada.”

  Xavier waved his hand through the air, like the queen dismissing her butler. “I may have heard it once or twice.”

  “No, this is unacceptable. Having a gay man as your best friend, there is no excuse for you not to have seen the brilliance that is Anatevka.” Jack fished out his cellphone and began punching digits. “I’m calling Javier. We’ll grab some crab from the wharf and have a movie night.”

  “No, I have a meeting.”

  His finger frozen in mid-punch, Jack looked with suspicion at the man who doubled as his boss and best friend. “On a Friday night?”