Have Gown, Will Wed

by Killian McRae

  “Are you accusing me of something? Because from the sound of your voice and the arch of your eyebrow, I get the impression that you’re accusing me of something.”

  “Just, you know, I thought you had a strict the weekends are my personal time philosophy. And since I know you’ve given up your le femme du jour program...”

  Pulling his pen to ready position and settling back behind his desk, Xavier sighed. “Getting on Better’s calendar is nearly impossible. Luckily she has no social life, so tonight it is. Can we focus? Show tunes aren’t going to solve this.” His finger indexed the spines of the folders. “I think one more, at least. Five candidates seem skimpy. Six? Six is respectable.”

  Jack stood and seized the pile out from Xavier’s inspection. “There was one I thought was perfect, though you didn’t like it. Just let me find it.” His face broke into a smile when he pinched a folder and fished it out. “This one.”

  Setting out the contents across the desk, Xavier reexamined the profile. “You sure you’re not just suggesting this because this guy looks like someone out of a cologne commercial?”

  With a huff, Jack snatched back the picture from Xavier’s hands. “Don’t hate him because he’s beautiful. He meets all her guidelines. Masters of Business from Stanford. Acting Director of the Flushman Group at CFI Financials. Recently back from a long vacation to Morocco. He’s the right age, and in the right place. Lives right here in the city. And you’ll love this: he donates both money and time to the San Francisco Opera. Maybe you should write him a thank you note. You have season tickets, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t actually been able to use them but once this season. Too busy.” The concrete expression on Xavier’s face began to dissolve. “Fine. I’ll give him a call and add him to the docket. I hope he impresses me as much as he impresses you.”

  “Let it be noted that my taste in men is much better than yours,” Jack teased, handing back the folder, which then assumed a sacred place atop the yes-pile. “Of course, you’re assuming any of these guys will actually be open to the idea of marrying Rosalind Betters.”

  “They should be so lucky,” Xavier said without thinking.

  It didn’t take a moment before he caught that mischievous, annoying, accusative glare from Jack.

  “What?”

  His colleague flushed. “You like her.”

  “I admire her,” Xavier corrected. “There’s a huge difference.”

  “There’s no difference.”

  “Is too,” Xavier insisted. “I admire the paintings of Rivera, but that doesn’t mean I want to rip one off the wall and make love to it.”

  Jack shrunk back in his chair. “Rosalind Betters is a whole lot more three dimensional than a painting, and a lot more colorful as well. You sure you’re not… You know.”

  Teeth gnashing, Xavier looked over Jack’s shoulder to make sure no one lingered by the door. Softly, he hissed. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I think she’s beautiful. And yes, while this whole unorthodox approach to matrimony threw me for a loop, it makes sense when you think about it. I’m really impressed by someone who can see a solution to an obstacle and approach it so rationally. Also, I’d like to see her happy, because I think she deserves that. Not to mention, she’ll be more willing to pay our hefty fees.”

  “You barely know her,” Jack said. “What would make you think she’s owed something?” Then he too mimicked Xavier’s conspiratorial manner. “What did you see when you profiled her at home? You caught on to something, didn’t you? I did too, when I met with her a few months ago. Care to compare theories?”

  “Not with you.” Xavier leaned forward and lifted his phone. “Cory, could you come in here please?”

  Within three shakes, his assistant stood before them. Xavier took the sacred six folders, normalized the stack, and passed them off. “Please contact each one of these men and see if I can get on their calendars this week. In person meetings only. No telephone calls, and make sure they have a non-disclosure agreement signed and sealed before I get there. Thirty minutes should do it. Book flights where needed accordingly. Tell them it’s in regards to a high-level position around an upcoming possible merger.”

  He turned back to Jack. “I’m allowed to like my clients and leave it at that, Jack. This is just business. BetaHouse’s growth could help to push our company to the next level. Whatever makes Rosalind Betters happy, makes us happy.”

  Copycat Sydrome

  Despite her Indian background, Kamakshi had never practiced yoga. Her idea of exercise involved a treadmill and a trashy gossip magazine. While fit, she just wasn’t that flexible. Her body, however, had failed to communicate that fact to her jaw. Based on the stretch she felt in the sides of her face, her chin had surely landed amongst the bed of lettuce on her plate.

  “You’re… what?”

  Rosalind bit off the end of a carrot and reached for her water bottle. “You heard me.”

  “When?”

  “June 21st.”

  “This June 21st?”

  The blonde nodded.

  Kamakshi, still wondering where the cameras in the café might be hidden, advanced to the most obvious question. “To whom?”

  Rosalind hitched her shoulder and shoveled a forkful of baby spinach in to her mouth. “Don’t know. I haven’t picked him yet.”

  The Indian information specialist would admit, she had a tendency merely to audit some conversations with Rosalind. It couldn’t be helped. While her best friend, Rosalind’s inability to pick up on social cues, i.e. when your conversation partner had heard enough about split mergers and UI implementation models, was legendary. She was fairly certain there must have been something she missed between the time Rosalind had said “I have some big news” and “I’m getting married.”

  “Rosalind, June 21st is less than three months away. Are you telling me you’re getting married in twelve weeks and you don’t know who the groom is?” Kamakshi’s eyes became slits, letting nothing except her suspicion through. “Did you get asked to be on one of those reality bachelorette shows?”

  “God, no, and if you ever hear me doing anything remotely related to reality television, call my uncle and tell him to lock me up in his cabin up in Truckee until I’m talking sense. No, it’s just that I thought a lot about what you said. You know, about marriage and building a life with someone? And like usual, you made some really good points. So I decided you were right. I have so much going for me right now, and I have no one to share it with.”

  “You have me!” Kamakshi protested.

  Rosalind reached across the table and took her friend’s hand. “But you’re already spoken for, sweet. Unless you think you’d like a sister-wife.”

  In a split second, Kamakshi reclaimed her hand and used it to give Rosalind a playful slap on the wrist. “You know what I mean. When I told you all that, I wasn’t trying to make an argument for why you should get married. I was trying to get you to understand why I am.”

  “I know that,” Rosalind said. “Maybe you should have been a lawyer. Your argument won me over. So I’ve decided to just do it already.”

  “Good Lord, Roz, this is a major life decision, not a sports shoe advertisement. And I return to the question: who are you marrying? Without even having a boyfriend, how are you going to find someone and get him to pop the… Oh, no, you didn’t. Really, you didn’t. Did you?”

  Rosalind twirled her fork. “Yes, I hired a service.”

  Feeling as though she had finally found the fatal flaw in Rosalind’s plan, Kamakshi pounced. “You’re okay with an Indian or Pakistani husband? The matchmakers here don’t have many white men coming to them to find brides.”

  “That’s a low blow.”

  “Sorry,” Kamakshi answered. “I know you wouldn’t care.”

  “You’re right, I wouldn’t.” Rosalind rested her fork on the side of her plate
. “But as a matter of fact, no, I didn’t go to an Indian matchmaker. I hired Hommes HQ.”

  “The headhunting agency?” Kamakshi spit out. “Oh, this just gets better and better.”

  “Come on, it’s not that different from what you did. And Xavier Hommes is renowned for his professionalism and repartee. His agency found Carmen for me in just three weeks. He’s already at work building a profile and finding someone to fill the position.”

  Despite wanting to take up on her friend’s invitation to call her uncle, Kamakshi instead took a few deep breaths. She knew from experience that once Rosalind got it into her mind to do something, arguing with her to the opposite was like trying to pull out an embedded porcupine quill. The idea only dug in deeper. You just had to stand back and give her the opportunity to work herself out of her own notion.

  And she would have let it rest at that, if Rosalind had not added, “Will you be my matron of honor?”

  “You do realize how crazy it is to ask me that when you don’t even have a groom yet, right?”

  Rosalind blinked twice. “So, is that a no?”

  “That’s a ‘if you actually go through with this crazy idea’ yes. But I’ll admit, Rosalind, I don’t think you will. You’re just not the marrying type. You’re far too picky. And that’s fine. You don’t need to have a partner to have a purpose. Just look at all the good work your nuns do.”

  “Oh, this will happen,” Rosalind assured her as she took back up her fork and speared a tomato wedge. “I’m determined, and I know Xavier Hommes won’t let me down.”

  At least, she hoped that Xavier Hommes would not let her down. After their first profiling session, Rosalind had come away with the belief that he had embraced her mission as his own. When Carmen informed her that Xavier wanted to meet her that night in a social setting for observation, however, doubts festered. Was he just placating her, and getting her to pick up an expensive meal as a bonus?

  She spotted Xavier sitting at a booth across a room crowded with diners. A checkerboard floor with alternating black and white tiles made her feel like she had just stepped on to a chess board. At the far corner of the restaurant, a man dressed as a gondolier played an accordion while another dressed just the same, belted out something in Italian that had two female tourists at the table beneath them swooning. Rosalind tiptoed through the front door and jolted when a woman, who was in the tightest white dress she had seen this side of a mummy, appeared from nowhere and asked how many in her party.

  “None,” she exclaimed, putting her hand to her heart as though that could stop the racing.

  “Just looking then, madame?”

  She felt a tingle at the top of her ears that slowly worked itself down her jawline and met her lips. Madame? Surely the hostess had meant to say miss.

  “I’m meeting someone, but I see him right over there.” Rosalind extended a finger in Xavier’s direction. The headhunter must have felt their eyes upon him. He lifted a hand and flexed his fingers in a wave.

  “Ah,” said the hostess, in a tone that spoke so much more than just understanding. “Yes, Signore Hommes. Enjoy your… um, meal.”

  Xavier rose to his feet when she started to swivel into the booth. She assured him that he needn’t be so gallant on her account, but he nonetheless waited until she was comfortable to return to his side of the table.

  Rosalind decided to employ some of his own motives against him. “They seem to know you here.”

  Much to her chagrin, he didn’t take the bait.

  “Did you have any trouble finding it?”

  Rosalind shook her head. “Don’t dodge the question.”

  The glass paused at his lips. “You didn’t ask a question, Rosalind.”

  Reviewing her words, she quickly remedied that technicality. “How do they know you so well here?”

  His answer was as bold as his choice of wine. “I used to bring… dates here.”

  Rosalind turned her attention to unrolling the napkin and placing it on her lap. “Women you slept with?”

  “On occasion.” He sipped his wine.

  She felt a reverberation shutter through her. She grabbed the menu and splayed it across the table. “And the reason you’re bringing me to this pizza parlor is … ?”

  “…Purely professional. I want to watch you order.” Xavier rubbed a chin on which an after-five shadow of gruff teased her eyes. He, in turn, seemed to be studying her every intricacy with as much dedication.

  “Watch me order? Please reassure me you’re actually my contractor and not a stalker.”

  “A moment ago you were jealous I had been here with other women, and now you’re worried I’m pursuing you too closely. Are you always this indecisive?”

  Anger brought her arms across her chest. “I’m not jealous!” she huffed. “Besides, there’s nothing to be jealous of. You don’t bring women here anymore. You used the past tense.”

  “You’re picking up my powers of observation, I see. But tell me, would you be jealous if I still did?”

  The corners of Xavier’s mouth twitched, but she wasn’t taking the bait. She was quickly discovering that underneath a very controlled exterior, Xavier Hommes had a thin line of animosity reserved for her. Oh, he took on her job, but he still wasn’t convinced that it had been a wise decision. Since he obviously understood the serious green that lay at the other end of this rainbow, however, he seemed to be acting out then in the only way available to him: bristling her with teasing jibes.

  After a few moments of her stoic silence, he continued. “I’m only a stalker of good Merlot. FYI: this isn’t a pizza parlor. I believe the proper term for it is una ristorante italiano.” When she still looked unsure of his sanity, he continued, “I know of your penchant for golden Hollywood, but have you ever seen When Harry Met Sally?”

  She nodded. “Total chick flick, and I am a woman, so of course I have.”

  “Do you remember that scene in the diner where Harry watches Sally order, then explains to her the difference between high maintenance and low maintenance?”

  If he wanted banter, she’d give him banter. “Right before she fakes the orgasm in public. Going to ask me to do that, too?”

  “What? No, no,” he stumbled to answer, coughing into his napkin. It took a good twenty seconds and a tall drink of water to regain his ability to speak. “Even in San Francisco, I think that would likely result in our being asked to leave. Point is, Harry would have been quickly promoted in my company. He understands how the seemingly mundane acts we engage in everyday without thought showcase everything about us. Beyond watching you order, the food here is excellent. The wine list, impressive.”

  Rosalind breezed through the dishes. When the waiter emerged a few minutes later with a basket of bread, she felt the weight of Xavier’s eyes on her hand as she reached out and grabbed a slice.

  “Will you please stop that?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Making me feel like I’m under the microscope,” she said. “I know observation is part of your procedure, Mr. Hommes. I remember that with Jack. However, he observed me at work where I was surrounded by people. This sort of one-on-one thing with you tracking me from moment to moment… It’s very unnerving. You can see perfectly well what I’m doing without training hawk eyes on me. I’m not about to bolt out the door.”

  “I’m upsetting you,” he said in realization. “Apologies. I’m not accustomed to having such a specified subject in such an intimate situation.”

  She heard herself gulp. “Intimate?”

  “Yes, in that we are meeting one-on-one. As you duly noted.”

  Rosalind sat back, feeling silly that she let the word mean anything beyond its most dictionary-citable nature. The menu hitched on the side of the table, her mind began to see much more to her probable order than a preference of pomodoro versus pesto. The waiter returned, pen poised, lo
oking at her like she were about to sprout poetry.

  What would Xavier possibly be able to deduce from what she was about to say? If she ordered chicken, would that suggest she had very bland tastes? Did pork signify a sweet tooth and desire for a quick rush? Did fish imply she gave so little care to the state of her breath so as to inflict a mist du trout to whomever should come mouth-to-mouth with her?

  Feeling like any selection she made was bound to put too much stock into a meaningless measure, Rosalind closed her menu and leaned back in her seat. She raised two fingers on her right hand and pointed them at Xavier.

  “Actually, the gentlemen will order for me.”

  Xavier’s eyes glossed over. A devilish grin spread across his face as he coaxed the waiter near and spoke into the young man’s ear. The waiter in turn nodded, scratching on his order pad. Rosalind couldn’t be sure, but it sounded as though they were speaking another language.

  “Oh, and a garden salad!” Rosalind added when they had finished. “Please substitute Caesar dressing for Italian, and if you can sprinkle just a little parmesan on it, that would be great.”

  The waiter looked confused. “So, a Caesar salad, then?”

  “No, I noticed in the menu that your house salad is three dollars less, and the only difference between what I ordered and that is a few bites of grilled chicken.”

  “Then I’ll give you Caesar salad, no chicken.” He began scratching on his order pad again.

  “Will you charge me less if I ask for it with no chicken?”

  The waiter shook his head and let out a few nervous chuckles. “What can I say, signorina, it’s all in the computer. I just hit the buttons.”

  “You can say you’ll follow my request,” Rosalind returned. “Garden salad with Caesar, hold the Italian, with just a pinch of shredded parmesan.” When at last he unhappily acquiesced and left, Rosalind turned back to Xavier. “So, what does that decision tell you?” She hitched her chin on her balled up fist. “Or aren’t you going to tell me?”