by Jenny Jacobs
He kept his back to her and said, “Is there really someone for everyone? Even me?” He said it lightly, like a throwaway line, but she could tell it wasn’t a throwaway.
His words echoed Duncan’s so closely she was tempted to tell him the same thing she’d told Duncan. One day, you’ll see her and you’ll know. She realized suddenly that she’d gotten that insanely irresponsible line from Marilyn. It hadn’t been true for Marilyn, despite what she wanted to believe. And it wasn’t true for other people, either.
And Jeremy was not Duncan, readily reassured by platitudes and aphorisms. He was a grownup, despite his obsession with getting laid. He would know a lie when he heard one, and then he wouldn’t trust her. And there might come a time when she needed him to trust her, and so she did something unprecedented in her entire matchmaking career: she told the truth.
“I haven’t got the slightest damned clue.”
• • •
Jeremy hoisted himself into his truck, then folded the wheelchair and stowed it behind him. How many weeks had it taken him to perfect the art of getting from chair to truck and from truck to chair? A lot. And Nate saying, Why not use the prosthetics? like you just popped them on and everything went back to normal. And yet you couldn’t go back to normal. You had to find a new normal. Only he was having trouble adjusting to a normal that didn’t have companionship in it, the kind of companionship he wanted.
He didn’t know why he went back to Rilka’s. She was not exactly a shoulder to cry on. Although, see, Rilka had never wondered why he didn’t use prosthetics, at least not out loud and within his hearing. She almost certainly didn’t give a rat’s ass why. Or maybe … she knew it was none of her business. Did him the courtesy of assuming he’d fucking heard of prosthetics and had made an informed decision about them.
He didn’t really think Rilka would find someone for him. The right someone. Someone who treated him like she’d treat anyone. Only not the kind who’d pretend it was all right that he didn’t have legs. It wasn’t all right that he didn’t have legs, that he’d gotten blown up in some stupid Middle Eastern war and then people acted like he deserved a medal for just doing his job. People did their jobs. If he’d known what was coming, he’d have called in sick that day.
So. It wasn’t that he wanted someone who pretended. Hell, that was half the reason he preferred the wheelchair. No pretending. What he wanted was for someone to like him anyway. For it not to matter.
He’d gone to Henry’s like Rilka had suggested, and met her friend Marilyn tending bar, and the evening had gone fine. The first time had been harder than the second, and he’d seen Rilka’s point. The more he went the less they stared, and the less uncomfortable he was.
But so far none of the people he’d met interested him half as much as Rilka did.
• • •
“My name is Daphne,” the slender brunette said, her voice tremulous. She stood awkwardly on the other side of Rilka’s door. She fingered her long hair, pulling it across her cheek in an unconsciously defensive gesture. She had startling blue eyes, exotic, romantic, but she hunched her shoulders, trying to hide.
They’ll find you anyway, Rilka resisted saying. Although that would be one way to solve her inability to be an effective matchmaker, start running the clients off as soon as they showed up at the door.
She went with, “That’s a beautiful name,” taking in the scar on the woman’s face but not lingering on it. “I’m Rilka. Please come in.”
Rilka brought her into the kitchen where Daphne winced at the brightness of the sun. Rilka adjusted the shades, then fumbled with the tea, spilling water across the counter, distracted from what she was trying to do. The woman’s disfiguring scar was obviously the reason she was here. She would want someone who could see past the disfigurement. Honest to God, Rilka had once believed such people existed, but it seemed like society had become so youth- and appearance-obsessed that it was no longer true. The content of your character didn’t matter half as much as —
Gran would have told her she was being ridiculous, that society had always been appearance-oriented and if finding The One were so easy there would be no need for matchmakers. But it wasn’t wrong for Rilka to wish there were no need for matchmakers, was it? Wouldn’t it be nice if people could manage on their own? And then Rilka would … clean houses for a living. Sack groceries. Something. She brought the tea over to the table.
“So tell me how it’s going,” she began.
The young woman gave a shaky smile and accepted the mug of tea Rilka offered, focusing on her mug and not looking at Rilka. Rilka sat down opposite her and gave an encouraging smile. Not that Daphne, head determinedly lowered, could see it. But it was the thought that counted, right?
“This is hard,” Daphne whispered, still staring at the tea. Rilka was used to people not looking at her when they spoke. Somehow it was easier for them if they acted like she was just another piece of furniture and they just happened to be sharing their thoughts aloud. Sometimes she amused herself by guessing what piece of furniture she would be. Sofa, armoire, kitchen pantry.
“I’m a virtual assistant,” Daphne confided finally. “Do you know what that is?”
“You do administrative work for clients? Using the phone and internet to get and deliver assignments?”
“That’s right. I don’t — since the incident — ” She made a gesture toward her face. “I stay mostly at home. I have a cat.”
“Cats are nice,” Rilka ventured. She could see Daphne with a seal-point Siamese or a fluffy white Angora —
“I hate cats,” Daphne said vehemently. “I love dogs. I love big dumb dogs but they need exercise. And I don’t like — you know, going for walks. Meeting people on the streets.”
You need a psychiatrist to help you with this, Rilka thought, not a matchmaker. But if she suggested something like that Daphne would be offended and probably wouldn’t listen anyway. And it wasn’t like Rilka could pay the bills by turning away potential clients. Although wouldn’t that be the life. I can’t help you. That will be three hundred dollars, please.
“So Dr. Pennyman suggested that — ”
“I’m sorry,” Rilka said. “I missed that. Dr. Pennyman is?”
“My psychiatrist.”
Okay, so Daphne had already sought help, which was good, but she needed a little more progress before she started the daunting process of dating people. Okay, a lot more progress. Dating people was not for the faint of heart. If she couldn’t even take a dog for a walk, how did she expect to go somewhere, meet someone for coffee or a drink, take in a movie? To be so fearful of rejection would make the process infinitely harder, practically impossible. Most relationships, after all, ended in failure. And the ones that didn’t fail ended in death. There’s a cheery little thought for a matchmaker. Maybe I should print it on my business cards.
“And Dr. Pennyman said sometimes if you can’t manage it any other way, you should just plunge in.”
Rilka choked on her tea. She grabbed her napkin to cover her mouth as she suffered a fit of choking, her eyes watering. Just plunge in? Did that sound like responsible psychiatry? Rilka had always been under the impression that psychiatry was about holding your hand while you dipped your big toe in, and eventually, after a long time, you could wade up to your waist without any help. But what did Rilka know? She was a former securities analyst. And a failure as a matchmaker.
Daphne had gotten to her feet and was filling a glass with water, which she handed to Rilka. Rilka took a sip to soothe her now-sore throat.
“Tell me about Dr. Pennyman,” she croaked.
Daphne sat back down. “I see him a couple times a month. He’s encouraging me to get out more,” she said, fiddling with her mug of tea but not really drinking from it. “Of course, I’m in love with him so he may be trying to redirect — you know, get me to turn my atten
tion elsewhere.”
Through sheer will, Rilka did not choke again. There was so much information in that statement that she couldn’t even begin to process it all.
“You’re in love with your psychiatrist?” It wasn’t really Rilka’s business but she was fascinated by the very idea. Maybe she needed a psychiatrist to fall in love with. She could say I’m stuck. I’m a matchmaker who doesn’t believe in love. Then she would fall in love, and that would almost certainly make her unstuck. But it probably wouldn’t end happily. Look at Daphne, whose Dr. Pennyman was trying to foist her off onto someone else. Rilka would rather be stuck and annoyed about it than stuck and heartbroken. Maybe.
“Oh, yes,” Daphne was saying. She was animated now. Unrequited love had an amazing effect on people. “It happens a lot, you know. Transference. We spend so much time together, he listens so carefully, and responds so sympathetically, and I can delude myself into believing he’s my best friend. At least until I get his bill.”
“Uh-huh.” It sounded a lot like Rilka’s work. But she’d bet psychiatry paid a lot better. If she went to a party — not that she ever did, but just for the sake of argument, say that she went to a party — if she introduced herself as a psychiatrist she would get a totally different reception than if she announced she was a matchmaker. Although if she were a psychiatrist she would probably hear all the same things she heard now, and people would want her to fix them instead of just fixing them up. So, no, psychiatry was not going to be her new career path even if it did pay better.
“Not that he returns the affection,” Daphne concluded. “He would never do anything inappropriate.” She sighed, as if she wished he would do something inappropriate. Rilka wondered if Dr. Pennyman had any clue about the number of late-night fantasies he had almost certainly starred in. Probably not. People almost never perceived themselves that way. The ones who thought you should be obsessing over them were never the ones you would.
But at least Rilka wouldn’t have to report him to the State Board of Healing Arts. Although she thought if more people did more inappropriate things they would be a lot happier. Or maybe not. Maybe the wheels would just fall off faster.
She cleared her throat and began the standard spiel. “Okay. Let me explain. Usually when I work with someone with a disability or disfigurement, something that makes it difficult for people to make an immediate connection, I suggest finding a place to become a regular — ”
“Oh no,” Daphne interrupted, looking shocked and appalled, fidgeting with her hair again. “I could never do that. All those people staring at me when I walked in? No.”
Rilka had expected to encounter resistance. “I could go with you the first time or two,” Rilka said. “Then, as you become more comfortable, and the regulars get to know you — ”
“I’ve tried that,” Daphne said, interrupting again. That habit of interruption was going to be annoying. Who was the expert offering advice, after all? With a guilty start, Rilka thought, The expert sure as hell isn’t me. So maybe the client knew more about what she needed than Rilka did. There. Gran would be so proud of her for that epiphany.
“That was one of the first things Dr. Pennyman suggested,” Daphne said, and now she was breathing hard and looking like she might burst into tears. “It doesn’t help.”
“Okay,” Rilka said, giving Daphne’s hand a soothing pat. “Okay.” Don’t cry! Anything but the crying!
After a moment it looked like Daphne had gotten hold of herself, so Rilka could breathe more easily. Daphne probably hadn’t done it right. She’d picked the wrong place or quit too soon, but Rilka wasn’t going to tell her that. She could practically hear Gran say in exasperation, Why don’t you just listen, Rilka? So she just listened.
“What I wanted is for you to explain, you know, about me. To potential dates. So that they won’t flinch when they see me.” Now Daphne looked up and met Rilka’s eyes. “That’s what I want.”
“Okay,” Rilka said. Tell dates not to stare. Couldn’t people figure that out without Rilka’s help? Apparently not. “I have another client with some similar problems meeting people. Would you like to give it a shot? He’s a double amputee.”
“I won’t stare at him if he won’t stare at me,” Daphne said firmly. “And as long as we go somewhere private.”
• • •
What was he doing here? Jeremy wondered as he looked at the woman shrinking back into the corner of the sofa. Daphne wasn’t afraid of him, exactly, at least as far as he could tell. She was afraid of life.
He didn’t want to be here and she didn’t look so thrilled, either.
Still, she’d told him she wanted to go somewhere private, so he’d agreed to meet her at her place. Now he was sitting in his chair, facing the sofa and trying to think of something to say.
“Nice place,” was what he came up with.
“Thanks,” she said and they both fell silent.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. If he were with Rilka, he’d just have a fucking conversation. But this … rabbit would faint if he were his normal self.
“So,” he said. “There’s a game on. You wanna watch?”
Chapter 6
Rilka spent the morning wondering when Jeremy would report in on his date with Daphne. She was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten laid, although she hadn’t heard from Daphne either, but that didn’t mean the date was a dead loss.
She’d just gotten off the phone with an older man who remembered Gran fondly and set up an appointment for later in the afternoon when it rang under her hand. She glanced at the caller I.D. and was relieved to see it was finally Jeremy. Though she would have preferred for him to come see her. There was something cheering about Jeremy.
“Hi, there,” she said.
“May I ask what the hell you were thinking?” he demanded. So obviously she had gotten confused; there was nothing cheering about Jeremy.
“I was thinking you asked me to set you up on a date.”
“With someone suitable,” Jeremy said.
“Daphne didn’t work out?” Rilka said. Although, yes, she didn’t really need telling as she could deduce. “I told you about her and I told her about you. So don’t tell me either of you had problem with — ”
“The scar’s not the problem,” Jeremy interrupted. “She’s extremely shy, painfully aware of her disfigurement, and she needs someone to be gentle with her — ”
“Well, of course,” Rilka said.
“Then why did you set us up? I’m not a gentle person, for chrissake. You know that. What, did you think, ‘I’ll put the two appearance-challenged people together’? Did you really think that?”
“Well, damn,” Rilka said.
“You did?” His voice rose.
“It’s something you guys have in common,” she snapped.
He started to laugh. “You really suck at this, Rilka.”
“You’re just mad you didn’t get laid,” Rilka said.
“Well, obviously,” he said. “I thought I made it clear I only wanted women who would come across on the first date.”
She was laughing now, too. “You are such a pig.”
“Exactly. So set me up with another pig, not a fragile porcelain doll, okay?”
“You bet,” Rilka said.
• • •
“She’s fat,” Don said. He was in her hallway, having stopped by before work so he was wearing his uniform, which emphasized his fatness, but Rilka didn’t point this out. “Fat, fat, fat,” he said again, in case she hadn’t heard him the first time. “Didn’t I specify I was interested in attractive women?”
“Don, you’re packing a little extra poundage yourself,” Rilka said, provoked, but she wasn’t being mean, just trying to be realistic.
“What? Did you think, ‘Hey, I’ll stick the fat people together’?
”
• • •
“He was a jerk,” Julia snapped. “I hate men.”
“That’s probably not the most helpful attitude to take,” Rilka said, though God knew she sympathized. “I agree that Don isn’t the most — ”
“Then why did you set us up?”
“He said he was interested in a career woman.”
“I see,” Julia said grudgingly. “But I think I’d rather date someone more like me.”
“Meaning?” Rilka asked tentatively. She hadn’t been right about anything since approximately June of last year.
“A hard charger. Like an entrepreneur or a stockbroker or — I don’t know, a foreign correspondent.”
A foreign correspondent. Rilka raised a brow. “We’re in the middle of the Midwest,” she pointed out.
“Stop being so literal,” Julia said, beyond exasperated.
• • •
“I hope it wasn’t too awful,” Rilka said, having decided to bite the bullet and call Daphne instead of waiting for her to check in. Story of her life lately, setting people up and then apologizing for it. You have a gift, Gran used to say and now Rilka realized her gift was for screwing things up.
“He wasn’t, like, bad. He didn’t mind the scar,” Daphne said. “But he’s not my type. Nothing to do with his legs. Just — I want a real gentleman. Someone classy.”
Rilka rubbed her forehead. We’re fresh out of classy gentlemen. Last one died around 1952. If you’re in the market for a fat cop or a dumb supermodel, we’ve got you covered.
“We’ll keep trying,” she said with a cheerful smile.
• • •
“This is Rafael,” the elderly man said, clapping his companion on the shoulder. Rafael was tall and dark, with smoldering eyes that made Rilka think she’d given up on men too soon. Then she remembered that even if she hadn’t given up men, there’d still be that pesky rule about not dating the clientele. And also — realizing that she was sucking her tummy in and worrying about her hair — she didn’t want someone who made her tense. Although maybe she wasn’t built for relaxing.