Miss Match

by Leslie Carroll

  “It confused me, though, Ellie. I mean, the first thing that popped into my head when I got back to my place was, ‘does he come on to all his clients?’ Which made me feel really sleazy, so I stood under a hot shower for half an hour. And then I thought ‘if he’s interested in me as a date, then he ought to say something and not just try to make a move.’ Especially after he’s been saying six ways from Sunday how he’s not only uninterested in marriage, he’s downright anti-the-establishment. And then I thought ‘well, maybe it was a tense moment all around and he was just going with the flow and I’m making a big deal out of nothing and I probably should just let go of it . . .”

  “And stop obsessing,” the sisters said in unison.

  “You are just about the most obsessive person I have ever met,” Eleanor said. “You really know how to worry something to death.”

  “Geez, and I thought it was astrological. You’re more goal oriented than I was,” Kathryn told her younger sister. “You wanted to go to grad school, you went. You wanted to marry a doctor, you did. You wanted kids, you made them. Sometimes I feel like I’m sort of floating through life. Other times, I feel like I’m cruising. Most times, I just feel like a hamster on a wheel.”

  Eleanor slid the glass bowl toward herself and took another drink. “I think that you should either make this guy your mission or forget about him and get on with the next four bachelors he’s supposed to fix you up with. Don’t get distracted. Keep your eyes on the prize.”

  “My turn.” Kathryn leaned over and sipped the frozen hot chocolate. “So ‘although I can’t dismiss the memory of his kiss,’ I guess we’re in agreement that ‘he’s not for me.’ ”

  “Well, from the way he protests personal involvement in the institution of marriage, he sounds about as convertible as a hearse.”

  “That’s a weird metaphor, kid.” Kathryn took another sip.

  “His mother must really have done a number on him. And if he didn’t have a father or a father-figure around too often when he was growing up, it’s no wonder he’s got a sour view of the sacrament.” Eleanor reached over to wipe a thick chocolaty dribble from Johanna’s chin that threatened to make a giant splotch on the toddler’s pink gingham T-shirt. “But Walker seems like good friend material. And it’s always nice to have a man around the co-op to phone, in case there’s a waterbug to be killed, or a lightbulb you can’t reach that needs to be replaced.”

  “After Barnaby and Eddie, I’m losing faith in his matchmaking abilities.”

  Johanna, who had been busy creating an animated discussion between two spoons while her mother and aunt were conversing, began to bang the utensils on the table. The din achieved the desired effect and the adults turned to look at her.

  “I have to take her home for her nap,” Eleanor said, as she asked for the check. “I’ll get this.”

  “I’ll leave the tip,” Kathryn offered. “He’s let the three of us sit here for ages sharing the same frozen hot chocolate, and we still didn’t manage to finish it.”

  Johanna reached for the bowl with her chubby little hands. “Take home,” she announced.

  “Yes, jujube, we’re taking you home. We just have to pay our check first,” Eleanor told her, taking out her reading glasses.

  The tiny fingers inched across the table, forcing the two-year-old to stretch her arm, followed by half her torso, toward the bowl. “No. Choc-o-late home,” Johanna corrected her mother.

  “Can we get this to go?” Kathryn asked, as the waiter came over to collect their money. “You’ve gained another fan,” she added, gesturing toward her niece, who with single-minded determination, continued to reach for the enormous bowl of chocolate soup. “Well, she inherited your focus and drive, El,” Kathryn commented to her sister.

  They parted company on the sidewalk outside the famous ice cream parlor, after Kathryn obliged Johanna, who wanted “Aunt Kittycat kiss.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I hear from Bachelor Number Three,” Kathryn promised her sister.

  “Your horoscope said you were going to get lucky today,” Eleanor said. “So maybe the man of your dreams will be on the other end of the phone when you get home. It’s funny, but ever since I’ve been home with the jujube, I’ve made a habit of buying the New York Post every day, so I can read the horoscopes, along with the gossip in Liz Smith’s column. It’s such an un-MBA thing to do. And I even got a subscription to Vogue.”

  “Well, you were always allowed to read more than the NASDAQ report, you know.”

  “I know,” Eleanor said with a sheepish shrug, “but I always felt like I had to be such a grown-up when I was in the corporate world. Banking and me . . . we weren’t a good match for one another, as it were. To tell you the truth, I always preferred Dr. Seuss to stock quotes.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Kathryn said with a laugh, as she headed off to the subway.

  “Ahhhhhhhhgh!” Kathryn screamed into the phone forty-three minutes later. “I can’t believe who called me. It’s gotta be a hoax, but I played his message a dozen times, and it sounds like his voice. I even tossed a cassette tape into my portable player so I could make a copy of his message.”

  “What are you talking about?” Eleanor asked, catching her sister’s infectious enthusiasm.

  “Bachelor Number Three is a V.F.A.!”

  “A what?”

  “V.F.A.—Very Famous Actor. I’ll divulge his name when you get here. Do you want me to play you his message now, or do you want to hear it in twenty minutes when you zip your butt down here to help me figure out what to wear to Nebuchadnezzar this Saturday night?”

  “You’re lucky Dan’s home early for once in a blue moon,” Eleanor said. “I’ll hop in a cab. I don’t zip when I’m in my second trimester.”

  Twenty-two and a half minutes later, Eleanor and Kathryn were replaying the incoming phone message, analyzing the caller’s voice over and over, like amateur espionage operators.

  “It definitely sounds like him,” Eleanor said, running a hand through her hair. “Whoa!”

  Kathryn noticed her sister was blushing. “I had a senior last year who could do a wicked imitation of his cadences, though. He could be playing a practical joke.”

  “It’s him,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “Wow! Dan loved him in Don’t Shoot the Messenger.”

  “He doesn’t usually make my kind of movies, although he wasn’t half-bad in that remake of Scaramouche last year. I don’t know what accent he was doing, but he certainly didn’t lack charisma. He was bizarrely cast in the updated Lorna Doone, though. The producers probably thought his name would sell tickets, or bring in teenage audiences, because the classics are not Rick Byron’s forte. My favorite picture of his is Avenging Angel . That’s the one where you see his butt—you know, in the scene where they attach the wings.”

  “I think that was a stunt butt,” Eleanor said ruefully. “The skin tones didn’t exactly match. Believe me, I checked. In fact I wore out that part of the video pressing rewind.”

  “There’s a very easy answer to our conundrum,” Kathryn mused.

  “About whether that was or was not Ricky-poo’s butt?”

  “No—about whether that really was him, or my former student Aaron Rabinowitz calling me from his college dorm room with a crackerjack vocal impersonation. We call Six in the City and see if he’s a client.”

  “You dial while I look through your closet,” Eleanor said. “Nebuchadnezzar would be a perfect place to wear the best-fitting little black dress you own. The shorter the better.”

  “What is this mania for naming trendy Soho watering holes after ancient kings?” Kathryn called to her sister, who could be heard rummaging through a rack of clothes. She picked up the phone and rang the dating service.

  “They want you to confuse one with the other, I suppose,” Eleanor called back. “You’re going to ruin this dress if you keep it on a wire hanger. This one, too. Nebuchadnezzar . . . Balthazar . . . I read in Liz Smith’s column that the guy who owns Balt
hazar wants to open up restaurants named for the other two Magi, Gaspar and Melchior.” She emerged from the bedroom holding two little black dresses against her torso. “Which one of these looks better on you?”

  “The V neck.” Kathryn’s tone of voice changed. “Yes, I’ll hold,” she told Walker at the other end of the phone.

  Eleanor tossed the dress with the plunging neckline over the back of the velvet sofa. “This is stunning,” she noted, fingering the fabric. She checked out the label. “French. Good for you! This is a whole lot more sophisticated than your usual attire.”

  “No thanks for the compliment. That dress was my spring splurge. I found it at this wonderful boutique on the Upper West Side. I think it’s called Broadway Studio or something. Everything is European and makes me look very thin. Any time I want to treat myself, I head up there. Unfortunately for my Visa bill, I’ll look for any excuse to treat myself. Did you ever wear Vertigo clothing? Their pants make your tush look great!”

  Eleanor shook her head and returned to more pressing business. “Those black sandals you wore to meet Eddie will be perfect with this, unless they got trashed during your stint in the pen. Besides, it doesn’t matter if you can’t walk in them—you’ll probably be traveling by limo. I’m surprised you don’t get vertigo from the heel height.”

  Kathryn held up the dress. “The lycra in the fabric does wonders for holding in everything I would rather hide. And the three-quarter sleeves cover the parts of my arms that I always hated. No amount of gym classes has ever managed to make these as firm as I would like them,” she said, poking at the underside of her left upper arm.

  Eleanor studied the dress and placed Kathryn’s stiletto sandals on the floor, creating an imaginary Kathryn out of dress and accessories. “Hmmm. You’re not a gen-Xer, so I wouldn’t wear one of those little Y necklaces that were so ‘in’ a while back.”

  Kathryn nodded in agreement. “Too Jennifer Aniston.”

  “I suggest real gold—an unusual piece. I’ll look through my stuff and try to find the artsiest thing Dan ever gave me. If you’re going for a dramatic necklace, then don’t wear earrings. But if you have some cool ones—like that Greek goddess-style pair you got at the Sag Harbor crafts fair last May, and you opt to go for those, then skip the necklace.”

  “This really feels like Cinderella, you know. Especially with you playing Fairy Godmother.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as the Fashion Police,” Eleanor countered, and excused herself to use the bathroom, leaving Kathryn still on hold with the phone cradled to her ear.

  A few minutes later, when Eleanor emerged, Kathryn gave her the good news. “Well, I just learned from Bear that our V.F.A. is on the level. Although I have no idea why he registered with a dating service—unless he finally wants to meet some women who look like real people for a change—he really is a client of Six in the City. And he claims he’s a Rhodes Scholar, even though he spelled it wrong on his application. But the man’s dossier checked out.”

  “Wow. That’s all I can say . . . wow.” Eleanor gave Kathryn an excited hug, before getting ready to leave. “I told you, your horoscope said this was a lucky day for you. If this one works out, you have to promise me tickets to the Oscars!”

  “I’ll have my people call your people.” Kathryn kissed her sister good-bye, then buzzed Tito over the intercom to tell him that her sister was on the way downstairs and needed a cab to take her back uptown to Park Avenue. She had scarcely replaced the receiver in its wall cradle when a clap of thunder rattled the curios in her china cabinet, and the heavens opened.

  Kathryn went to the window, pulled back the drapes and watched the rain come down in sheets. She craned her neck and looked up at the murky gray-green sky. “Okay, God,” she said, “I know you need to make the grass grow and all that . . . but can you do me a teeny favor, if it’s not too much trouble? I have a mega-important date coming up, and I really don’t want to stress about having a bad hair day when the time comes. It’s bad enough you had to give me such curly hair. So, can you please, pretty please, make the rain stop by Saturday night?”

  A bolt of autumn lightning zigzagged toward the pavement, barely missing a metal lamp post across the street.

  “Hey, God?” Kathryn called out. “Was that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

  Chapter 11

  Kathryn had been spending the past few days wondering when—or whether—the rain was ever going to end. But at least the deluge gave the weatherpersons on television an excuse to finally stop discussing the drought, which had been threatening throughout the summer to severely hamper New York City’s water supply. The reservoirs upstate were now brimming, thanks to unceasing rainstorms of near-biblical proportions.

  Weather, shmeather. Paramount to Kathryn, however, was whether she would still be able to wear her black strappy sandals on her date with the V.F.A. to Nebuchadnezzar, or if she should consider setting a trend in thigh-high rubber Wellingtons. If it could guarantee her a photo in the Sunday Styles section of The New York Times, just a single page flip away from the “Vows” column, it might be worth it.

  But form before function, style over substance, had its place—especially where hot dates were concerned. So at 8:30 on Saturday evening, she had just smoothed the sheerest of black nylons over her freshly shaved legs and was fighting with the buckle on the linguini-thin strap of one of the sandals, when her doorbell rang with a frantic insistence.

  She limped, one shoe off, one shoe on, over to the door and peeped through the keyhole, frowned—scrunching up her brow, then undid the two Medeco locks and the safety chain.

  “Bear! What are you doing here?” Kathryn noticed he had a khaki-colored duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  “I was sort of wondering . . . hoping, in fact . . . that there’d be room at the inn?” He caught a whiff of her perfume and noticed that her hair wasn’t quite as unruly as it usually was. Some professional had tamed her wild red curls almost into submission, but her hair was still striking enough to dramatically set off the deep jewel-toned silk kimono she was wearing: a color somewhere between emerald and teal.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked suspiciously, as she allowed him to follow her into the living room.

  “Chicken Little was right.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Walker.”

  “First the ceiling started to fall—there’s pieces of plaster in the far corner, where that brown stain was— still is, actually. Then the toilets started to gurgle—but that happened two days ago. Now it looks like water has seeped into the ceiling in the bedroom. It looks like aliens have ominously taken up residence just under the paint. I covered everything I could with hefty bags, and called plumbers and roofers two days ago to get estimates, but everyone told me that they can’t do anything until it stops raining.”

  “Judging from the forecast, we seem to be due for about thirty-six more days and nights,” Kathryn commiserated.

  “Are you . . . busy?” Walker asked.

  “No, I always limp around half-shod. I’m getting ready to go out on a date, Bear. Rick Byron is coming to collect me in his chariot in half an hour. He’s taking me to Nebuchadnezzar.”

  She started hunting for her other sandal. “I’ve got to thank you for this one.” She pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. “Mwhanh!”

  “Look, Kitty, I’ve got nowhere else to go. Not at the last minute like this. My apartment is in a shambles. I need to camp out somewhere until I can get the ceilings bled, or whatever it is they do with them, then replastered and repainted. Can I please bunk with you?” He affected his most pathetic drowned cocker spaniel, please-take-me-in expression.

  “Bunk? Bear, I’m not going to be here—I’ve got a date—one that you are sending me on, theoretically. And to be honest, I’m not entirely comfortable leaving a stranger—okay, a near-stranger—in my apartment alone. I’m just not.”

  “I promise not to cramp your lifestyle,” he said, kicking off his shoes. “I’ll be like a house sitt
er. I’ll water your plants. I’ll change your lightbulbs. Hell, I’ll even do your laundry. You won’t even know I’m here,” he said, sinking onto her sofa and stretching his legs across the couch’s length.

  Kathryn looked at Walker, who seemed to have settled himself in for the night. “I guess I’d be Cruella D’Evil to refuse you.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “This is temporary. I mean it,” she said, in her best schoolmarmish tone. “I want your solemn oath that you will not butt into my personal or social life. I already have a mother, I never wanted a roommate, and despite your characterization of your past relationships with all your women friends, I do not need a big brother-pal-shoulder to cry on. Have we got that straight?”

  Walker grinned and nodded his head. Kathryn could swear he almost panted like a happy doggie.

  “Then we have a deal.” She went over to shake his hand. The rush of warmth reminded her of the first time they had shaken hands—when she came into Six in the City to make that stupid videotape—and she thought about how she had orchestrated another handshake just to see if she would undergo the same powerful physical sensation a second time. He held her gaze when they clasped hands, and for the tiniest split second, Kathryn regretted that she would be leaving the house for the evening to keep company with a man other than Walker Hart. Then she reminded herself that, hell—he was more Fairy Godmother than Prince Charming in her Cinderella scenario.

  He ran his index finger across the top of her hand, after they shook hands. His touch sent a tingle up Kathryn’s arm.

  Walker noticed how soft her skin was, and felt a shiver course through his body. He withdrew his hand, recognizing that anything further—even a second such light, fingertip caress, would sully their bargain. He needed a place to crash, and he had convinced himself that he did not have designs on the woman. Besides, he thought, he had ruined a few damn good friendships that way. Pushing for sex, when they should have remained platonic friends. The sex was the monkey wrench that, pardoning the expression, screwed everything up.