The Winners Circle

by Christopher Klim

  “A memento.”

  “Oh.” He wasn’t about to dispose of it in front of her, but her perfume irritated his nose, and she was talking nonstop. He stared out the window, trying not to meet her eyes. He resisted the feeling of revulsion men get after quick and easy sex.

  “The beaches in Aruba are fantastic,” she said.

  “I hadn’t heard.”

  “The people want to wait on you. They want you to be happy.”

  Jerry watched the Mercer Oak pass by in the night. The tree stood alone in a field. It was hundreds of years old, struck by lighting and patched together by experts. The iron tie rods that bound the trunk glinted in the moonlight. “There’s the oak.”

  “Who cares about that thing?” Gina said. “I was telling you about Aruba.”

  He loathed her tone of voice. “I did once.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Chelsea and I used to picnic beneath it. That’s all.” He stopped short of saying it was their special spot. Old memories filled his palate, as he recalled the many meals they’d shared beneath the oak’s sprawling branches.

  “You’re not still thinking about her?” She slid beside him.

  He heard her switch on the charm. Her perfume crashed through his memories, turning his stomach. “Yes, I am.”

  “Don’t you have better fish to fry?”

  This analogy irked him, especially since he disliked fried fish.

  She rubbed his chest. “It’s me I hope.”

  He let her touch him. It was easier than asking her to stop. “I want the best.”

  “You should have the best.” Her head nuzzled his shoulder.

  He listened to the wheels roll beneath them. A limousine hummed like no other vehicle. Gina was right. He needed someone to share his wealth and time, but she wasn’t it. No doubt about it. Gina was history. Not even iron tie rods could bind this union. He counted the minutes before they said good night.

  CHAPTER 9

  Three Women and One Guru

  “I picture you with a woman of taste and character to match your financial assets.” Carmen Ruiz spoke with Jerry in the discovery room of her Mill Hill office. They sat on streamlined chairs with sloped backs and hard cushions. Video equipment waited in the corner, while Wynton Marsalis played on the stereo. Cool horns blended with Trenton’s brawling daytime traffic.

  Jerry took a breath, submitting himself to the interview process. He’d discovered Ms. Ruiz’s matching service in the yellow pages. He noticed her accent over the phone, but in person, he thought that she dressed like a former first lady. Her short black hair shaped her head, and she wore a deep red suit with a contrasting black collar. A diamond stickpin of a heart glimmered upon her chest.

  “May I call you by your first name?” She asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed by your station, Jerry. This is the way it’s been done throughout the ages. A man gathers wealth. A woman refines it.”

  “I never thought of it that way.” He used to hand over his paycheck to Chelsea. Was that the same thing?

  “May I give you some advice?” She pressed her fingertips together, like a divining rod seeking water. She aimed in his direction. “Lose the suit. It’s decades past style.”

  His face flushed. Ruiz was forthright and determined. She’d make the tough decisions for him. He was relieved.

  “The things we discuss here, never leave this office,” she said. “I can arrange for you to meet a tailor. He’s excellent. And perhaps a stylist too?”

  “Please.”

  “I’ve put aside some profiles.” She gave him a reassuring glance. “I have many clients in my repertoire, but I’m thinking of one in particular.”

  She handed him a thin black binder with a client number on top. “I’ve already spoken to her. She’s interested.”

  Jerry placed the binder in his lap, not wanting to seem overanxious, but he differed from no other man on the planet. He hoped for a picture. That was the first thing.

  “She didn’t need to see a video of you,” Ruiz continued, “but now that I’ve seen you in person, I notice that you’re a tall, earthy, and robust man. You are not unattractive, which is a plus. My client won’t be displeased.”

  “Why didn’t she want to see me?”

  “At this financial level, women are not necessarily interested in a man’s natural appearance.”

  Jerry opened the binder to a glossy color photograph and a few pages of personal details.

  Carmen Ruiz came alongside. “She’s twenty-nine years old, the daughter of an investment banker from the Netherlands. She’s been around the world.”

  “She likes to travel?”

  “She’s ready to settle down. Her name is Scarlett Hydell.”

  Jerry called for the valet at the Hyatt to bring his car around. At Ms. Ruiz’s behest, he’d rented a Porsche 912—red with a convertible roof. He plucked his new silk sport coat off the chair and headed for the penthouse door.

  Cortez rolled over on the carpet in a patch of sun. The big dog looked heavy and tired. He moaned. His dark eyes focused on nothing in particular. He missed the open space on the farm.

  “See ya, old boy,” Jerry said and shut the door.

  The air outside the hotel was typical New Jersey summer sticky. Jerry tossed the valet five dollars and ducked into the Porsche to let the air-conditioning blast his head. He was nervous enough about his date with Scarlett. He didn’t need to arrive at her doorstep with a sweaty face.

  He drove to Lawrenceville and up the long drive to the Hydell estate. The house was a stone mansion set beyond view of the main road, and just beyond the barns and greenhouses, several horses gathered beneath the shade of mature ash trees. It impressed Jerry how the rich hid sprawling properties among the regular citizens. He felt as if he should be manning the old pickup truck, with the pitchfork in back and the stink of manure about his boots. A man like himself, whether dressed in designer threads or not, was a step away from hard labor and calluses. It resided in his choice of words. He’d never get the grease out from under his fingernails.

  The houseman led Jerry to the garden terrace. Stone urns overflowed with geraniums and ever-blooming begonias. The country smell soothed him. He gazed over the lush lawn, which was cut into a neat grid like a football field. Two Mexicans in baseball caps shaved the far hedges into razor corners. Ms. Ruiz’s mantra replayed in Jerry’s head. You deserve this. You deserve this. You deserve …

  Scarlett entered the terrace in a loose-fitting pants suit like pajamas yet tied with a cotton rope. She skirted the edge of the swimming pool. She possessed straight brown hair and eyes the color of old parchment. Her features appeared bleached by the sun. “Hello, Mr. Nearing.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Jerry searched her expression. Her thin lips formed a thoughtful line. He took her hand but didn’t know what to do with it. He squeezed her fingers and released.

  “You’re my third match,” she said.

  “Ms. Ruiz didn’t mention. I’m new to this. I guess I should’ve asked.”

  “That’s the point which interested me the most.”

  “What point?”

  “Your newness.”

  “I’m new to everything lately.”

  “But it’s good, yes?”

  Jerry had read a lot of books, especially as a boy. He enjoyed history and the old fiction classics. Some stories involved warring kingdoms and arranged marriages. They were complete fantasies. He never imagined being part of that world.

  “I’m not going to bite you,” Scarlett said.

  He deferred to the list of questions in his head. He wasn’t a great talker and prepared a conversation in advance. “I saw that you went to Vassar.”

  “I specialized in Medieval and Renaissance women’s studies.”

  “What can you do with that?”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “Is there a job opening?” he asked again.

  She retur
ned the same empty expression. She didn’t appear annoyed. It was like trying to read a brand new sleeve of paper.

  He started to sweat. Perspiration burned beneath his armpits. He resisted the urge to take out a handkerchief and wipe his upper lip. “What do you do with your free time?” He figured she owned plenty of that.

  “I just finished sailing around the world.”

  “No kidding.”

  “A group of us took a catamaran from Newport to San Diego, the hard way.”

  “Sounds hard already. Did you enjoy it?”

  “We stopped along the way. Madagascar. Sydney.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “More than a year.”

  He peered down on this idle waif. What was he doing last year? Shoveling horse dung, not far from her house. He understood the irony. When she set sail to conquer the globe, he was the very last man on her horizon.

  “Aperitif?” she asked.

  They walked to a bar cart by the pool. Jerry accepted a glass of white Burgundy and scooped up a handful of puffy crackers. He didn’t want to eat or drink too much in front of her. He recalled how sick he used to be around Chelsea in the beginning. He was in love then, heart-struck as a puppy.

  “I admit that I’m not much of a sailor,” Jerry said.

  “Can you fly?”

  “If I have to.”

  “I fly ultra lights from time to time.”

  “I’m not much of a flier either. I get motion sickness.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “I’m okay if I pop a pill.”

  “I’d find that a burden.” Sunlight reflected off the pool, rippling across her flimsy outfit.

  “I’m okay while driving,” he said. “When I’m behind the wheel, I’m solid.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t drive.”

  He wondered if she meant couldn’t or didn’t drive.

  “I don’t know how,” she said.

  He thought not to laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  Jerry stopped talking. No doubt, he had his problems, but she seemed unprepared for the real world. What if he fell sick and needed a lift to the hospital? What if the car got a flat tire? What if someone dropped the bomb and they needed to forage for food? These were practical concerns, and he doubted she was fit to handle more than a jib sail or a dialogue on Dark Age feminism. When the chips were down, she’d fold up like a cheap chair. She’d make him soft and stupid.

  “I used to own a farm in Hopewell,” he said. “I used to assemble car parts in Trenton for a living. I worked with my hands.”

  “It’s a good thing you don’t have to do that anymore.”

  Jerry chomped on a cracker. “Those were the best years of my life.”

  John Coltrane buzzed in Ms. Ruiz’s office. Jerry had to ask who it was. He didn’t know a thing about jazz. There was a lot to learn about being sophisticated. What to leave in? What to leave out? It gave him a headache, like assembling a complicated recipe by just viewing the picture.

  “Scarlett wasn’t your type.” Ms. Ruiz wore a green suit with a rich paisley print. “We’ve learned some things from that experience.”

  Jerry barely listened. He felt defeated. He was thirty-three years old and dead in the dating pool. He used to think that life got better every year, but he’d been cut loose and sent to pasture during his prime.

  “I thought she was a good match,” Ruiz said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. We’re not from the same background.”

  “Jerry, your background has changed.” She was starting to sound an awful lot like Dick Leigh. “Do you think the Vanderbilt’s and Kennedy’s were the heirs of nobility? They created their pedigree out of nothing, common stock even.”

  “I’ll always be what I am. The high life isn’t for me.”

  “Then tell me what lifestyle is?”

  He didn’t have an answer. When he didn’t own a dime, he used to dream like a millionaire. He was no longer certain that millionaires dreamed at all.

  “Do you hope to have children one day?” Ruiz asked. “You want the proper environment for them.”

  “I do.” Jerry believed that love and an even hand was the proper way to raise kids. He guessed he was wrong about that too.

  “I have another woman for you.” She passed him a thin black binder. “Her name is Karen Leforte.”

  “She sounds familiar.”

  “She was an Olympic gold medalist.”

  “I remember. The parallel bars, right?”

  “The balanced beam.”

  “That’s it.”

  “She’s in great shape.”

  He recalled an incident in Japan. He was vague on the details: police, hospitals. He wasn’t the type to read the tabloids. “Didn’t she have a nervous breakdown or something?”

  “That was years ago.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Fine. She’s putting out a line of fitness videos.”

  “I’m surprised she needs a dating service.”

  Ruiz bristled at the remark. Her knuckles bunched, as she pressed her fingertips together and aimed them at Jerry. “She’s looking for someone with similar roots.”

  “I don’t know. What do we have in common?”

  “You’re both country. She grew up in Pennsylvania. Her father owns a car dealership in Newtown. She’s a regular girl.”

  He figured that she knew how to change a flat tire at least. He pieced together his memories of her on television curling over the bars like a flexible doll, but she looked grown up in the color glossy from the binder. She was a woman.

  “It’s a great match,” Ruiz insisted. “You’ve both been thrust into notoriety by circumstance.”

  Jerry drove to Blackfoot Lake, deep in the Jersey Pine Barrens. The evergreen scent in August was bold and crisp, and the lake was active with weekend boaters. On the opposite shore, the annual skeet shooting contest commenced. A slight breeze swept through the open space, and the reports of gunfire and cheers riffled across the muddy waters.

  The pier was abandoned by late morning. Empty boat trailers jammed the parking lot, and colorful windsurfers and canoes dotted the lake. Jerry scanned the docks for Karen Leforte. He recognized her right away. She sat beside a bearded man in a bright orange turban.

  Karen Leforte wore a navy blue tracksuit with white racing stripes down the arms and legs. Jerry agreed with Ms. Ruiz. Karen was in great shape. She looked effervescent and attractive, probably the same age as he was. His hands tingled with excitement.

  He approached her, dressed in a designer polo shirt, chinos, and flat brown deck shoes. The man with the turban sat too close to Karen. As the first order of business, Jerry planned to invite her on a stroll around the lake, but he noticed the pair speaking closely.

  “This is Rashied.” Karen nudged her head toward her companion. She didn’t offer further explanation.

  Rashied smiled. His beard was black like the eyebrows that nearly bridged his nose. He wore a three-piece suit with an orange tie that matched his turban.

  Jerry wondered if Rashied spoke English. He decided to ignore him and direct his request at Karen only. “Would you like to walk the lake?”

  “This is our first outing,” Karen said. “Let’s sit and talk.”

  Jerry enjoyed the sound of her voice. It was energetic but not intrusive. He realized that he’d never heard it before, only viewed her in magazines and on television. He took a seat on the opposite side from Rashied. Several shotgun blasts echoed across the lake, followed by more cheers.

  “Did you have trouble finding the lake?” Karen asked.

  “It’s on the map.”

  “Ms. Ruiz filled me in about you.”

  “I read your report too.”

  “My report?”

  “She profiles prospective matches.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Rashied leaned over and wh
ispered in Karen’s ear. She stared at the horizon, listening intently. Jerry failed to make out a word.

  “Do you two have business to take care of?” Jerry asked. “I can leave you alone for a while.”

  “Please, sit.”

  “I just thought ...”

  “You thought what?”

  He watched Rashied whisper again. He tried not to get annoyed. “What is he doing?”

  Karen returned her focus to Jerry. She showed some of that girlish expression that Jerry recalled from the past, as if a panel of judges were about to flip scorecards and grade the entire exchange. “Rashied’s a trusted advisor.”

  “Like, on the spot?” Jerry believed he was making a joke.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “No. It’s alright. No, no. It’s no problem.” He listened to himself say ‘no’ too many times.

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  “Does he go everywhere with you?”

  Rashied whispered again.

  “Did I ask the wrong question?” Jerry asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is there something Rashied wants to ask me?”

  Rashied pulled away from her ear. He smiled at Jerry.

  Oh brother. Jerry felt the bottom quickly dropping out of this arrangement. Life offered a number of trap doors, and there were times when he wanted to fall through one.

  He folded his hands in his lap. He recalled his silly list of questions. Experience had pared it down to the basics. “Do you know how to drive a car?”

  She glanced at Rashied. “Yes, I can drive.”

  “Good.” His glanced darted between her and her advisor. “Can either of you change a flat tire?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Can you change a flat tire?”

  She and Rashied both stared.

  “How about this one,” Jerry said. “If the bomb dropped tomorrow, what would you do?”

  “I don’t understand.” Karen glanced at Rashied.

  “Does Rashied have an answer for that?” Jerry asked. “Either one of you can answer.”

  “Another bust.” Jerry spoke into his cell phone, as he sped away from the odd twosome. The Porsche’s mighty engine roared over the blacktop, as if preparing to take flight. Pine trees and patches of sand raced through his peripheral vision. He wanted to create fast miles between himself and Blackfoot Lake.