Copyright © 2018 by Amanda Stauffer
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt
Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2809-7
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2810-3
Printed in the United States of America
To all the men and women puzzling through the complications of love and attraction, trying to find their match.
Contents
Dave
cancerdoc10: Matt, the Hands Man
bmorecrabcake: Breakup Brendan
Jsa82: Secret Agent Man (a.k.a. John)
The Evolution of the Pants Speech: Tom
COboarderPN: Pantsless Paul
poplockandroll03: Doppelgänger Greg
ForrestForTheTrees202: Rain Forrest Guy
WorldTraveler619: Kevin the Bowerbird
GolfersTan0506: James Takes the Stairs
myownmaster05: Brooks, the Epistoler
poplockandroll03: Doppelgänger Greg, Continued
ga2nyluke: Older Luke
groovymonday80: Younger Luke
Greetings from North America: Older Luke
Hey, Did You Find My Doritos Yet?: Younger Luke
The Verrrry Slooooow Dater: Older Luke
Chasing the Free Case of Beer: Younger Luke
With the Googly Eyes: Older Luke
And He Can’t Even Spell: Younger Luke
What Part of This Love Boat Are You On: Luke
nadatsoca: Douchey Dan
poplockandroll03: Doppelgänger Greg Returns
exexpatMT: Always Mr. Nice Guy (Marc)
Throwing in the Trowel: Dan
poplockandroll03: Doppelgänger Greg. Again
Acknowledgments
Dave
“Yes!! Of course I will!!” I squeal.
“I was hoping you would say that.”
“Once we’re back in the States, we have to talk details! Venue hunting, cake tasting, dress shopping!”
“Go, go, go. Get on your flight. I just wanted to ask before you left for vacation. Bon voyage.”
“Okay. July in wine country—I love it! Love you! Bye!” I slide my cell phone back into my carry-on bag and skip across the gate area. “Catherine just asked me to be her maid of honor,” I profess proudly.
“Oh, no way. Fun!” Dave replies.
“I bet their wedding is gonna be ahhh-mazing. They’re thinking Napa this time next year. I’m thinking maaaybe I’ll try to fly out there in the next few months? Help with some of the up-front wedding planning jazz, since she doesn’t have a mom to do these things with?”
“I have extra miles you can use. You should totally take a planning trip out there.”
“Yay! Oh, that wedding’s going to be so fun. We’ll stay at a cute bed-and-breakfast, bike through the vineyards . . .”
“Get drizzay in the mo’nin’; suit up for the par-tay; make it rain scrilla in da club.” Dave, who happens to be even paler and blonder than I am, has a charming habit of awkwardly stringing together and/or misusing rap terms. I never correct him because, why deprive myself of these daily injections of humor?
They call our row to board.
“Et desormais, Mademoiselle Alison,” Dave says, “on parle seulement en français.”
“Mais bien sûr. On a promis.”
“Alors on y va.”
“This is gonna get old real fast, huh?”
Dave smiles and nods vigorously.
As we bike through Saumur and Bourgueil, stopping and sipping at vineyard after vineyard, what began as a mild wanderlust for the French countryside swells to an enchantment with the Loire Valley. The vintners are magnanimous beyond all expectation and invite us into their homes, where we sit before fireplaces sampling their wines and noshing on local cheese with their families. In one living room with ancient oak ceiling beams, our hosts show us their framed family tree with great pride, and explain that their great-great-great-great-etc. grandparents have been bottling the same wines—from the same vines—for literally hundreds of years . . . five hundred years to be exact. As a parting gift they give us two free bottles to “share with [our] parents in the United States.” With repeated “merci beaucoup”s and big smiles, we try to convey our appreciation for their hospitality and generosity.
Coincidentally, Dave and I each spent the summer of our junior year of high school doing a homestay in France. I helped my French family herd cattle and drive tractors on a farm at the foot of the Jura Mountains to the east; he helped his family pick grapes from their small vineyard in Bordeaux to the west. Needless to say, his knowledge of French wines greatly surpasses mine. Though our French is a bit rusty, the winemakers, shopkeepers, and locals don’t speak English and are seemingly charmed by our valiant conversational efforts and our horrific accents.
At one of our stops we’re taken to the back room, and the winemaker shows us how he bottles the wine. He proceeds to open fifteen bottles for us to taste—which makes for a very mellow afternoon. As our inebriation escalates, so too does our infatuation with the region.
Seated at a café table on the sidewalk of Sancerre, we feast on the most succulent escargots and the most delicate pastries as we watch the world go by. In the farmers’ market we load my straw handbag with jar upon jar of black truffles, sold at such a bargain we can’t resist filling the bag to the brim. Our promenade through the gardens at the Château de Chambord, dappled in sunlight, is so exquisite we’re no longer strolling but practically skipping with glee. Finding ourselves alone in the grand, arch-filled ballroom of the Château de Chenonceau, Dave grabs my hand and pulls me into a waltz. “One day, this could be ours, babycakes,” he whispers in my ear as I hum Strauss’s “Blue Danube” waltz (the only waltz I know).
The next morning in Chinon over coffee, croissants, and this creamy caramel yogurt that dreams are made of, we chat with the bed-and-breakfast owner about the history of his picturesque home.
“Seventeenth-century homes,” he laments. “They may be beautiful, but they are work.” He rattles off a list of the modern updates and amenities he has crafted with his own hands. “Je suis trop vieux. Trop vieux,” he says, mourning his old age. Making up all the beds every day, rising at dawn to bake homemade pastries, this is beginning to take its toll, he explains.
“Will you close the bed-and-breakfast?” I ask, saddened by the idea that others won’t have the opportunity to experience this rustic magic.
“Oh, I listed it for sale months ago,” he sighs, slowly stirring his coffee.
Dave and I exchange a look.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how much did you list it f
or?” Dave asks politely.
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand euro.”
“And you haven’t had any offers?” I ask incredulously. The property sits on seven verdant acres, including groves of pear trees, farmed plots of asparagus, and a swimming pool.
“He’s totally undervaluing his accommodations, right? We paid eighty euro; those rooms could easily go for one forty or one fifty! Also, he doesn’t even have a website. We’d create a website!”
“Build up TripAdvisor reviews. Maybe take out an ad or two for Google optimization purposes . . .”
“I could tutor the SAT from our living room via FaceTime!” I suggest. “I know someone who has a bunch of clients she tutors on FaceTime. With the time difference, I’d still be able to do all the day-to-day upkeep chores: check-in, breakfast, laundry. It would definitely help supplement? . . .”
“I think if I worked for another year, or even eight months, in New York until we made the move, I could probably scrape together enough for the down payment.”
“Right, but the house still needs some work. We should redo that wonky plaster in the sitting room.”
“What’s your master’s degree good for, if not treating wonky plaster?”
I nod eagerly.
“We could take out a mortgage and then probably pay it off in . . .” Dave punches some numbers into the Excel sheet he has opened on his laptop. “Eight years. If we operate at 70 percent capacity for one third of the year. Anything we make above that is profit.”
Again, I nod eagerly.
Unfortunately, tempting though these fantasies are, real life calls and we return on our scheduled flight. As we disembark at JFK Airport, our cell phones emit their telltale buzzes, beeps, and vibrations as a week’s worth of emails, texts, and voice mails are downloaded.
With his ear to his phone, Dave announces, “Evan and Hannah got engaged.”
With my ear to my phone, I echo the news on my end: “Jess and Phil got engaged. She wants me to be a bridesmaid.”
“You’re en fuego, baby,” Dave says. “Miss Popular.”
“About to become one of Rent the Runway’s top clients.” I smile.
As we ride our Uber through the Midtown Tunnel in relative quiet, we each click through and delete the aggregated messages that awaited our return.
“How was Par-eeeee?” Juan Pablo bellows down the scaffold stairs as I climb up to the ceiling of St. John the Divine on Monday morning. There’s something glamorous about restoring the largest Gothic cathedral in the world with my own two hands. There is something decidedly less glamorous about having to ascend and descend 232 feet of vertical stairs a dozen times a day.
“We weren’t actually in Paris,” I heave, breathless as I complete the eighteen-story climb to his level. “But yeah, France was awesome. I would like to move there, permanently.” I toss my book bag onto the scaffold and kneel down to open it.
“But who would glue all these tiles back together?” Juan Pablo asks. “The ceiling would fall down. The cathedral would crumble.”
I pull out my sounding hammer. “But can’t you just picture me: wearing a beret, cycling over the cobblestone streets on my way home from the butcher’s shop, some saucisson wrapped in brown paper sticking out of my bicycle basket right beside my baguette?”
“I won’t allow it.” Juan Pablo shakes his head solemnly. “You can’t leave me until the building’s complete.” He puts his hand to his heart. In addition to sharing the name of one of the more infamous Bachelors on television, he also shares his flirty charm and boyish good looks.
“Which is never,” I point out. “Because Ralph Adams Cram never finished the transept. Or the spires. Or the tower.” I fish out my clipboard and a copy of the reflected ceiling plan.
“I’m afraid you can’t flee the country until it’s done.”
“So, like, just another hundred and twenty-five years?” I ask. “Or so?”
“Yep.” He reaches over and jostles the top of my hard hat.
“Ow.” I stand up. “Is today a good day for me to demonstrate how to readhere the loose Guastavino tiles?”
“As good a day as any. But if so many are failing, why don’t we just tear out the ceiling and replace them all?”
“Because these are original Guastavino tiles,” I say with exaggerated emphasis. “And, anyway, landmarks agencies, preservationists, my bosses at Restoration Associates, they all flip for Guastavino.”
Juan Pablo looks dubious. “They kinda . . . look like clay tiles.”
“I know. But, in fairness, the more I read about it, the cooler it becomes. It’s this whole . . . system. You know how Roman arches relied on gravity? Guastavino’s arches rely on these interlocking layers of tile.” I weave my fingers together to demonstrate. “It was so innovative he actually patented it. There are these awesome black-and-white photographs from the eighteen hundreds that show his crew in the process of constructing them. They’re wearing these fancy top hats, just walking on these skinny tile arches, no harness, no guardrails, no structural supports—it’s that strong it could bear all their weight!”
“Geeking out again, Alison,” he teases. “The ceiling’s not much to look at, in my opinion, but if you think of it as—”
“—a structural innovation. Yeah! Totally!”
He pauses. “Are you done?”
I look down, bashful.
“Then it’s a bit more awesome, I guess, in light of its strength and composition—”
“See? Who’s ‘geeking out’ now? Anyway, can you help me get the grout injection materials up here? They’re heavy. And eighteen flights down.” I frown.
“Sure.” He nods and radios the message to his crew. “‘Grout injection.’ Sounds complicated.”
“Fancy word for ‘glue gunning.’” I shrug and remove my safety glasses from the V of my shirt.
“You conservators, always so fancy.”
“Ha.” I push the neon orange lenses up the bridge of my nose.
“Soooo, how’d it make you feel?” my roommate, Nicole, asks over a hurried breakfast at our kitchen counter.
“I don’t know. The trip was perfect—we traveled so well together. We always do.” I squeeze more honey onto my yogurt. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint, right? And it’s not fair to compare our relationship to Catherine and Andrew’s. Or Jess and Phil’s . . . or Evan and Hannah’s.” I sigh.
“Of course. But you can still be frustrated. Are you frustrated?” Nicole asks gently.
Two years ago when our third roommate moved to Chicago, my college friend Cassie and I took to Craigslist to find a replacement. The Upper East Side real estate market being what it was, when we held an open house for our spare eighty-square-foot bedroom in a walk-up with a broken buzzer, fifty applicants showed up. After follow-up coffee dates with our favorite few, Cassie and I concluded that there were many women in New York City we’d like to befriend. But none more so than Nicole. Though our backgrounds are fairly divergent—I grew up on a leafy street in Scarsdale, she grew up in a double-wide trailer in South Carolina—and our tastes in food, film, and fashion are fairly disparate, it often feels like Nicole and I are of one brain. We share political views, senses of humor, energy levels, and opinions on most things social, romantic, moral, and psychological. Even if I hate it, I often wind up following her advice since, deep down, I know it’s the same I would give.
“Remember several years ago, when you were waiting for Dave to say he loved you? And Cassie’s ingenious suggestions . . .” Nicole mimics Cassie’s always-chipper, this time instructive, tone. “Hand him a bar of soap when you’re washing your face before bed and say, ‘I Dove you!’ Flirtingly push him on the sidewalk: ‘I shove you!’”
We both giggle at the memory, particularly at how earnest Cassie was in her suggestions.
“So now I say? . . .”
“Will you carry me?” Nicole asks, brightly.
I chuckle, then groan at the thought, and walk my empty spoon and bowl to the
sink.
“Anyway, I think it’s like the whole ‘I love you’ thing. Even when it was patently obvious to the rest of us that he did love you, it just took him a little longer to verbalize it. In certain ways, I think he’s just a slowpoke.”
A mental image of a cartoon snail carrying a heart-shaped balloon comes to mind, and I smile in spite of myself.
I nod and gather my belongings, grab my keys. “I think I was a little . . . I don’t know—peeved?—when those voice mails poured in. But,” I sigh, “not really anymore. Isn’t there some famous saying, ‘we get there when we get there?’” I turn to look back at her as I open the front door to leave.
“I think that’s from The Incredibles.” She smirks.
“Well, yeah. That.”
Around noon on a Monday several weeks later, covered in a fine layer of dust, sweat, and grout residue, I speed-walk into my office in Chelsea. I rush to the bathroom to rinse the gray and brown from my face and hands, pull out my ponytail and rearrange it into a messy bun, and hustle into the conference room.
I slide into an open seat next to my officemate, Deepa. “Do you know what the meeting’s about?” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. But Joanne said it’s good news, nothing serious.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, puzzled.
I love the field I work in. Not many people can say they’ve walked on the cornice of Grand Central Station or dangled off the side of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. But I can’t say I love the company. In a creative field, you’d expect the culture to be energizing (or at least, I expected that when I applied to architectural conservation firms after grad school). Yet the culture in our office is so competitive and cold, it feels enervating.
Joanne calls the meeting to order. “So often our meetings focus on areas that need improvement or on continued education. But we, as a firm, have so many accomplishments that go unsung, that I thought for once it might be nice to take a moment to acknowledge some extremely thorough, well-executed work that’s been ongoing for several years now. After—how many years has it been, Margo? At St. John the Divine?”
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