You Were Meant For Me

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

Evan got home, showered, and changed into a fresh shirt and jeans. Which of them was more pathetic here? His mother, for still meddling in his love life? Or him for allowing it? But he’d been missing Miranda a lot and did not want to go back onto eHarmony—or any other online dating site—for fear of seeing her profile. And he was lonely. So he’d reluctantly taken the number his mother had provided and called Thea. They were meeting—for drinks, not dinner—at a place downtown. Drinks were good; if the date went well, you could extend it into dinner. If not, you could bail and not have invested an entire evening. He remembered these strategies from eHarmony, strategies he hadn’t had to employ while he’d been seeing Miranda.

  Evan walked into the bar three minutes before the appointed time of seven o’clock. He carried with him one long-stemmed red rose. He knew it was a cliché, but what the hell. It was a nice thing to do, and Evan prided himself on being a nice guy. Too nice, Audrey would have said.

  At five past seven, Evan began to peruse the menu; at quarter past, he decided to order a drink. If she didn’t get here by the time he finished it, he’d go. He’d tell his mother it hadn’t worked out and he’d be off the hook. The waiter had just popped the top off the bottle of Heineken he’d ordered when a very tall, very slender woman approached his table.

  “Evan?” She extended a hand and he took it. “Thea. So sorry I’m late!”

  “That’s okay.” He stood and handed her the rose.

  “How sweet!” She smiled at him and then touched a finger to the flower. “Thank you.”

  After she sat and ordered a beer—he always liked it when a woman drank beer—she filled him in about the rudiments of her life and asked him about his. She was divorced, worked in marketing and public relations, lived in the East Twenties. She was not his type physically—way too thin, with knobby wrists and thighs that hardly seemed wider than her calves. A beanpole. Skin and bones.

  But when she regaled him about a recent trip she’d taken—on safari in Kenya—and compared notes on some of her favorite film directors—Ingmar Bergman is one of my gods, she’d said—he began to warm toward her. And though her body didn’t appeal, her face did: greenish gold eyes, lots of tiny freckles peppering her cheeks and nose, thick, reddish brown hair cut in a choppy way; it kept falling in her eyes and he kept wanting to brush it away.

  They decided to extend the drink into dinner and when they’d ordered, he asked her if she liked to cook.

  “I don’t cook,” she said. “I burn.”

  He laughed but felt a funny little twist inside. Miranda. The scones, the pistachio pesto, the way she turned the humblest meal into a ceremony. But Miranda had betrayed him; he and Miranda were through.

  “What about you? Do you like to cook?” Thea asked.

  “About as much as you do,” he replied.

  Later, after dinner, he insisted on seeing her home. And when she turned to him at her door and gave him a soft, sweet kiss, he was pleasantly surprised. So she was not afraid to make the first move. Nice. Very nice. It was so easy to kiss her back, he thought as he moved into her arms. Easiest thing in the world.

  * * *

  The air, warm and moist as a steam bath, was the first thing Jared noticed when he got off the tiny prop plane and walked across the tarmac. Tripp was waiting for him inside the terminal; no doubt he preferred the air-conditioning to the saturated heat outside.

  “Hey, man.” Tripp grasped his hand in a tight shake. “How was the flight?”

  “Which one?” Jared had to change planes twice to get here.

  Tripp laughed. “Yeah, this place is kind of off the radar.”

  “Way off.” Jared picked up his bag. “I hope your car is right outside. I don’t want to hike through the soup.”

  As Tripp drove and talked, Jared gazed out the window. Everything was so densely, almost surreally, green down here: even though it was mid-September, the trees were still in deep summer mode and dripping in kudzu; he saw lurid-colored flowers all over the place, not that he knew their names: orange, magenta, scarlet, yellow. He started seeing houses, just a few at first and pretty dilapidated, and then more and more. It sure as hell didn’t look like the Hamptons, but at this point, Jared didn’t care whether he ever saw the Hamptons again. Tripp’s invitation to fly down to Louisiana to discuss a new business venture was perfect timing.

  Finally, Tripp pulled into a town center. Or what once had been a town center. Four main streets led into an overgrown grassy circle; at the center of the circle was a statue of a rider whose horse was rearing back so far it was practically vertical. The rider himself was headless and he was also missing an arm.

  When they parked and got out, Jared saw that most of the buildings—wooden, with nice ornamental detailing—were empty. The few that were occupied housed a liquor store, a couple of pawnshops, and a gun store.

  “Where the hell are we?” Jared had only just gotten here, but he was ready to take off again.

  “Welcome to Gilead,” said Tripp. “Incorporated in 1836.”

  “And when was its demise? Not too long after, from the looks of things.”

  “I didn’t bring you here to talk about that.” Tripp looked around; clearly he saw something other than what Jared was seeing. “I brought you here to talk about its resurrection. And you’re the guy to bring it back from the dead.”

  “Are you kidding? Even Jesus couldn’t bring this town back to life.”

  “I can’t speak for Jesus,” said Tripp, “but I have a lot of faith in you.”

  Jared had absolutely no faith in Tripp. But he followed him across the sorry-ass town square, past a ruined gazebo and more empty storefronts. They turned down a side street, and Tripp led the way into a luncheonette that, given the way the rest of the town looked, seemed surprisingly lively.

  “Hey, Lulu,” he called out. “This is the friend I was telling you about. And he’s very hungry!”

  A fortyish woman—her riotous dreadlocks were contained by a red bandana—poked her head from around a corner. When she saw Tripp, she came running over. “Good to see you!” She hugged him and then turned to Jared. “Welcome, stranger. Any friend of Tripp’s is a friend of mine.”

  “He’s no stranger, Lulu,” said Tripp. “At least he won’t be for long.”

  Lulu led them through the restaurant to a booth at the back. The place had a casual, funky vibe: walls painted china blue, lots of thrift store and paint-by-number art hanging on them. Mismatched chairs and napkins, empty soda bottles and jam jars filled with the same kinds of crazy flowers Jared had seen from the car. When they were seated, Lulu said, “The usual, Tripp?”

  “The usual!” He looked at Jared. “Get ready to dine, my man. Get ready to feast.”

  Tripp was not exaggerating. The food just kept coming. Gumbo and po’boys, pickled this and spicy that. Sweet potato fries, stewed tomatoes. Pecan pie with house-made ice cream. A bread pudding so light it almost levitated off the plate.

  “How did you ever find this place?” Jared asked. He wasn’t hungry anymore, but everything was so good he kept eating.

  “I was in New Orleans and I read about it on some foodie blog. Drove sixty miles to get here. Then my damn car breaks down and I’m stuck. Stranded! But the meal I had here that first night made it worthwhile. And Lulu let me sleep in the apartment above the restaurant. She had it fixed up to rent, but as our little tour of the downtown might suggest, she didn’t have a lot of takers.”

  “Yeah, I can see that she wouldn’t.” Jared helped himself to a bourbon-filled chocolate, compliments of the house.

  “We got to talking about this town. What it had been and what it could be again. I made some calls, contacted some people. And I came back six, seven, eight times. Spoke to the town council—all of three people, one of whom hadn’t left his house in a decade. I petitioned everyone I could think of to petition. Got some backers in New York to pony up
some money; parlayed that into some government funds down here. We’re right on the cusp, Jared. Right on the cusp. And I think you’re the guy to bring us over.”

  “That’s what you’ve been telling me. But you haven’t explained exactly what or how.”

  “I wanted you to see it first. To get a feel for the place.” Tripp moved his plate aside and planted his elbows on the table. “What I need is a facilitator. Someone who knows the real estate market, who understands how neighborhoods—and cities—evolve. You’ve got that degree in urban planning, right? Well, it’s time to put it to use. Plus you’re a born salesman; you’ve got the gift. And that’s kind of what we need down here—someone with a gift, someone who can swim in more than one sea.”

  “So how do you envision it?”

  “We’re looking at a mixed-use model, some residential, some commercial, maybe even some light manufacturing. A new mix of small businesses, artists—because we know they can turn a neighborhood into gold—and cultural organizations. It’s a mixed population here; there’s a good balance of black and white; we don’t want to lose that. But if this town is going to survive, it needs to change.” He looked like a zealot as he outlined his plans.

  “I’ve got funding. I’ve got tax incentives. I just need someone who can pull it all together. Match the right tenant or buyer with the right property for the right reasons. Keep an eye on the overall picture. Provide big-city expertise to a small-town venue. What do you say, Jared? You in?”

  “I’m not sure.” Jared looked away from Tripp and out the window. Across the street from Lulu’s was the kind of grand old house that he’d always loved—three stories, wraparound porch, and a pair of weeping willows out front. Oval leaded-glass windows on the stairwells. He could see them from here. The house was a wreck, though. A disaster. But if he signed on with Tripp, maybe he’d be able to help bring it back. Or hell, even live in it. But in any case, he’d get to be a part of something good, something hopeful, something restorative, important, and maybe even noble. A thought from left field popped into his head: his mother would have been proud.

  “I know it would mean a big change for you. Huge. You’d have to relocate down here—at least for a year or so. But I’d cover a big chunk of your living costs—give you an apartment rent free; give you a salary too. You don’t have to sell your New York place. You could rent it out for a while. See how you liked it.”

  “I’m interested. But there are other things I have to consider.”

  “Like . . .” Tripp had not moved his elbows from the table.

  “Lily. My daughter. She’s not even a year old.”

  Tripp’s look was probing. “I heard something about that.”

  “It’s a long story. Her mother died; I didn’t even know about her. And then when I found out, I took her.”

  “That would be tough. If you take the job, you won’t have a lot of time for her, especially without her mom in the picture. But I’m sure you can find a great nanny down here.”

  “Actually, I know someone. Someone who would be perfect, in fact.” He thought instantly of Miranda, how happy this would make her. But what about him? Could he give up his daughter so easily? Should he?

  “You do? That’s great!” Tripp leaned over and extended his hand to Jared. “So do we have a deal, buddy?”

  Jared laughed. “Not as fast as all that. Let’s take a walk, okay? Show me the rest of the town. I want to see more. Show me everything.”

  Tripp had arranged for Jared to spend the night in Lulu’s vacant apartment. It was as eclectic and funky as the space downstairs—macramé wall hangings, rag rug, two patchwork quilts, one on the double bed and the other hanging on the wall—plus it had the advantage of the restaurant downstairs. There was no air-conditioning, but there was a ceiling fan overhead and another, a heavy old thing that seemed to have been lifted from some 1940s movie, on a table beside the bed. With the two sets of blades whirring, it was like a tropical breeze wafting through the room.

  Jared tried to imagine himself in this place; it would be so different from anywhere he’d ever lived. Tripp kept stressing that it didn’t have to be permanent. He was right: Jared knew he could easily sublet his apartment and Athena would no doubt handle it for him. But Lily—Lily could not be dispensed with so easily. He’d have to bring her with him. Or leave her behind. And at the moment, both of those choices looked pretty lousy.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jared kept checking his watch on the plane back to New York. So far, he’d been in the air close to two hours; he had another hour of flight time left to go. The week in Gilead had been packed, meeting everyone from the mayor to the guy who ran the Pick ’n’ Pay at the outskirts of town. He’d checked out the old school building and the library—perfect for condo conversion—the long defunct poultry-packing plant that would make great artists’ studios. He envisioned green space—a park, a playground—as well as a theater and galleries. Maybe even a small museum, though that might be a stretch. Or at least at first. And he could see all of it coming together in some organic kind of community, a place people would want to call home.

  The flight attendant came around with bags of pretzels, so he took one and tore it open. Eating helped pass the time; he checked his watch again. Now he was down to forty-five minutes. He shifted in the minuscule seat and crunched another pretzel. Despite Tripp’s pressure, Jared hadn’t committed to the job. He was definitely leaning that way, but he still wasn’t ready. He had some unfinished business he had to attend to first. And none of it was going to be pretty. First up was Isabel. He’d been dodging her text messages ever since Labor Day weekend.

  Just thinking of that phone call put him in a funk; he closed his eyes and kept them closed, a willed simulation of sleep, for the remainder of the flight. But once he was on the ground, he felt ready to take it all on. Back in his apartment, he dropped his bag, riffled through his snail mail, and picked up the phone. It was midafternoon on a Tuesday and Brandon was sure to be at work—a good time to call.

  “Finally!” she said when she picked up. “You didn’t answer; I was worried.”

  “I’ve been out of town. Louisiana.”

  “Louisiana! What were you doing down there?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it. But first—how are you? How are things with Brandon? He didn’t touch you, did he?”

  “No, no. It wasn’t like that. I cried. He cried. We both said we were sorry and that we would try harder.” She paused. “I told him I wouldn’t see you anymore. But that was a lie. I can’t give you up.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. “Things got out of hand that day. That’s part of why I took off.” Jared avoided responding to the second part of what she’d said by telling her about his trip and the job offer.

  “Baby, that’s great!” she said.

  “It could be,” he said. “I’m not one hundred percent committed to it. But I’m leaning that way.”

  “I meant great for us! My sister and her husband live right outside New Orleans. I go to visit her three or four times a year. And now that she has twins, I have a reason to go even more. I could see you when I’m down there; Brandon would never know. He wouldn’t even have a clue.”

  “No.” Jared tried to make his tone as gentle as he could. “Not going to happen.”

  “Why not? What are you talking about?”

  “We both know why, Isabel. What we’ve been doing, well, it sucks. Either you leave Brandon and we can see how it goes with us. Or else you stay—and I’m out of the picture. The guy who screws another guy’s wife? I just don’t want to be that guy anymore.”

  “But if I leave him, where will I go? What will I do? I can’t support myself. I’d have to move out of the city, completely reinvent my life—”

  “Exactly,” he said. “That’s just what you’d have to do. And then we could find out whether we have a future together—or not.
”

  “I can’t!” She was agitated and might have been crying; he couldn’t tell for sure. “I won’t!”

  “I understand,” he said. “But then you know this is good-bye, right?”

  “You don’t mean that!” she said.

  “I’m afraid I do.” And with that, he ended the call. He didn’t know whether he wanted Isabel to leave her husband or not. But he knew that he was no longer up for the subterfuge.

  Next he called Athena and arranged to meet her at Minty’s at around six o’clock; he was not officially back in the office until tomorrow, and anyway, he didn’t want to have this conversation with any of his coworkers around. He spent the rest of the day unpacking and sorting through his mail, both actual and virtual. At one point, he walked into the room Athena had helped him create for Lily.

  Thanks to his housekeeper, the room was immaculate, the soft pink quilt folded neatly in the crib, the toys and clothes and baby gear neatly organized and put away. It was like a photo shoot, a magazine spread—not a room where a baby actually lived. He left the room and closed the door on the way out.

  “So, how was New Orleans?” Athena was already waiting for him at the bar, a glass of wine and a dish of salted peanuts in front of her.

  “Not New Orleans,” he corrected. “Gilead. And it was quite a place.” He sat down and began to tell her about Tripp’s offer. “I don’t know if I’m ready to relocate. But if I do, I’ll give you enough lead time to find a replacement.”

  “That’s not going to be so easy,” she said. “You’ve got the touch. People like you, Jared. The ladies like you.”

  “Sometimes a little too much.” He took a swig from the beer he’d ordered.

  “Meaning?” Alert, she put down her glass.

  “Isabel Clarke.”

  “The little blonde and the windbag husband? You showed them the place on One Hundred Seventeenth Street?”

  “I had an affair with her. The windbag found out.” He touched his lip, healed now, but the memory was still there. “It wasn’t pretty.”