Ms. Match Meets a Millionaire

by Pamela DuMond

  “Legs from here to eternity. Smart enough. Likes sports.” He aimed the stick with precision, struck it with a long follow-through, and easily sunk the 7 ball. “What about you?” He turned and eyed me, his gaze starting at my mouth and quickly sliding down to my chest. “I don’t see a ring. You single?”

  “Can’t fraternize with clients, Jake. Big fat No-No at Mr. Cupid.” I popped the pineapple-strawberry garnish in my mouth and twisted it. Upscale Chicago bars usually had fresh fruit in the winter, which was a total job perk.

  “A shame.” He turned and focused on the 9 ball. “It looks like you have mad oral skills.”

  “A shame you’ll never find out.”

  He struck the cue. The balls skipped across the felt. “Damn!”

  “My turn.” I took the stick from him and surveyed the table. “4 in the corner.” I sunk it, called each ball and the pockets, and methodically cleared the table.

  “Not fair,” Jake said. “This whole professional but still sexy thing you’ve got going distracted me.”

  “Totally fair.” I aimed at the 8 ball. “Your mama’s been paying a sizeable retainer to Mr. Cupid for six months now with zero results. I suspect you’ve been going along with her agenda to shoot some fish not currently available in your dating barrel.” I struck with precision, sinking it. “Game.”

  “Round two,” Jake said. “Rack ’em. You took me off guard.”

  “Hallmark of a good matchmaker, Jake. I can go back and advise your mother to pull her contract, or you can make the choice to actually give this process a chance. If at the end of three months you’re still not happy, haven’t found someone who enjoys your zest for life, we’ll call it a day. Deal?” I eyed him and held out my hand.

  “Deal.” He grinned and shook it. “You drive a hard bargain, Ma’am.”

  “Oh, for god’s sakes don’t ‘Ma’am’ me.”

  Client number two was a triathlete, blossoming sportswear designer, and at five feet three inches and a hundred and five pounds soaking wet, was a force of nature. Moss did not gather under Sophia Bardolino’s feet. Yes. That Sophia Bardolino. Hushed rumors swirled around the agency’s break room that Sophia’s grandfather was ‘connected.’ The kind of ‘connected’ that raised hair on people’s arms, and sent shivers traveling down their spines when last names like Giancana, Capone, and Bardolino were whispered.

  I stopped by the kitchen at Mr. Cupid and poured a cup of coffee.

  “I heard her grandfather ordered a hit on one of Elliot Ness’s agents.” Sarah said, munching on a donut and flicking away crumbs.

  “I think that was her great to the nth degree grandfather,” Giles said, in-between slurps of a kale slushy as he scrolled through his phone. He held it up and showed us an image of an ancient newspaper photo. “Martin ‘The Mo’ Bardolino and his crew. They were such snappy dressers back in the good old days. We dress like shit compared to those people.”

  “The good old days didn’t have the Internet, water filters, computers, online shopping, or same day delivery,” I said, shoving a plate into the microwave and hitting the re-heat button. “You all like to wax nostalgic about the good old days but none of you nearly froze in a tenement during a cold winter or died in a flu epidemic.”

  Sarah raised her hand. “Not true. My mother’s great aunt did. Milwaukee. 1918. That pandemic killed millions.”

  “Again,” I said, pulling my sandwich from the microwave and waving a hand to cool it down. “Not you.”

  Back in my cubicle, I scrolled through Sophia Bardolino’s file. Dressed in leggings and a long-sleeved dry wick thermal T with a cute custom graphic, she didn’t look like a mafia princess. More like an athletic warrior who wielded her will and wit instead of a machine gun. I texted her and set up our first meeting.

  “I’m too young to settle down,” Sophia told me as we climbed the massive man-made boulder at North Bank Club, a premier sports facility on the banks of a branch of the Chicago River. “My family guilted me into signing up for a matchmaking agency. I didn’t have the stamina for online dating, so I plunked down the mind-boggling fee for Mr. Cupid.”

  “Do you even want to do this?” I asked, reaching for the edge of a rock jutting out a little over arm’s length above me and to the right.

  “No, not really. Yes, if it buys me time. It’s blood money. I pay the agency, you go through the motions, make my mom think I’m trying. Like, seriously, she’s not stupid. You need to convince her. If she meets a few decent guys that you set me up with, months pass, men come and go, eventually she’ll throw her hands up in the air and leave me alone for another five years. Then I can re-visit this marriage thing at a more appropriate age.”

  “Good plan,” I said. “Let’s get you out there, set you up with some eligible men.”

  “Why is it not enough for my family that I start my own business?” In Style magazine writes me up as the new sportswear designer to watch, but for my mom, it’s all about when will I get married and pop out a kid. ‘Do what’s right for the family, Sophia.’ ‘Why are you only thinking about yourself, Sophia?’ ‘Your three cousins got married last year to nice young men and you’re the only hold-out, Sophia. Why do you torture us so?’”

  “We can torture them back, you know.” I lost my footing on the rock below. I leaned in to the hard surface and grabbed the one above me, scraping my foot up the wall until I found an outcropping to perch my toes on as my stomach lurched. I hated heights. What was I thinking even doing this? Oh right, I was taking one for the job—again. “I noticed on your intake form that you want to marry a Catholic or someone who will convert.”

  “My mom filled that form out. Not me.”

  “What if we matched you with some lovely young men that fit the rest of your requirements who just happened to be, hmm, Protestant? Jewish?”

  “Even better. An agnostic,” Sophia said. “An agnostic would kill my family.”

  “Adding eligible sports-minded agnostics to the list,” I said.

  “You’re bad.” She smiled for the first time.

  “That’s what makes me so good. Don’t tell the Agency. They’ll can me. And now I’m getting off this stupid rock.”

  “You and me, both,” she said.

  *

  It was Friday night, and only a week had passed since the Biltenhouse wedding but the added responsibilities of my promotion made it feel like a month. Romeo meowed incessantly, pacing on my kitchen countertop. “Eat your dinner.” I pointed to the saucer filled with wet cat food on the floor. I shoved pizza leftovers in the microwave in my tiny kitchen, hit re-heat, and wondered if Hot Waiter was working tonight.

  Romeo jumped down and sniffed his meal, but he would not touch it and stared dejectedly at the dish.

  “Fine!” I cracked open another can and spooned its contents onto a plate with a sharp Clack-Clack-Clack. “I hope the—” I squinted at the label, “—Tahitian Tuna Delight in Delicate Sauces is more to your liking than the Sunset Chicken in Succulent Gravy.” I plopped it on the floor and scratched his head.

  I grabbed my reheated pizza from the microwave and choked down half a slice. How long had this tasteless dreck been in my freezer? I tossed the rest in the garbage, grabbed a granola bar, and scrolled through cable news on my laptop. More pundits complaining about insane politicians, some kind of society scandal, and yet another protest march. I logged into my favorite social media site and swiped through pictures and updates, but stopped cold in my tracks when I spotted a ‘like’ from Sean on a photo I posted outside North Bank Club.

  Ugh. He did not get to be in my life again. Sean did not get to ‘like’ my posts. I thought I’d blocked him? I corrected that with a few jabs of my index finger. My stressed-out shoulders suddenly ached, feeling like they’d been stabbed by tiny, cold daggers. I called Mom to touch base but she didn’t pick up.

  I plucked the gold card that Lesley Biltenhouse had given me from my purse. What was I waiting for? I could hit the gym and pound out my stress on the tread
mill, throw a few punches at a bag, pump some iron. I pulled on my parka and galoshes, and tossed the contents of my purse inside my duffel.

  I eased out the door, pushing Romeo back inside with one hand. I walked a few blocks in the chilly winter air, and boarded the #114 bus. I stared out the window as it wound its way from South Dearborn Street through Chicago’s Loop to the near North side. A half hour later it deposited me in the Gold Coast, half a block from the boutique, luxury hotel.

  I stared up at the Rosseaux. Twinkling Italian lights adorned the building and large pine wreathes adorned with shiny, fat, satin ribbons hung in front of the first-floor windows. It was magical, festive, and yummy. I stamped my feet on the large mat and entered the lobby, decked out for the Christmas holidays. Thick red and gold tapestry carpets accented the marble floors, crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings, and matching sconces stood out on the cream-colored walls. A decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner surrounded by festively-wrapped packages

  I glanced at the large clock on the wall. Half past ten. I made my way past the concierge desk and the dapper, middle-aged man behind it wearing a crisp blue suit. Fancy metallic-framed reading glasses were perched on the bridge of his substantial nose and the nametag on his lapel read, “Mr. Anthony Serrano.” He glanced up at me. “Can I help you, Miss?”

  I flashed him my Rosseaux card. “Thanks. I’m good.”

  On the off chance it’s your first time here, the gym is on the eight floor and spa is on the twelfth,” he said. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  “You too, Mr. Serrano.” I made my way to the bank of elevators and punched a button. Within seconds there was a “Ding!” and the bronze doors slid open. I tromped inside the carriage, pressed the button with the number eight, and stared at my feet as the doors closed. Galoshes. Still scuffed. Definitely not glass slippers.

  Eight floors later the door slid open and I had one boot out on my way to the gym when a funny thing happened—my foot froze. I realized hitting the treadmill wasn’t high on my list of desires. My first sixty-hour workweek as junior matchmaker had left me with cramping feet, a stiff neck, and a stitch in my side because apparently rock climbing used muscles I didn’t know I had.

  I stepped back inside and pressed the button for the 12th floor. If I couldn’t hang out with Hot Waiter, I would still have fun tonight.

  Screw the gym, I was going to the spa.

  *

  I padded down the tiled hallway to the mineral spring Jacuzzis wearing only a cushy towel. The scent of clean, refreshing eucalyptus wafted through the air. I could practically feel a few wrinkles relaxing. I bypassed the bubbling therapeutic waters, and like a German shepherd tracking down drugs at the airport, followed my nose to the steam room.

  I pushed open the sweaty glass door. Clouds of hot mist billowed around me and I fanned my face, squinting around for the best place to take a seat. Three women in various stages of undress reclined on tiers against one wall. Steam spat and hissed as I shuffled toward an empty space in the corner opposite them. I plunked myself down on the warm, sweaty bench. A minute passed, my shoulders decompressed from my ears, and I sighed in relief.

  No one would bother me here. I was free from my week, liberated until Monday from fifteen-hour days, jobs of all varieties, and miles out of meowing distance from Romeo. I leaned back against the hard tiles and stretched my shoulders.

  “You have lovely breasts.” The crackly, old-lady voice was coming from a woman seated across from me.

  “I’m sorry?” I glanced down. The towel I’d knotted over my chest had slipped. “Yikes—sorry!” I pulled the bath sheet up, re-knotted it, and peered through the hot steam, but could only make out a head covered in a large pink floral bath cap.

  “Never apologize for having a great rack. I had quite the rack in my day.”

  “Thank you,” I said, reminding myself to be gracious, even when dealing with people who blurted inappropriate things. Both Giles and Sarah had advised me this situation happened frequently in the matchmaking business. Something about the search for true love inducing a TMI Tourette’s-like syndrome.

  There was a flash of a metal in the air followed by the sound of ice and liquid sloshing together. I squinted through the steam and spotted what looked like a young woman shaking a canister.

  “I added a pinch of cantaloupe juice,” she said with a trace of a Spanish accent. The melon makes it fruitier. It’s my new secret sauce. Can I pour you another, Mrs. R.?”

  “You can pour another for me,” said a cocoa-skinned woman seated on her other side. “It’s been a train wreck of a week and the cocktails are delicious tonight.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Beverly.”

  I heard the clink clink of ice dropping into glasses, and the fizz and gurgle of liquid cascading on top. Had I crashed a private party? I hadn’t seen ‘Reserved for Guests’ on the steam room door but this scene felt like something out of a Bachelorette weekend. The next thing you know male strippers would be invading the place. A girl could hope!

  The young woman with the accent handed a glass to Beverly. “I talked to my cousin the doctor about your sagging issues up top, Mrs. R. He said that he’d be happy to lift them for you. I made him promise to give you a good deal.”

  “Luisa Constantina Bananas,” the old woman said. “I love you like a granddaughter, so please don’t take this the wrong way.”

  “You mean Luisa Consuela Banderas.”

  “That’s what I said. I don’t want your cousin to lift my breasts.”

  “He’s very professional,” she said. “You can check his Yelp page.”

  “I’m sure he does excellent work. But eventually I’ll run into him at one of your family functions. We’ll stare at each other in a knowing but uncomfortable fashion.”

  “He’s bound by secrecy.” Luisa shook the canister high in the air. “I think he had to take an oath.”

  She shook her head. “We’ll find ourselves attending the same baptism or funeral. He’ll approach me over cocktails and cake and make small talk. ‘Oh yes, Ferdinand is the cutest baby ever. Such a thick head of hair.’ Or, ‘Guadalupe looks so rested lying there in the casket. She hasn’t looked that good in years.’ But eventually the good doctor will lean in and whisper, ‘How are the breasts doing?’ and ‘Where are they landing now?’”

  “Whatever you want Mrs. R. I’m not going to push. They’re yours, after all. Should I pour for you?”

  “It’s margarita night, right?” She extended her glass.

  Had I stumbled into a private spa party or a secret society gig where I didn’t know the customs? It was time to visit the Jacuzzi and let these ladies have their privacy. I pushed myself off the bench and was halfway to the door when I heard the flap flap of flip-flops on the floor. I swiveled and spotted Mrs. R.’s round, pink bath cap moving toward me. In the mist she appeared disembodied, and I startled, one hand flying to my heart.

  “I apologize. We have no manners,” Mrs. R. said. “Do you want a cocktail?”

  “Me?” I squeaked.

  “No, the woman standing next to you. Of course, you.” The pink bath cap took form as she approached. No wonder she’d noticed my breasts. She was so short her line of vision was in direct contact with them.

  “Thank you, but my pores are open and it might be the perfect time to hit the hot spring mineral waters.”

  She materialized, staring up at me, and even though I was wearing only a towel, I suddenly realized I was over-dressed for tonight’s gathering. Mrs. R. was butt naked, and eighty if she was a day. She extended a tall plastic glass decorated with tiny gold-foiled ‘R’s. “It’s margarita night and that only happens once every six weeks around here. Join us. I insist.”

  I could politely decline or I could roll the dice and see where this party lead. I chose the latter, accepted the glass, and sipped. “Yummy.”

  “Gracias,” Luisa said. “It’s the melon.” “

  “Be a love and walk me to my locker.” Th
e octogenarian wrapped her arm around mine. “I’m Mrs. R. What’s your name?”

  “Harper.” I guided her toward the door. “Is it prudent to drink in a steam room?”

  Beverly, wearing a towel, stepped in front of us and opened the door. “First rule of thumb when you visit a spa is hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.”

  “I’m not sure they meant alcohol.”

  *

  Mrs. R. sat on the bench next to her locker dressed in pink velour sweats and a long-sleeved Chicago Bears flannel jersey. Luisa rubbed body lotion in her hands and massaged the woman’s neck. “That feels so good, honey,” Mrs. R. said.

  “It’s the new Real Fresh Coconut Body Drench,” Luisa said.

  “I’m pouring the last of the cocktails,” Beverly said. “Drink up.”

  Luisa eyed me. “Harper, I hope you don’t mind that I mention this, but I’m a licensed massage therapist and a certified cosmetologist and distributor for Real Fresh Skin Care. Your under-eye zone could benefit from hydration.”

  “Circles?” I asked, concerned, sipping my second margarita, feeling a little buzzed. “They’re that obvious?”

  “Stress and winter weather do a number on one’s skin. Lucky for you I have samples.” She pulled a few packets from a black tote.

  “That’s awfully nice of you.”

  “Real Fresh Cucumber Eye Hydrator.” She ripped a package open and squeezed light green goo onto her fingertips. “Let me apply it for you. I’m the expert. I know the critical spots.”

  “She does,” Beverly said.

  I shook my head and downed the last of my cocktail. “As much as I’ve enjoyed hanging out with you ladies, I need to call it a night. Besides, I can’t wear an eye mask on the way home.”

  “No one’s going to see you,” Mrs. R. said.

  “I’m taking the bus.” I shrugged on my coat.