During Patsy Cline’s bittersweet “Sweet Dreams (of You),” Martha applies some barely there, Lucy-style makeup, while envisioning the entire, tragic trajectory of her love affair with Fred: their first kiss, a brushstroke of blush; their first fight, a swipe of mascara; infidelity, a dab of lip gloss; abandonment, a dusting of powder. You don’t love me, it’s plain, sings Patsy. I should know I’ll never wear your ring. Martha puts her hands on either side of the bathroom sink and stares hard at the results. Despite the anguish of imagined heartbreak on her face, the lack of makeup suits her. Her dark eyes glisten and her skin looks dewy.
You should’ve thought about all this before you dumped me, Fred, Martha thinks, forwarding the CD to a more upbeat song.
LUCY IS IN A SCRAMBLE to get her place ready for Cooper’s visit. If his plane landed on time, he’ll arrive any minute. Most of the items on her checklist are done: She’s put sheets on the sofa bed, cleaned the bathroom, put out new votive candles. All that remains is to cook a perfect dinner, over which she wants Cooper and Adam to get to know each other better. They’ve met a few times, but always when one or the other was in a rush, so their exchanges have been mostly handshakes in person and how-are-yous over the phone. Though Lucy can’t imagine that they won’t like each other, she knows that a tasty meal, mellow music, and a great bottle of Cabernet do a lot to further a friendship.
When the phone rings, Lucy assumes it’s Cooper calling to tell her that his plane is delayed or his luggage is missing, but she hears Martha’s voice on a static-filled cell-phone line.
“What’s up, dater?” Lucy asks, chopping onions with the phone cradled between her chin and shoulder, her eyes starting to water.
“Um. Not much,” Martha says, hesitating. “I seem to have taken a detour on my way to meet Fred.”
Lucy puts down the knife and looks at her watch; it’s 7:10 P.M., ten minutes after Martha’s date was supposed to start. “What kind of detour?”
“I’m at an Irish pub across the street from where I’m supposed to meet him.”
Lucy hears the tinkle of ice cubes in a glass as Martha takes a sip of something.
“Luce, what’s wrong with me?”
“You’re just nervous.” Lucy rinses her hands and goes to the living room, where she sits down on the floor, her spine against the sofa. “What’s going on?”
“I have no idea. But I think the problem is as simple as I’m not you.”
Confused, Lucy says, “That seems like a good thing.”
“No, you see, as far back as I can remember I’ve gotten into character for dates.” Martha has never told this to anyone. “I usually choose celebrities: Mae West if I’m feeling sassy, Audrey Hepburn if I want to be glamorous. You get the idea. Anyway, tonight I thought it might be fun to be you.”
Lucy digests the information, unsure she likes the idea of Martha playing her.
“But it didn’t work,” Martha continues. “In the cab ride over, the real me kept coming through so loudly I couldn’t ignore her.”
Relieved, Lucy asks, “Well, uh, what did the real you say?”
“That you wouldn’t be caught dead doing something this neurotic.”
True, Lucy thinks. “What I don’t quite understand is why you’re so anxious about a date with a man you’ve never met. An amateur potter, no less.”
Martha is quiet for a moment. “I guess I just don’t think I could handle it right now if some Fred Nobody made me feel like I wasn’t pretty enough or young enough or witty enough.”
Hearing this, Lucy is flooded with gratitude for Adam’s presence in her life. She lifts one of the sofa’s cushions in search of a Post-it love note, but finds none. “Martha, if you go as you, that won’t happen!”
“You’re just saying that because you’re my best friend.” Martha sighs. “Besides, you have no idea of the person I become on dates; she’s nothing like the me you know. You’d hate her.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s true! I become this pathetic, smiley, unopinionated über-hostess. I ask questions like: ‘How are you finding your soup?’ and ‘Isn’t this place delightful?’ I kid you not, I use words like delightful. Lucy, it’s awful, I become my mother.”
“Look,” Lucy says, “here’s what I want you to think about tonight.” She’s not quite sure what to say next. “Think: I’m Martha McKenna: actress, entrepreneur, fabulous woman. You are Fred Nobody, some unknown entity who must prove himself worthy of my company.” Lucy pauses a moment. “I’ve got it: go as a peahen!”
“What?”
“In nature, males are always in charge of courtship and seduction. Remember? Meet Fred with that in mind. Make him do the work. Think: Fred is just one of a hundred peacocks who wants to mate with me.”
“Okay,” Martha says, clearly dubious but willing to grasp at any straw.
Lucy gets up and paces across the living room. “These are the questions you should ask yourself when you’re at dinner. Fred, do your tail feathers please me? Do I like your song? Am I into your mating dance or does your chest-puffing just make you look bloated?”
There’s no reply.
“You with me?”
“Coo,” Martha says in the affirmative. “Coo.”
“Atta girl!” Lucy fights an impulse to correct Martha’s dove impersonation. “Remember, make him do the work!”
“Right. Make him do the work. Make him do the work. Okay, I better get over there, Luce. I’ve already made my peacock wait twenty minutes.”
FOR DINNER, Lucy serves her favorite Cape Cod dish, linguine with white clam sauce. As a child, at least once a week during the summertime, she and her father would slog through the mud pools in the marshes of Nauset Bay, fending off green-head flies and no-see-ums to find the delicate clams for this dish. Tonight’s clams, however, are from Whole Foods, along with an array of exotic greens. When Lucy is depressed about living in New York, she likes to remind herself that it’s one of the few places on earth where you can find baby arugula 24/7, no matter the season. She tosses on some goat cheese, pear slices, and a small handful of crushed walnuts, then puts the bowl into the refrigerator to crisp.
Adam shows up with a bouquet of flowers bought at the corner bodega. “Smells delicious,” he calls from the hallway, bolting the door behind him. Lucy’s back is to him when he walks into the kitchen and he kisses the nape of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine.
She turns around to kiss him on the mouth. “Flowers! How sweet.” She has a clam in each hand and a pile of already scrubbed ones in the sink. “Put them in a vase for me?”
Adam reaches for a vase, then cuts through the bouquet’s plastic wrapping. The stems are coated with slime and when he lifts the flowers out, half of the petals stay behind. He looks to see if Lucy’s noticed—she hasn’t—and quickly arranges the flowers, trying to hide the gaps.
“How was your day, sweetie?” Lucy asks, expecting an animated review of the behavioral economy lecture he was supposed to attend.
Instead, Adam tells her about the ergonomist from Mount Sinai who came to observe him at work and assess how his computer setup and work habits contribute to his chronic back pain. “You can’t imagine how many things I’m doing wrong, Luce: My screen’s too far away, I overuse the mouse, my chair’s too low.”
Lucy wipes her hands on her apron before taking it off. “Did he have any suggestions for what to do?”
“More breaks.”
More breaks? Lucy wonders if Adam will finish his dissertation before mandatory retirement.
“He also advised me to buy a tented keyboard and one of those hands-free phones, but they’re both kind of expensive.” Adam rubs his lower back area. “And that I go to an ortho-bionics bodywork person for massage.”
“Bodywork?” Lucy says skeptically, thinking of the thinly veiled ads for sexual services listed under that heading in the backs of magazines like New York and Time Out. “Are you in pain right now?”
Adam nods.
&nbs
p; “How about a drink?” Lucy suggests, wondering if he remembered to pick up the wine. He hadn’t brought any into the kitchen.
“Wine should be here any moment,” Adam says, clearly pleased not to have forgotten. “The ergonomist told me that until I’m asymptomatic, I shouldn’t lift anything heavy, so I had a half case delivered.”
When the doorbell rings a few moments later, it isn’t the deliveryman but Cooper, whose six-foot frame fills the door. With a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a couple bottles of wine in his hand, he scoops up Lucy for a bear hug, lifting her feet off the ground.
Adam stands to one side as they embrace, studying Cooper’s face over Lucy’s shoulder. He’s a big man with a great flop of brown hair that falls almost to his eyes and sideburns that slice across well-tanned cheekbones. Adam nods hello and Cooper nods back, handing him the duffel bag, which is heavier than Adam expects and lands on the floor with a thud.
There are twelve tables in the restaurant and only one man sitting alone. Fred. He’s wearing a bright yellow V-neck sweater over a blue oxford shirt. Although he’s facing the door, he’s too busy depilling the arm of his sweater to notice Martha as she enters.
Martha comes to the table and introduces herself.
“Hello,” Fred says. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Martha slides into the banquette across from him. In between them is a sunken burner, which a slender, kimono-clad waitress comes by to ignite, placing a pot of water above it.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says.
“Not a problem,” Fred says, but Martha can tell that it is. “Before I became a father, I used to be a late person myself.” Fred goes on to explain that he’s a newly divorced stay-at-home dad with two young daughters. “Nothing like children to get your priorities straight. They force you to become a better person than you knew you could be.”
Martha imagines Lucy’s reaction to the news that Fred-the-potter doesn’t have a real job. Then she feels guilty. Is it sexist to have reservations about dating a full-time dad? To say nothing of the potential stepchildren Eva never mentioned? The word homemaker pops into her head.
The pot of water between them starts to boil.
“Have you had shabu-shabu before?” he asks. “I’m partial to foods that you have to work for: lobster, artichokes, pistachios. I think the effort makes them taste better.”
Soon their waitress presents them with a beautiful tray of thinly sliced beef and artfully arranged vegetables. She hands Martha a tool, some hybrid of a ladle and a strainer, and shows her how to skim the froth off the top of the boiling liquid.
Martha tries to give Fred the benefit of the doubt. “How does it work as a stay-at-home dad now that you’re divorced?” she asks, using chopsticks to put some bok choy in the bubbling water. Although no scum has developed yet, she skims the top with her special spoon.
“Pretty much the same as it always did,” Fred says, “except now I have my own place. I still spend the days at my ex-wife’s apartment with the girls.” He tosses some other vegetables into the pot and pokes at them. “Want to see pictures?”
Before Martha has a chance to answer, Fred comes around the table and slides in beside her. She scoots over close to the wall and concentrates on skimming the brownish yellow bubbles off the surface of the broth. Steam is billowing up from the pot and Fred’s arm has found its way across the top of the banquette behind her. She feels claustrophobic.
Fred flips through photos of his adorable daughters—at the merry-go-round, in the bath, on the beach. “Aren’t they precious?”
“Mm,” Martha agrees, putting two slices of beef in the broth and elbowing Fred in the process. “Ready to eat?” She looks at the empty bench across the table.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fred says, removing his arm but remaining in her space. “Full-disclosure time: You’re my first date since my wife and I split up, and I guess I’m a little nervous.” He laughs. “Okay, I’m a lot nervous. I even scheduled an emergency session with my shrink this afternoon.”
Martha is tempted to advise Fred not to discuss his psychotherapy on a first date but reminds herself he’s not a client.
BACK AT THE KINGSTON, Lucy and Cooper and Adam are sitting around the dinner table, twisting succulent forkfuls of linguine into their mouths. The meal is delicious and both men seem to be relaxed and enjoying each other’s company, though Adam did squeeze her hand in surprise when Cooper said grace.
But now the wine is flowing, as are Cooper’s stories of life on Tuckington Farm, and Lucy and Adam are mesmerized. He tells them about the hardships of the record-cold winter they’d had: the failure of various machines—his tractor, a bailer, the farm’s “honey wagon” (a vehicle that spreads manure); how a portion of his herd got an infection of the udders called mastitis that had to be treated with antibiotics, rendering the whole herd’s milk unsellable for a time; how a farmhand accidentally ripped open one of two huge hundred-foot-long silage bags, ruining much of the spring fodder.
“The truth is, it’s been the toughest winter since I took over the farm,” Cooper says. “Thank God for spring.” He takes another bite of pasta and smiles at Lucy appreciatively.
“How’s Pinckney?” Lucy asks, referring to Cooper’s prize bull.
“Trouble,” he says. “Lots and lots of trouble. Darn beast tore clear through the fence last week to go after the neighbor’s Holstein. They’ve been waging war all winter, bellowing at each other like dinosaurs. With the first sign of spring, ole Pinckney decided he needed to suss out the competition.”
“What did you do?” Lucy asks, putting down her fork.
“Well, there was nothing to do but watch, really. Neither had horns, thank God, but the battle went on for hours. They rolled each other over, smashed fences, bashed in each other’s ribs, even took down a small tin shed.” Cooper uses his utensils as surrogate bulls.
“That’s unbelievable,” Lucy says. “Why can’t anything that exciting ever happen around here?” She grabs Adam’s hand and suggests they flee the city and buy a farm.
Adam looks at her as if she’s crazy. Their Valentine’s Day trip was less than two weeks ago.
“Do I need to remind you that my mornings start with shoveling muck at five A.M.?” Cooper asks. “Does that sound exciting to you?”
“Shut your piehole,” Lucy says, an expression she picked up from him in college. “You’ve got the best life of anyone I know!”
“You’re right. Dairy farming is undeniably glamorous. As you know, most of my time is spent fending off the advances of supermodels.”
Lucy rolls her eyes.
Cooper looks at Adam over the bedraggled bunch of flowers, suddenly aware that he’s dominated the evening’s conversation. “I’ve shot off at the mouth quite enough for one night. Tell me more about what you do, Adam.”
Adam shakes his head. “I always find crazed-bull stories a tough act to follow.”
“Nonsense,” Lucy says, squeezing Adam’s forearm. “The world’s most influential thinkers are starting to pay attention to behavioral economists.”
“Lay it on me,” Cooper says enthusiastically. “You don’t want me to return to West Virginia unable to impress the supermodels.”
Lucy smiles encouragement at Adam. Go on!
Adam has no choice. “Essentially, behavioral economy offers an alternative to classic economic theory, which assumes people are rational beings living in a perfectly efficient market.” He speaks rapidly, wanting to get the spiel over with. “Behavioral economists concentrate on the irrational things people do, using psychology to explain behaviors like altruism or buying unnecessary items. Our goal is to improve the predictiveness of conventional economic models by plugging them into more realistic formulas for how people actually behave.”
Cooper is genuinely interested. “What’s your area of expertise?”
“Procrastination,” says Adam, looking at his pasta. “Procrastination has huge economic implications.”
; Having just covered Adam’s portion of the rent again, Lucy thinks, I’ll say it does.
Adam continues: “For instance, lots of people procrastinate in taking advantage of 401(k) plans, even though they know they’re good for them.”
“And what do behavioral economists think should be done about that?”
“Most would probably argue that government should create policies that acknowledge procrastination and make 401(k) deductions automatic rather than opt-in plans.”
“Interesting premise,” Cooper says, “although I must admit, I strongly disagree with it.”
Adam cocks his head.
“The idea of creating policies to coddle procrastinators seems wrong,” Cooper says. “The government should encourage people to be self-sufficient, not accommodate laziness. We don’t want a dependent populace.”
Adam laughs nervously and is about to launch into a rebuttal when Lucy grabs his knee under the table and squeezes, You’re totally right, but please change the subject.
Not fluent in Squeeze, Adam feels reprimanded and clams up.
“I want to visit the farm,” Lucy blurts out.
Cooper registers the alarm on her face and looks back at Adam. “I’m sorry,” he says. “How about we skip politics for now? Lucy’ll tell you, I’m just a pigheaded old conservative. The only way we’ve managed to stay friends all these years was to agree not to discuss politics.”
Adam nods and wonders why Lucy never mentioned that Cooper is a rabid Fox-TV-watching-Bible-thumping-Second-Amendment he-man. He’s never known one personally before.
IT’S AFTER 10 P.M. when Martha knocks on Lucy’s door. “You are the Albert Einstein of dating!” she proclaims, hugging her friend. “The night was a bust, but your advice was awesome!”
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