Arranged Page 7

  “I knew I was pushing my luck, you being a mother of almost four and all.”

  She laughs a deep, happy laugh. Elizabeth looks up at her adoringly. I can see her storing this laugh in her brain for when she’s older.

  “You think we’re certifiable, don’t you?” Cathy asks.

  “Not the whole couple, just you. You’re the one who chose to spend your life with my brother, after all.”

  I sit in the worn flowered chintz chair they keep in the corner of the kitchen, and Jane climbs into my lap. She puts her silky head against my chest and pops her thumb in her mouth. She looks so much like me at her age that it breaks my heart. Watching her these last six years has been like watching myself grow up all over again.

  “He has his good points.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Nice article, by the way. How’d you come up with the idea?”

  I hide my blush by burying my face in Jane’s hair. “I heard of a friend of a friend who was thinking of having an arranged marriage.”

  “How odd.”

  “Do you really find it that odd?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess some of the things that Oxford girl said made sense, but I’m not sure I could get through all the hard times if love weren’t on the line.”

  “She never said she wasn’t in love with him.”

  “Did she say she was?”

  “No, but . . .” I stop myself. Cathy’s right. Ashi never used the word “love.” I only thought I felt it. “You guys have had hard times?”

  “You think we’ve survived being the parents of three kids without serious arguments?”

  “No. I just meant you make it look easy, that’s all.”

  “Love isn’t always easy.”

  “I know.”

  It’s her turn to blush. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I should’ve asked how things are going . . .”

  “Since I left Stuart? Some days are better than others.”

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, good, because there’s this guy at Gil’s work—”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not sure I feel like dating right now.”

  Jane pops her thumb out of her mouth with a wet plop. “What’s dating?”

  “It’s a silly thing grown-ups do to make themselves unhappy.”

  “Come on, Anne. He’s a great guy who’s ready to settle down.”

  “Translation, he’s s-c-r-e-w-e-d every twenty-year-old he could, and now that he’s getting older and having less success getting l-a-i-d, he’s ready to date a woman near his own age and waste a few months of her time until she realizes he’s never going to commit.”

  “He’s not like that, really. He was in a long-term relationship and they broke up.”

  “Because he cheated on her?”

  “No.”

  “Because she wanted kids and he didn’t?”

  “Nothing like that, Anne, I promise. It just didn’t work out. He’s a nice person, and she’s a nice person, and they fell out of love. No big drama.”

  “Where are my girls?” Gilbert calls from the front hall.

  Jane jumps off my lap, and Elizabeth untangles herself from Cathy. They both run toward the front door, squealing, “Daaddddyyyyy!” at the top of their voices. And there it is. The knot of jealousy I often feel when I come here, the thing that keeps me from coming as often as I should.

  Gil comes into the kitchen holding a girl in each arm. My brother is six feet two, has hazel eyes and curly brown hair with a glint of red in it. He’s starting to go gray at the temples, and he has laugh lines around his eyes. In contrast to my too-white skin, his is golden and tans easily. If it wouldn’t tag me as a Flowers in the Attic type, I’d describe him as handsome. As it is, he’s just my sometimes annoying big brother.

  “Heya, Cordelia, glad you could make it.”

  My jaw tenses. I give him a curt nod. “Gilbert.”

  He kisses Cathy on the nape of her neck. “Hey, beautiful.”

  She pushes him away. “Hey, yourself.”

  “Why so bashful? Anne’s seen us kiss hundreds of times.”

  “I’ll close my eyes,” I tell her.

  “Stop it, both of you,” Cathy says.

  Gilbert dumps the girls in my lap. Elizabeth promptly goes back to her station at Cathy’s feet. Gil loosens his tie and drapes his jacket over the back of a chair tucked under the breakfast bar. “Did Cathy tell you about Richard?”

  “Is Richard the dating?” Jane asks.

  “That’s right, muffin,” Gilbert says as he gives me a wicked smile.

  By the end of dinner, Gilbert somehow convinces me to go on a date with Richard, a lawyer in his firm, even though I’m not sure I should be dating, given the whole Blythe & Company thing. But in the end I figure, what do I have to lose?

  Unfortunately, the answer to that question turns out to be several hours of my life.

  The night starts out fine. Richard chooses a good restaurant. It has light wood floors, exposed brick walls, and square, intimate tables with an individual oblong chandelier hovering over each one. The room glows with the right kind of light, feeling cozy and alive at the same time, and I can smell a delicious blend of aromas coming from the kitchen.

  I follow a waitress through the restaurant, feeling good in my flirty black skirt and a soft sweater that’s the one shade of pink I can wear. I’m even having a good-hair day.

  Richard stands when I approach and kisses me hello on both cheeks. I’ve never liked this quasi-European practice, but I hear Gil’s voice in my head telling me to relax, to give this guy a chance, so I smile and take a seat in the chair Richard pulls out.

  He’s wearing a dark charcoal suit and no tie. His sand-colored hair is cut close, and his dark brown eyes are deep and chocolaty. He’s a handsome man, just not my kind of handsome.

  I order a gin and tonic.

  “Tough day?” Richard says.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I just thought because of the drink you ordered . . .”

  “I like gin and tonics.” I try to keep my voice even, light. I don’t quite manage it.

  “That wasn’t the right thing to say, was it?”

  “Probably not.”

  “What was the right thing to say?”

  “That I look great,” I say jokingly, flirting a little.

  “Sorry. It’s been a long time.”

  “I heard.”

  His face constricts in pain. Crap.

  “Sorry. I guess that wasn’t the right thing to say either.”

  “That’s all right,” he says, but his tone says otherwise.

  He picks up his menu and starts looking through it, and after a moment I do the same. We spend way too much time picking our food. The waitress comes back with my drink. I take a large gulp, choking on the bitter tonic.

  “I have an idea,” Richard says when the waitress leaves.

  “What?”

  “Let’s pretend I said the right thing and you said the right thing, and we’re five minutes into the night and everything’s going well.”

  I smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

  We clink glasses, and for a few minutes I think this might work out.

  I’m not sure what pushes that feeling away, exactly, but the instinct to say the wrong thing to each other keeps coming back. It’s nothing big, only a continuous stream of small annoyances. I order fish and he’s allergic to fish, but instead of mentioning it as I order, he brings it up when I offer him some and he pushes my fork away. I ask him what Gil’s like at work, and he tells me stories about how Gil rode him into the ground when he was a first-year. These are supposed to be funny stories. They’re stories I’d tell to tease Gil, and yet hearing them from him makes me defensive about my brother.

  But the worst part is that Richard doesn’t seem to notice how badly the date’s going. His moment of insight, when he could tell we�
�d started off on the wrong foot, was just that, a moment that passed.

  We spend two awkward hours together, and now we’ve been waiting for the check for at least twenty minutes. Even clueless Richard is beginning to look restless.

  “What are you doing next Friday?” he asks.

  Uh-oh.

  “Um, not sure yet. I have a lot of deadlines around then.”

  The waitress finally brings the check. She’s about to leave again, but I grab her by the arm to keep her at the table. “Hold on a second, we’ll pay now.”

  I reach into my purse, but Richard gives his card to the waitress before I can get mine out.

  “You in a hurry or something?” he asks when she’s gone.

  Is he really going to make me say it out loud?

  “Oh, I had a long day. I’m kind of tired.”

  “Sure, I understand,” he says in a disappointed tone.

  Thankfully, the waitress comes back quickly, and we get up to leave. Outside on the street, I thank him for dinner.

  “My pleasure. We should do this again sometime.”

  “Um . . .”

  “I’m pretty busy this week, but Friday’s free.”

  “You mentioned that in the restaurant.”

  “Right, right. And you said you might not be available . . .”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll call you during the week when you have a better idea of your schedule.”

  I look over his shoulder for a cab and realize too late that he’s coming in for a kiss. I stand there, frozen, unable to turn away. His lips touch mine briefly. I’m too stunned, and the kiss is too brief, to tell what kissing him would be like. I see the flash of a cab light approaching, and I throw up my hand to get its attention. “Thanks again for dinner.” I jump into the cab before he can say anything else, and the driver pulls away. I look at my watch. Ten-fifteen. I’ll risk it.

  “Hello,” Gil answers in his quiet, this-better-be-important-to-risk-waking-up-my-kids-just-after-I’ve-gotten-them-to-bed voice.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You know very well who this is.”

  He chuckles. “Oh, hello, Cordelia.”

  “Don’t ‘Oh, hello’ me. Did I do something to piss you off that I don’t know about?”

  “I take it you didn’t have a good time?”

  “No, I did not have a good time. How could he and I have a good time together?”

  “It’s Anne,” he whispers to Cathy, then to me, “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s clueless, insensitive, and doesn’t drink coffee.”

  “Seriously, Anne.”

  “I am being serious. We didn’t click at all. I mean at all.”

  Gil sighs. “I don’t get you.”

  “What’s to get?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Someone I can connect with. Someone who’ll treat me right.”

  “Of course you do, honey.” Cathy has picked up one of the other extensions. “And that’s what you’ll find.”

  “Thanks, Cath.”

  “I think you should give him another chance,” Gil says.

  “Why?”

  “Remember Mom and Dad? Remember the rule?”

  My parents’ rule is that you have to go on three dates with someone before you write him off forever. Why? Because they had two horrible dates, and it was only on the third that they found their rhythm. I’d always assumed Mom kept going on the dates because of Dad’s last name (she could marry a man named Blythe, just like Anne of Green Gables!), and Dad kept going because Mom was the hottest girl who had ever gone out with him.

  “Well?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Will you really?”

  “I said I would. Lay off.”

  “Why don’t you see if he calls you again and decide then?” Cathy says practically.

  “Maybe. I’ll talk to you guys later.”

  I hang up and watch the car lights flash past the window.

  When I get home, I boot up my computer and check my email. Halfway through a long list of reply-alls from people at Twist, there’s an email from my agent, Nadia, titled “News!!” I’m having trouble breathing.

  I stare at the email, feeling like I did when I got my college acceptance letters. Only then, thin envelopes meant no and fat meant yes. This email looks like all the others.

  Yes or no. Yes or no. I won’t find out if I never open it.

  I click it open. My heart is booming.

  Anne, sorry for doing this in an email, but I’ve misplaced your cell number. Anyway, great news! The editor at Wesson got back to me today. She loves the manuscript, and they’ve made the following offer . . .

  Yes, yes, yes! I’m going to be published. They think my manuscript’s in great shape and they want to rush it for a spring launch. They like it so much, they’re giving me a two-book deal. And they’re offering me an advance of fifteen thousand dollars. Jesus!

  I can finally buy a car, or go on a great vacation, or . . .

  Get married.

  I can get married now.

  I can.

  Chapter 8

  Smells Like a Party

  Hi, this is Sarah. Leave a message.”

  “Sarah! I can’t believe you didn’t pick up! I have news. Big news! I know I should wait to speak to you in person, but I can’t wait. My book’s being published! They’re giving me an advance and all kinds of shit. Anyway, where are you? Call me!”

  “You know who this is and you know what to do.”

  “William! Where the hell are you? Call me immediately when you get this message! You know who this is too.”

  “You’ve reached Gilbert, Cathy, Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary. Some of us can’t answer phones yet, and the rest of us are busy. Leave a message.”

  “Gilbert, Cathy, it’s Anne. Where the hell are you guys? We just got off the phone a few minutes ago. By the way, Gil, that message isn’t funny. Anyway, I have some news. It’s kind of big, give me a call.”

  “You’ve reached the Blythes. Leave a short message, and we’ll return your call.”

  “Mom, Dad, it’s Anne. Pick up. Mom, turn off the damn CSI and pick up the phone! All right, I guess you’re not there. Call me when you get this message.”

  I can’t believe no one’s answering the phone. The biggest moment of my life, and I can’t reach anyone to celebrate with at ten-thirty on a Friday night.

  I so need a husband.

  No one calls me back that night. The return calls trickle in over the weekend in predictable order. Sarah first, my mother last. Everyone’s extremely happy for me. My father’s oddly concerned with the financial details. My mother wants to know to whom I’ll be dedicating the book. This is the most interest she’s ever expressed in my book. She’s never even asked to read it, and to pay her back, I haven’t asked her to. To be fair, I’m sure she’d want to read it if I told her what it’s about, but that’s not really the point, is it?

  Sarah and I decide we’re going to have a joint “getting published and getting married” party. We spend half an hour going through the details, giggling like we’re organizing our sweet sixteens. She offers to ditch her plans with Mike and come over, but I won’t hear of it.

  When we get off the phone, I feel restless. I should leave the apartment, but it’s raining in a heavy, dark way that discourages going outside unless it’s absolutely necessary. I flip through the channels on TV, but all that’s on is paid programming for weight-loss programs. I try to read, but I can’t concentrate. Ditto for writing. I briefly consider going to my parents’ house, but I know I’d regret it within minutes of arriving.

  In the end, I decide to rearrange the furniture in my apartment. There’s always been something about furniture in a new position that comforts me.

  I start with the bedroom. I move my bed under the window so I can read by the morning light on weekends when I wake up early. I f
ind eleven hair elastics and several large dust balls. Next I take the drawers out of my dresser so I can drag it to the opposite wall. I sort through my clothes and start a bag to give away to charity. Then I dust all the surfaces in the room, sneezing mightily as I go.

  When I’m done, I stand in the doorway admiring the things that belong only to me. It’s stopped raining, and the sun is setting through the sheers over the window. It casts an orange glow on the white duvet and the light gray walls. The air smells of pine cleaner and the herb garden that rests on the windowsill. It all looks clean and soft and solid.

  I feel calmer. I feel happy.

  I feel like I know how I got to this moment.

  I felt like I knew how I got here,” I tell Dr. Szwick during our next session.

  It’s coming up on Christmas. I saw the first flakes of the season this morning, small and hard—the worst kind of snow. It’s a blustery day, but the heavy damask curtains pulled tightly across the windows muffle the sound of the wind. All that’s missing is a crackling fire.

  “What happened?” Dr. Szwick asks. He’s wearing a navy cardigan with suede patches on the elbows. His beard seems to have gained another inch of his face.

  I shrug. “The sun came up the next morning.”

  “And how did you feel?”

  “Like I did when I had my feet off the ground last week.”

  “Good, good.”

  “It didn’t feel very good.”

  “No, it’s not supposed to.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” His scratchy pen spikes across the pages. “So, Anne, I’m curious. . . . why did you write that article about arranged marriages?”

  “Oh, you read that?”

  “I did.”

  I look into his straight-on gaze. My heart stutters the way it used to do when the vice principal caught me using bathroom passes to skip class.

  “I didn’t mention Blythe and Company.”

  “I noticed that. And, of course, if you had, you wouldn’t be here today.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No, Anne, just a reminder that you’ve agreed to keep the process confidential.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Good. So, how did you come to write the article?”

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs. “I, um, got thrown the column at the last minute, and since I was already doing some research on the topic, you know, just looking into it generally . . .”