Arranged Page 8

  Jesus. You’d think I was talking to Ms. Cooper.

  “Are you sure that’s the real reason?”

  “I was curious to talk to people who’ve had an arranged marriage. Wouldn’t you be in my situation?”

  “Perhaps. Did you find the answers you were looking for?”

  “Maybe. The second woman I met was educated and had options. She seemed happy, settled. She seemed to have what I want.”

  “Which is?”

  “To find that person who everything feels right with. Where the two of us together feels bigger than the sum of our parts.”

  “And why do you want that?”

  “Don’t most people want that?”

  He taps his fountain pen against his notebook. “Not enough to use Blythe and Company.”

  “Right, good point.”

  “To return to a topic from our last session, why do you think that hasn’t happened until now?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What about your last relationship? Why didn’t you marry . . .” He glances down at his notes. “Stuart.”

  My shoulders tense at the sound of his name. “That’s an easy one. Because he treated me like crap.”

  “Why did you let him treat you like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He shakes his head. “Come on, Anne. Yes, you do.”

  “Why don’t you tell me why, then,” I say sullenly.

  “Because I can’t do all the heavy lifting.Tell me, why did you let him treat you like that?”

  A question I’ve asked myself a million times.

  “I honestly can’t tell you. But I’m happy to hear any theory you might have.”

  He considers me. “Is it part of the fairy tale we were talking about?”

  “How could it be part of the fairy tale? People don’t treat each other badly in fairy tales.”

  “Don’t they? Doesn’t the heroine always get treated badly so that she needs to be rescued? Cue the hero?”

  “So you’re saying I let Stuart cheat on me so I’d need to be rescued, because if I didn’t need to be rescued, then the hero would never show up?”

  “Does that sound right to you?”

  “I’m not sure. If it is, how come I left him?”

  He smiles. “You rescued yourself. You were your own hero.”

  I slide deeper into the chair, letting my head rest on the back. “But if I’m my own hero, does that mean I end up alone?”

  “No, it means you’re ready to accept someone who’s an actual match for you and not some heroic fantasy.”

  “Blythe and Company isn’t going to find me a hero? Damn. What am I paying so much money for, then?”

  His beard twitches. “To begin a new story.”

  “And how’s this one going to end?”

  “We’ll see soon enough, Anne.”

  I spend the next three weeks in a fog of happiness caused by my book deal, interspersed with outbreaks of nerves when I remember I’m waiting for a call from Blythe & Company. Christmas comes and goes. The windowsill below the bay window fills up with the smiling faces of my friends’ families. I briefly contemplate sending out a card with my “baby” on it—a screen shot of the first page of my manuscript—but use the money it would have cost to buy gifts for my nieces.

  I spend New Year’s Eve with William at a big anonymous party in someone’s loft. Sarah and Mike join us near midnight looking glowy, a cocoon of love around them. Midnight is celebrated with chaste kisses on my cheek from William and Mike. A new year. My year, I tell myself, as I sip my flute of champagne. Good things are going to happen.

  And in a flash it’s two weeks later, the night of the getting married/getting published party, and I’m standing outside the bar, shivering inside my coat, waiting for Richard to pay for the cab.

  I’m here with Richard because he caught me in a giddy moment. Apparently, book deals don’t make you smarter.

  Once we’re inside, I scan the room for Sarah and Mike. They’re talking to Sarah’s parents and younger sister. I introduce them to Richard.

  Sarah raises her eyebrows in surprise. “He’s cute,” she mouths to me, looking pretty in a wine-colored dress, her curls shining.

  “He’s boring,” I mouth back. Sarah suppresses a giggle.

  Mike, tall and slightly beefy, with light brown hair and matching eyes, plants a kiss on my cheek. “Congratulations, Anne.”

  I thank him and return the congratulations. He smiles happily and puts his arm around Sarah’s shoulders.

  “Doesn’t Anne look wonderful this evening?” Richard says as he drapes his arm across my shoulders, mimicking Mike.

  I’m wearing a dark blue satin dress that ties around my neck and leaves my back bare. My book-deal dress for my book-deal party. It’s too fancy for the occasion, and as Richard’s cold fingers graze my skin, sending the wrong kind of chill down my spine, it’s a choice I’m regretting.

  I duck out from under his arm and spend a few minutes catching up with Sarah’s parents. Then, with Richard deep into telling Mike what he does for a living, I escape to the bar. William’s there, paying for a drink. He’s wearing a striped dress shirt above a fashionably distressed pair of jeans. His hair stands up from his head like an exclamation mark.

  “A.B., you look wonderful!”

  “Thanks.”

  He takes my hands and holds my arms away from me. “No, I mean it, Anne. Being successful agrees with you. You’re glowing.”

  “I think that’s the glow of exasperation.” I motion over my shoulder to where Richard’s still expounding on the thrill of reviewing thirty-page contracts or some such nonsense. I order a martini from the bartender. Two olives, straight up.

  “That’s not Richard, is it?”

  “Who else?”

  “Why did you bring him?”

  “Fear of dying alone surrounded by cats?”

  “Good point. Too bad I’m not remotely attracted to you.”

  “Yeah, it’s too bad that you’re not attracted to me.”

  We grin at each other.

  “Anyway,” I say, “tonight I want to celebrate the greatness of me and the happiness of Sarah with someone who’ll buy me a few drinks.”

  The bartender places a martini glass in front of me. He’s made a generous pour. The glittering silver liquid reaches right to the rim.

  William raises his glass. “I hear you. So tonight and tonight only, I celebrate the greatness of you.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Hello, dear,” my mother says behind me. “Aren’t you cold in that dress?”

  Icy calm, Anne, icy calm.

  I put my drink on the bar and turn toward my parents. Gil and Cathy are behind them. My dad is an older version of Gil, but with my eyes. My mother keeps her chin-length hair the same color as mine, although it’s our only common feature. Her eyes are a milky brown, and her face is round, without angles. She’s wearing a 1940s-style fur coat she inherited from her aunt. She’s always looking for an excuse to wear it. I’m not sure why.

  “No, Mom, I’m fine. Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, sweetheart, sorry we’re late.” My dad hugs me, holding me tightly against his scratchy camel winter coat.

  “That’s okay,” I tell him. “Hi, Gil. Hi, Cath.”

  “Hi yourself, Cordelia.” Gilbert chucks me under the chin. “I’m really proud of you, little sister.”

  My throat constricts at the emotion in his voice. “Thanks.”

  “Where is everyone?” my mother asks, looking around.

  “At the back.” I wave toward the balloons and streamers Sarah and I put up earlier.

  We walk toward the CONGRATULATIONS! sign, and I talk and drink and get congratulated. Janey, Nan, and Susan arrive with their husbands, full of happiness for me and funny stories about motherhood. My agent comes in with a whirl of talk about royalty rates and finalizing my book deal. I direct her toward Gilbert. Time slows and contracts. I’m happy, I’m nervous. I drink several
martinis, filling up on olives. I drift away from the group again when I hear my mother say, “Well, you know she gets the writing gene from me. I have drawers full of little scribbles that I always meant to put together someday.”

  I try in vain to catch the bartender’s eye, but he’s flirting with a girl who looks barely legal. An Alicia Keys song is belting from the radio, and I don’t feel like yelling.

  “Can I help?” says the man standing next to me. His voice is medium-low and sexy.

  I look at him and my stomach flips. He’s tall, slim, and has short black hair feathered in the “hot guy from Sixteen Candles” way. In fact, he looks very much like that boy fast-forwarded to his early thirties, with blue eyes and a slight ski jump to his nose. He’s even wearing a red and blue plaid shirt over a crisp white T-shirt.

  The martinis make me feel bold. “Do you think you can get the bartender to ignore that girl for a few minutes?”

  “For you, anything,” he says, looking directly into my eyes.

  Oh, boy.

  He puts his thumb and index finger in his mouth and makes a quick, piercing whistle that gets the bartender to look up. It’s a move I’d normally find boorish, but tonight, from this man, it seems appropriate, sexy, even. As the bartender ambles reluctantly toward us, the handsome stranger smiles mischievously at me and asks what I want to drink.

  “A vodka martini.”

  “Coming right up.”

  We watch him mix our drinks. My new companion pays and hands me mine.

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome. Cheers.”

  I take a sip. The drink doesn’t bite the way it should. I should definitely stop drinking after this one.

  “I’ve always wanted to know how to do that,” I say.

  “You mean this?” He raises his thumb and finger to his lips. “It’s easy. You just put your lips together and blow.”

  I laugh. “Bogart fan?”

  “I try.”

  “I never caught your name.”

  “Aaron. You?”

  “Anne.”

  He ponders this for a second. “Anne. I like it.”

  “Kind of boring, huh?”

  “Are you boring, Anne?”

  The edges of our arms are touching. I can feel the rough fabric of his shirt and the warmth of his skin beneath it. “I hope not. You here alone?”

  “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend, but he’s late. You?”

  “I’m with them.” I wave my drink toward the balloons and the people gathered underneath them.

  “What are they celebrating?”

  “Me, I guess.”

  “You getting married?”

  “No, that’s my friend Sarah.”

  “What’s there to celebrate about you?”

  “You can’t see what there’d be to celebrate about me?”

  He looks me up and down. “I can see all kinds of things to celebrate about you, but they don’t involve streamers and balloons.”

  My face feels hot. Definitely the last martini. “My book’s getting published.”

  “That’s great. What’s it called?”

  “Home.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “This group of friends going to their—”

  “Anne?”

  Shit.

  “Hi, Richard.”

  He eyes Aaron warily and asks me, “What’re you doing all the way over here?”

  “I was getting a drink.”

  Aaron steps away. My arm feels cold, exposed.

  “Your mother was asking where you were.”

  Even better.

  “You were talking to my mom?”

  “Sure. She introduced herself.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He sounds more puzzled than angry.

  I look away, scanning the room for Aaron. He’s at the other end of the bar talking to a man wearing a peacoat—the friend he was waiting for, presumably.

  “Nothing. Let’s go back to the party.”

  I glance over my shoulder and catch Aaron’s eye. He toasts me with his half-empty glass.

  As the evening waxes on, I keep stealing glances at him, tracking his progress around the bar. Sarah catches me at it. “Is that Tadd?”

  “What? No!”

  “Looks just like him. Do you know each other?”

  “I was talking to him earlier. Do you really think he looks like Tadd?”

  She squints. “Half Tadd, half Stuart.”

  I look at Aaron again. Sarah’s kind of right. Damn.

  “Do you know any women our age?” I say to her.

  “Why?”

  “Because I need a new best friend.”

  “Pht. Who’d point out the obvious if I weren’t around?”

  “True.”

  Her eyes are shining with love and contentment. “Thanks for organizing this.”

  “No, thank you.” I reach out and hug her. She even smells happy. “I’m really glad for you, you know.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  We break apart. My eyes settle on Aaron. Part of me would like to give him my phone number. Part of me is terrified that I only want to do this because he looks the way he looks. But didn’t we have a few minutes of good conversation? Good flirting, anyway?

  In the end, I let it go. I’m feeling tired and decide to tell Richard I want to leave. I walk through the crowd, searching for him. So like the wrong man: never around when I need him.

  “Anne?” Aaron puts his hand on my shoulder.

  The right man, on the other hand . . .

  He has his coat on. The dark blue fabric matches his eyes exactly.

  “Can I give you my number?” he asks.

  “Okay.”

  “Great.” He hands me a business card. “It’s easiest to get me on my cell.”

  “It was nice meeting you.”

  “It was nice meeting you too, Anne.”

  I watch him walk away as if we’re in some silly movie. He looks back at me once and gives me a devastating parting smile.

  When I locate Richard, he’s talking to my parents. I can tell my father is only pretending to listen, emitting the occasional grunt of acknowledgment. He does this when he’s bored, and the grunts match up with Richard’s soliloquy only about one out of three times. Richard is oblivious.

  “Anne!” Dad almost falls on me in relief.

  “Richard, I think I’m ready to go home.”

  “That’s my cue.” Richard takes my mother’s hand and kisses it, much to my father’s amusement. “Mrs. Blythe, it’s been lovely talking to you. I hope we have many more opportunities to do so.”

  “Ah, oh, yes, right,” she says vaguely. “Congratulations again, dear.”

  “Thanks, Mom. ’Night, Dad.”

  My father’s eyes twinkle. “How many dates have you two been on, anyway?”

  I smother a laugh. “Tonight’s our second.”

  My mother perks up. “You know, Richard—”

  “No one wants to hear that story, Diane. It’s time to go.”

  Sometimes I really love my dad.

  “Oh, all right, I’m coming. Say, Anne, was that Tadd you were talking to before?”

  I fend off a kiss from Richard in the cab (there will not be a third date) and escape into my apartment. I’m exhausted but too keyed up to sleep. I settle into my semi-comfortable couch and flip through the channels.

  As I watch TMZ follow Amber Sheppard around, my mind wanders to Aaron, replaying how he looked at me, how the fabric of his shirt felt on my arm. I retrieve his card from my coat pocket, turning it over in my hands.

  It wouldn’t hurt to look him up on the Internet, right?

  I type his name into Google, and there he is, an investment banker with an MBA and a long list of accomplishments. The photo on his company website is a good one—although, disconcertingly, it makes him look even more like Tadd.

  I scan through the other hits. Halfway down, there’s one t
hat stops me cold. It’s a wedding announcement from under a year ago. Mr. and Mrs. Price are pleased to announce that their daughter, Anne, married Aaron Denis, blah, blah, blah. Aaron smiles happily into the camera with a beautiful blonde in his arms.

  Shit, shit, shit. I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he liked my name. I guess that’s why he told me to call him on his cell. I knew it. Okay, I didn’t. But I should have.

  Bastard!

  I rip his card into tiny little pieces and toss them into the trash. Goddammit. It’s been months since I left Stuart, and my instincts are still for crap. I see a beautiful man and I throw myself at him without noticing anything else. He was probably wearing his wedding ring and I didn’t even notice it. Come to that, Richard’s probably an interesting guy. Okay, maybe not. But still.

  I wander around my apartment looking for something to punch, to hold on to. Instead, I notice the blinking red light of my cell phone announcing a message. I pick up the clear glass paperweight sitting next to it as I dial in to my voice mail. I have one new message. It was left at 5:47 P.M. from a number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello, Ms. Blythe, this is Samantha Cooper. I’m happy to tell you we’ve found a match. Please call me on Monday to schedule an appointment. Have a nice weekend.”

  Barely breathing, I grip the paperweight as tightly as I can. Its smooth glass is unyielding.

  They found a match.

  I don’t need my instincts anymore.

  I have Blythe & Company.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 9

  Don’t Drink the Water

  My plane lands smoothly at the airport in Cancún, Mexico, a month to the day after I got the message from Ms. Cooper.

  I collect my luggage, go through customs, and walk into the sweltering heat. The air feels thick in my throat and tastes like dust. The sun glares off the white adobe walls. I shade my eyes, searching for something familiar. Standing among a sea of cabdrivers is a man holding a Blythe & Company sign.

  “For Blythe and Company?” he says with a Spanish accent. He looks overheated in his white short-sleeved shirt and long black pants.

  “Sí.”

  “Please go to autobús seventy. It is that way.” He points toward a long row of minibuses lined up alongside the building. Rivers of pinky-white tourists wearing bright shorts and T-shirts are in front of the buses, looking excited and in need of refreshments.