Dating Game (22 page)

“Something wrong?” he asked as he saw the expression on her face.

“I just did something really stupid,” she said, annoyed at herself. The man on the phone had been in complete control.

“Did you hang up on a client?” he asked with a blank expression. He couldn't imagine what it was.

“Nothing like that,” she reassured him. She had already thanked him for brunch the previous day, and told him how much she had enjoyed meeting Steven Ward, and what a nice man he was. Bix had been pleased. He wanted the three of them to be friends. “I let some guy talk me into having lunch with him, and I didn't even want to. But before I knew it, he had spun me around and told me he'd pick me up at noon.” Bix smiled.

“Anyone I know? The guy at the Fleischmanns' anniversary party?”

“How did you know?” She looked surprised.

“I figured he'd call. That type usually does. What's his name again?”

“Chandler Freeman. He's an associate of Oscar Fleischmann Jr. I don't know what he does.”

“I've read about him here and there. Sounds like a professional dater to me. Buyer beware.”

“What does that mean?” She was an innocent lost in the woods of a brave new world.

“It's a particular breed. Some of them have never married, others have had ugly divorces that cost them a lot of money, from women they hated anyway. They have a chip on their shoulder as a rule. And for the rest of time, they date and they date and they date and they date, and tell everyone what a bitch their ex-wife was. And according to them, the reason they never remarried is because they haven't found 'the right woman' yet. And the key is they never will. They don't want to. They just want to date. To them, temps are more fun.”

“Well, that certainly takes care of them,” Paris said with a broad smile. “I'll see how much he'll tell me about his history, and I'll let you know if any of it matches up.”

“Unfortunately, it probably will.” Bix felt sorry for her. Dating was something he hoped never to have to do again. Gay or straight.

“Do you mind if I go out to lunch tomorrow?” she asked him as an afterthought, and he laughed.

“Do you want me to say yes?”

“More or less.” She wasn't entirely sure. He had been a good-looking man, seemed like fun, and it was only lunch, she told herself.

“Go. You'll have fun. You have to get your feet wet. He looks like a decent guy.”

“Even if he's a professional dater?”

“So what? It's not marriage. It's lunch. You'll be safe. It's good practice for you.”

“For what?”

“The real world,” he said honestly. “You're going to have to get out there one of these days. You can't stay home forever. You're the kind of woman who deserves to have a good man in your life, Paris. And you aren't going to find one if you don't go out.”

“I thought I had one,” she said sadly, and Bix nodded.

“It turned out he wasn't as good as you thought.”

“I guess not.”

Half an hour later he showed her a four-foot white teddy bear made of roses that he was sending to Jane, and it was so spectacular it took Paris's breath away. “How on earth did you do that?”

“I didn't. I designed it. Hiroko did the rest. Cute, don't you think?” He was proud of it, and pleased that Paris liked it too.

“It's incredible. She's going to fall in love with it.” He took it back downstairs to the shop at street level and sent it off to Jane with a note, which reminded Paris that she wanted to get a baby present for her, maybe over the weekend, when she had time, if she did. She had to work one of the Valentine's Day parties, but she was free for most of the day before that. She couldn't believe how busy her life had gotten in barely more than a week. And she said as much to Anne Smythe when she called her that night when she got home. They had to do their sessions now at night or on weekends, in spite of the time difference, and Anne said she didn't mind. She was happy to hear from her, and delighted that things were going so well. They had already agreed to reduce their sessions to once a week. Paris didn't have time for more. Except, in an emergency, she knew she could always call.

She told Anne she was having lunch with Chandler the next day, and what Bix had said about him, about being a professional dater possibly.

“Keep an open mind,” Anne reminded her. “You might have fun. And even if he's a ‘professional dater,’ as Bix says, he might be an interesting person to know. You were going to meet people, remember. You don't have to love them all. He might introduce you to a whole circle of his friends.” It was a good point. She was starting from scratch, and she had known when she left Greenwich that it would be hard work. This was only the beginning.

At five minutes before noon the next day, Paris heard a roar beneath her office window, and when she looked down, she saw that it was a silver Ferrari. And seconds later she saw Chandler Freeman get out in a blazer, gray slacks, blue shirt, and yellow tie. It looked like Hermès. He looked very chic, and extremely prosperous. He rang the bell, came upstairs, and a moment later, was standing in front of her desk, with a dazzling smile.

“I'm very impressed. This is quite an office.”

“Thank you. I've only worked here for about five minutes.” She didn't want to take credit for it. Bix had done all the decoration himself.

“How so?”

“I moved out from Greenwich, Connecticut, less than two weeks ago. This is only my second week in the

job.”

“You look like you've been here forever.”

“Thank you.” She smiled.

“Shall we go?” he said with a wide smile. He had perfect teeth, and looked like a toothpaste ad on TV. He was an incredibly good-looking man. It was impossible not to notice, and she felt flattered somehow that he was taking her out.

She followed him down the stairs and out to his car, and seconds later the silver Ferrari roared off. “Where are we going?” she asked nervously, and he smiled at her.

“I'd like to tell you I'm kidnapping you, but I'm not. I know you're pressed for time, so we're going very nearby.” He took her to a tiny Italian restaurant in a Victorian house, with a garden out back, only blocks from her office. “This is one of the city's best-kept secrets.” And the owners seemed to know him well. “I go out to lunch a lot,” he explained, “and I hate to get stuck inside.” The weather was even warmer than the week before. Spring had arrived.

The waiter offered her a glass of wine, and she asked for iced tea instead. Chandler had a Bloody Mary, and they ordered salads and pasta for lunch. And the food was extremely good. Somewhere, halfway through lunch, as he chatted with her, she started to relax. He was actually a very interesting man, and he seemed like a nice guy.

“How long have you been divorced?” he asked her finally, as she realized she was going to be hearing this question a lot. Maybe she should hand out leaflets with all the details.

“Two months. I've been separated for nine.” She didn't offer any further information. For now at least, it was none of his business. She didn't owe him any explanations.

“How long were you married?”

“Twenty-four years,” she said simply, and he winced.

“Ouch. That must have hurt.”

“A lot,” she said, and smiled, and turned the tables on him. She wanted information too. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he asked with an evasive smile.

“Same questions. How long have you been divorced? How long were you married?” She was learning the ropes.

“I was married for twelve years. I've been divorced for fourteen.”

“That's a long time,” she commented, thinking about it.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

“You've never remarried?” Maybe he was hiding one from her, but not if Bix was right.

“Nope. I haven't.”

“Why not?”

“Never found the right woman, I guess.” Oh shit. Maybe Bix was right. “Or maybe being single has just been too much fun till now. I was thirty-four when I got divorced. And I was pretty badly burned. My wife ran off with my best friend. It was a lousy trick. Turns out they'd been having an affair for three years before she left. Things like that happen, but it hurts like hell when they happen to you.” More data. The ex-wife as supreme bitch. And slut.

“That sounds pretty rough,” she said sympathetically, but he no longer looked upset. It had been a long time. Maybe too long. “Do you have kids?”

“One. My son is twenty-seven, lives in New York, and has two little girls. I'm a grandfather, which I still have trouble believing sometimes. But the girls are awfully cute. They're two and four. With another one on the way.” At forty-eight and as good-looking as he was, he didn't look like a grandfather to her.

They chatted about other things then, traveling and favorite cities, languages they spoke and wished they did. Paris spoke a smattering of French. Chandler said he was fluent in Spanish. He had lived in Buenos Aires for two years as a young man. Favorite restaurants in New York. He even asked about her name, which had always seemed silly to her. Her parents had honeymooned in Paris, and had conceived her there. So they had named her after their favorite city. He said it was exotic and looked properly amused. With a practiced hand, he kept the conversation light. He was good company, and on the way back to the office in the Ferrari, he told her he flew his own plane, with a copilot of course. It was a G4. And he offered to take her up in it sometime. He told her when he dropped her off that he'd love to see her again, maybe they could have dinner later that week, and she told him that she had to work. He just smiled, and kissed her on the cheek before he left. And then in a roar from the engine, he sped away as Paris walked up the stairs. Bix was doing sketches at his desk.

“Well?”

“I think you're right. I don't even know why I went. I don't want to date. So what's the point?”

“Practice for when you grow up. You will one day. Unless you want to be a nun.”

“It's a thought.”

“So?”

“He was married for twelve years, has been divorced for fourteen. And he just hasn't met the right woman to make him want to marry again. How do you like that?”

“I don't,” Bix said, looking cool. After knowing her for a week, he already felt protective of her. She needed it, more than anyone he knew. And he wanted to do that for her. She was a babe in the woods. And by all rights she should still have been happily married in Greenwich, but she wasn't. Thanks to Peter. Who had Rachel. Now Bix wanted her to have someone too.

“He has one son, and two granddaughters and another one on the way. He lived in Buenos Aires for two years. And he flies his own plane. Oh, and his wife had an affair with his best friend while they were married, and ran off with him, hence the divorce. And that was about it.”

“Very good.” Bix smiled at her. “Did you take notes, or did you remember all that?”

“I recorded it on a device in my shoe,” she said, grinning. “So what do you think? My shrink says it doesn't matter if he's a shit, he could introduce me to his friends.”

“Who are probably shits too. Professional daters stick together. They hate married couples, they think

they're bourgeois and dumb.”

“Oh. So? Is he? A professional dater, I mean.”

“Maybe. Be careful. Did he ask you out again?”

“He suggested dinner later this week. I said I had to work.”

“Do you like him?”

“Sort of. He's interesting and intelligent, and very sophisticated. I just don't know if he's nice.”

“Neither do I, that's what you have to watch. Give him a chance, but a very small one. Protect yourself, Paris. That's what counts.”

“This is a lot of work.”

“But it's worth it. Unless you want to be a nun.”

“I'll give it some thought.”

“The habits are ugly these days, remember that. No more Audrey Hepburn and Ingrid Bergman in flowing robes. They're short and polyester, and the hairdos suck.” She laughed, shook her head, and went back to her desk. And later that afternoon Chandler sent her flowers. Two dozen red roses, with a note. “Thanks for taking the time off from work. I had a great lunch. See you soon. CF.” Bixby looked at the flowers and read the note and shook his head.

“He's a pro. Nice roses though.” Bixby was tough on her behalf. She sent Chandler a thank-you note and forgot about him. For the rest of the week, in anticipation of Valentine's Day, they were swamped. Every client they had wanted to send someone something creative, even if it was their mother, or their sister in Des Moines. And the romantic ones were the worst. He had to come up with some stroke of genius for each one of them, but he always did. And they still had two parties to work on.

On Thursday Chandler called again. And asked her for dinner on Saturday night.

“I'm sorry, Chandler, I can't. I have to work.”

“Do you know what day that is?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes, I do. Valentine's Day. But I still have to work.” If she hadn't been in this business now, she would have been trying to forget. She was glad she'd be working. She and Peter always went out to dinner, and had the year before, although he'd been seeing Rachel, she knew now. She wondered how he'd handled that. However he had at the time, he had taken care of it permanently in May. This year he'd be with Rachel.

“What time will you finish work?”

“Late. Probably around eleven.” She was working a small dinner, and according to the house rule, could leave when the guests sat down. She was giving herself leeway when she said eleven. And trying to discourage him.

“I can wait until then. How about midnight supper with me?”

She hesitated a long beat, not sure what she was doing. She did not want to date. But she was talking about it to him as though she might. She didn't know what to do. He was backing her into it. And she was allowing it to happen. But there was something about him that was very appealing.

“I don't know, Chandler,” she said honestly. “I don't think I'm ready for that. Valentine's Day is a big deal.”

“We'll make it a small one. I understand. I've been there too.”

“Why me?” she asked plaintively, and he sounded very gentle when he answered.

“Because I think you're terrific. I haven't met anyone like you in fourteen years.” It was a heavy statement, and what's worse, he sounded as though he meant it. She had no idea what to say.