The Matchmaker (17 page)

R
iley had called with a favor.

Celerie had asked Riley to go with her to the fireworks at Jetties Beach. She had asked him in the office, with both Dabney and Nina listening, and thus he hadn’t been able to make up an excuse to turn her down. He couldn’t lie in front of Dabney and Nina.

Riley said to Agnes, “Listen, I need you to come with us. Please.”

“No,” Agnes said. “No way. The other night, I think you got the wrong idea…”

“I know you’re engaged,” Riley said. “It didn’t sink in before because you don’t wear a ring, and then your mother told me your fiancé canceled on the weekend…”

“My mother told you that? Of course she did.”

“But let’s be friends,” Riley said. “Buddies, pals, okay? That’s allowed, right?”

“That’s allowed,” Agnes said, although this wasn’t true. CJ was the most jealous man alive. Agnes had noticed this on their third date. They were having dinner at Peter Luger, and Agnes had bantered with their waiter. The next thing she knew, CJ was up out of his chair, asking the maître d’ to move them to another section of the restaurant.

Then there was the incident with Wilder from work. Wilder was the outreach coordinator at the Boys & Girls Club, and from time to time he and Agnes would go for a beer at the Dubliner. Once, CJ showed up at the Dubliner unannounced, with one of his clients in tow—a linebacker for the Washington Redskins—at the exact moment that Wilder was tugging on the ends of Agnes’s hair, in an imitation of Vladimir, the most annoying child at the club. When Wilder explained to CJ and the linebacker—a man who was the size of a tree and covered in tattoos—why he was pulling Agnes’s hair, CJ had laughed maniacally and asked him to do it again.
We want to see you do it again, don’t we, Morris?
Morris had grunted.
Go ahead,
CJ said,
pull my girl’s hair again.
Wilder had excused himself for the men’s room, then left the bar. The next day, CJ had taken Agnes to Bumble + Bumble, and he sat and watched as Agnes donated thirteen inches of her thick brown hair to Locks of Love.

Many things about this memory disturbed Agnes. She had never asked CJ how he knew she was at the Dubliner in the first place.

Agnes thought she would most likely never have a good male friend again, so she might as well enjoy Riley’s companionship this summer. Besides, she didn’t have any plans for the Fourth. Her parents were going out.

Agnes packed a picnic for three, following Dabney’s suggested menu and recipes: hero sandwiches, dilled potato salad, cherry tomatoes stuffed with guacamole, blueberries and raspberries with vanilla-bean custard. Beer, a bottle of champagne, cheese straws, spicy nuts.

So far this summer, Agnes had gained five pounds.

Riley brought his guitar. Celerie was in charge of blankets, trash bag, plastic cups, bottle opener, all paper products, and sparklers.

It wasn’t as bad as Agnes had expected. She had been certain it would be awkward—Celerie wanted a date with Riley and Riley wanted a date with Agnes. For this reason, Agnes had worn her engagement ring. The diamond was too big to be ignored. Celerie noticed it immediately, and Agnes sensed not only her relief—Agnes wasn’t a threat if she was engaged—but her enthusiasm.

“Your mother didn’t tell me you were getting
married!
” Celerie said, in her most upbeat cheerleader voice. “Will you get married on Nantucket?”

“Yes,” said Agnes. “At Saint Mary’s. Reception at the Yacht Club.”

“I want to get married on Nantucket,” Celerie said. She bobbed her head.

Celerie was all decked out in red, white, and blue. She wore red denim shorts and a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt and red flip-flops, and—this Agnes found both touching and strange—she had pushed her blond hair back with a navy grosgrain headband with white stars, the exact headband Dabney wore tonight.

Celerie had bought the two headbands so that she and Dabney might match.

Riley said nothing during this exchange. He was trying to lead them through the crowd while carrying his guitar case and the cooler with the drinks.

Celerie said, “Is your fiancé a nice guy?”

Agnes thought Celerie sounded younger than twenty-two. What kind of question was that? Of course he was a nice guy, otherwise Agnes wouldn’t be marrying him.

Agnes nodded, and they walked along.

But then it struck Agnes that
nice
wasn’t the first word that came to mind when describing CJ, and he might not have seemed
nice
even by Celerie’s midwestern standards. CJ was confident and magnetic. He knew what he wanted, he had the world on a string, he could fix any problem—or so it had seemed to Agnes. In her daily workday, which involved a lot of chaos, CJ was stability.  And life with him was exciting—the restaurants, the celebrities and professional athletes, the money, the perks, the parties. The glamour of life with CJ was intoxicating. Agnes often wondered how his ex-wife, Annabelle Pippin, had walked away from all that. It must have been like detoxing from a drug.

Agnes thought about what Manny Partida had said:
I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t tell you.

CJ would never be physical with Agnes, no more physical than asking her to cut her hair, although it was true that CJ required more maintenance than a litter of shar-pei puppies. And he liked to have his way.

They found a good place in the sand on Jetties Beach and set up camp. There were couples and families all around them—everyone happy and sunburned and hungry. Agnes took great relief at plopping down on the blanket, forming a triangle with Celerie and Riley, coolers in the middle. She opened a beer for Riley and poured champagne for herself and Celerie.

Celerie said, “We should have a cheers. Toast the birth of our nation.”

Agnes loved the girl’s earnestness. She held up her plastic cup. “Cheers!”

They all touched glasses. Celerie smiled at Riley and said, “I’m being good tonight!”

And Riley said, “Be sure to eat!”

Agnes pulled out the cheese straws and the spicy nuts, and Riley removed his guitar from its case and began strumming. Agnes gazed up at the Cliff. Her parents were up there at a party, being proper adults. Dabney wouldn’t pull any of her crazy disappearing acts now that Box was home.

Agnes fiddled with her ring. It was loose; she needed to get it sized. CJ didn’t know it was loose, because when he presented it to her, Agnes kept proclaiming how perfect it was. She should have told him it was loose, and she should have told him the diamond was too big. She could never, ever wear it and feel safe in the neighborhood where she worked. But that would, inevitably, lead to CJ’s telling her she shouldn’t be working in that neighborhood. After they were married, he wanted her to quit.

The sun was going down. Agnes drank her champagne. Riley was playing “Good Riddance,” by Green Day, and the people around them were singing.

I hope you have the time of your life.

CJ was at Yankee Stadium, watching a double header against the Angels that would end with fireworks. Agnes had been in the luxury box before, and it was fabulous. CJ would be drinking a Dirty Goose, eating sparingly off the tray of crudités (unless he was cheating, as Agnes was; she hoped he was stuffing his face with baked Brie), and schmoozing with the players’ wives and members of the Steinbrenner family.

She felt a pang of longing for him and wished for a second that she were at Yankee Stadium. But then she corrected. The Bronx with CJ was fun, but it wasn’t Nantucket.

Riley played “Only the Good Die Young,” and even more people sang along. It was turning into a regular concert. Requests came in—“Country Road” and then “Sweet Home Alabama.” Agnes closed her eyes and listened to the voices melding around her. Her feet were buried in the sand and the champagne had warmed the very center of her. She was conscious of being alive and being present: a clear night, a golden beach, good food—and now, thanks to Riley, their favorite songs, to which they knew all the words.

“‘High Hopes!’” Celerie called out.

Of course,
Agnes thought.

She wasn’t sure when she had lost the ring, but if she had to guess, it had probably fallen off while she was serving up the picnic—cutting the hero sandwich or scooping the potato salad. All Agnes knew was that as she was walking off the beach in a stream of humanity—everyone commenting on how the fireworks this year had been better than ever—she noticed the ring was no longer on her finger. At that instant it felt like her heart thudded down between her feet. She stopped in her tracks; the people behind her were not pleased.

“Oh, God,” she said.

“What?” Riley said. He was ambling alongside her while Celerie forged ahead. Dealing with crowds was a particular skill of hers, as she had spent a good part of her college years negotiating the Humphrey Metrodome.

My ring,
Agnes mouthed. She literally couldn’t bring herself to say the words. They were too awful. She tried to blink herself back five or six hours to the moment when she decided that wearing the ring was a good idea. No, it had
not
been a good idea. She should have left it at home, in its box on her dresser.

“Your ring?” Riley said.

“It’s gone,” Agnes said.

Celerie was lost to them up ahead when Agnes and Riley decided to go back to where they had been sitting to try to find the ring. It was dark, and the sand was cold and littered with trash. Agnes eyed the wide swath of Jetties Beach. Who could say for sure which six square feet they had occupied? With all the people walking past, the ring would be buried.

Agnes felt nauseated. It was gone.

She stopped walking. Even though the cooler and picnic basket were lighter now, her arms ached.

“Riley,” she said, “let’s just go. We’re never going to find it.”

He had such a despondent look on his face, Agnes would have thought the ring had been given to him by his fiancée who was a fancy New York sports agent.

“We have to look,” he said. “We have to try.”

Agnes agreed, though she thought it was pointless. They did have to try. The ring was expensive, and beyond that, it was invaluable. It could be replaced, she supposed, in that she could buy another three-carat Tiffany diamond in a platinum setting, but it wouldn’t be the same ring, and CJ would know.

This was awful. Agnes could barely breathe. Riley stood above her, shining the light of his cell phone on the sand.

He said, “Celerie is calling. Should I see if she wants to help us?”

Agnes picked up handful after handful of sand, visualizing the ring. Celerie would bring a certain energy to the search, but right now, Agnes wasn’t sure she could handle another person’s well-intentioned concern.

“Can you just tell her we’ll meet her later?” Agnes said. Celerie had been keen on heading to the Chicken Box to meet up with her roommate. “You can go, Riley. You do not have to stay here with me. This is my fault. I am such an
idiot
!
” Agnes shouted this last word at the night sky, enormous and star-filled above them. This whole big, wide world, this beach with its infinite grains of sand, one ring—a classic diamond solitaire, the most beautiful thing she could ever have hoped to own.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Riley said. He let Celerie’s call go to voice mail.

Half a dozen times, Agnes thought to give up the search, but then as soon as she was ready to dust off and walk dejectedly home, she thought,
What if it’s in the next handful? Or the handful after that?

The party up on the Cliff was still raging, although Agnes presumed her parents had left by now. Box didn’t like to stay out past ten.

What would they say when she told them she had lost the ring?

Riley said, “We can come back early tomorrow morning with my father’s metal detector.”

This was the third time he’d suggested the morning, and the metal detector. He knew the search was fruitless.

“You can leave,” Agnes said, also for the third time.

“Agnes…”

“What?” she snapped. She flipped over onto her butt and regarded Riley, who was dutifully holding up the incandescent rectangle of his phone.

He plopped onto the sand next to her and put one of his strong, warm, dentist’s hands on her knee. “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry about the ring.”

“CJ is going to kill me,” Agnes said.

“He might be upset,” Riley said. “But I’ll point out, it’s just a
thing.
A precious, valuable thing, I know. But still only a thing.”

Agnes would never be able to summon the courage to tell CJ she’d lost it, which meant that she would have to try to replace it without his knowing. How would she ever come up with the money? She made sixty-eight thousand dollars a year at her job, and she had eleven thousand dollars in savings. She could spend her savings on another ring and pay the rest off in installments, she supposed. Or she could go to her parents for the money.
Mommy, Dad, I need twenty-five thousand dollars in order to buy a new engagement ring, and yes, I do know that’s as much as a semester’s tuition, room and board at Dartmouth, but if I don’t replace the ring to its exact specifications, CJ will break up with me.

She could never, ever ask her parents for the money. Maybe Box alone? He liked CJ a lot.

But no.

She had to find it. She wished it had been locked onto her finger, like her Cartier love bracelet.

She searched, handful after handful of sand, inch after inch of beach. She plucked out every pebble, stone, and shell.

“We can come back in the morning,” Riley said. Time number four. “With the metal detector.”

“I can’t leave,” she said. “The tide. What if the tide washes it away?”

“The tide doesn’t come up this far,” Riley said.

Agnes started to cry. The ring was gone. CJ would never forgive her. She would be placed in a category with Annabelle Pippin, a woman who had needlessly wasted his money. Manny Partida had said that CJ lost his temper with Annabelle because she had bid too high on an auction item
without his permission
—these last three words being operative. It wasn’t that CJ couldn’t afford it. It was that
he hadn’t okayed it.