The Matchmaker Meets Her Match (10 page)

“I’m glad you told me to start dancing,” Julia said. “That really made a difference. Things are a lot more satisfying now.”

“That’s wonderful,” Rilka said, and meant it.

“Hey, I wanted to tell you I have a recital next Friday. Since you’re the one who encouraged me to take lessons, I thought it’d be nice if you could be there. If not, I understand.”

Rilka heard the tentative note in her voice and said, “I’ll be there. Just say when and where.”

After Julia gave her the details and they’d hung up, Rilka debated about taking Julia’s name out of the active file. Did Julia really want to give up? What if her perfect match walked in the door today?

Good God, I’m starting to sound like Gran.
She’d better take Julia at her word. If Julia changed her mind, it was easy enough to put her back in the active file.

• • •

“I’m glad that you’re still interested in dating and that you haven’t let your, err, recent experiences embitter you,” Rilka said. Mostly she was surprised Hilda was willing to make a check out to her in payment of her efforts. But she had the check sitting right in front of her. Exhibit A in the case proving that Rilka didn’t know what the hell was going on.

Hilda nodded sharply and blew on the tea. “I never let setbacks discourage me.”

“Very wise,” Rilka said, glancing at the clock. The day would be over soon. The day could not be over soon enough. But once it was over, then she could take a long bath and try to forget everything. What she wanted was to fix dinner and have a conversation with someone that didn’t have anything to do with dating, romance, or true love. Not Marilyn; she was working. Maybe Jeremy. Of course, he might want to talk about getting laid, but she could deal with that. Getting laid didn’t have anything to do with dating, romance, or true love. She made a mental note to call him and see if he was free.

“So?” Hilda prompted, sipping tea. How many countless times had Hilda sat at her kitchen table waiting for the next thing?

“Sorry,” Rilka said. “I’m a little distracted this afternoon. I’ve been thinking about your next match but — ”
But every man I’ve sent your way has been wrong
. She’d long ago decided that Hilda didn’t want to be in a relationship at all, despite her protestations to the contrary. At least Rilka admitted she didn’t want to be in a relationship.
Unless it’s the right one.
Great, she was undecided.
I want a relationship. No I don’t
. It was going to be exhausting. “Hilda, I’m sorry, but I feel I’m missing an important piece.”

“We’ve talked about this quite extensively,” Hilda said, pushing the cup of tea away in annoyance. “I thought I had been very clear in my particulars.”

“There must be something we haven’t gotten at yet,” Rilka said brightly, instead of launching into her Chinese restaurant speech:
This is not a Chinese restaurant. You don’t just order one characteristic from Column A and two from Column B.
The Chinese restaurant speech always pissed off her clients and while she wanted to go on her sabbatical, pissing off her clients wasn’t how she wanted to get there. Although give her time and she might change her mind.

She took a deep breath and tried to explain the problem to Hilda. “I know you want someone charming and gentlemanly, but you haven’t liked the charming and gentlemanly men I’ve sent your way. So, maybe we’ve been too focused on behaviors that don’t really get at character. Maybe you just need to tell me who your fantasy man is. What is your life with him like?”

Immediately, she realized that she had left Hilda back at “fantasy.” The sour look on the older woman’s face showed she did not indulge in fantasies. Rilka took another deep breath and said, “Okay, let’s not talk about fantasies. Let’s talk about … your
ideal
man. And nothing abstract. Give me concrete details. Where does he work? What does he look like?”

“My ideal man?” Hilda drummed her nails on the tabletop. She eyed Rilka as if measuring how far she could trust her with a secret. Rilka gave her a reassuring smile. She seriously doubted Hilda had anything alarming in her secret heart. But of course you never knew. Rilka had spent her first year in business being shocked by what was in ordinary people’s secret hearts. So it was always possible Rilka had just made a serious mistake.

Hilda pursed her lips, then leaned forward conspiratorially and murmured, “I’ve always had a special fondness for men in uniform.”

“Men in uniform?” Rilka echoed.
That
was her secret?

“Yes.” Hilda gave a firm nod. “Like many women, I have a cop fantasy.”

It was true that every third female wanted a man in uniform. Not Rilka; she had a firm aversion to authority figures inherited from Gran, but it was the most popular fantasy going. Among women, anyway. Men wanted strippers who were faithful.

“Okay,” Rilka said. She tried to imagine getting it on with an authority figure. Other women, apparently, liked the idea of getting caught. She shivered.

“It’s … exciting to think about a man in uniform.”

Okay, Rilka didn’t want to hear anything else about Hilda’s sexual fantasies. She spoke quickly to squelch the sharing. “I just happen to have a deputy looking for a match,” she said, remembering Deputy Deane. Was it possible for him to be charming and gentlemanly? Would Hilda’s cop fantasy trump her desire for charming and gentlemanly? Only one way to find out. “Shall we give it a try?”

• • •

“I can’t help it, Reston,” Rilka said. She paced restlessly across the kitchen floor. She needed a new environment. Three months until she could go on her sabbatical. Maybe she should move to Reno. Or Tibet. “Natalia doesn’t want to go out with you again.”

“But I did everything you instructed me to,” Reston said. He sounded shocked and his voice quavered slightly. He was a disgusting old man looking for a trophy wife and he got what he deserved, and yet Rilka couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. Rejection was hard to take no matter how deeply you deserved it.

She decided to give it to him straight. “Natalia thinks you’re too young.”

“If that don’t beat all,” he said. “I don’t — wait a minute. She’s waiting for me to die?” His voice sounded incredulous.

“You’re the one who wants the trophy wife,” Rilka reminded him. “What did you think she was looking for?”

“Huh,” he said, and hung up the phone.

Another satisfied customer.

• • •

“You want some dinner?” Rilka asked. She gripped the receiver tighter. If Jeremy turned her down, she was going to — she was going to — well, it would be something desperate.

“Who is this? Rilka?”

“Yeah. I’d call my buddy Marilyn but she has to work tonight. I need to spend time with a normal person.”

“And I’m your idea of a normal person?” Jeremy asked.

“So you see how desperate I am.”

A pause and then, “Okay. When should I be there?”

“Does seven work?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Thanks for the invite. I’m taking you at your word. You say you know how to cook and I’m trusting you.”

“I know how to cook,” Rilka said.

“See you at seven then.”

• • •

“You gonna hit Henry’s tonight?” Nate asked, handing Jeremy the torque wrench he’d just requested.

“Nope,” Jeremy said, tightening the lug nuts.

“Me and Elaine and the kids are gonna get a pizza if you want to come.”

“Got plans,” he said, rolling over to the next tire.

“Hot date?” Nate asked, popping the hood on a 69 Chevy Malibu that had seen better days. Well, hadn’t everything.

“Not a date,” Jeremy said.

“Then why have you got that goofy smile on your face?”

• • •

When the doorbell rang, Rilka was just pulling the breadsticks out of the oven. She grinned and wiped her hands on the dishcloth. Everything smelled good but what struck her most forcefully was how much she was looking forward to the evening, not just the food. Eating with someone — anyone — made a nice change of pace. And as much as she was unwilling to admit it, she liked Jeremy. What did that say about her taste in men? No wonder she was such a terrible matchmaker. She went to do the door, reminding herself she didn’t need to hurry.

“Hey, there,” she said, and he said, “Hi,” and rolled into the hallway. She could tell right away that something was bothering him, but she couldn’t tell what. She shut the door and showed him into the kitchen. If she asked how his day was and he pretended nothing was wrong, that would suck because something was wrong. But she didn’t really know him well enough to be all, “Tell me what’s wrong,” especially if it was something personal, so that sucked. Maybe she should have stuck with On Demand movies and a little time to herself.

She put the breadsticks into a basket, folded a napkin over them to keep the heat in, and set the basket on the table. She got a bottle of white wine out of the fridge, then stopped, wondering if that was too much like a date. Well, if one of them got confused, the other could set him or her straight. She brought the wine over to the counter and rummaged in drawers until she found the corkscrew.

“So, tell me what’s going on,” she finally said, like she had said to every client who had come into her kitchen for the last several years.

He shoved his chair forward with short angry movements, going to the window on the far wall and staring outside, his back to her. She set the bottle down at the counter.

“Was it something I said?”

If she’d been hoping that would smooth over the emotion and get them back on their normal footing, she was disappointed.

“It’s not you. I just — ”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said hopefully. “We can — ”

“My sister-in-law brought the kids to the shop this afternoon. Stopped by after school. My nephew had been working on project for school, a family tree, that he wanted to show his dad — you know, Nate.”

“Okay,” Rilka said, having no idea where the land mines were but knowing they existed.

“With pictures.”

Rilka imagined a construction paper tree with pictures stapled to it, then remembered what century she was living in and revised that to be a Photoshopped digital collage. “Okay,” she said again.

“The picture of me was from before.”

He had his back to her and she had no idea what exactly was happening or what she should say.

“It must be frustrating,” she said, groping her way. You could treat him like everyone else but he wasn’t like everyone else. So she had to treat him like Jeremy, who was not everyone else, just as she wanted him to treat her like Rilka, who was also not everyone else. But she didn’t know him very well. Who was Jeremy, and how did you treat him?

“Is this about the injury?” she asked. She came up behind him to see what he was staring at. The brick wall of the building opposite.

“Look, I’ve accepted what happened,” he said, sounding restless and not very accepting. “I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it. And I’ve got a job I like, and people who care about me.”

Rilka thought back to what Marilyn had said: when you had to start counting your blessings, it meant your life sucked. “But?” she asked.

“But that doesn’t mean I love every minute of it. I just — it wasn’t supposed to be like this.” His voice trailed off. She saw his hands clenched into fists on his lap.

She didn’t know what to say.

“No,” she said. “I don’t suppose it was.”

That didn’t do anything for him. He kept his back to her, his fists still clenched in his lap.

“So maybe you need to give your nephew some photos of you from now.”

There was a long moment and then he said, “He has photos of me now. He has photos of me and him from now. He has all the fucking
now
photos he wants.”

And then it hit her. “So he
picked
the before photo.”

He didn’t say anything. She understood: it was trivial and it was enormous. She still didn’t know what the fuck to say. “It probably doesn’t mean he liked you better that way. It probably means he just wishes — ” Okay, that wasn’t helping. She regrouped. “See that purple vase over there? You can throw it if you want. I think it’s hideous but a client gave it to me and I feel obligated. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Jeremy gave a snort. “Throwing things is the last habit I want to acquire. Nothing would be safe.”

“You sure? It really is hideous.”

“I’m sure.”

Rilka put a tentative hand on his shoulder. After his first flinch, he accepted the touch, then covered her hand with his.

“Just tell me what you need me to do,” she said. “I’ll try not to be stupid but I make no guarantees.”

He looked over at her. “You want to open the wine or should I?”

“If you can get the cork out rather than in, which is what I usually manage, it’s all yours.”

“I can get the cork out,” he said.

She handed the bottle over and turned toward the red sauce simmering on the stove. She gave it a stir, saw the pasta water had started to boil, and dumped the gnocchi in. She heard the pop of a cork that meant Jeremy had successfully opened the bottle. She’d already set the wine glasses on the table, which was good because he wouldn’t have been able to reach them from the top shelf and that would have made her feel like a jerk, even though it really shouldn’t; she was able-boded and lived here, so why shouldn’t the wine glasses be on the top shelf? But life was weird.

“This wine is delicious,” he said.

She opened her mouth to make a sarcastic remark:
Oh, I must have accidentally gotten the good bottle out
, and then shut her mouth. It was easy to get into that bantering with Jeremy, and it kept him at arms’-length, which meant there was a reason she was keeping him at arms’-length. Which was what? He was a client, so, yeah, she wasn’t going to stick her tongue down his throat. But why was she so wary of letting him be a friend?

She drained the gnocchi, brought it and the sauce over to the table, and sat down. She took a sip of wine.

“It is good,” she said, and refrained from saying
I have excellent taste
and let him say it instead.