The Matchmaker (16 page)

“What errands?” Agnes said.

“Wear something pretty!” Dabney said.

W
hen she got to dinner at the Boarding House, Dabney was already waiting at the usual table on the patio, but there was a third chair added, and Riley Alsopp was sitting in it.

Dabney beamed as Agnes approached. “There she is!” she said.

Riley Alsopp stood up. He was wearing a shirt and tie, khaki pants, and flip-flops. He grinned when he saw her. “Hey, Agnes!”

Agnes thought,
My mother is so obvious.

Dabney excused herself before dessert. “You two stay and enjoy,” she said. “I’m going back to the house. I’m still not feeling a hundred percent.” She dropped her napkin onto her empty plate. She had devoured her dinner. “The bill is all paid, Riley. My husband insists on a house account. He would eat here breakfast, lunch, and dinner seven days a week if he could. Anyway, stay and have an after-dinner drink, please, or another beer, whatever you want.” Dabney was busy gathering up her Bermuda bag and her cardigan, trying to beat a quick yet organic-seeming retreat so that Agnes and Riley could be alone. Agnes had seen her mother do it again and again and again.

Agnes pitched forward in her seat. As a defense against the matchmaking, Agnes had drunk too many glasses of Shiraz. “You know she’s trying to set us up, right?”

Riley exhaled in a long stream. “Right.”

“She gets an idea in her head,” Agnes said.

“Does she
see
something?” Riley said. “I mean, has she told you if she’s seen…if we’re like…pink or whatever?”

Agnes smiled at him. Pink, rosy, she and Riley Alsopp? She briefly imagined what being in a relationship with Riley would be like, and the first word that came to her mind was
easy
. Did she
want
easy? She couldn’t believe she was thinking this way. She was engaged to CJ, and just because she was angry with him did not mean she could pair off with someone else, even cute, easy Riley Alsopp. She said, “How was your date with Celerie?”

“Unequivocal disaster. She got really drunk and threw up.”

Agnes said, “Jeez, I might be next. I’ve had a lot of wine.”

Riley said, “It wasn’t her drinking or puking that was the problem. There was just a disconnect. Lack of chemistry. On my end, anyway. The problem is that I have to sit next to her all day long and I can tell she’s just waiting for me to ask her out again.”

“But you’re not going to?”

“I’m not going to.”

Agnes grabbed his hand. “Let’s follow my mother.”

“What?”

She pulled him up. “We’re going to follow my mother. She’s keeping a secret.”

Riley trailed Agnes out of the restaurant and onto the street. “What kind of secret?”

“She goes somewhere. She’s hiding something. That night, when she was supposed to be at Business After Hours…?”

“Yeah,” Riley said. “Where was she?”

“She came home at ten o’clock. She wouldn’t tell me where she’d been.”

Agnes hurried along Federal Street, then turned up Main. She saw Dabney across the street, half a block ahead of them.

“I bet you a million bucks when she gets to our house, she climbs into the Impala and drives off.”

“You think?”

“We’re going to follow her,” Agnes said. “In my Prius.”

“You drive a Prius?” Riley asked. “How do you like it?”

Agnes rolled her eyes. Everyone asked her that. “It’s fine. Great on gas.”

In Agnes’s Prius, they stalked Dabney up Main to Fair, and then up Fair to Charter. On Charter, Agnes held Riley back. They couldn’t get too close to the house.

“I bet she gets right into the car,” Agnes whispered.

Dabney did not get into the Impala. She opened the gate and entered the house through the side door. Agnes thought perhaps she’d gone to grab her keys. She waited. The light came on in Dabney’s bedroom.

Agnes suddenly became aware that she and Riley were holding hands—like, really holding hands, with their fingers entwined. Riley had warm, strong, dentist’s hands.

Riley stroked Agnes’s thumb with his thumb.

Agnes pulled her hand away. If CJ could see them right now, Agnes thought, he would have hired a hit man. She shivered, remembering what had happened with her hair. She said, “Riley, I’m engaged. To be married.”

Riley cleared his throat. “I know,” he said. And then in a softer, sadder voice: “I’m sorry.”

The light in Dabney’s bedroom went out. Agnes held her breath, certain that her mother would emerge. But she didn’t. The house and the street were quiet. The mystery remained unsolved.

Agnes got out of her car and walked toward the house. She felt deflated. No one in her life was cooperating. “Good night, Riley,” she said.

T
he cleaning lady for the house he was caretaking, Irene Scarpilo, gave her notice. Irene’s daughter was pregnant with twins; Irene was moving to Plymouth to be closer to her.

“I need a new cleaning lady,” Clen said to Dabney.

“Consider it done,” Dabney said.

Clen squeezed her. They were sitting side by side on the first point of Coatue. They had driven out in the economist’s beat-up Wagoneer. They were eating lobster rolls that Dabney had prepared. The sandwiches were delicious and the day was sparkling, but they were both in a somber mood. The economist was returning that evening.

“What are you doing for the Fourth?” Dabney asked.

“I have a party,” Clen said.

“Really?” Dabney said. She sounded surprised—and for good reason. Clen hadn’t been anywhere or seen anyone but Dabney since he’d been back.

Elizabeth Jennings had invited Clen to her annual bash on the Cliff. Elizabeth and her husband, Mingus, had been in Vietnam with Clen for a half-dozen years or so before Mingus died. Mingus had been the
Washington Post
bureau chief, and Elizabeth had been the consummate ex-pat wife. She had gone along for every adventure, and had thrown parties for homesick Americans at their flat in the French Quarter of Hanoi. Clen had shared Thanksgiving with the Jenningses for a number of years. Somehow, Elizabeth had always gotten her hands on a turkey. Now, Elizabeth was back in the States, living in Georgetown, and on Nantucket in the summer.

“Whose party?” Dabney asked.

 Clen thought she sounded jealous.

“Elizabeth Jennings? She lives on the Cliff?”

“Oh my God,” Dabney said.

“You’re going.”

“We’re going. Elizabeth is a board member of the Chamber, and we’ve gone to her party for the past three years. Box is coming home from Washington especially for it.”

How Clen loathed the use of the pronoun
we
when it pertained to Dabney and the economist.

“How do you know Elizabeth?” Dabney asked.

“I knew her husband overseas.” Clen paused, thinking it was probably best to tread lightly. “Mingus and I worked together in Saigon first, and then Hanoi. He was my partner in crime.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Dabney said.

“Did you ever know Mingus?” Clen asked.

“No. I’ve only known Elizabeth a few years, since she bought the house. She set out to meet everyone who was anyone on Nantucket. She’s a bit of a social climber, I think.”

“Oh,” Clen said. He had always been fond of Elizabeth. Clen and Mi Linh and Elizabeth and Mingus had vacationed together in Hoi An, among the three-hundred-year-old Chinese buildings carved from teak, with a thousand colored paper lanterns strung across the cobblestoned streets. They used to take café au lait on the terrace at the Cargo Club, and sometimes leisurely boat rides down the river in the evenings. Hoi An was a magical place. Elizabeth would photograph the Vietnamese children and then give out pencils and candy and bubble gum.
Keeping the Vietnamese dentists in business,
Mingus used to say. It was hard for Clen to reconcile the woman he had known in Vietnam to the woman who now hosted parties at her summer house on Cliff Road. It was like she had an Eastern and a Western persona. He supposed the same was true of him.

“If you and the economist are going,” Clen said, “then I should probably stay home.”

“Don’t be silly,” Dabney said.

“I’m not being silly,” Clen said. “We can’t all go.”

Dabney did not refute this.

But when the afternoon of the Fourth rolled around, Clen decided he would go to the party after all. He had gotten used to seeing Dabney every day, but he hadn’t seen her the day before and he wouldn’t see her the day after, or the day after that. Maybe Sunday, she’d said, if she could get away.

He was going to Elizabeth Jennings’s house because he missed Dabney and wanted to put his eyes on her.

He wore his blue seersucker suit, which he’d had custom-tailored in Hanoi in the months after he’d won the Pulitzer. One sleeve of the jacket hung limp as an air sock on a still day. Clen didn’t like parties because some drunk was always sure to ask about his arm.

Khmer Rouge,
he would say.
Machete.

The drunk’s eyes would pop.
Really?

Yeah. Boring story.

The party started in the front yard, where everyone lined up to be photographed on the front porch by Elizabeth. She no longer used the old Leica she’d had in Vietnam; now, it was something fancy and digital.

The last thing in the world he wanted was to have his picture taken. He looked to the left and the right, wondering if he could skirt Elizabeth and her camera and enter the house from the side door. He wanted to get to the bar. Elizabeth, being a Washington hostess and the wife of a prominent journalist, would have good scotch.

Clen looked up in time to see Dabney and the economist smile for Elizabeth’s camera. Clen felt a wave of some nasty emotional cocktail—jealousy, anger, sorrow, longing. There they were together, a couple. Dabney was wearing a red silk halter dress that wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen her in. She had on red high heels. The dress and shoes were pretty and stylish, but she didn’t look like Dabney. She was, however, wearing pearls, and a navy headband with white stars, and she was carrying her Bermuda bag. The economist looked old—the white hair, the glasses, the double-breasted navy blazer as though he were the commodore of the Yacht Club (
Was he the commodore?
Clen wondered), the look of smug superiority because he had just spent the last week behind closed doors with the president and the Treasury secretary.

You’re going to tell him, right?
Clen had asked.

Yes,
she had said
. Once he gets back. Once he gets back and settled in. I’m going to tell him. I have to tell him.

After the photo was taken, the economist held the door open for Dabney, and she disappeared inside.

Clen thought to go home, but he couldn’t leave her.

H
e was impossible to miss—big, tall, bearded fellow with only one arm. Elizabeth Jennings had been leading him around all night, showing him off, the Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, Clendenin Hughes. They had known each other in Vietnam, Elizabeth trilled.
Can you imagine?
Then she went on to hit the Clendenin Hughes highlights: the series about the Khmer Rouge, the tyranny in Myanmar, the best coverage of the caning of Michael Fay, the Thaksin debacle in Bangkok.

Box turned away. Elizabeth Jennings had no idea that Hughes had impregnated Dabney. If she had known this, she would never have invited all three of them to this party.

Dabney was talking to the Massachusetts congressman (D) by the raw bar. The guy was a windbag, but he had worked with Dabney on keeping chain retailers off Nantucket, and she was forever indebted, and thus had to listen to him detail his woes with the Steamship Authority. Box tried to swoop in to rescue her, in the process helping himself to a few oysters. Good food and better wine here at Elizabeth’s. And a glorious view across Nantucket Sound. It was a clear night, ideal for the fireworks. The secretary had tried to get Box to stay in D.C. and attend the celebration on the Mall, but Box found that he was happy to be on Nantucket.

He gave up on Dabney. He feared she might do the sorority bump-and-roll—hand Box over to the tedious congressman and disappear into the crowd.

Box fixed himself a plate of fried chicken and ribs and coleslaw and corn salad and then wandered into the living room. Cocktail parties weren’t really his thing anymore; they were too much work. People who knew who he was approached him with an agenda, and people who didn’t know who he was tended to bore him. Dabney thought him a terrible snob, but he was sixty-two years old and had, quite frankly, earned the right.

He had tried to get Agnes to come to the party; the evening would have been far superior with her there, besides which he had barely seen her since he’d been back. But she had been headed to Jetties Beach to watch the fireworks with some fellow who worked for Dabney at the Chamber. Box wondered aloud if this was a date—Agnes seemed to be going to a lot of trouble making a picnic—and he also wondered what had happened to CJ. Agnes said, “No, Daddy, not a date, we’re just friends, and Celerie is coming, too. I’m actually kind of chaperoning. It’s a long story.”

Box didn’t like long stories, especially not those related to scheming romance. That was Dabney’s territory.

CJ, Agnes said, was spending the holiday in a luxury box at Yankee Stadium. He had wanted Agnes to come down to the city, but Agnes had work the next day, so that wasn’t really practical, and Box agreed.

“Have fun,” he said. And Agnes gave him an extra-long hug and said, “Mom and I are so glad you’re home. We missed you so much.”

Box wondered about this.

He was sipping a very nice Louis Jadot Chardonnay when Clendenin Hughes walked into the room with a full tumbler of scotch. Hughes saw Box and stopped short. He executed a half turn, as if to leave the room. Box couldn’t blame him, but he didn’t want to let Hughes escape. This was too rich an opportunity.

“Excuse me!” Box called out. He stood. “Mr. Hughes?”

Despite his size—he had at least six inches on Box—Hughes looked very young at that moment. Young and vulnerable, and of course he had only the one arm. Box reminded himself to proceed civilly.

“Professor,” Hughes said. At least he wasn’t pretending not to know who Box was.

“Call me Box,” Box said. “Please.” He reached out to shake hands, but Hughes was holding his drink, so Box awkwardly retracted his hand.

Hughes said, “Nice party.”

“Yes, Elizabeth always does a beautiful job,” Box said. “Do you know her well?”

“I do, actually. Her husband and I worked together in Asia for six years. I think I can claim to be the only man at this party who has seen Elizabeth ride an elephant.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that,” Box said. “And you, you’re back on the island permanently? Staying here?”

“Permanence is hard to commit to,” Hughes said. “But this is home. I grew up here.”

“Yes,” Box said. “Of course, that’s right.”

Hughes rattled the ice in his glass. “And how do you know Elizabeth? From Washington?”

“No,” Box said. “From here on island. I live here half the year, and the other half in Cambridge. I still teach a full course load at Harvard.”

“I’m aware,” Hughes said.

“You’ve done your investigative work, then,” Box said. “You’re a newspaperman, so I can hardly be surprised.”

“I don’t wield nearly the influence that you do,” Hughes said. “Behind closed doors with the President of the United States? I could only dream of that.”

Box stared at Hughes. “You heard I was with the president? You…spoke to Dabney, then?”

Hughes rattled his ice again. It was a tell; he was nervous. “Yes,” he said. “I bumped into Dabney on Main Street and she filled me in.” Somehow his drink had disappeared. “Well, anyway, I should get some food before the Glenfiddich hits bottom. Good to see you…”

“Wait,” Box said. “You bumped into Dabney on Main Street? She didn’t mention that to me.”

“It was no big deal,” Hughes said. “A casual run-in on the street.”

“You and Dabney used to be quite close,” Box said.

“Yes, quite,” Hughes said. “I’m sorry if that bothers you. Everyone has a past.”

Box didn’t know what to do with the rage that was consuming him. It was
jealousy,
he realized. He was insanely, criminally jealous of this man in front of him, the man who had broken Dabney’s heart and then absconded with the fragments. Box and Dabney had been married twenty-four years and those years had been good ones for both of them. They had raised a daughter, created a lovely home, and pursued fruitful careers. Dabney had given Box her genuine smile and her keen intellect and her sweet disposition and her warm body—but he had never had her heart.

Because this man had it.

Box gritted his teeth, and reminded himself to
proceed civilly
. “I understand chance meetings on the street,” he said. “But I would appreciate it if, from now on, you would give my wife a wide berth. It can’t be easy for her to have you back on this island.”

Hughes said, “I’m sorry, I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“No,
I’m
sorry,” Box said. “It
is
my business. Dabney is my wife.”

Hughes set his glass down on a side console that was probably an antique and should not be seeing a wet glass without a coaster. Box was considerate this way, but Mr. Hughes, of course, was not. Mr. Hughes was a boor and a philistine and didn’t know the first rule for caring for fine things.

Hughes said, “I realize you are currently married to Dabney, Professor. But that doesn’t give you the right to comment on my relationship with her.”

“You caused her a great deal of pain,” Box said.

“What do you know about it?” Hughes asked. “Were you
here
when it happened? No, you were not. You aren’t qualified to speak on the subject of my shared past with her, sir.”

The “sir” hit Box sideways, spoken as it was with such contempt. “I raised your daughter.”

Hughes pressed his lips together but said nothing. Box took a step closer, his fists clenched.

“I drove her to ballet class, I took pictures of her before the prom, I paid for her college education.”

Hughes nodded. “Yes. Yes, you did.”

But Box wanted more than just an acknowledgment of the fact. He wanted a thank-you, or a grand apology, preferably both and preferably with some fucking humility. Box couldn’t remember ever being this angry before. What reason would he ever have had—an irreverent student? A frustrating department meeting? “She is mine,” Box said. “And Dabney is mine.”

“You sound pretty sure about that,” Hughes said.

Before Box knew what he was doing, he rushed Hughes and swung at him, meaning to hit him in the jaw but instead catching him under the clavicle. The punch hurt Box’s fist and it threw Hughes off balance. Hughes fell into the side console, toppling a lamp and knocking his glass to the floor, where it shattered.

“Really?” Hughes said. He rubbed the spot where Box’s punch had landed. “You want to fight? I will
kill
you, and I will do it with one arm.”

Box took a stutter step back. He had no doubt that Hughes
could
beat him bloody and blind with only one arm. He had started something he couldn’t finish—a fistfight in Elizabeth Jennings’s living room.

“Please,” he said, raising both his palms. “I’m sorry.”

“You hit me,” Hughes said. “And now you’re sorry.”

“Clen!” Dabney wobbled into the room, unsteady on her heels. “What are you
doing
?
” Then she saw Box. “Honey?” She looked rapidly between them. “What are you two doing?” She bent over to pick up pieces of broken glass off the floor.

Box, with a similar instinct for propriety, righted the lamp. He said, “Darling, let me do that. You’ll cut yourself.”

Hughes said, “Your husband punched me.”

“Clen,” she said.

“He punched me, Cupe. He started it.”

Dabney looked at Hughes with the shards of glass in her upturned palm. “Go enjoy the party,” she said. “Please. We’ll get this.”

“Dabney.”

“We’ll
get
this,” she said. “Go.”

“I’m going home,” Hughes said.

Box was struck by the way the two of them spoke to each other. He was no expert on love or romance; he didn’t claim to have any special emotional insight. But he could tell just from hearing that brief exchange that they shared an intimacy. It sounded like they talked every day.

“No,” Box said. “I’ll go.”