The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay (29 page)

In the morning I head down to breakfast and find Colleen and Jenny there with four cross-country skiers and a huge breakfast of dried cherry and walnut pancakes with perfectly crispy maple sausages. The seven of us cram around the table and participate politely in a few discussions over the speed of the snow (fast) and the grooming of the trails (expert) and the nip in the morning air (which is minus two degrees Fahrenheit and more of a Rottweiler bite than a nip). Then I announce to the table, “I'm think I'm breaking up with Mitchell.”

“Oh, praise the lord,” says Jenny. “Finally. We were starting to think you had brain damage.”

“Who is Mitchell?” asks one of the skiers politely. He is a burly man with a little potbelly and an impressive winter beard.

“He's my boyfriend back in Chicago,” I tell him. “And my art gallerist. But I think he might be taking advantage of me a little. Or at the very least, he's an opportunist.”

“I don't like him,” Jenny supplements.

“She's never met him,” I tell the skiers.

“I don't like him either,” says Colleen.

“Also never met him.”

“I have a good sense about people,” Colleen says with finality. “By the by, did you all sleep well last night? Anything I can bring up to your rooms while you're on the trails today?”

“Do you have any decaf green tea?” asks a woman, the only one with the skiers. She's the wife of Mr. Beard, and she looks crazily fit and obsessively preserved. “The regular stuff makes me a bit jumpy but I can't survive without my polyphenols.”

“I do,” says Colleen, as though the words she just heard were not ridiculous. “I'll bring up some loose-leaf tea and an infuser so you can pour yourself a nice hot cup whenever you get back in.”

“Oh
thank
you,” says Mrs. Beard. “So this Mitchell guy, he's in Chicago?”

“Uh huh,” I tell her, still wondering what polyphenols are.

“So then, you're driving back to break it off today?”

I pause, momentarily stumped. “Well, I hadn't planned on it,” I admit. “Actually I hadn't really thought that far. I don't suppose doing it over the phone would be appropriate.”

“You could send a text,” says Jenny helpfully, mouth full of pancake. “Maybe we could make a GIF of you waving bye-bye?”

“How long were you dating him?” asks Mr. Beard's older brother, a much smaller, much less hairy fellow who is here with his husband Don.

“Ah, um … two years, I guess?”

Don sets down his silverware with a clatter. “I think you better dump him in person.”

“Trust me,” says Jenny. “A text is all he deserves.”

“It's bad karma to dump anyone in a text,” says Mrs. Beard.

“I agree,” says Brother Beard.

“Forget karma,” says Don. “It's bad business. He's basically your meal ticket, right? You need to be there to mitigate the damage.”

“You're right,” I say sadly. “But I can't go down there today.”

“Sure you can,” says Jenny around a mouthful of sausage. “You can take my car.”

“Oh, ho! Now that I want to break up with Mitchell, suddenly you're rushing me back to Chicago?”

She smiles wickedly and waggles her eyebrows. “Pretty much.”

“The problem is, I promised to work with Simone tomorrow, so she can get her art school applications in by next week.”

“Art school?” exclaims Colleen excitedly. “That's incredible!”

“Right?” says Jenny.

I pause in my thoughts. “I thought you guys knew she wanted to be an artist.”

“Oh, yes. But we never thought she would actually try. There's so much pressure on her to go into the family business, but I'm afraid she'll never be happy if she doesn't see what else is out there.” Colleen beams at me. “You have no idea what you've done for her, by encouraging her to try this out.”

I shrug sheepishly. “I hope her parents don't hate me.”

“They're loving parents. They only want her to be happy. They just don't know what will bring her happiness.”

Funny, I think. That's almost exactly what my mother said to me when I told her I was applying to art school. My heart gives a pull and I remember what Colleen and I talked about a couple nights ago. About her plans for adoption.

“So go to Chicago on Monday,” says Mrs. Beard, dragging my focus back to Mitchell. Unpleasantly.

“Monday I am going to an, uh, appointment with a friend here in town.”

“There's not much point in trying to be discreet anymore,” says Colleen with an eye roll. “The cat's out of the bag. She's coming with me to the adoption lawyer.”

“Oooh!” says Brother Beard. “Good for you! Matt here is adopted. And he turned out great!”

Matt, aka Mr. Beard, nods. “That's why I'm the brains of the family.”

“And I'm the brawn,” says Brother Beard. They both share a laugh. I find them cute. Just two brothers and their partners, going skiing together and eating lots of pancakes. Bros for life.

“You'll make a wonderful mother,” says Don. “And really change a life forever.”

“I hope so,” says Colleen, and she is beaming.

“I had no idea you were even married,” says Mrs. Beard.

“Well, that's because I'm not,” Colleen replies casually.

“Oh!” says Mrs. Beard. You can see her brain is melting a bit at this, but she doesn't elaborate.

“That's what I said,” says Jenny. “I said, ‘Oh! What a terrible idea!'”

Colleen rolls her eyes again. “And I ignored you. Again and again.”

“Well, I can see her point,” says Mrs. Beard. “My sister has kids. It does seem like a lot of work. And she's got a husband to help out.”

I think of a bunch of snarky things to say to that. “How lucky for her,” to start, and “Your sister has kids? I guess you're an authority!” and so forth. Jenny seems similarily inspired based on the light flush coming up on her cheeks, but Colleen puts a hand up. “The thing my friends tell me about having children is that it is insanely hard and there is no way to prepare for it. I'm going to need all the help I can get. But wonderful children are raised by single mothers every day, so I'm encouraged and optimistic. Does anyone need more coffee?”

“She's very diplomatic,” I tell Jenny sotto voce as Colleen rises for the kitchen.

Mrs. Beard nods. “Well, she convinced me.”

Brother Beard nods too. “Maybe we should adopt, honey,” he says to Don with a little playful smile.

“Do you know how many impromptu ski trips new parents get to take every year?” Don asks. “Zero. Zero impromptu ski trips.”

“Never mind, then,” says Brother Beard jovially, and then he turns back to me. “So the boyfriend. Can it wait?”

“No!” says Jenny. “It's kind of urgent. There's something she needs to do once she's single.”

“Something?” asks Don. “Or someone?”

“Exactly,” says Jenny. “And you should see this guy. Six foot something, prime physical specimen—”

“It can wait,” I say before things take an un-breakfastly turn. “Certainly it can wait until Tuesday. I've been gone for almost three weeks now without more than a couple of phone calls between us, so I don't think it will come as much of a shock.”

“You never know,” says Don. “Some people don't notice the world changing around them, you know? They don't see other people moving on, moving away…”

Colleen comes back in then with a fresh carafe of coffee and says gently, “I think she knows.”

I nod. “Yep.” I
am
that person.

“Go easy on him,” says Brother Beard. “People like that deserve our sympathy.”

Colleen refreshes my cup as she says, “And our kindness.”

I smile gratefully. Kindness is in no short supply here in Minnow Bay. It will not be easy to go home.

 

Eighteen

 

I have never been to a town so small it didn't have at least one lawyer's office, and Minnow Bay is no exception. In a converted Victorian with a shingle—an actual shingle—hanging from one of the pillars of the porch, works June Jorgens, Family Law. Colleen tells me she handled Jenny's divorce, which gives me a double take, and also that she does the wills of everyone in town, and beyond that, she also serves as an assistant county attorney for the sheriff's office.

“And she also breeds layers.”

“Excuse me?” I ask as we pull open the front door.

“Hens. Laying hens.”

“Your lawyer raises chickens?”

“Just the hens, and just until they're ready to lay. Then she sells them.”

“What about the boys? I mean, the roosters. Does she sell them too?”

“The roosters go out to, ah, the farm.”

“A farm near here?”

“No, the euphemistic farm.”

“Oh. Right. I see,” I say. But I am thinking,
This is the person you chose to be your adoption lawyer?

This question persists when June Jorgens's secretary ushers us into the “conference room,” which, based on the built-in china hutches in two corners, was once a dining room. The table is a pretty rectangle with rounded corners, and the chairs are ornate carved things with velvet seats. The room is nice enough but really warm, and the lighting is weird. I take off my wool sweater and think to put it on top of a serving hutch behind me, but just in time I realize what the weird lighting actually is.

Incubators. Chicken incubators.

“This is what I get for letting Rosemary and Cinnamon come inside during the winter,” says a small, round-shaped woman in a cranberry colored sweater dress as she bustles into the room. “June Jorgens.” She extends a hand to me. “You must be Lily Stewart?”

“I am,” I say, pivoting to shake her hand. “Rosemary and Cinnamon are chickens, I gather?”

“And best friends.” June squeezes past me to the window, which is covered in white lace, and pushes the curtain aside. “Cinnamon is the red one,” she gestures to a proud ruddy bird pecking in the snow. “Rosemary is my best breeder; she's probably having a sit down in the coop. I thought I'd see what happened to her egg production if she got to sleep inside and then Cinnamon had a fit of jealousy so I brought her in too. And then they both got their seasons screwy, messed about with the rooster, and now I've got a head start on this year's chicks. Wanna hold one?” she asks with a smile. “They're in those hutches behind you.”

“I do, very much. Is that inappropriate? I am not sure about chicken manners in a professional setting.”

“I'm afraid I've never been much for professional settings myself. Cuddle away, but first you need clean hands. Go wash up, and I'll get some starting details from Colleen.”

June points me toward the hall and, as I make my way through to a tiny bathroom with a cut glass doorknob, I hear her asking Colleen how the hell is she, and what, is she crazy trying to adopt by herself? It all sounds very good-natured, almost motherly, though June is probably younger than either of us. Despite my misgivings, I find I like her and her henhouse of law.

When I come back scrubbed from fingertip to elbow, June is in the midst of a detailed conversation with Colleen about adopting countries. The pros and cons of each. June may be a jack of all trades but she sure does know her stuff, I think, as I listen to her rattle off nuanced details about various nations and their intricate adoption policies. My head feels a little swimmy from this, but Colleen is taking notes and nodding actively. June interrupts herself when she sees me hovering awkwardly by the incubator, telling me, “Just be gentle, Lily, cup your hands, that's right,” and watches carefully as I scoop up a powder-soft little yellow peeper, who sort of half pecks and half nestles into my hands. The chick is easy to hold and I keep her cupped in my hands as I sit down next to Colleen and try to be helpful.

“Ultimately,” June is saying, “no one but you can make these decisions. Your timeline, your, ah, ability to interact in the home country, the budget—this is what steers the choice. And you have to protect yourself and heed the recommendations of the state department.”

“This all sounds really intimidating,” says Colleen.

June shrugs. “Foreign adoptions are commonplace and beautiful, Colleen. Your life will be changed for the good forever.” Colleen sighs in anticipation. June presses on. “Things rarely get hairy. But when they do, they get very, very hairy. That's why you need both agencies and lawyers.”

She leans back, crosses her legs. “And I'm sure you know these things are tricky to initiate. There are many, many hoops you'll need to jump through, and a shocking number of palms you may need to grease. There are residence rules that mean you may have to relocate for weeks or months to the home country. This is a big endeavor that will have to be your number-one priority for months or possibly years.”

“Whoa,” I say, a little overwhelmed myself.

“But it's worth it,” says Colleen, and she looks a little choked up at just the thought. “When you bring the baby home?”

June nods. “My old law partner, the one I bought the firm from before he retired?” Colleen nods. “He told me many lovely stories of adoptions completed. To see the kids grow up, happy, healthy, loved, and at home in Minnow Bay, is a wonderful thing indeed. In-country, international, he told me it was his absolute favorite kind of client. And I can see that now, even though I've only done a handful. The day the parents find out there's a child for them … it's the happiest day of their lives.” I think of the pinks and yellows of such a moment, such a discovery. Like waking up thinking you'd slept past the sunrise, only to throw open the curtains and see it has only just begun.

“There's an infertility blogger I read sometimes,” Colleen says. “She went through everything I've done and much more. Then she decided to adopt from Haiti, and it was so incredibly successful, she adopted three more times.”