The Matchmaker (31 page)
Box:
There was always work. Harvard, my textbook, the secretary of the Treasury, who was now bandying my name around for Federal Reserve chairman, as the current chairman had been caught in a scandal and would most likely end up resigning. I would teach my seminar at the London School of Economics in June, and I was to be the keynote speaker at the annual Macro conference, this year held in Atlanta.
It was on a whim that I found myself in New York City. I had a former student named Edward Jin who had abandoned graduate work in economics in order to train as a chef. Apparently he was quite talented and successful; he had secured enough backing to open his own restaurant, called The Dividend, on the Bowery, and he invited me to the soft opening. It just so happened that I had nothing scheduled the weekend of this invitation, and I was partial to Manhattan in the springtime. I called Edward Jin and told him I would attend, and I booked a junior suite at the St. Regis.
The soft opening at The Dividend was an intimate affair—thirty or so friends and family and investors of Edward Jin’s gathered in the bar area, which featured wood floors salvaged from an Amish farm in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, a chandelier made from an old wagon wheel, and a lot of copper pots and candlelight and hand-muddled cocktails made from ingredients like kale and fresh ginger. This was the way with many restaurants now—farm-to-table, organic, produce and meats assiduously researched and hand-sourced. It was good and fine and noble, but I missed Dabney’s cooking.
I knew no one except Edward Jin and he was, naturally, too busy for anything but a warm hello and a single introduction—to his married sister who was a stay-at-home mother in Brooklyn. I mentioned that I had taught Edward at Harvard; she responded that the family had all been stunned when Edward was admitted to Harvard since he’d been rejected from Brown, Duke, and Dartmouth, and I laughed and said that yes, college admissions were arbitrary and capricious.
After that, we had pretty much exhausted our conversational possibilities. I panicked and wished fervently for Dabney, who used to be able to carry on a conversation with an ox or a doorstop.
I was saved, however, because at that moment, Miranda Gilbert walked in.
If I say that my heart stopped or my breath caught I would sound like the heroine in one of the English novels Dabney so loved to read. Leaping heart, snagged breath, I wasn’t sure how to describe it but something happened when I saw Miranda.
What was she doing here?
Then of course I realized that she had been Edward Jin’s TA for more than one of my courses, and I remembered that they had hit it off rather well and used to meet for beers at the Rathskeller, which I did not approve of since she was, after all, responsible for giving Edward Jin his grades.
I was initially consumed with jealousy. Were Miranda and Edward now seeing each other?
Miranda gasped when she saw me and came over right away. The lighting was low in the restaurant but I thought she looked flushed.
“Box,” she said. “My God, I had no idea you would be here.”
“Nor I you,” I said. I kissed her cheek while holding both her hands. She smelled like Miranda always smelled, like an apricot rose, or something as delicate and lovely.
She said, “I was so sorry to hear about Dabney. You got my card?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.” I had gotten many, many cards; most of them, including Miranda’s, I had left unopened because it was too difficult to read them. I put them in a larger envelope and forwarded them to Agnes.
“She was a special woman,” Miranda said. “She had a gift for love, the way other people have an eye for color.”
This was so true, it made my eyes burn, and I blinked rapidly.
“Yes,” I said. “She did. She was always right about love. It was uncanny.”
Miranda and I switched place cards at the long harvest table so that we could sit next to each other, and we spent the evening in a bubble of great food and better wine and esoteric conversation that left everyone else at the table out.
I said, “Have you seen much of Edward, since you’ve been in New York?”
“Edward?” she said, as if she didn’t know whom I was talking about.
“Our host,” I said. “The chef.”
Miranda laughed. “No,” she said. “I haven’t seen him at all before tonight. I didn’t even know he was in the city. He tracked me down on Facebook.”
I felt happy to hear this. Miranda and Edward were not together! But this didn’t mean she was available.
“Are you…dating anyone?” I asked. “Has anyone replaced the good doctor?”
She sipped her wine and nudged her glasses up her nose in a way I found bewitching.
“No,” she said.
Dabney had said Miranda Gilbert, but I hadn’t listened.
I hadn’t listened, Dabney, because I was married to you. You you you.
But I heard Dabney’s words now:
Miranda Gilbert. She loves you, Box.
Dabney was never wrong. She had the gift of love, the way some people have an eye for color.
At the end of the evening, I helped Miranda on with her coat.
I said, “Another drink?”
“I’m sorry to say I’m tuckered out, Box. And I have an early meeting tomorrow. I’m afraid I must head home.”
“No!” I cried out. Showing my hand dreadfully, I knew.
She smiled in a way that thrilled me. “Take me to dinner tomorrow night, will you? Someplace just the two of us?”
I said that I would.
And I did.
And somewhere in the atmosphere, or dare I say the heavens, the spirit of another woman was sighing in bliss at being right, once again.
T
he late spring night was mild, so Clendenin stood out on the deck of the ferry, where he could watch the lights of Nantucket recede.
He would spend the night in Boston, then fly the following day to London, and then on to Singapore. He had packed one trunk, which would precede him, and he traveled now with a large rolling suitcase, easily manipulated with one hand.
Singapore. He couldn’t believe it. He had waited so long, to no avail, it had always been just out of reach, and now it was like a golden apple that had dropped into his hand.
He had called Elizabeth Jennings to thank her, and she had said, “I had nothing to do with it. I only mentioned to Jack that I knew you. He took the ball and ran with it. You can hardly be surprised, Clen. You have a Pulitzer. Any foreign desk in the world would be lucky to have you.”
Gracious of her to say. He doubted it was true, but he wasn’t going to argue.
Singapore was his perfect match.
He recalled a similar ferry ride, over a quarter century earlier. A young man, twenty-three years old, with two healthy, strong arms, a sense of adventure, and a big dream, was heading out to conquer the world.
He had waved madly at Dabney and had called out
I love you
s.
Dabney had told him, again and again,
We are a perfect match
.
No matter what happens, we are going to end up together.
End up together. Yes, he supposed they had.
The foghorn sounded its long, lonely note. Dabney was gone. He would forever dwell in the prison of her absence.
But he had been so lucky. She had granted him a second chance: six months of the purest happiness he’d ever known. He pictured Dabney pulling into his driveway in the Impala and climbing the three steps to the porch of his cottage. Her hands on the sides of his face. Her smile.
In his jacket pocket, Clen fingered Dabney’s pearls. She had given them to him in her final days. When he first held them, they were still warm from her neck.
Keep these,
she said.
And think of me.
As if anything else were possible.
Reagan Arthur: I wish there were words complex and fabulous enough to describe my gratitude that an intellect and a sensibility such as yours exists in this world. Thank you!
Michelle Aielli: To paraphrase Allison Pearson,
I Don’t Know How You Do It.
You are my publicist, my keeper, and my friend. Thank you!
Michael Carlisle and David Forrer: My favorite quote of 2013 was “Now
that’s
good agenting!” You are both indescribably dear to me. Thank you!
To PJ Martin, the actual director of the Nantucket Chamber of Commerce, who is NOT Dabney Kimball Beech, THANK YOU for meeting with me and THANK YOU for keeping Nantucket the special and unique place it is for those of us who live here, and for those of us who visit.
To Chand Rohtagi, an actual oncologist in the Lehigh Valley (PA) and also the oncologist character in this novel: THANK YOU for the background on the symptoms and physical manifestations of pancreatic cancer. Yours is noble work.
To Sarah Cutler: You faced the three-ring circus that is the Cunningham family with a winning combination of excellent driving, careful lifeguarding, a sense of fun, and serenity and grace. Thank you!
In memoriam: Clarissa Porter. It was at Clarissa’s memorial service that I heard (and then later borrowed) the line, “She had a gift for love, the way one has an eye for color.” Clarissa did have a gift for love. The special quality of friendship she brought to my life I will always fondly remember, and always profoundly miss.
To my three children, Maxwell, Dawson, and Shelby: I have been accused of giving you everything you want, but in fact, the opposite is true. You have given me everything I want—you are strong, smart, independent, adventurous, and pure of heart. You are my sun, moon, and stars, and every word I write, I write for you. xo
Elin Hilderbrand has lived on Nantucket for twenty years. She runs every morning, delivers her children to their sporting events, and frequents the front row at the Chicken Box.
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