“I like it that way,” Bill said. “My wife hated it. She wanted to go back to New York. She died last year.” Paris nodded, paralyzed with astonishment that Sydney had wanted her to meet him. She didn't know what to say.

“I'm sorry about your wife.”

“So am I. We were married for nearly fifty years. I'm seventy-three.” And with that, mercifully, their food arrived. Paris had ordered a quesadilla, which was as bland as she could get. The artist had ordered some evil-looking concoction covered with a mountain of beans, which he seemed to like and said he ate almost every day. “Beans are the best thing you can eat. Healthiest food there is. Even if they do make you fart. Do you like beans?” Paris made a choking sound, and Sydney seemed not to notice. She said he had been a friend of her father's, who had also been an artist, and had had a great fondness for Bill's wife. Paris couldn't even imagine what the poor woman's life had been like, trapped on a ranch with him. She could only assume she had committed suicide, as her only avenue of escape. And as she thought about it, Paris excused herself, and went to the ladies' room. And as soon as she got there, she locked the door and reached for her cell phone. She got Bix at the office.

“Is he cute?”

“If you don't get me out of here, I may have to kill Sydney before the end of lunch. Or myself.”

“Not cute, I guess.”

“Beyond belief. He's a Neanderthal in a cowboy costume, who makes ten-foot sculptures of his dick.”

“Listen, if his dick is that big, it might be worth going to Santa Fe. I might even come with you.”

“Will you shut up? Call me in five minutes. I'm going to tell them you have an emergency at the office.”

“What kind of emergency?” He sounded vastly amused. Paris wasn't.

“I don't care what kind of emergency. The emergency is this goddamn lunch.”

“You're being very expressive. Did he show you pictures of his dick?”

“More or less. The sculptures are the worst thing I've ever seen.”

“Don't be such an art critic. Maybe he's a nice guy.”

“Look, he's worse than your drooler. Does that paint a picture for you?” She was getting more desperate by the minute.

“He can't be.” Bix sounded skeptical. “That was the worst blind date I ever had.”

“So is this. Now call me on my cell phone in five minutes.”

“Okay, okay, I'll call you. But you'd better think up a good emergency. Sydney's no fool. She'll see right through it.”

“Sydney is a total fool if she wanted me to meet this guy. In fact, she must be psychotic. Maybe she hates me.”

“She doesn't hate you. She told me last week how much she likes you. And Paris?”

“What?” She was ready to kill someone. Bix if need be.

“Bring me a picture of his dick.”

“Just call me…I mean it! Or I quit.”

She went back to the table with fresh lipstick on, and the artist looked up from his lunch. “You look nice with lipstick. It's a good color.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him, and as she started eating again, her phone rang.

“I hate those things,” he commented as she answered it, and she immediately frowned. It was Bix, saying every lewd thing he could think of over her phone.

“You did what ?” she said, looking horrified, as she glanced at Sydney with concern. “Oh Bix, how awful. I'm so sorry … now? I … well, I'm at lunch with Sydney and her friend…oh all right, all right, calm down… I'll be back in five minutes. Don't try to move till I get back.” She clicked off the phone, and looked at Sydney with distress.

“What happened?” She looked worried too.

“It's Bix. You know what a wimp he is.” She glanced over at Bill with a smile, to create a little mischief before she left. “He's gay,” she explained.

“I hate fags,” he said, and burped.

“I thought you might say that.” She turned back to Sydney then. “He threw his back out.”

“I didn't know he had a bad back.” She looked instantly sympathetic, because Paris knew she had a bad back herself, and wore a brace when she worked.

“He's on the floor and can't even move. He needs me to get him to the chiropractor. He says if I don't come back now, he'll call 911.”

“I know just how he feels. I have a herniated disk, and when it acts up, I can't walk for weeks. Do you want us to come too?”

“Don't worry. I can manage him. But I've got to get back.”

“All fags should be shot,” the artist declared, and then burped again.

“I'm so sorry to run,” she apologized to them both, and then shook Bill's hand. “Have a wonderful time while you're here. I enjoyed meeting you very much. And good luck with your work.”

“You mean with my dick?” He laughed out loud, and then coughed.

“Absolutely. Good luck with your dick. ‘Bye, Syd.’ Thanks for lunch.” She waved and ran out the door, fuming all the way back, and when she got to the office, Bix was waiting for her with a grin.

“So where is it?”

“Where is what? I may have to kill someone I'm so mad.”

“My picture of his dick.”

“Don't even talk to me. Ever again. I'm never speaking to you or Sydney. For the rest of my life. The guy was a total nutcase. And for your information, he hates fags, and thinks they should all be shot. But he hates blacks and Native Americans too.”

“I love this guy. What did he look like?”

“A zombie. He lives on a ranch with no electricity or plumbing.”

“No wonder he makes ten-foot sculptures of his dick. The poor bastard has nothing else to do.”

“Don't talk to me. Just don't talk to me. Ever again. And I am never, ever, never for the rest of my whole goddamned life going on a blind date again.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bix said, leaning back in his chair, laughing at her. “I said that too. And you know what? I did. And so will you.”

“Fuck you,” she said, marched into her office, and slammed the door so loudly the bookkeeper came out of her cubbyhole and looked around with a frightened expression.

“Is Paris all right?”

“She's fine,” he said, still laughing. “She just had a blind date.”

“It didn't work out?” she asked, looking sympathetic, and Bix grinned widely and shook his head.

“I think not, Mrs. Simpson. I think not. And that is the story of blind dates.”





Chapter 22




Paris and Bix were enormously busy in May, and managed to survive all seven weddings in June, much to their own amazement. Paris had never worked as hard in her life, and Bix said he hadn't either. But all of the weddings were gorgeous, all the brides ecstatic, all the mothers proud, and all the fathers paid the relatively astronomical bills. It was a great month for Bixby Mason, Inc. And the weekend after the last wedding, Meg came up from L.A. It was their only moment of respite, since they were doing two mammoth Fourth of July parties on the following weekend.

They were relaxing quietly in Paris's garden, talking about work, and life, and Wim's trip to Europe. He had left with friends the day before, when Meg turned to her mother cautiously, and seemed to be weighing something. And Paris saw it.

“What are you chewing on?” Paris asked her. “What's up?”

“I wanted to ask you something, but I wasn't sure how.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds important. Someone new in your life?”

“Nope.” Neither of them had dated in two months. And Paris was emphatic that she didn't want to. The blind date Sydney had set up had been the icing on the cake. But she knew Meg would meet someone at some point, and she hoped she would. “I ran into a friend from Vassar the other day. I haven't seen her in a while. She's married and having a baby, which seems weird, but she also told me a sad story. I haven't seen her since we graduated, and her mother was very sick then. Apparently she died that July. She's been gone for two years, breast cancer, I think. I didn't want to ask.” Paris was trying to figure out where Meg was going with all this, she couldn't see what she could do to help. Or maybe the girl needed a motherly figure to talk to, especially now that she was pregnant. And if so, Paris was willing.

“How's she doing?” Paris sounded concerned.

“She seemed okay. She's a very strong girl. And she married a very nice guy. I had a crush on him myself.” She smiled at the memory, and then turned to her mother with serious eyes. “Anyway, she says her fa-ther's doing fine, but he's lonely. I just wondered if… well… actually, I met him a few times, and he's a really nice man. I think you'd like him, Mom.”

“Oh, for God's sake… Meg, don't start. I told you, I'm not going out anymore.” She sounded not only firm, but emphatic. Chandler Freeman and the sculptor from Santa Fe had been enough to last a lifetime, or at least several years. Paris was no longer interested in dating.

“Mom, that's silly. You're forty-seven years old. You can't just quit for the rest of your life, and give up. That's not right.”

“It's extremely right for me. I don't need a man in my life. And furthermore, I don't want one.” The truth was she did, on both counts, but it was just too damned hard to find one. And the only one she'd ever wanted was gone.

“What if you're passing up the opportunity of a lifetime? He's a banker, and an extremely decent person. He's not some kind of swinging singles wild man.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I've met him,” Meg insisted. “And he's even handsome.”

“I don't care. You haven't dated him. Men turn into sociopaths when they date.”

“No, they don't. Some are just weirder than others. Like Peace.” Paris grinned, and Meg laughed.

“Exactly. How do you know this man isn't Peace's father?”

“Trust me. He looks like Dad. Same type. Shirt, tie, pin-striped suit, good haircut, nice manners, polite, smart, and he's a good father. Everything you like.”

“I'm not doing this, Meg.”

“Yes, you are,” her daughter said with a wicked smile.

“No, I'm not.”

“The hell you aren't. I told her we'd have dinner with them tonight. She was coming home for the weekend too, to see her dad.”

“You what ? I can't believe you did that! Meg, I won't!”

“You have to, or you'll make a liar out of me. This is how nice people meet. They get fixed up. This is what parents used to do, now kids do it, they introduce their divorced parents to new mates.” It sounded sensible to Meg.

“I don't intend to ‘mate’ with this man.” Paris was incensed, but Meg wouldn't budge an inch, and Paris didn't want to embarrass her, so under great protest, in the end, she agreed. “I should have my head examined,” she muttered as they drove downtown. They were having dinner at a steakhouse Meg's friend had suggested. His name was Jim Thompson, and apparently he liked steak. At least he wasn't a vegan. And Paris intended to make it the shortest evening possible. She had worn a grim black suit, her hair in a ponytail, and no makeup.

“Can't you at least try a little bit?” Meg had complained while she watched her dress. “You look like a funeral director, Mom.”

“Good. Then he won't want to see me again.”

“You're not helping things,” Meg chided her.

“I don't intend to.”

“This is how a lot of women meet their second husbands.”

“I don't want a second husband. I haven't gotten over my first one. And I am positively allergic to blind dates.”

“I know. I remember the last one. He must have been an exception.”

“No, he wasn't. Some of Bix's stories are worse,” she muttered darkly, and on the way downtown, Paris sank into a sullen silence.

Both Thompsons were there when they got to the restaurant. Jim was a tall, thin, gray-haired man with a serious face, in gray slacks and a blazer. He was with his very pretty, very pregnant daughter, who was Meg's age. Her name was Sally, and Paris remembered her as soon as she saw her. She didn't even let herself look at Jim, until they sat down. There was something very kind and decent looking about him, Paris had to admit, and she thought he had beautiful, sad eyes. You could tell that something terrible had happened to him, just as it had to her, but you could also tell that he was a very nice man. And without meaning to, Paris felt herself feeling sorry for him. And halfway through dinner, they started to talk. They spoke quietly while the girls caught up on old times, and laughed about their friends. And all the while, Jim was telling her about when his wife died. And before she knew it, she was telling him about Peter leaving. They were trading tragedies like baseball cards.

“What are you two talking about?” Sally asked, as the two elder members of the group looked suddenly guilty. It wasn't exactly cheerful dinner conversation, and they didn't want to share it with their children. Sally and his son always told Jim he had to stop talking about their mother, particularly to strangers. He did it often. She'd been gone for nearly two years now. And to Jim, it seemed like minutes.