Elin Hilderbrand - The Matchmaker

“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.”

Riley had called with a favor.

Celerie had asked Riley to go with her to the fireworks at Jetties Beach. She had asked him in the office, with both Dabney and Nina listening, and thus he hadn’t been able to make up an excuse to turn her down. He couldn’t lie in front of Dabney and Nina.

Riley said to Agnes, “Listen, I need you to come with us. Please.”

“No,” Agnes said. “No way. The other night, I think you got the wrong idea…”

“I know you’re engaged,” Riley said. “It didn’t sink in before because you don’t wear a ring, and then your mother told me your fiancé canceled on the weekend…”

“My mother told you that? Of course she did.”

“But let’s be friends,” Riley said. “Buddies, pals, okay? That’s allowed, right?”

“That’s allowed,” Agnes said, although this wasn’t true. CJ was the most jealous man alive. Agnes had noticed this on their third date. They were having dinner at Peter Luger, and Agnes had bantered with their waiter. The next thing she knew, CJ was up out of his chair, asking the maître d’ to move them to another section of the restaurant.

Then there was the incident with Wilder from work. Wilder was the outreach coordinator at the Boys & Girls Club, and from time to time he and Agnes would go for a beer at the Dubliner. Once, CJ showed up at the Dubliner unannounced, with one of his clients in tow-a linebacker for the Washington Redskins-at the exact moment that Wilder was tugging on the ends of Agnes’s hair, in an imitation of Vladimir, the most annoying child at the club. When Wilder explained to CJ and the linebacker-a man who was the size of a tree and covered in tattoos-why he was pulling Agnes’s hair, CJ had laughed maniacally and asked him to do it again. We want to see you do it again, don’t we, Morris? Morris had grunted. Go ahead, CJ said, pull my girl’s hair again. Wilder had excused himself for the men’s room, then left the bar. The next day, CJ had taken Agnes to Bumble + Bumble, and he sat and watched as Agnes donated thirteen inches of her thick brown hair to Locks of Love.

Many things about this memory disturbed Agnes. She had never asked CJ how he knew she was at the Dubliner in the first place.

Agnes thought she would most likely never have a good male friend again, so she might as well enjoy Riley’s companionship this summer. Besides, she didn’t have any plans for the Fourth. Her parents were going out.

Agnes packed a picnic for three, following Dabney’s suggested menu and recipes: hero sandwiches, dilled potato salad, cherry tomatoes stuffed with guacamole, blueberries and raspberries with vanilla-bean custard. Beer, a bottle of champagne, cheese straws, spicy nuts.

So far this summer, Agnes had gained five pounds.

Riley brought his guitar. Celerie was in charge of blankets, trash bag, plastic cups, bottle opener, all paper products, and sparklers.

It wasn’t as bad as Agnes had expected. She had been certain it would be awkward-Celerie wanted a date with Riley and Riley wanted a date with Agnes. For this reason, Agnes had worn her engagement ring. The diamond was too big to be ignored. Celerie noticed it immediately, and Agnes sensed not only her relief-Agnes wasn’t a threat if she was engaged-but her enthusiasm.

“Your mother didn’t tell me you were getting married!” Celerie said, in her most upbeat cheerleader voice. “Will you get married on Nantucket?”

“Yes,” said Agnes. “At Saint Mary’s. Reception at the Yacht Club.”

“I want to get married on Nantucket,” Celerie said. She bobbed her head.

Celerie was all decked out in red, white, and blue. She wore red denim shorts and a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt and red flip-flops, and-this Agnes found both touching and strange-she had pushed her blond hair back with a navy grosgrain headband with white stars, the exact headband Dabney wore tonight.

Celerie had bought the two headbands so that she and Dabney might match.

Riley said nothing during this exchange. He was trying to lead them through the crowd while carrying his guitar case and the cooler with the drinks.

Celerie said, “Is your fiancé a nice guy?”

Agnes thought Celerie sounded younger than twenty-two. What kind of question was that? Of course he was a nice guy, otherwise Agnes wouldn’t be marrying him.

Agnes nodded, and they walked along.

But then it struck Agnes that nice wasn’t the first word that came to mind when describing CJ, and he might not have seemed nice even by Celerie’s midwestern standards. CJ was confident and magnetic. He knew what he wanted, he had the world on a string, he could fix any problem-or so it had seemed to Agnes. In her daily workday, which involved a lot of chaos, CJ was stability. And life with him was exciting-the restaurants, the celebrities and professional athletes, the money, the perks, the parties. The glamour of life with CJ was intoxicating. Agnes often wondered how his ex-wife, Annabelle Pippin, had walked away from all that. It must have been like detoxing from a drug.

Agnes thought about what Manny Partida had said: I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t tell you.

CJ would never be physical with Agnes, no more physical than asking her to cut her hair, although it was true that CJ required more maintenance than a litter of shar-pei puppies. And he liked to have his way.

They found a good place in the sand on Jetties Beach and set up camp. There were couples and families all around them-everyone happy and sunburned and hungry. Agnes took great relief at plopping down on the blanket, forming a triangle with Celerie and Riley, coolers in the middle. She opened a beer for Riley and poured champagne for herself and Celerie.

Celerie said, “We should have a cheers. Toast the birth of our nation.”

Agnes loved the girl’s earnestness. She held up her plastic cup. “Cheers!”

They all touched glasses. Celerie smiled at Riley and said, “I’m being good tonight!”

And Riley said, “Be sure to eat!”

Agnes pulled out the cheese straws and the spicy nuts, and Riley removed his guitar from its case and began strumming. Agnes gazed up at the Cliff. Her parents were up there at a party, being proper adults. Dabney wouldn’t pull any of her crazy disappearing acts now that Box was home.

Agnes fiddled with her ring. It was loose; she needed to get it sized. CJ didn’t know it was loose, because when he presented it to her, Agnes kept proclaiming how perfect it was. She should have told him it was loose, and she should have told him the diamond was too big. She could never, ever wear it and feel safe in the neighborhood where she worked. But that would, inevitably, lead to CJ’s telling her she shouldn’t be working in that neighborhood. After they were married, he wanted her to quit.