Dating Game (27 page)

It was a few days afterward when Sydney Harrington called. She'd had an idea. She had an old friend coming into town, and she wanted to give a little dinner party for him. But her real reason for calling was that she said she wanted to introduce him to Paris first. He lived in Santa Fe, and was an artist. Sydney said he was a lovely man, and if nothing else, Paris would enjoy him. He was a sculptor, and worked in clay.

Paris tried to be polite about it, but she was noticeably vague. And finally, after Sydney rhapsodized endlessly, she agreed to meet them for lunch. She felt she owed Sydney one for recommending her for the job nearly four months before. And Sydney was a sensible, intelligent woman, with a fine mind, sound judgment, and good taste. How bad could her friend be?

Paris mentioned it to Bix that afternoon, and he laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Do you know something I don't?” she asked, looking worried.

“No. But you know how I feel about blind dates. One of my favorites was the eighty-two-year-old man who was dropped off for lunch with me by his nurse. I was twenty-six at the time, and the friend who'd set me up thought I would put a little spark back in his life. I would have, except the poor old guy just sat there and drooled. He could hardly talk, and I burst into tears when I left. But there were others that were worse.”

“You're not encouraging me,” Paris said, looking unnerved. “I couldn't get out of it. Sydney twisted my arm. He's an old friend of hers.”

“We're all blind about our friends. Where does this guy live?”

“Santa Fe. He's an artist.”

“Forget it. He's geographically undesirable. What are you going to do with a guy in Santa Fe, even if he's great?”

“How did I get myself into this?” Paris complained. “Three months ago I said I'd never date. Now I've become cannon fodder for visiting artists, and God knows who else. What am I going to do?”

“Go to lunch with the guy. It'll make Sydney happy. And we're going to kill her in June with all these weddings.” She was catering five of them, and making a hell of a lot of money.

But when the day of the blind date came, Paris was tired and in a rotten mood. Her blow dryer had short-circuited and nearly set the house on fire. Her car had broken down on the way to work. And she was coming down with a cold.

“Can't I just commit suicide and forget lunch?” she asked Bix. She had waited an hour for AAA. They'd had an emergency on the bridge.

“No. You promised Sydney. Be nice.”

“You go, and tell him you're me.”

“That would be cute.” He laughed at her. “You got yourself into this, now go play.”

They had agreed to meet at a Mexican restaurant, which was four blocks away, and Paris didn't even like Mexican food. And when she got there Sydney was waiting at a table. Her friend was parking the car. He must have parked it in another county, because it was another half-hour before he showed up. And when he came through the door wearing an Indian poncho and a cowboy hat, he seemed to be staggering, and Paris thought he was drunk. Sydney was quick to explain.

“He has a problem with his ears. It affects his balance. He's a really great guy.” Paris smiled wanly as he approached, and he smiled at her hesitantly and sat down. He took the cowboy hat off and set it down on a chair, and as he did, Paris couldn't help noticing that he looked like he had ten years of clay under his nails. But there was no denying, he was an interesting-looking man. He looked almost Native American himself, but said he wasn't when she asked. He said he hated them, and they were the scourge of Santa Fe.

“They're all drunks,” he said, as Paris recoiled. And after that he went on a tirade about blacks. He somehow forgot to mention Jews. He managed to make racial slurs on just about everyone else, including their Mexican waiter, which the man heard, and he turned around to give all three of them an evil look. Paris was sure he would spit in their food, and she didn't blame him a bit.

“So, Sydney tells me you're an artist,” Paris managed to say sweetly, trying not to worry about the waiter and their food. But she had to get through this somehow. It was not going to be easy, and all respect for Sydney's judgment had vanished when the man appeared.

“I brought you some pictures of my work,” he said proudly. His name was William Weinstein, which may have explained why he left Jews off his hate list. He had been born in Brooklyn, and moved to Santa Fe ten years before. He took an envelope out of his pocket, rifled through some pictures, and handed them to Paris. They were ten-foot phallic symbols made of clay. The man had penises on the brain.

“It's very interesting work,” Paris said, pretending to be impressed. “Do you use live models?” she asked more in jest, and he nodded.

“Actually, I use my own.” He thought that hysterically funny and laughed so hard he almost coughed himself to death. Along with the clay under his nails, enough of it to create another sculpture, his fingers were stained with nicotine. “Do you like to ride?”

“Yes, but I haven't in a long time. Do you?”

“Yes, I do. I have a ranch, you ought to come down. We have no electricity and no plumbing. It's a two-day ride to my ranch.”

“That must make it very hard to get in or out.”

“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.