“Sounds
like fun,” said the muscular blonde.
Latesha
quickly produced a notebook and pencil, and then opened it to the first blank
page. “What are your names and phone numbers?”
All
three were eager to comply.
Latesha
made notes as she wrote down their information—
Heidi, blonde, bodybuilder. Jo Jo, brunette, fragile. Martha, pretty
redhead, wears suit.
“Thanks,”
Heidi said with a glint in her eyes. “Tell them I’m available right now.”
“Will
do,” Latesha promised. She closed the notebook. “Hopefully all of you will meet
your knight in shining armor.”
Latesha
excused herself and, having second thoughts about her new business, walked
around campus and removed all her posters. For the rest of the day she attended
classes, continued reading
Romeo and
Juliet
, and went for an afternoon swim in the university pool. That evening
when she got home, Latesha told her father she was retiring as a matchmaker.
“That’s
the right decision, Tesha.”
“I’m
only going to set up this one guy.”
Her
father turned away from the television. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“I
promised I’d find him a date,” Latesha reasoned, “and I’m going to deliver.”
“What
about the money?”
“I
already thought of that. If he doesn’t like the date, I’ll give him all his
money back. But if he has a good time, I’ll keep it for our bills.”
“I
hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Me,
too,” she said with a nervous laugh, picking up the phone.
“If
you’re going to use the phone, can you do it in your room? I want to watch the
game.”
“Sure,”
Latesha said, walking to the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of orange
juice. She casually strolled into her bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the
bed. After rehearsing what she was going to say, Latesha dialed Peter’s number.
It rang four times and then activated an answering machine.
“Hello,”
said the recording in a now-familiar voice, “you have reached the residence of
Peter Elsworth. I am not available to take your call at the moment, but please
feel free to leave a message.”
Latesha
thought for a moment, then hung up and called Heidi.
Chapter Three
Peter
turned off the shower just as the phone rang. He leapt out of the tub and
hurried to the bedroom, but by then the caller had hung up. He put on a pair of
brown slacks and a cream-colored shirt and then drove to his mother’s in the
south end. It was a sprawling two-story mansion, a manicured lawn decorated
with Roman statues, and a circular driveway made of red brick. Parked in front
was a new red Mustang. Mrs. Elsworth opened her door and waved as Peter got out
of his truck. Wearing white track pants and a white blouse, she was an
attractive woman of fifty. Her hair was blonde like Peter’s, and her features,
like his, were pleasing to the eye. A red headband, red wristbands, and a dark
red racket set off her outfit.
“Peter,”
she said, offering him her cheek to kiss. “You caught me on the way to the
club.”
“Looking
for more victims, mother?”
“You
know I don’t like to play,” Mrs. Elsworth said with a laugh. “Image is
everything.”
Peter
laughed with good humor. “Are you meeting anyone?”
“Oh,”
said Mrs. Elsworth with a sigh, “I suppose Diane will be there talking about
her new stables. She is such a superficial woman. I deserve a medal for bearing
her, I swear. The woman is scared to death of horses, but she has an eye for
the riding instructor, at least when her husband isn’t home.”
“Mother!”
Peter exclaimed, making a face. “Don’t be scandalous.”
“Scandalous?”
she replied with a mischievous look. It was obvious she saw her only son as a
beloved friend. “Diane goes through men like I go through shoes, except that
mine last more than a weekend. It’s no secret, my dear boy. Everyone knows all
about her little intrigues, but Gordon doesn’t want lawyers carving up his
empire, so they have what you might call ‘an arrangement.’”
“That’s
not a marriage,” Peter said, shaking his head. “It’s obscene.”
“Oh,
my, aren’t we critical today. And this coming from a man who never has two
seconds for his own mother.”
“I
visit and call you all the time,” he objected.
“Yes,
that’s true,” she conceded, checking her hair in the car mirror. “But what
about Bridget? She’s been asking about you. Apparently you deserted her at the
photography club.”
“I’m
not interested in Bridget, Mom.”
Mrs.
Elsworth looked at him with frustration. “Bridget is the perfect girl for you.
She’s old money.”
“I
don’t care about Bridget or her money.”
“Don’t
be foolish,” Mrs. Elsworth cautioned with a look of reprimand. “Money makes the
world go ’round, and old money is best. Old money breeds quality.”
Peter
shook his head. “Sometimes money breeds arrogance and self-importance. It can
be a curse as much as a blessing.”
“Tsk,
tsk,” Mrs. Elsworth retorted, staring strangely at her son. “Where are you
hearing all this nonsense? Have you become a communist, Peter?”
“No,
I’m not a communist, but I’m not going to judge people by how much money they
have. Money’s a poor substitute for character.”
“Character
doesn’t pay the bills,” his mother argued. “Character doesn’t put a roof over
your head, and it doesn’t send your children to the best schools, does it?”
A
humorous cast came over his face. “I decided to try a matchmaker.”
“What!”
Mrs. Elsworth exclaimed, staring at him as if he had lost his mind. “With your
looks, your brains, and your heritage, you have stooped to using a matchmaker?
That is unconscionable, my dear boy. Don’t ever tell a soul. I would die of
shame!” She looked hard at him. “What is it with you, Peter? There are a dozen
society girls who would jump at the chance to date you.”
“Not
interested,” he declared.
Mrs.
Elsworth crooked an eyebrow. “And why not, may I ask? You’re not gay, are you?”
“No,
I’m not gay,” he said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “I want to meet
someone who likes me for me, and I want to be with someone I really like. Money
is not even a consideration.”
“How
novel,” Mrs. Elsworth said, looking him over. “But, Peter, if it’s not a
society girl, how can you be sure of meeting someone who is your equal?”
“I’m
nothing special,” he said.
Mrs.
Elsworth’s eyes fluttered like butterfly wings. “Nothing special? Please don’t
break my heart, Peter. You’re my son and you’re an Elsworth. That makes you
more than special.”
Peter
put his mother’s tennis gear in the trunk and opened the door for her.
“When
are you embarking on this adventure?” Mrs. Elsworth asked. “Or am I going to be
the last to know?”
“The
matchmaker will contact me. I’m actually eager to see what comes of it.”
She
lightly touched his arm. “I ask only one thing. Remember that you are the last
Elsworth. The end of the line.” There was a firm cast to her expression. “Don’t
ever taint our heritage, dear.” She got into the car, closed the door and
opened the window. “Right?”
“What
if I fell in love with someone who isn’t old money?” he challenged.
“I
wouldn’t like it, but if she was established new money, I could consider it.”
“What
if she had no money?”
Mrs.
Elsworth’s lower lip drooped. “Say again. I don’t think I heard you right?”
“What
if I fell in love with a woman who is from a poor family?” Peter repeated.
“I’d
cut you out of my will,” Mrs. Elsworth said sharply, her features firmly set.
“Would
you really?”
“In
a second.”
He
laughed.
“Oh,
you think I’m joking?”
“I
don’t know if you’re joking or not, but I don’t care.”
Her
brows furrowed. “But you do care about me, don’t you? You do care about my
feelings and my expectations?”
“I
don’t care about your money,” he told her with great sincerity. “If you were
penniless, I would love you just the same.” He started walking back to his
truck. “Have a nice time at tennis, Mom.”
“You’re
going to cause me grief, Peter Elsworth!” she called out with a look of
consternation. “I can feel it.”
He
waved without responding, then got into his truck and drove to the small house
he rented. Several of his friends were waiting in the driveway and invited him
for a round of golf. He thanked them, but declined, then hurried inside to
check the answering machine for a message from Latesha. There was none.
“I
hope she calls,” he said to his goldfish, squatting down to look into the
aquarium. “She has a cat named Oprah, Dr. Phil. Isn’t that a blast?” He
sprinkled food on the surface and turned on the radio to Gary Jules singing
Mad World
. Peter leaned against the
wall, glanced out the window, and then again looked at the tank. “You know what
the problem is, old buddy?”
The
fish picked at the scraps of food.
Peter
sat cross-legged on the floor. “I’m lonely, Dr. Phil.”
Dr.
Phil continued to eat.
“No,
maybe lonely isn’t the right word,” Peter qualified. “I think I just need a
woman in my life. Maybe this matchmaker holds the key.” He paused and smiled.
“Latesha. Isn’t that a pretty name, Dr. Phil? She’s really nice, you know. I
hope they set me up with someone like her.”
The
phone rang.
Peter
jumped up and hurriedly ran to answer it. “Hello,” he said excitedly.
“Hello,
Peter,” Latesha answered. “This is the Forevermore Matchmaking Service.”
“Hello,
Latesha!” he blurted out, feeling elated at hearing her voice.
“You
remembered my name,” Latesha replied warmly.
“Yes,
of course. How could I forget such a pretty name?”
“Thank
you.”
“You’re
welcome.”
Latesha
paused for a moment. “We ran your profile and stats through the supercomputer
and it provided several hundred names. From there our relationship experts went
over possible matches and we’ve come up with someone we’re eager for you to
meet.”
“That
was a lot of work for a hundred dollars.”
“We
go the extra mile,” Latesha informed him, “because our clients are special. And
you’re particularly special, Peter.”
“Oh?”
he said with a laugh. “Why’s that?”
“You’re
special,” Latesha said, “because you’re average-looking.”
He
laughed loudly. “Maybe I should have told you I was the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Then you might have given me a free weekend at Daytona Beach.”
“You
have a good imagination.”
They
both laughed.
“Peter,
the woman we’ve chosen is named Heidi. She’s a student, twenty-four, and
physically active. Sound okay?”
“Yes,”
Peter said, trepidation in his voice. “You say she’s a student. What does she
take?”
“Kinesiology.
You said you like the outdoors and sports, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well,
I hope we’ve made a good choice. She will meet you Wednesday evening at six
o’clock in the Uptown Mall food court. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“She
said she’ll be wearing a leather Oakland Raiders hat.”
“What
if she doesn’t like me?” he asked.
“I
like you, Peter. I can’t imagine why Heidi wouldn’t.”
He
paused, enchanted by the unknown woman. “Any advice, matchmaker?”
“Just
be yourself.”
“Thank
you, Latesha.”
“One
more thing?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“My
supervisor asked me for a more detailed explanation of what you’re looking for
out of this service.”
He
thought about his response for a few moments. “I’m looking for a friend,
Latesha. I want a woman friend, someone I can talk to, maybe even share my life
with. I want to be there for her when she’s sick and when she needs a shoulder
to cry on. I want her company. I want a woman to curl up on the couch with me
to watch the Mystery Channel or to read a book by the fireplace. I want someone
to care about me, someone I know will be there on Christmas Day months before
it arrives. I want a relationship, a permanent relationship. I want a woman to
love, Latesha.” He laughed. “Not asking for much, am I?”
She
hesitated. “There are a lot of women looking for a man just like you,” she said
softly.
“Well,
I guess there’s hope, then.”
“Can
I tell you a secret?”
“Yes.”
“Of
all the clients on my caseload, you’re my favorite.”
“I
like you, too,” he said. “I thought I’d feel intimidated and awkward, but
you’ve made this process a lot of fun. I feel comfortable with you.”
“Peter,”
she said with a note of desperation in her voice.
“Yes,
Latesha?”
“As
your matchmaker, I’m the liaison between you and the Forevermore Matchmaking
Service. I’m also assigned to quality control. That means I’m supposed to do a
follow-up. Would you mind?”
“Are
you asking me to call back and describe the date?”
“Not
in any way that would compromise your privacy,” Latesha said. “I’m just
interested in general impressions. How would you rate compatibility? Did you
think we provided a good service? That sort of thing.”
“I
can do that,” he said.
“I’ll
call you.”
“You
could call me anytime,” he told her. “I enjoy talking with you. I enjoy it very
much.”
They
spoke for another ten minutes as if neither of them wanted to hang up. “Well, I
have to go now. I have another call.”
“I’ll
call you,” he promised.
“Right,”
she said. “Good luck, Mr. Elsworth.”
“Thanks,
Latesha.”
After
he hung up, Peter felt a strange glow. Part of it was his growing sense of
anticipation, but he also kept hearing Latesha’s voice in his mind, replaying
their lively exchanges over and over. The thought of having a reason to call
her back particularly pleased him, even if it was to describe his time with
another woman.
*
* * *
At
six o’clock on Wednesday evening he approached the food court. Near the juice
bar, wearing an Oakland Raiders hat, was his date. To his surprise, Heidi was
nice-looking but extremely muscular. Her arms stretched the gray long-sleeved
shirt, and her neck was downright bullish. It was obvious she had spent time in
the weight room and it seemed she may have been using steroids. She was that
big.
“Hello,”
Peter said, tentatively approaching her. “Heidi?”
“You
got it,” she returned in a husky voice. “Have a seat.” She pushed it out for
him and looked him up and down. “You could use a little more meat on your
bones.”
Peter
looked at himself in the food court mirror. “I feel good at this weight,
actually.”
“Sit
down,” she insisted. “I’m not going to eat you.” Her eyes glinted. “At least
not yet.”
The
movie
The Silence of the Lambs
flashed in his mind.
After
Peter sat down, Heidi took a protein shake out of her purse. Peter couldn’t get
over how big and strong her hands looked. They were thick and heavily
calloused. Her whole body seemed to exude raw strength and a masculine,
aggressive presence. She drank her shake, wiped her mouth with the back of her
hand, and then offered Peter a can.
“No,
thank you. I’ll just grab a pop out of the vending machine.”
“I
don’t think so!” she exclaimed, her eyes opening wide. “You’re not drinking
that stuff on my shift, pilgrim. It’s full of sugar.”
He
decided against the soft drink.
She
suddenly put out her arm, leaning her elbow against the table. “Arm wrestle?”
“Excuse
me?”
“Want
to arm wrestle?” she asked. “Winner gets to pick where we go.”
“Are
you serious?”
“Put
up or shut up, big boy.”
“My
wrist is sore,” he lied, not eager to arm wrestle with the female Arnold in a
crowded food court.