Matchmaking for Beginners
Page 59
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
I close the book very carefully and place it on the floor.
Patrick?
Patrick is the one she thought was for me?
It’s so impossible as to almost be laughable. Patrick is so locked up in himself, he’s so unreachable and . . . and . . . what did she think I was supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life writing to him on my phone? We could gradually work up to love notes in our texts! Maybe after twenty years of me texting I love you, he might let me actually touch him.
Oh, Blix. Maybe you got some things right, but this was so very, very wrong.
THIRTY-FIVE
MARNIE
The next day, I’m at Best Buds texting the news to Patrick that I’ve asked Noah to leave, when I look up to see the elderly man coming in the door. The one who wasn’t ready. This time, however, he masterfully strides over and picks out calla lilies, roses, some baby’s breath, some gerbera daisies, and some greens.
“Gerbera daisies are my very favorite flower,” I tell him when he brings them over to the counter.
This seems to please him. He has a sweet face, lined and gentle.
“I am about to do a very brave thing,” he says. His eyes are shining. “Braver than anything I did in the war, that’s for sure. I am going to ask a woman to marry me.”
“Really!” I say. “That’s wonderful. Is she going to be surprised or does she already know?”
“It’s a surprise. Actually, do you have paper so I can write a note? It occurs to me that it might be a very good idea to include a little note, convincing her.”
“Oh, boy. You’re going to propose marriage on paper?”
He stiffens a little. “I am.”
“No, that’s cool. I get it. Do you want some help?”
“I have to do this myself,” he tells me sternly. “This has to be all me. Though it’s been years, you know, since I had to . . . well . . . convince a lady that I’m worth investing in.”
“Of course. Here, you can sit over here and take your time.” I lead him over to a little white table in the back. “Can I get you some water? Or maybe a thesaurus? Or a romance novel?”
He laughs at that.
He sits for a long time, chewing on the end of his pen.
Patrick texts back:
Great! Did he go peacefully into that good night? (Did you see what I did there?)
Ha! He did go peacefully. So far, at least.
The man turns, clears his throat, and says, “Maybe I could use a little help, if you have some time.”
I put down my phone. “I love doing this,” I say. “Tell me something about her. And you. I’ll see what comes up.”
He sighs. “All right, maybe that would work.” He closes his eyes and begins: “So I’ve been seeing . . . this lady. I drive from New Jersey to visit her. Been doing it for about six months now. Every chance I can. Every chance she’ll let me.”
Little sparkles are dancing around in front of my eyes. Oh my God. This is him!
“And . . . well, she’s the widow of my best friend. She doesn’t know I want to be more than a friend to her because I haven’t wanted to scare her off. But we only talk about our dead spouses. And current events. Weather. Plays. She doesn’t know I have . . . feelings. She’s very proper with me.”
I clear my throat. What are the ethics of this situation? Should I say, Hey, you’re William Sullivan, and I know your whole story. Let me tell you what the lady in question has said to me about you!
Instead I go with, “But is it the kind of proper like ‘keep your distance’ or is it the kind of proper like ‘I don’t want to assume this man loves me’?” I really do want to know which one it is.
“Now how would I know that?” he says. “That’s why I’m going to propose marriage—to see what she says.” He gets a mock serious look on his face. “I am, as they say, taking the plunge.”
Ohhhh. Lola is going to break his heart. This is not going to go well.
“Yes,” I say. “But . . . if . . . I mean, won’t it be too sudden? It might put her on the spot, you know. Why plunge when you could wade? Tiptoe in, test the waters.”
“No. Absolutely not. When I asked my wife to marry me, that’s what I did, and it worked out just fine. I asked her while we were getting some ice cream—popped the question, and she dropped her ice cream cone on the ground she was so surprised. And then she said yes. I had to buy her another cone. Best money I ever spent.”
There is something so lovely about his face, the expression in his eyes, all that cluelessness. And even larger, there’s something so sad about men of that generation crashing through life, taking plunges, with no idea of how women are going to receive them. Or maybe it’s adorable, and these are darling men, heroes on the mysterious frontlines of love, and women need to pamper them and save them from their craziest impulses.
I can’t think of what to do.
“I think we may need us some proposing music to help us along,” I tell him, to stall for time.
I go put on some Frank Sinatra love songs, and then we sit side by side in the shower of gold sprinkles and let the fragrance of the flowers wash over us. I close my eyes and say Blix’s mantra, “Whatever happens, love that,” to myself.
“So I need her to see me as a bold romantic partner,” he is saying.
“But could she perhaps be . . . shy around you? Have you considered that maybe you want to take it slow?”
He laughs. “I now realize what’s wrong with your generation. You don’t take chances. You’re always on your smartphones and with your texting and your swiping and your online dating, and you don’t show up in person when it’s needed! I am going to woo her and wow her—”
“Dude!” I say, and he laughs. “You haven’t even tried to kiss her yet, and yet you think it’s going to work to write her a note asking her to marry you? See? I do not understand males!”
Oops. I hope he’s not going to wonder how I know he hasn’t kissed her yet. But it doesn’t even cross his mind to wonder.
“Trust me, it’s going to work out,” he says. “She’ll think it over, and she’ll remember all the good times we used to have years ago, and she’ll think of the future . . . and then by the time I show up there ready to kiss her, she’ll say yes.”
After that, I can see there’s hardly any argument I have that’s going to hold any appeal for William Sullivan, so I sit down at the table, and he tells me to write that she is beautiful and kind and that when he is out with her in the world, he can’t stop smiling. He wants me to tell her that he lives for the times he drives to see her, and for that moment when she opens the door. And that when she was sick, he was also sick—sick with worry—which is why when he showed up at the hospital, he maybe told too many jokes when he should have listened.
Then he leans across the table with his eyes dancing. “Say that I’m peanut butter and she’s jelly,” he says. “And that she’ll never have to go to the hospital alone again.”
“Really?”
“Okay, now say she’s the bees in my knees and the cats in my pajamas.”
I write it down, smiling. “This is starting to sound a little sketchy, but okay.”
On the speaker by the cash register, Frank Sinatra starts singing “All of Me,” and William Sullivan makes me write, “So I am asking now for your hand in marriage. Please make me the happiest man in the world and marry me. With love and sincerity, William Sullivan.”
“Both names, really?” I say.
“Both names. When your name is William, you have to be specific.” He is smiling, ear to ear. “Write William Sullivan if you please.”
“Okay, dude. Done!” I write it down and hand it to him to look over. He reads it very solemnly, and clears his throat a few times, says it’s fine.
“I kind of like it when you call me dude,” he says. And then fear seizes him again and he says, “I hope this works. And now if you’d kindly address it to Lola Dunleavy. Here, let me get the exact address out of my pocket.”
PATRICK AND MARNIE.
I close the book very carefully and place it on the floor.
Patrick?
Patrick is the one she thought was for me?
It’s so impossible as to almost be laughable. Patrick is so locked up in himself, he’s so unreachable and . . . and . . . what did she think I was supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life writing to him on my phone? We could gradually work up to love notes in our texts! Maybe after twenty years of me texting I love you, he might let me actually touch him.
Oh, Blix. Maybe you got some things right, but this was so very, very wrong.
THIRTY-FIVE
MARNIE
The next day, I’m at Best Buds texting the news to Patrick that I’ve asked Noah to leave, when I look up to see the elderly man coming in the door. The one who wasn’t ready. This time, however, he masterfully strides over and picks out calla lilies, roses, some baby’s breath, some gerbera daisies, and some greens.
“Gerbera daisies are my very favorite flower,” I tell him when he brings them over to the counter.
This seems to please him. He has a sweet face, lined and gentle.
“I am about to do a very brave thing,” he says. His eyes are shining. “Braver than anything I did in the war, that’s for sure. I am going to ask a woman to marry me.”
“Really!” I say. “That’s wonderful. Is she going to be surprised or does she already know?”
“It’s a surprise. Actually, do you have paper so I can write a note? It occurs to me that it might be a very good idea to include a little note, convincing her.”
“Oh, boy. You’re going to propose marriage on paper?”
He stiffens a little. “I am.”
“No, that’s cool. I get it. Do you want some help?”
“I have to do this myself,” he tells me sternly. “This has to be all me. Though it’s been years, you know, since I had to . . . well . . . convince a lady that I’m worth investing in.”
“Of course. Here, you can sit over here and take your time.” I lead him over to a little white table in the back. “Can I get you some water? Or maybe a thesaurus? Or a romance novel?”
He laughs at that.
He sits for a long time, chewing on the end of his pen.
Patrick texts back:
Great! Did he go peacefully into that good night? (Did you see what I did there?)
Ha! He did go peacefully. So far, at least.
The man turns, clears his throat, and says, “Maybe I could use a little help, if you have some time.”
I put down my phone. “I love doing this,” I say. “Tell me something about her. And you. I’ll see what comes up.”
He sighs. “All right, maybe that would work.” He closes his eyes and begins: “So I’ve been seeing . . . this lady. I drive from New Jersey to visit her. Been doing it for about six months now. Every chance I can. Every chance she’ll let me.”
Little sparkles are dancing around in front of my eyes. Oh my God. This is him!
“And . . . well, she’s the widow of my best friend. She doesn’t know I want to be more than a friend to her because I haven’t wanted to scare her off. But we only talk about our dead spouses. And current events. Weather. Plays. She doesn’t know I have . . . feelings. She’s very proper with me.”
I clear my throat. What are the ethics of this situation? Should I say, Hey, you’re William Sullivan, and I know your whole story. Let me tell you what the lady in question has said to me about you!
Instead I go with, “But is it the kind of proper like ‘keep your distance’ or is it the kind of proper like ‘I don’t want to assume this man loves me’?” I really do want to know which one it is.
“Now how would I know that?” he says. “That’s why I’m going to propose marriage—to see what she says.” He gets a mock serious look on his face. “I am, as they say, taking the plunge.”
Ohhhh. Lola is going to break his heart. This is not going to go well.
“Yes,” I say. “But . . . if . . . I mean, won’t it be too sudden? It might put her on the spot, you know. Why plunge when you could wade? Tiptoe in, test the waters.”
“No. Absolutely not. When I asked my wife to marry me, that’s what I did, and it worked out just fine. I asked her while we were getting some ice cream—popped the question, and she dropped her ice cream cone on the ground she was so surprised. And then she said yes. I had to buy her another cone. Best money I ever spent.”
There is something so lovely about his face, the expression in his eyes, all that cluelessness. And even larger, there’s something so sad about men of that generation crashing through life, taking plunges, with no idea of how women are going to receive them. Or maybe it’s adorable, and these are darling men, heroes on the mysterious frontlines of love, and women need to pamper them and save them from their craziest impulses.
I can’t think of what to do.
“I think we may need us some proposing music to help us along,” I tell him, to stall for time.
I go put on some Frank Sinatra love songs, and then we sit side by side in the shower of gold sprinkles and let the fragrance of the flowers wash over us. I close my eyes and say Blix’s mantra, “Whatever happens, love that,” to myself.
“So I need her to see me as a bold romantic partner,” he is saying.
“But could she perhaps be . . . shy around you? Have you considered that maybe you want to take it slow?”
He laughs. “I now realize what’s wrong with your generation. You don’t take chances. You’re always on your smartphones and with your texting and your swiping and your online dating, and you don’t show up in person when it’s needed! I am going to woo her and wow her—”
“Dude!” I say, and he laughs. “You haven’t even tried to kiss her yet, and yet you think it’s going to work to write her a note asking her to marry you? See? I do not understand males!”
Oops. I hope he’s not going to wonder how I know he hasn’t kissed her yet. But it doesn’t even cross his mind to wonder.
“Trust me, it’s going to work out,” he says. “She’ll think it over, and she’ll remember all the good times we used to have years ago, and she’ll think of the future . . . and then by the time I show up there ready to kiss her, she’ll say yes.”
After that, I can see there’s hardly any argument I have that’s going to hold any appeal for William Sullivan, so I sit down at the table, and he tells me to write that she is beautiful and kind and that when he is out with her in the world, he can’t stop smiling. He wants me to tell her that he lives for the times he drives to see her, and for that moment when she opens the door. And that when she was sick, he was also sick—sick with worry—which is why when he showed up at the hospital, he maybe told too many jokes when he should have listened.
Then he leans across the table with his eyes dancing. “Say that I’m peanut butter and she’s jelly,” he says. “And that she’ll never have to go to the hospital alone again.”
“Really?”
“Okay, now say she’s the bees in my knees and the cats in my pajamas.”
I write it down, smiling. “This is starting to sound a little sketchy, but okay.”
On the speaker by the cash register, Frank Sinatra starts singing “All of Me,” and William Sullivan makes me write, “So I am asking now for your hand in marriage. Please make me the happiest man in the world and marry me. With love and sincerity, William Sullivan.”
“Both names, really?” I say.
“Both names. When your name is William, you have to be specific.” He is smiling, ear to ear. “Write William Sullivan if you please.”
“Okay, dude. Done!” I write it down and hand it to him to look over. He reads it very solemnly, and clears his throat a few times, says it’s fine.
“I kind of like it when you call me dude,” he says. And then fear seizes him again and he says, “I hope this works. And now if you’d kindly address it to Lola Dunleavy. Here, let me get the exact address out of my pocket.”
