Authors: Catherine McKenzie
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a writer.”
“Brian’s an accountant. I’ve always thought that was a really boring profession, but it’s nice to know he makes a steady income, you know? Writer. Hmm. That doesn’t sound too stable.”
My shoulders tense. “I’m a writer.”
Her milky brown eyes widen. “Two writers. Wow. Well, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“What?”
“That you’re sure it’ll be fine?”
“Do I? Oh well, it’s just an expression, you know? I mean, Blythe and Company has such a great success rate, right? I’m sure they’ve matched us to the right people. Only . . .” She lowers her voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “Do you ever wonder if they make mistakes, you know, mix up the files or whatever?”
“No, I’ve never wondered that . . .”
Not until now!
She waves her hand dismissively. “Ah, don’t worry about it. I’m sure they’ve got measures, you know, protocols or something, to make sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen.”
I fucking hope so.
She looks out the window. “Have you noticed how many classic Volkswagen Beetles there are on the roads here?”
“No.”
“Look, there’s another one!” She punches the side of my arm. Hard. “Punch buggy yellow!”
“Ouch.” I rub the place on my arm where she hit me.
“Oh, sorry. It’s just a game I play with my son. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”
“You have a kid?”
“Sure. David. He’s nine.”
“Were you married before?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Married in . . . the usual way?”
She laughs brightly. “What, you think only freaks who can’t find husbands in the usual way use this service?”
“No, sorry.”
“Yeah, well, when my marriage blew up, I decided to take a different approach to things. I was using this Christian dating service when my sister told me the truth about how she met her husband. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather, you know, but then I started thinking about it, and I could sort of see the possibilities.”
“Like what?”
“Cutting through all the dating, the getting-to-know-you, the am-I-pretty-thin-smart-enough-crap and just building a future with someone I can be friends with, you know? I mean, Sal and I—that’s my first husband’s name, Sal—I don’t think we really liked each other, not even in the beginning. And by the time we got married, I was already sick of so many things about him, but David was on the way, and well . . .”
“I get it.”
“Anyway, I think it’ll be nice
not
to know anything about Brian for a while, right? Leave the surprises and annoyances for later, you know? Plus, I’ve always found the kind of things that drive you nuts about your partner don’t bug you in the same way when it’s one of your friends, you know what I mean? Like, who cares if your friend squeezes the toothpaste tube in the wrong way or doesn’t put the toilet seat down? I think Blythe and Company’s on to something with this whole friendship philosophy of marriage. How’d you hear about them?”
My head’s whirling so fast from trying to follow Margaret’s logic that it takes me a minute to catch up. “Oh, um—”
“Hey, we’re here!”
The bus pulls up in front of the entrance to the resort. It looks like most of the hotels we passed on our way: white and yellow stucco, large glass doors, colorful Spanish tiles on the steps. The ocean lies behind a large strip of impossibly white sand, azure and calm and vast.
We disembark and wheel our suitcases into the lobby, politely lining up at the front desk. The Spanish tiles continue on the inside, brightening the walls below a vaulted white stucco ceiling. The only men in the lobby are the hotel staff, almost indistinguishable from one another in their white uniforms and beige ties. When it’s my turn, the man behind the counter checks me in and provides me with an orientation package. He snaps a blue plastic bracelet around my wrist—my pass for meals and drinks for the week—and tells me not to lose it.
I walk with Margaret from the lobby toward the wing where our rooms are. She chats away as we follow a concrete path bordered by bright pink bougainvillea; the air is full of its sweet and acidic smell. I can hear the faint sound of waves breaking on the shore, a soothing hum.
“Hey, this is me,” Margaret says excitedly at room 42. “See you at the orientation!”
Another minute brings me to room 58. The floor is a light gray tile. The sunlight dances through gauzy curtains. The coverlet on the king-size bed is a pattern of bright, gaudy flowers. A basket of waxy-looking fruit sits on a round table in the corner.
Feeling grimy and worn out from the flight, I take a shower in the enormous tiled bathroom. The water is hard and smells faintly of salt, but the spray is strong and hot. When I’m done, I apply a lacquer of sunscreen, put on some beach clothes, and head to the orientation.
The orientation takes place in a glass-enclosed room next to the lobby. I watch a group of men play volleyball on the beach as Ms. Cooper leads the session. She looks out of place in her usual muted grays and taupes among the bright summer colors. As on the bus earlier, there are only women in the room, about twenty of us, ranging in age from late twenties to early fifties.
Ms. Cooper goes through the schedule and explains that Blythe & Company’s resort is connected to the one next door, which is full of regular guests on vacation. The blue band around our wrist gives us access if we want it.
“I have a question,” Margaret says. “Where are the men?”
“They arrived yesterday. Which reminds me—I would encourage you not to speak to any of the men until after you’re matched tonight.”
“Why?”
Ms. Cooper gives her a patented frown. I’m glad I’m not the only one who provokes that look. “We’ve found it best to keep the two groups separated until the formal introductions.”
“So that we don’t, you know, fraternize with the wrong person?”
“Yes, that’s right. Now, as I was saying . . .”
When the orientation is finished, we have the afternoon to ourselves. We’ll be meeting our matches at six. The four hours between then and now seem like a lifetime.
“You want to hang out at the pool?” Margaret asks.
“Sure.” I look at the hotel map Ms. Cooper handed out, trying to get my directionally challenged bearings. “I think it’s this way.”
“Nah, let’s go to the other one, you know, next door.”
“How come?”
“Do you really want to sit around all afternoon wondering if every man at the pool is your future husband?”
“Good point.”
While the resort next door is the architectural twin of ours, it has a much different atmosphere. Our resort is discreet and understated, like Blythe & Company’s offices, only Mexicanized. But this resort has a spring-break vibe to it. Music is pounding loudly through the sound system, and topless bathing seems to be allowed. The pool even has a swim-up bar in the middle that’s surrounded by men and women drinking their faces off and flirting madly.
We settle into two blue fabric deck chairs. I reapply sunscreen to my too-white skin.
“You gonna take your top off?” Margaret asks.
“That’s not really my kind of thing.”
“Hope you don’t mind if I do. When in Rome, right?” She reaches for the tie around her neck and takes off the top of her red bathing suit. She lies down with her eyes closed, soaking in the sun.
Maybe I should take my top off too? But hold on a minute. Jack might’ve had the same idea Margaret did. He might be sitting on a deck chair at this very pool. I definitely don’t want his first sight of me to be topless.
I look around. Are you here, Jack H.? Are you that guy with brown hair and light colored eyes that could be green, flirting with the pretty blond young thing across the margarita you’re sipping out of a plastic glass? No, he’s too tanned; he must’ve been here for several days. I search the crowd for another candidate. There’s a man with a huge eagle tattoo on his back, floating with his arms draped over an inflatable pool mattress. He has brown hair and looks like he could be the right height. Shit. I really don’t like tattoos. How come they didn’t ask me that on the questionnaire? Isn’t that kind of important? Or maybe they did and I simply don’t remember.
Jack, Jack,
Jack.
Are you here? Are you just out of sight, looking at me, wondering if I’m the one you read about? Do I look cute in this bathing suit? Are you glad I’m not topless?
Anne Shirley Blythe, you need to calm the fuck down!
I try to distract myself by reading, but as the afternoon wears on, the boom, boom, bounce of the speakers gets louder, and I can’t concentrate. I decide to take a dip in the pool and slip into the warm water. I swim a few halfhearted laps, paddle up to the bar, and order a margarita. I suck on the sugary salt around the edge, counting the individual grains.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
Shit, that’s not working anymore.
The suspense is killing me, eating away at me, literally aging me, aging my heart. I wish I could fast-forward to tonight, until a few minutes after we’ve met, when I know what he looks like and a little bit of what he is like. I wish I could fly like Superman around and around the sun and speed up time. That would be cool. Only didn’t he do that to go back in time? Jeez, this margarita’s strong.
I polish it off anyway and swim a few more laps until it occurs to me that people getting drunk at a swim-up bar might not be too discriminating about where they pee. That’s enough swimming for now.
I check my watch as I towel off. The meet-and-greet is in half an hour.
This is it. Showtime.
Promises, Promises
I
show up at six on the dot.
I’m wearing strappy sandals and a mint-green summer dress that skims my knees. I let my hair air-dry into waves, and I caught some sun this afternoon, so my nose has a slight pink glow. I think I look okay, but I’m too nervous to tell. Besides, how exactly is one supposed to look when meeting one’s about-to-be-arranged husband? Hot? Demure? Sane?
The building where I’m going to meet him is . . . shit. Is this really happening? Am I really doing this? And is he . . . Argh! Stop it. Relax. Look at the room. Notice the details. Okay, right. The building resembles an ancient Greek amphitheater: perfectly round, with concentric rings of white concrete steps rising twenty rows high. There’s a flat area in the middle and a bar tucked off to one side. The ceiling is made of white canvas, with spotlights tucked under the peaks illuminating it. It looks pretty and dramatic. Right for what’s about to happen.
The room is pretty full already, and there’s a tense, expectant vibe. The men and women are sitting far apart from each other on the steps. Clearly, no one wants to risk talking to the wrong person.
Ms. Cooper is standing in front of the bar, holding a clipboard. She’s wearing a sand-colored shirtdress. A matching belt is pulled tightly around her small waist. Her hair is down but perfectly in place. I immediately start second-guessing my look.
“Good evening, Ms. Blythe. How are you enjoying your stay?”
Just peachy, thanks. Except for the terrible unending nerves.
“So far, so good.”
She checks my name off the list. “We’ll be getting started as soon as everyone arrives. Please feel free to get a drink from the bar while you wait.”
Good idea.
I order a margarita and sip it as I climb the steps to the next-to-last row. I survey the room. I’ve got a good view of the men as they walk in. So far, I’ve counted three people who could be Jack but who I kind of hope aren’t. Make that four. God, I really hope it’s not that guy.
Damn. What the hell’s wrong with me? I already know Jack doesn’t look like all the men I’ve loved before. That doesn’t mean he’s an ogre or, if he’s not much to look at, he isn’t a great guy who can make me happy.
“Why are you sitting all the way up here?” Margaret asks, bounding up the steps with surprising agility. She’s wearing some sort of Indian sari that she’s fashioned into a dress. It loops around her neck and folds back into itself, ending just above her knees. While the bright red color looks good on her and her already browner skin, the overall effect makes her seem shapeless.
“I’ve never liked sitting in the front row,” I say.
“This isn’t school, silly. No one’s going to call on you.”
I smile and shift over to make room. “What’d you think of that pool?” I ask, still obsessively watching every man walking into the room.
“It was relaxing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I feel really refreshed and, you know, ready.”
“That’s good.”
“What about you?”
Me? I’m trying not to have a heart attack.
“Um . . . I guess so . . .”
“Are you nervous or something?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not really. I
was
nervous the first time I got married. Though, come to think of it, it was probably because I thought I might puke on my dress.”
“How come you’re not nervous this time?”
“Why would I be?”
“You’re joking, right?”
She shrugs. “I trust Blythe and Company.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
Potential Jack Number Five walks into the room and says something to Ms. Cooper. He’s attractive enough, though he looks older than thirty-four.
“Are you trying to figure out if that guy is Jack?”
I tear my eyes away from him. “Guilty.”
“He’s not bad-looking. You could do worse.”
“Are you worried about what Brian looks like?”
She shrugs. “I’ve never been a looks person. I mean, look at me; I can’t really be picky, right?”
I stop myself from nodding in agreement. “I am. A looks person, I mean. Or I have been.”
“Of course you have.”
Before I can ask her what she means, Ms. Cooper clears her throat loudly. “Can I have your attention?” There’s instant silence. “Welcome to Blythe and Company’s Cancún retreat. We hope you’ve found your rooms satisfactory and have been enjoying the facilities. Now, we all know why we’re here, and I imagine you’d like me to get on with it. I’ll call out each couple’s names, one by one. Please come down and join your match. Spend the time between now and dinner together. Dinner is in the Italian restaurant at seven-thirty. We’ll fill you in on more details at that time. Any questions?”
She scans the room, but no one moves. Every face I see looks scared, a reflection of my terrified brain.
“I’ll be here after the matching is done if you want to ask me anything privately.” She looks down at her list. “Stephanie F. and Thierry A.”
Two startled-looking people in their late thirties stand up, walk down the steps, and meet in the center of the room. Thierry A. puts out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Stephanie F. shakes it. Several people laugh nervously. Thierry waves to the crowd, who respond with light applause, and they leave the room together.
“Candice M. and Michael P.” Two more startled-looking people stumble down the stairs and meet in the middle of the ring.
“Amy J. and Olivier G.”
“Tanya B. and Eric P.”
“Annie B. and Phil M.”
“Sara P. and Patrick S.”
God, this is torture! I feel like I did in school when we were picking teams. I knew somebody had to pick me eventually, but it was agony waiting for my name to be called.
“Anne B. and Jack H.”
This is it. I stand up so quickly I almost topple over. I walk cautiously down the stairs and meet Jack H. in the middle of the ring. Despite my avid door-watching, he isn’t one of the men I was scared was Jack. He looks like he’s supposed to—five-ten, light brown hair that tends to curl, green eyes a shade darker than my own. Following the lead of those who came before us, we shake hands. His is dry, warm, and firm. I’m hoping mine isn’t shaking.
“Shall we?” His voice is medium-deep, unaccented. A good voice.
“Sure.”
We leave the amphitheater as Ms. Cooper calls out the next set of names.
“Tasha T. and Chris T.”
“Where do you want to go?” I ask when we get outside. The sun has dropped to the edge of the white buildings. Its still-strong rays lick my shoulders.
“I think there’s an outside bar by one of the pools. How about there?”
“Sounds good.”
“Lead the way.”
“Um . . . can you? I’m kind of directionally challenged.”
He looks amused. “Follow me.”
We walk along a path to the outdoor bar, Jack ahead of me. I study the back of him covertly. From what I can see, there’s an average body underneath his blue madras shirt and slightly rumpled chinos. The back of his neck is pink. He could probably stand to lose ten pounds, but the extra weight is distributed evenly over his body.
The outdoor bar is located in the middle of a large courtyard made of concrete pavers. There’s a buffet station tucked into the back, and large mahogany pillars frame the space. There’s a ceiling made of flowered vines twined through a latticework. White votive candles flicker on round wrought-iron tables. There’s a gentle breeze blowing in off the ocean, tinged with salt.
We find an empty table and sit across from each other in canvas director’s chairs. The bar is half full of couples just matched by Blythe & Company. Their chatter creates a din loud enough for our conversation to remain private.
I study Jack’s face. He has a high forehead and the beginnings of laugh crinkles around his eyes. His nose is small for a man, giving him a boyish look. His teeth are even and white behind his thin lips. A short beard a shade lighter than the hair on his head covers his square chin. Damn. Beards are really not my thing.
We make eye contact, and I realize he’s been giving me the once-over too.
“This is awkward,” he says, smiling nervously.
I smile back, my own nervous tic. “It really is.”
“You know, I don’t even know your last name.” He extends his hand across the table. “I’m Jack Harmer.”
Jack Harmer. I like it. Anne Harmer. Anne Blythe Harmer. Not bad.
Jesus. What am I, twelve?
“I’m Anne Blythe. Pleased to meet you.” I shake his hand for the second time. Still firm, dry, warm. Nice.
“Anne Blythe. Why’s that name familiar to me?”
“You mean besides the Blythe and Company thing?”
“Yeah.”
“I write for
Twist
magazine
.
”
He thinks about it, nodding. “I’ve read some of your stuff. You wrote that piece about arranged marriages, right?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting choice of topics.”
The back of my neck feels hot. “Everyone always says write what you know . . .”
“That’s what they say.”
A waiter arrives to take our drink orders. “
Buenas noches, señor, señorita.
What would you like to drink this evening?”
“
Una cerveza,
” I say.
“
Dos,
” Jack echoes. The waiter leaves. I giggle.
“What?”
“He called me
señorita,
like I’m a young girl.”
“You look young to me.”
“Thanks. I think. You’re a writer too?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What do you write?”
“I mostly write for
Outdoor
magazine, and I’ve published a couple of novels.”
“What kind of novels?”
“Different things. My last book was set during an adventure race.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s this seven-day race that combines running, hiking, rock climbing, and white-water rafting.”
“Have you done that?”
“Sure. That’s what gave me the idea.”
“So, adventure racing,
Outdoor
magazine. I guess you’re an outdoor guy.”
“You could say that. Are you an outdoor girl?”
I think he’s flirting with me. Interesting.
“Sometimes.”
“What does that mean?”
“This is kind of embarrassing.”
He leans toward me. He smells like a mixture of soap and the woods. “Now I need to know.”
The waiter returns with our beers. I sip mine nervously, trying to decide what I should tell him, if anything.
“So, are you going to enlighten me?” Jack asks.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“No big deal. I dated a guy who was into camping, so I spent a lot of time in the woods for a while. But I’m not sure I really like it.”
“I was expecting something much worse.”
“Oh, you were, were you?”
Two can flirt at this game.
“Uh-huh.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That you’ve been a shut-in for the last three years, and the only reason you’re here is that you’re hopped up on enough meds that you can’t tell where you are. Something like that.”
I suppress a laugh. “Oh, yes, right, that’d be the much more obvious thing.”
We smile at each other. He has a nice smile.
“So, is this about the craziest thing you’ve ever done in your life?” he asks.
“Pretty much. You?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Good, because anything crazier would put you in the probably-spent-time-in-a-mental-institution category, and I’m thinking that’s not marriage potential.”
“All of which raises the question . . .”
“What are we doing here?” we say in unison.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I say, surprised at my boldness.
He takes a long drink from his glass. “Well, I’ve been in some long-term relationships that didn’t work out, and I was never really sure why. Plus, I work mostly on my own, so it’s difficult to meet people. I always thought I’d be married with kids by now. One day a friend told me he’d met his wife through Blythe and Company. He’s still married, two cute kids. I thought about it a lot and eventually decided why the hell not?”
“So you’re totally normal?”
He raises his hand to his chest. “I swear, I’m totally normal. What about you?”
What about me? Why the hell
am
I here?
“I ended a long-term relationship with a guy I never should’ve been with, and I realized I never should’ve been with any of the guys I’ve dated. And everyone around me seems to be married, or getting married, and having kids. I want those things and couldn’t see a way to get them without some kind of help.”