“Hello, ladies!” The person walking into the office was…Box.
Nina gasped and Dabney felt so startled at the sight of him that she grabbed the edge of Nina’s desk.
“Darling!” Dabney said. “What are you doing here?”
“I was at home working when I had a revelation,” Box said. “I remembered how much you love that poem by William Carlos Williams, and so I brought you a cold plum.”
Dabney gaped at him. That poem by William Carlos Williams? “This Is Just to Say”-yes, Dabney had always loved that poem. In the years of Agnes’s growing up, a copy of the poem had been taped to the refrigerator door. It was an apology poem-forgive me, they were delicious, so sweet and so cold. Box was holding out the plum and a bottle of chilled Perrier with a silly grin on his face.
Celerie picked that moment to pop out of the back office for her lunch break. “What is this?” she said. She eyed the white-haired man holding the water and the plum. “You aren’t by any chance Professor Beech?”
He gave a little bow. “I am.”
“Your husband!” Celerie said, as though introducing him to Dabney. “And he brought you fruit and water. How lovely!”
Dabney was stymied. What was going on here? She took the plum and the Perrier, and, at a loss for the words to make both Box and Celerie disappear, she bit into the plum. It was succulent, and juice dripped down her chin. From his pocket, Box produced a napkin. He had thought of everything.
“You must be Celerie,” Box said, offering his hand. “I’m John Beech, but please call me Box.”
“My roommate is going to die when I tell her I met you,” Celerie said. “She was an econ major at Penn. She used your textbook!”
Box was used to this kind of godlike status among the collegiate and newly graduated. “I hope she doesn’t actually die.”
Celerie clapped her hands together at her chest, as if prepping for the next cheer. Dabney had to get out of there, but how? She made eyes at Nina, who was nervously sucking on her gold cross.
Nina said, “Dabney, you should go. You’ll be late.”
“Go?” Box said. “Go where? Where do you have to go?”
Nina said, “Dabney has a meeting with a potential Chamber member.”
Dabney had never loved Nina Mobley as much as she did at that very moment. On her way home from seeing Clen, she was going to call and order Nina a fresh bouquet of flowers.
“Really?” Box said. “Who’s the potential member?”
Nina laughed. Dabney thought, Who is the potential member? Nina said, “Oh, who can remember? The phone has been ringing all day.”
“It sure has!” Celerie said, her blond head bobbing.
Box said to Dabney, “Surely you must know whom you’re meeting with.”
“Yes,” Dabney said. She took another bite of the plum, then wiped her lips. “Internet start-up.”
“An Internet start-up is joining the Chamber?”
“Nantucket based,” Dabney said. She threw the plum pit and the napkin into the trash. “I have to go.”
“Cancel your meeting,” Box said. “I’m taking you to lunch at the Yacht Club.”
“Awwww…” Celerie said. “Sweet!”
“I can’t just cancel my meeting,” Dabney said. “I was supposed to leave five minutes ago.”
“Cancel,” Box said. “I’m not asking you.” His voice was stern. This was suddenly a showdown, and Dabney reared up. She didn’t like Box telling her what to do. She didn’t want to cancel her imaginary meeting; she wanted to be with Clen.
Celerie suddenly seemed to realize she was in the middle of something. She signed out on the log, then headed for the stairs. “Toodaloo!”
“Nice meeting you!” Box called out after her. Box checked the log. “You wrote ‘errands’ on the log,” he said. “I thought you had a meeting.”
“I do,” Dabney said weakly. “I was going to run errands after my meeting.”
To Nina, Box said, “Nina, please cancel Dabney’s ‘meeting.’ I’m taking my wife to lunch.”
Dabney wasn’t able to text Clen until nearly ninety minutes later, after she had suffered through lunch at the Yacht Club. In reality, lunch at the Yacht Club was lovely-a table outside overlooking the harbor while Diane played standards on the piano, a blue crab and avocado salad, iced tea for Dabney and a glass of white Bordeaux for Box, children wearing life preservers headed out for their sailing lessons, couples in white coming off the tennis courts sweaty and chuckling. Dabney wished she could relax and enjoy it, but it was all she could do to keep her toe from impatiently tapping. She wanted to text Clen at the very least to tell him she couldn’t make it; she hated to think of him sitting on the porch in the granny rocker, waiting in vain. He had probably made sandwiches and possibly margaritas; Dabney had tucked her bathing suit into her bag, anticipating a swim in the pool.
Every man and woman over the age of eighty who was eating lunch at the Yacht Club wanted to stop and talk to Box and Dabney. All of them wore hearing aids, hence much of each conversation had to be repeated two or three times. These were friends of her father’s and the parents of her old summer friends and some were acquaintances of Box’s who wanted to know why their investments were doing so poorly. Box was an economist! Dabney wanted to scream. He dealt in theory! If people wondered about their investments, they should call their stockbrokers!
“Dessert?” Box asked.
“God, no,” Dabney said. “I have to get back to work.”
She texted Clen: Sorry, Beast, I got ensnared in a situation I couldn’t get out of. Can I come see you at five o’clock?
Clen texted back: I have plans at five o’clock.
Clendenin
He was like a starving man standing at a groaning board. He had to keep from stuffing his face like a glutton. He wanted to know everything about Agnes. When had she learned to ride a bike? Who had taught her piano lessons? What book had changed her life? Had his name ever been mentioned around the house? What kind of movies did she like? Why Dartmouth and not Harvard, where the economist taught and Dabney had gone? What size shoe did she wear? Did she sneeze in sets of three like he did?
“Yes,” she said to this last question. “Actually, I do.”
And they laughed.
She wanted to know about Vietnam and Cambodia and Thailand, his life there. Twenty years, and yet his lasting memories were few, and they were general rather than specific-the oppressive heat, the air so thick it was like agar or jelly, you could practically chew it. The stink of diesel fuel and cigarette smoke. The trash, the traffic, the seemingly endless streams of people, so many people, how did one distinguish himself?
Babies on motorbikes, young girls in brothels, the same question repeating on ticker tape through Clen’s mind: Who is in charge here?
Clen said, “Tell me about your fiancé.”
Agnes
She wasn’t sure what to tell Clen about her fiancé, who was technically no longer her fiancé. Agnes had sent the ring back by Federal Express with a note that said, “I’m not sure what I want. Please don’t call or text me. I need time to think. I will call you when I return to New York on the first of September.” She had tracked the package; it had arrived the afternoon before, and there had, surprisingly, been no phone calls to either her cell phone or the house. He was respecting her wishes. Training camp for his NFL players was less than a week away; CJ was probably busy trying to finalize a deal for Bantam Killjoy. There might not be room for hurt feelings about Agnes. He might look at the ring and think that Agnes clearly didn’t know a good thing when she saw one, that she was being influenced by her evil witch of a mother; he would take the ring and give it to the next woman he dated, after he wooed her with presents and flowers and his special table at Nougatine.