Inga Berg and Valerie Lathem. Both Blend customers. Both attractive young women. Both seemingly had everything to live for — yet both had committed suicide within weeks of each other.
Coincidence?
I’d once heard Mike Quinn say, “In my business, there are no coincidences.” And thinking of Quinn made me remember he’d been called to a crime scene the night of our dinner — and the night of our dinner was the night Inga had killed herself.
As Nan passed out small Hello Kitty notepads and pencils to everyone, I wondered if that was the reason I hadn’t seen Mike. Had he been assigned to investigate Inga’s suicide?
By the time Nan was done, Tucker had reappeared with the twentieth woman, Kira Kirk. She seemed a bit apprehensive, still clutching her crossword puzzle book. As usual, her hair was in its long gray braid, but she’d probably stopped in after a consulting appointment because she was dressed much nicer than usual — in a tailored black pantsuit rather than her usual oversized sweaters and jeans. And she was wearing makeup, too. She looked quite pretty, actually, and I was glad to see her up here.
My eyebrows rose at Tucker and he just shrugged. As Nan took Kira to a seat across the room, I motioned him over again.
“How did you manage to persuade her?” I whispered.
“Free, unlimited cappuccinos for two weeks, that’s how.”
“You’ll have five minutes to get to know each other,” announced Nan. With the women already seated, she quickly paired the men and women randomly. “When you hear the timer, shake hands and the gentlemen must then move one seat to the right. You then have a new five minutes to get to know the next person. There are twenty men and twenty women in this room, which means this session will last two hours. You’ll have fresh cappuccinos delivered to you during the course of the night; and don’t worry, we’ll take a few breaks so you can visit the little girls’ and little boys’ rooms!”
I just knew I wouldn’t get through this night without hearing Nan’s rules for the little girls’ and boys’ rooms.
“Okay, remember, five minutes!” cried Nan excitedly, setting the dial on an old-fashioned kitchen timer. “On your marks, get set, go!”
Seven
Mr. Slick.
Mr. Jock.
Mr. Type A.
Mr. Freeloader.
Mr. Superficial Artsy.
Mr. Far Too Old.
Mr. FunnyBook Boy.
Mr. Cabby/Musician.
Mr. Mama’s Boy.
Mr. Moviefone.
Mr. Wall Street.
Mr. Borderline Clinically Depressed.
Okay. I know it’s demeaning to reduce people to single-phrase descriptions, but what can I say? I’d been reduced to twenty separate five-minute “McMeetings” with twenty different men — and our hostess had given me a Hello Kitty notepad and pencil. So how else could I keep track?
Besides, label-writing was in my blood. I’d done it for years growing up in Pennsylvania, helping my immigrant Italian grandmother jar her tomatoes and peaches every August.
Consequently, given a uniform process, I couldn’t see why selecting potential dates had to be any more complicated a recipe than preserving fruit. I simply pictured each man’s face on a canning jar with a succinctly written summation of his chief identifying traits.
In any event, I was still reeling from the news that two of my customers, attractive and intelligent young women, had killed themselves within weeks of each other. And my only child was sitting on the other side of the room, ready to offer herself to one of these potential heartbreakers.
I looked at each with a mother’s critical eye and the underlying question, “Okay, which of you jokers actually thinks in your wildest dreams that you’re good enough to play with my daughter’s affections?”
Scorecard at the ready, I showed no mercy.
Currently at bat was an attractive, well-groomed, well-dressed blond in his early twenties with the nametag “Percy.” Graphic designer. Well educated. Good potential for my Joy.
“Okay, Percy, are you on any drugs or medication?” I asked him.
His gray green eyes widened. “No…well, just an anti-histamine for my allergies.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Uh.” He blinked. “No.”
“Are you sure? I saw that blink.”
“Well,” he admitted, “when I was seventeen, I was swept up in a police raid of a club that allowed underage drinking. But that was it. Really.”
I nodded. It sounded innocent enough. Next question: “What made you come here tonight?”
The young man crossed and uncrossed his legs, then nervously tapped one foot. “Well, I’ve been dating around on-line, you know? LoungeLife.com and SinglesNYC mostly, but nothing serious came out of those encounters, so I decided to try this. My last long-term relationship lasted for a little over two years though.”
“What was the reason for the breakup?”
“Oh, we just weren’t communicating. But mostly, he was insanely jealous, and I couldn’t take it anymore. One of those high I.Q., high-strung types. Know what I mean?”
“Where do you see yourself in five years — ” I stopped and looked up from the pink notepad. “Wait. You mean
“No.”
“You’re telling me you were dating a man?”
“Yes.”
I frowned. “But tonight you’re looking for a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you familiar with the term
“Aren’t you familiar with the movie
“Okay, now your sounding like my ex, forever telling me to pick a team.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
“It’s my life.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Not if you involve another person in it and then change your mind.”
“That’s harsh.”
“No, honey, that’s a mother’s point of view — the truth is, I’m screening you guys for my daughter, not myself.”
“Oh,” said the young man. His gaze shifted, first to my ringless left hand and then to my outfit.
I’d wanted to fit in tonight, so I dressed in what I felt was appropriate — high-heeled black boots, black stockings, and a form-fitting dark green burnt-velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline. Nothing too upscale or down.
“But you’re not married, right?” Percy said, gesturing to my left hand. “And you’re pretty much a hottie, if you don’t mind my saying so. Why not look for yourself while you’re at it?” He gave me a flirty little smile.
“Thanks. Really. But I’m too old for this. And for you,” I added gently.
“Nonsense. Haven’t you heard of ‘tadpoling’?”
