Matchmaking for Beginners(71)

“Well,” I say. “What about this? What if you sent him the flowers and a card that says, ‘Thanks for the strong swimmers! We got a hit!’”

They look at each other and grin. And then the first woman grabs the pen and writes my message on the card, and they both give me a high five.

After they leave, the next man in line orders a gigantic bouquet. The cashier, who by now has chattily told me that her name is Dorothy and that she’s actually the owner of the shop, is trying to get his bouquet just right. He’s kind of grim faced and unhappy looking, with such a muddy aura. Then the woman in line behind him laughs and says to him, “Wow, dude! Tell me this: Are you in trouble at home, or are you just a fantastic person?”

I see Dorothy flinch a little, and the man looks down at his shoes and mumbles in a low, dreadful voice: “Not in trouble. My wife died of breast cancer two months ago, and every Friday I put a bouquet on her grave.”

There’s a horrible silence as he reaches over and takes the bouquet. Dorothy thanks him and squeezes his hand. Nobody knows where to look, and I don’t know who I feel sorrier for—the woman customer or him. She’s turned the color of wax paper, and she tries to say something to him, tries to apologize, but he roughly turns away, and walks out, head down, ignoring all of us.

“Whew,” somebody says. Dorothy mops her forehead.

“You didn’t know,” I say to the woman.

She puts her head in her hands. “Why am I always, always doing this kind of thing? I shouldn’t be allowed out of the house! What is wrong with me?”

“You didn’t mean any harm,” I say. “He knows that. He would have been nicer about the whole thing except that he’s a wreck just now.”

“That’s it. I am taking a vow of silence,” she tells me. Dorothy says, “Aw, you don’t have to do that. It’s all going to be okay. People gotta get through as best they can, you know?”

“Come over here and smell these gardenias,” I say. “They’ll change your brain chemistry.”

“They will?” the woman says, and I shrug. I really have no idea. I tell her they might. She laughs. As soon as she’s gone, along with all the other customers and their problems, Dorothy turns to me and says, “So when can you start?”

“Start what?”

“Working here. Can I get you to take a job here?”

“Well . . .” I look around. Really? Should I go to work? And then I know that I definitely should. I’ll get to come here every day and smell flowers and talk to people. “I’m afraid I really don’t know much about arranging flowers,” I say.

Dorothy shrugs. “Flowers, schmowers. I can teach you that. What I’m needing is a listen-to-the-story person. When can you start?”

“Well. Okay,” I tell her. “I could start tomorrow, I guess.”

She comes around the counter and hugs me. She has a slight limp, and straight gray hair pushed back off her face, and a sweet, sweet smile that transforms her tired eyes. “Come tomorrow at ten, okay? We can go over some things. I can’t pay a lot, but we’ll figure out something. Part-time okay?”

“Yes. Yes, part-time is great!”

I’m halfway down the block before I remember I need to tell her something critical—so I hurry back to the shop and call out to her.

“Dorothy! One thing: I’m moving away at the end of the year! So this is temporary. Is that okay?”

She comes out, holding on to a rose stem. “What? Oh! No, that doesn’t matter a bit,” she says. “Whatever.”

And that appears to be that. I’m employed.

I write to Patrick:

Studying Brooklyn today with Jessica as my teacher. Pizzas are pies! Metro is subway. Convenience store is a bodega. #whoknew

Youse are doing awesome. Watch out, or soon you’ll be saying fuggedaboutit.

Also I accidentally may have gotten a job in a flower shop.

I didn’t know people could accidentally turn into florists. Are you happy about this?

I think so. I also think I need to go do a bunch of New York things. Carnegie Hall, jazz clubs, Brooklyn Bridge, Empire State Building, Broadway show, Times Square.

(Patrick shuddering involuntarily, can barely type) Report back. I’ll be cheering you on from the curmudgeon seats inside my dungeon.

You wouldn’t come?

Marnie? Hello? I thought I explained to you that I’m an introvert. #ugly #recluse #irredeemablymisanthropic

And what is there to say to that, except what I do say, which is:

Open your door when you get a chance. I’ve left you a present. A pitiful attempt to make up for your beautiful sculpture that I smashed. Though nothing ever can, I know.

Marnie, Marnie, Marnie. You didn’t have to do this. That sculpture was from another time. Another Patrick who doesn’t exist anymore. Not worth thinking about. You did me a favor. #outwithold





TWENTY-NINE





MARNIE


One evening, as I’m putting away the supper dishes and Noah is sitting at the table scrolling through his phone, he says, “I just want you to know that losing you was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

I look out the window at the lights of Brooklyn. I can see right into other people’s apartments—see them gesturing; a man and woman are talking in one window; in another, a man is lifting a barbell high into the air. My stomach has dropped to my knees.