Matchmaking for Beginners(82)

So I leave him to ramble with his thoughts. He drifts over to the orchids in the cooler and stands with his hands in his pockets, looking at the tight little roses, and then he moves along to gaze for a while at the feathered greenery, and then his eyes suddenly swerve over to me. I look down at the counter quickly.

He clears his throat, and I smile at him. Our eyes meet.

“I guess I’m not ready,” he says abruptly.

And, just like that, he leaves the store.

If I were a different sort of person—if I were, say, Blix—perhaps I would run to the door and call after him. Perhaps I would say, “Oh, but, sir, no one ever thinks of themselves as ready. From the look of you, you are ripe right this minute.”

But I am me, Marnie MacGraw. And so he slips away, down the street.

Two months ago today I was with her when she died.

I’m walking home from Best Buds, and it’s dark now that we’re back on Eastern Standard Time. I have to walk fast because it’s freaking cold. But this text stops me in my tracks. I lean against a mailbox and type:

I need to talk about her. Can I come down?

No. Well, maybe. Yes. OK.

That seems to cover all the possibilities. I tell you what: I’ll bring a chicken because I’m starving.

I wait to see what he’ll say, and when he doesn’t say anything, I stop at Paco’s and pick up a rotisserie chicken, some mashed potatoes, and broccoli rabe. Paco, standing behind the high counter near the front of the store, is almost giddy with happiness tonight, but he says he can’t tell me why. Not yet but soon. Still, he comes around the counter and hugs me when he gives me the bag of food.

“How many people you feeding tonight? Just you—or you and that . . . bandito?” He makes a face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that.”

“Who’s the bandito? Oh, you mean Noah? Noah is Blix’s grandnephew, Paco.”

“I don’t like him.” He turns to his assistant, George, who’s squatting down stocking the shelves, and George laughs.

“Nobody like him,” George says. “Even Blix didn’t like him.”

“Are you kidding me?” Paco says. “Blix for sure didn’t like him.” Then he says, “We gotta stop this kind of talk. Marnie—she like him fine. Sorry.”

“Well, it’s not him I’m eating with anyway,” I say. “It’s Patrick.”

“Ohhh, Patrick!” they say in unison and then they exchange glances.

“What? What about Patrick?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. You go see Patrick. Here, extra potatoes. Patrick need potatoes. And here’s a bone for your doggie. Tell Patrick I got the special almond flour he wants. And the Irish butter.”

“I’ll pay for them and take them over to him. It’ll save him a trip.”

George laughs a little. “You mean, it saves me a trip.”

“Patrick no comes here,” says Paco. “We take to him.”

“Oh,” I say. “Of course.”

Patrick lets me in when I ring the bell. I notice he’s not wearing his hoodie tonight, which gives him a welcoming look, much less ominous than usual. Also, Roy runs right over to say hi—a function of the chicken I’m carrying, no doubt. Still, I feel as though they’re both happy to see me for once. The lobster incident must have been forgiven.

The place smells like something amazing is about to come out of the oven.

“Vanilla cheesecake,” he tells me. “My old standard.”

I give him the almond flour and the butter, and he looks like a kid at Christmas. “This butter is the best! Let me pay you for these,” he says, but I wave him off and take everything into the kitchen.

Then, as happens sometimes, I suddenly remember that I am a dog owner. And that you have to let dogs out. Often. I’ve learned this the hard way. Also, he needs company. He gets lonely.

I look at Patrick apologetically. “I need to go take Bedford for a little walk, and then I’ll come right back. You can start eating if you want. I know it’s late.”

“No, no. I’ll wait for you.”

“Well, thanks. I’ll hurry!”

Bedford is frantically happy to see me, way happier than anything I can imagine Roy doing, even at his best. I take him out of the crate and he races to the front door, his ears flying. So I clip the leash onto his collar, and we go sailing down the front steps—the stoop—and he tears over to the little patch of dirt near the gingko tree and lets loose a long stream of pee. Then he has about fifty things that require sniffing and some items he has to stop and chew, like a candy wrapper and a piece of somebody’s shoe. I take these things away from him and he briefly considers whether we know each other well enough for me to take those kinds of liberties. But I win because I know the secret phrase, and I’m not afraid to use it: “Do you want to EAT? Do you want to go inside and EAT? Eat??”

And boy, does he ever! We go racing up the stairs and back into the house, and I feed him in the kitchen. Some dry kibble mixed with a little meaty wet food that smells awful. I clock his eating time at thirty-six seconds, and then I tell him the bad news.

“You have to go back in the crate, my dear friend.”

He lies down with his head on his paws and makes his eyes look round and innocent.

“I know. But it’s only for a little while. It’s because Patrick is worried you would eat his cat.”