Gentle as Spring

I was trying to talk a client out of canceling his second date when Celia slid a manila folder across my desk and said, "You're going to have coffee with someone." I kept my headset on. "I'm on the phone." "I can see that." "I'm earning my paycheck." "You can do both." On the other end of the call, Mr. Haskell sighed. "I don't know, Mara. She seemed nice, but I'm not sure there was a spark." I held up one finger at Celia. She took the folder back, opened it, and set a photograph on top. "I'd give it one more date," I told Mr. Haskell. "Not because you owe her anything. Because you had a good conversation and you're judging the whole evening by the first ten minutes. You said she made you laugh." "She did." "Then ask her to dinner. Somewhere you can hear each other." He was quiet. I could hear the tapping of his fingers against his desk. "All right," he said at last. "I'll ask." When I hung up, Celia tapped the photograph. "That was an excellent example of you being brave on behalf of strangers." "I was not brave. I was persuasive." "Exactly." The photo showed a man in a faded blue work shirt, standing in front of a half-restored theater. He had dark hair that curled at his temples and a narrow scar near his chin. His smile looked reluctant, as if the person taking the picture had caught him before he could duck out of frame. "Theo Mercer," Celia said. "Thirty-two. He restores old buildings. Quiet, thoughtful, excellent with his hands." I looked up. "You're setting me up with a client?" "He's not a client. He's a friend of one." "That distinction will be comforting when I'm filling out the paperwork." "You won't be filling out paperwork. You'll be having coffee." I glanced at the file. "You know I don't date people you arrange for me." "You don't date anyone." "I've had dates." "Name one from the last year." "That isn't the point." "No," she agreed. "The point is that you've been here for five years, and you still act like saying, 'Would you like to get coffee?' is an invitation to be thrown off a bridge." I shifted in my chair. Beyond Celia, Pairwell's glass-walled meeting rooms reflected a gray October morning. Our small agency occupied the second floor of an old brick building in Bellwether, a fictional-looking coastal town that had decided to keep its weather and lose its factories. I had joined Pairwell as an assistant, moved into client support, and learned to spot the difference between a bad date and a bad match. In our monthly staff report, I had a zero under personal introductions. I had not asked anyone to change that. "Why him?" I asked. "Because he's kind. Because he's single. Because he asked me if I knew anyone who liked old movies and didn't need to fill every silence." "And you thought of me?" "I did." "Did you tell him about my zero?" "No." Celia's expression softened. "I told him you were funny, good at your job, and sometimes too careful with your own life." "That's worse." "He can decide for himself." I pushed the photo back. "I'm not a charity project." "I know." "Do you?" She left the photo where it was. "He said yes to coffee. You can say no." That should have settled it. It didn't. The offer felt less like an open door than a hand at my back. I closed the folder. "I'll think about it." "Fine. Think until tomorrow. Then tell me yes or no. Not 'I'll see.'" She walked away before I could find a better answer. ***** At home, I put the photograph on my kitchen counter and made pasta I barely tasted. I lived alone in a narrow third-floor apartment above a bakery, where the radiators knocked at night and the sweet smell of cinnamon came up through the floorboards. It was not a bad life. I liked the quiet. I liked having my own keys, my own bills, my own evening plans. I also knew what had brought me to Pairwell in the first place. At twenty-five, I'd stood in the doorway of a friend's birthday party and watched a man I liked leave with someone else. I'd spent months telling myself I would ask him out next time. There had been no next time. After that, I'd discovered that I could give other people the exact words to say and still lose mine whenever I wanted something. I picked up the photo. The theater behind Theo was called the Marlowe. I knew it from Pairwell's charity events, where we'd rented the lobby for holiday mixers. It had red velvet seats and a ceiling painted with pale gold stars. The place had been closed for years, but the marquee still held the outlines of missing letters. I turned the photo over. Celia had written his number on the back. I could text him. I could decline. I could let the decision disappear until tomorrow, then tell Celia I'd been busy. Instead, I put the photo face down and went to bed. At 6:12 the next morning, I turned it over again.