“That sounds pretty rough,” she said sympathetically, but he no longer looked upset. It had been a long time. Maybe too long. “Do you have kids?”
“One. My son is twenty-seven, lives in New York, and has two little girls. I'm a grandfather, which I still have trouble believing sometimes. But the girls are awfully cute. They're two and four. With another one on the way.” At forty-eight and as good-looking as he was, he didn't look like a grandfather to her.
They chatted about other things then, traveling and favorite cities, languages they spoke and wished they did. Paris spoke a smattering of French. Chandler said he was fluent in Spanish. He had lived in Buenos Aires for two years as a young man. Favorite restaurants in New York. He even asked about her name, which had always seemed silly to her. Her parents had honeymooned in Paris, and had conceived her there. So they had named her after their favorite city. He said it was exotic and looked properly amused. With a practiced hand, he kept the conversation light. He was good company, and on the way back to the office in the Ferrari, he told her he flew his own plane, with a copilot of course. It was a G4. And he offered to take her up in it sometime. He told her when he dropped her off that he'd love to see her again, maybe they could have dinner later that week, and she told him that she had to work. He just smiled, and kissed her on the cheek before he left. And then in a roar from the engine, he sped away as Paris walked up the stairs. Bix was doing sketches at his desk.
“Well?”
“I think you're right. I don't even know why I went. I don't want to date. So what's the point?”
“Practice for when you grow up. You will one day. Unless you want to be a nun.”
“It's a thought.”
“So?”
“He was married for twelve years, has been divorced for fourteen. And he just hasn't met the right woman to make him want to marry again. How do you like that?”
“I don't,” Bix said, looking cool. After knowing her for a week, he already felt protective of her. She needed it, more than anyone he knew. And he wanted to do that for her. She was a babe in the woods. And by all rights she should still have been happily married in Greenwich, but she wasn't. Thanks to Peter. Who had Rachel. Now Bix wanted her to have someone too.
“He has one son, and two granddaughters and another one on the way. He lived in Buenos Aires for two years. And he flies his own plane. Oh, and his wife had an affair with his best friend while they were married, and ran off with him, hence the divorce. And that was about it.”
“Very good.” Bix smiled at her. “Did you take notes, or did you remember all that?”
“I recorded it on a device in my shoe,” she said, grinning. “So what do you think? My shrink says it doesn't matter if he's a shit, he could introduce me to his friends.”
“Who are probably shits too. Professional daters stick together. They hate married couples, they think
they're bourgeois and dumb.”
“Oh. So? Is he? A professional dater, I mean.”
“Maybe. Be careful. Did he ask you out again?”
“He suggested dinner later this week. I said I had to work.”
“Do you like him?”
“Sort of. He's interesting and intelligent, and very sophisticated. I just don't know if he's nice.”
“Neither do I, that's what you have to watch. Give him a chance, but a very small one. Protect yourself, Paris. That's what counts.”
“This is a lot of work.”
“But it's worth it. Unless you want to be a nun.”
“I'll give it some thought.”
“The habits are ugly these days, remember that. No more Audrey Hepburn and Ingrid Bergman in flowing robes. They're short and polyester, and the hairdos suck.” She laughed, shook her head, and went back to her desk. And later that afternoon Chandler sent her flowers. Two dozen red roses, with a note. “Thanks for taking the time off from work. I had a great lunch. See you soon. CF.” Bixby looked at the flowers and read the note and shook his head.
“He's a pro. Nice roses though.” Bixby was tough on her behalf. She sent Chandler a thank-you note and forgot about him. For the rest of the week, in anticipation of Valentine's Day, they were swamped. Every client they had wanted to send someone something creative, even if it was their mother, or their sister in Des Moines. And the romantic ones were the worst. He had to come up with some stroke of genius for each one of them, but he always did. And they still had two parties to work on.
On Thursday Chandler called again. And asked her for dinner on Saturday night.
“I'm sorry, Chandler, I can't. I have to work.”
“Do you know what day that is?” he asked pointedly.
“Yes, I do. Valentine's Day. But I still have to work.” If she hadn't been in this business now, she would have been trying to forget. She was glad she'd be working. She and Peter always went out to dinner, and had the year before, although he'd been seeing Rachel, she knew now. She wondered how he'd handled that. However he had at the time, he had taken care of it permanently in May. This year he'd be with Rachel.
