ELIZABETH SAW HIM before he saw her. She lingered at the condiments station, clearing away the milk stains and sugar granules left by previous customers to observe him a little longer. Okay, fine: he was unusually good-looking, even by L.A. standards. You could practically cut yourself on that jawline, she thought. Cheekbones too. His face may as well have been carved from marble, his nose was so straight, his forehead so perfectly smooth. True, his mouth ruined the illusion partially by curling a little at the edges—even while at rest—and he had sweeping, crescent lashes no man had any business having, but why hide it? He was striking. Or as striking as someone wearing the same ripped and dirty jeans from four days earlier could be. Hello, old friends. At least he’d changed his shirt. This one was a little thinner, a little tighter, showing off a lean, lightly muscled build that either came naturally or had been acquired with great discipline, and she was willing to bet he rarely saw the inside of a gym. There was an aura of effortless, even careless health about him—the way he kept thumping his leg against the floor, for instance—the by-product of a hyperactivity she remembered now from their meeting, a cheerful energy, more brisk than manic, the boyish vigor of playground antics and long afternoons in the sun.
There was no use denying it. If this were a party, or—God forbid—some sort of singles mixer, he was hands down the unlikeliest person for her to approach on this sun-drenched, jam-packed terrace in the middle of the day. But this is precisely what she did now, drawing in her breath and striding forward like an actress who’d been waiting in the wings and was finally making her grand entrance center stage.
The sun blinded her—a spotlight gone awry—and she paused, unsure of her mark, flailing already for her opening line.
What the hell am I doing here? she asked herself.
WHEN RICHARD CAUGHT sight of her, she was blinking into the sun, a ceramic cup the size of a cereal bowl hoisted in front of her like a shield. His right leg thumped a little harder, a little higher. It was he who had e-mailed, and insisted they at least meet to talk things over. Urth Caffe had been his idea, a busy spot below Wilshire in Beverly Hills, one of his favorite neighborhoods, so different from its popular depiction in movies like Pretty Woman (Julia Roberts sashaying down Rodeo Drive, oversize shopping bags dripping off her arms). The real thing was cozier, more like a village center back east: a walkable grid of streets whose buildings were crammed together so tightly, it wouldn’t have surprised him if one of them buckled one day like an overcrowded tooth shifting sideways. Tiny cafés and restaurants spilled, European-style, onto sidewalks crammed with pedestrians (a rarity in L.A.), and yet there was none of the darkness or dirt that stuck to other city blocks. The sun shined more brightly here thanks to the white façades of high-end jewelry and clothing boutiques. This was where the fussy geriatric crowd came for old-school breakfasts at Nate ’n Al and ornate lunches at La Scala. In the afternoon, packs of Persian-American preteens released from school prowled the streets trailing tailwinds of designer scent, while overworked talent agents from the surrounding office buildings zoomed past them in fancy suits. Even now, on a Saturday, Richard saw a few of these industry types dotting the terrace, clad in workout gear and toiling away at “weekend reads” on their iPads and Kindles. I should be reading too, he thought, lifting his hand to wave at her, but he hadn’t read a thing since the meeting at the lawyer’s office. He had gotten past his initial shock, though. Before returning to his car in the mall parking lot, he and Mike had already concocted a nickname for the whole ridiculous situation: “The Decent Proposal,” which was a twist on Indecent Proposal, of course, which they’d hate-watched recently on DVD (he owned a copy, though he had no idea why). The next day, a Wednesday, he called his mom in a rare violation of their Sunday routine, which usually consisted of a brief summary of his week (briefer than ever, recently), followed by a maternal roundup of hometown gossip and political outrage punctuated at some point by an obligatory three-minute interlude from his father checking in on his health, his finances, and his car, always in that order. (All three were invariably “fine Dad, fine.”) The Wednesday call had been an aberration. Richard knew his accountant father would still be at work, but his stay-at-home mom had been—true to her profession—at home, and after telling her in a breathless manner about the Decent Proposal, he sat back, enjoying the stunned silence. He could practically hear the gears whirring inside her head.
“You’re not actually considering it?” she asked him finally.
“Why not?” he asked, playing dumb for his own amusement.
“Because it isn’t safe!” she wailed.
Richard’s amusement turned instantly to exasperation: a conjuring trick only his mother was capable of performing. He huffed like a five-year-old. When Richard was five, he remembered looking up—literally up—to impossibly tall high schoolers, wondering what it would feel like to be all grown up like them. Somewhere in his junior year he realized his error: college was where adulthood truly began. So it was during his graduation ceremony at Amherst that he readjusted his expectations once again, assuring himself that at some point in his twenties it would happen: that magical moment when he would become an adult. And now here he was, on the cusp of thirty fucking years old and still he felt like a child, especially in moments like this—of involuntary petulance directed toward the loving mother he knew only wanted what was best for him. And yet he could do nothing to stop himself. The phone call had ended unsatisfactorily on both sides, and when his parents had called him a few hours later he wasn’t surprised, though the last time they’d gotten on the line together like this was to tell him his grandmother had died.
“Is this an intervention?” he joked.
“We’re just concerned, Richie,” his mother began. “It’s so odd. You don’t even know this woman—”
“She doesn’t know me either.”
“If you really need the money,” his father cut in, “maybe we can figure something out.”
“I’m fine,” snapped Richard.
“So you always say. You win the lottery or something? Not tell us?”
“Maybe we should fly out there,” his mother suggested.
“That’s stupid,” he said. “You were just here.” His parents always visited him in April to bridge the gap between his holiday and summer visits to Massachusetts—visits they paid for, since he was unable to cover the airfare himself. “Stop worrying,” he commanded them. “It’s not like I made up my mind or anything.”
And yet it was only after making this statement that he realized he had made up his mind. Because obviously they had to do it. Obviously. It was almost too good to be true . . . but only almost. Richard was already imagining the wide eyes and open mouths he’d leave in his wake for the next year and beyond; he’d become the best general meeting in town. Maybe he’d even spin the Decent Proposal into a movie. He had no idea who had chosen him, or why, but he felt certain he’d been chosen wisely and he was eager to reap his reward—not only for the money, but for the adventure, for the story, in a life that had been stagnant for too long.
WHEN ELIZABETH COULD see again, he was beckoning excitedly with one hand raised high. Some of the people at the tables around him were looking at her too. She guessed they were idly curious to see who belonged to the good-looking stranger. This, then, was what it was like to be one of those people, the ones whom others noticed in a crowd. A flair of excitement licked greedily at her insides, nearly causing her to spill her cappuccino. Calm down, she urged herself, unwilling to betray her unobserved life, her unmolested freedom. It was the weekend, and for once she didn’t have to go into the office; she should have been spending her precious free time on a long skate down the Boardwalk, or surfing in the ocean, or simply lazing, catlike, in her Venice bungalow with the latest obscure Victorian author to catch her fancy (Gissing, at the moment). Contrary to what her coworkers thought, there was a lot to occupy La Máquina’s spare time. It’s just coffee, she reminded herself, not for the first time since responding to Richard Baumbach’s e-mail. She’d be back at home in an hour or two at most.
RICHARD WATCHED HER as she walked toward him. She was wearing a loose, collared shirt and calf-length khakis, a curiously formal outfit for the weekend, especially in L.A., where no one other than the aforementioned agents ever really dressed up. (This was one of many things Richard loved about the city, and he took great joy in dressing like a slob at all times.) There would be no ogling her breasts today, but he still couldn’t help remarking on her ample, curvy shape. Voluptuous. Now there was a word he almost never used out here, though as she drew closer he saw it didn’t quite fit her either. Voluptuous women invited attention, and even though Elizabeth Santiago was on the tall side (but not too tall; he still had a few inches on her), there was a defensive hunch to her shoulders that annulled her height, and a hint of what was commonly known as RBS (Resting Bitchface Syndrome) warping her otherwise amiable features: a high forehead (crinkled), snub nose (nostrils flared), and generous lips (pinched into submission). Her dark hair, which had been up in the lawyer’s office, was in a ponytail now, and while it was surprisingly long, almost tickling the small of her back, it was so tight it actually added to the overall severity of her appearance. He never would have chatted her up if she were a stranger, for fear of an icy reception.
She had arrived at his table.
“HEYYYYYYYY,” HE SAID, drawing out the syllable nervously, hoping it came across the opposite way.
“Hey,” she said, balancing her gargantuan mug on the minuscule table, noticing his iced black coffee was more than halfway gone already. She sat down.
“So . . . ,” he began, before realizing he didn’t know how to begin at all.
“So.” She leaned back, crossing her arms.
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” he asked her, grinning.
Elizabeth felt a tugging at her lips. His energy was infectious. Already she felt a little overstimulated, and made a mental note to go easy on the cappuccino. There was only one way to answer his question, however:
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
He threw his head back—actually threw it back, as if his neck were on a spring—and let his laughter rip. It’s wasn’t that funny, she wanted to tell him, glancing uneasily at the tables around them. But his laughter ended as abruptly as it started, and when his head snapped back into place she was surprised to see his handsome features engulfed in red. He’s more nervous than I am, she realized.
“Honestly I have no idea what to say,” he confessed. “This is weird, right?”
She nodded.
“I mean, do you have a boyfriend?”
Elizabeth drew back, as if stung. This was among a handful of questions she dreaded, though usually it was implied rather than asked outright, and almost always by another woman. She couldn’t blame him, though. A significant other would complicate the situation. Maybe he was asking because he had one of his own.
“No,” she said, doing everything in her power to keep from sounding surly or defensive. “You?”
“A boyfriend? Nah.” He snorted. Sometimes people thought he was gay, not that he minded in the least. “No girlfriend either.”
Elizabeth wasn’t the only stranger he wouldn’t dare approach. An instinctive fear of rejection honed during his gawkier years had rendered Richard a bit of a coward when it came to the opposite sex. Like many he relied on alcohol to break down his inhibitions, and when he was drunk he always went home with someone, if that was what he wanted to do. But he never particularly cared to see these women again, and over the years he’d acquired a reputation he didn’t half mind as king of the one-night stands, which of course led to even more one-night stands. He’d had exactly one serious relationship, but that had been in college—ages ago—and he was in no rush to settle down. No one really took him seriously anymore when it came to matters of the heart—including himself.
“Maybe they picked us because they knew we were single,” he said. “Personally—”
He edged his chair closer, as if imparting a great confidence.
“—I think it might be a reality show.”
“Oh God, do you think?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened with horror. The thought had never occurred to her.
“Well,” he backpedaled, “I’m not sure how they’d film it unless a crew followed us every week, and it doesn’t sound like that’s part of the plan. Plus, even if they did, they’d have to get our consent before they aired anything. So I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Do you work in reality?” she asked politely, lifting her mug with both hands.
“God no,” he said. “I do some scripted TV, mainly film.”
“Oh, are you an actor?”
She took a longer sip than needed to mask her agitation. Please don’t be an actor, she begged him inside her head.
“God no,” he repeated, flushing again, but with pleasure this time. “I’m a producer.”
Could be worse, she thought, while asking, “Oh, really?” in her best cocktail-banter voice.
“Yeah. I have a movie coming out in a few months. Fight on a Flight, starring Duke Rifferson?” This was only half-true. The head of the production company Richard and Keith had abandoned was the real producer of the movie, but due to their (infinitesimal) involvement in the selling of the script five years earlier, they’d managed to secure low-rent “associate producer” credits on the screen. Everyone in Hollywood embellished their accomplishments this way; it was helpful to trot out technically accurate, impressive facts like this to keep up the illusion you were flourishing. But Elizabeth Santiago did not seem to be impressed. She was staring at him blankly.
“Duke Rifferson,” he said again. “The star of Bennington Park?”
She stared, if anything, more blankly.
“The TV show?”
“I don’t watch TV,” she said.
Ugh, thought Richard. One of those. It was his turn to stare. Maybe she was super-religious? She was Latina, wasn’t she? He knew there were some crazy Catholics out there. (He’d grown up outside of Boston, after all.) It doesn’t matter, he reminded himself.
“Okay, I’m just gonna say it,” he announced.
Elizabeth put down her cup.
“I think we should do it. I mean, it’s crazy, obviously, some stranger wanting us to meet for a year, especially since we’re strangers too. But there’s probably some random connection we’ll figure out eventually. Which reminds me—I looked for you on Facebook to see if we had any friends in common but I couldn’t find you. Do you use a nickname or something?”
“I’m not on Facebook,” she said.
No TV, no Facebook. Forget Catholic, was she Amish? He moved on quickly:
“Anyway, who knows? But who cares, kinda, right? I mean . . . why not? It’s a crapload of money. And if safety’s an issue we can always meet in public places.”
He grinned again, and so did she, even though she didn’t want to. Wasn’t he going to ask her about herself? But it was obvious he didn’t really care about her, or whatever connected them. He only cared about the money. . . . Elizabeth stroked the rim of her mug, as if it were a wineglass capable of humming. She didn’t need to be reminded of the money. She’d already run up the numbers: if she factored in an extra hour each week for travel and another 25 on top of that for incidental time expenditures like traffic and this coffee, that came out to 181 hours total. According to section 35 of the contract she’d picked up from the floor, the anonymous donor would take care of all gift or income taxes; they would each receive their half a million free and clear. This meant she would be making north of $2,750/hour for her time, whereas if she divided her base salary and bonus by the number of hours she spent at the firm (billables plus incidentals), her rate came out to less than $150/hour, and that was before taxes. The proposal itself was absurd, but the numbers didn’t lie. They never did.
This didn’t change the fact that the proposal wasn’t to be trusted. She remained convinced it was a trap and she refused to fall for it, no matter how much Richard Baumbach might try to sweet-talk her into acting like a greedy fool. Plus, she didn’t need the money. Her mortgage was on track. Her investments were diverse and thriving. Elizabeth took great pride in her fiscal fortitude; it felt almost like an imposition to be offered such a fantastic sum, like an unwarranted interference with her best-laid plans. No; it was impossible.
But then why had she come? If she were really so immovable, she should have refused him by e-mail. In part it was because she knew someone who could truly use the money: a friend who was struggling, and who would actually accept her charity if she went about bestowing it the right way, or so she hoped. Could she really pass up an opportunity to be an honest-to-goodness savior? But there was another reason too. When she had told Richard she didn’t have a boyfriend, Elizabeth had neglected to add the word never. At eighteen, she went through a period she referred to now as her “rough patch,” because to call it anything else would be to give it more power over her than it already had. She had emerged from this tumult without a hitch in her academic career or the law career to follow. But throughout her twenties, and now into her thirties, the rough patch became a justification for the black hole—there was nothing else to call it—that was her romantic life. She’d grown used to comforting herself that she was doing so well in every other aspect of her existence, what with that rough patch and all, that she could afford to do nothing in this one thorny, difficult-to-navigate area. But it was time, she knew, to address the deficiency, to stop making excuses based on the past and to do better. Elizabeth would rather have died than become one of those women who perpetually bemoaned their singlehood, but lately she’d begun asking herself if this was it, if she was okay not only with being alone for the rest of her life (she felt certain she was, if it came to it), but with not even trying?
Thus far she’d managed to visit a few online dating sites, but she could never bring herself to subscribe. Dipping a toe in the dating pool was always just horrifying enough to paralyze her at its edge; she couldn’t imagine diving in headfirst. Every now and then she made a begrudging effort to meet men the old-fashioned way, in person at organized events like alumni reunions and recreational outings. She’d even forced herself to go to a few bars. These episodes were disasters, all of them, and invariably brought on a wave of reinvigorated contentment with her status quo, because she did have a good life—a great life. But then a few weeks or months would go by and she’d begin wondering all over again: was there something better even than “great” out there, some higher state within her reach if only she pushed herself a little harder?
Elizabeth looked directly at the sun. This time she courted it, allowing it to burn a hole in her field of vision. It was a trick of hers acquired during college. Whenever she was on the brink of a momentous decision she forced herself to look at the sun (or a lightbulb if it was nighttime), and wait until the spot faded from view before deciding one way or the other. The idea was that this would prevent her from acting rashly, but the ritual itself was mildly masochistic and she tried not to indulge it too often.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she announced, getting up to stall for time while the spot faded from view.
Richard watched her disappear, his stomach twisting in dismay. For the first time he considered the possibility that this coffee might not go his way. Was she actually going to refuse? Why would she do that? His mind began racing, his leg thumping harder to keep up with the thoughts roiling inside him.
ELIZABETH ADJUSTED HER ponytail in the mirror, pulling it a little tighter. She ignored the pulsating sunspot, focusing for a moment on her face instead: nothing to cut herself on in there. She looked away quickly, down at the sink, wiggling her fingers beneath the hands-free faucet. She avoided dwelling on her looks, not because she had any particular problem with them, but because such thoughts were restricted and repetitive and ultimately beneath her. She gave up on the faucet, sidestepping to the one beside it. There was nothing wrong with dwelling on his looks, though. Would it be so bad, having to look at his face every week for a year?
A thin stream of water trickled from the faucet. The proposal was a risk, it was true, but some risks were worth taking; she was perfectly aware that some rewards couldn’t be seen—let alone calculated—in advance. If she refused, would she be throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? Wasn’t this proposal, ridiculous and idiotic as it was, a better alternative to yet another abortive cycle of dating? She wouldn’t actually be dating him, but that was exactly the point: it would be like inching into that freezing pool a little more each week, a sort of intensive tutorial—a paid intensive tutorial—on relations with the opposite sex. She still believed the proposal was a trap, but wasn’t every trap also a sort of challenge?
Elizabeth cupped her hands beneath the dryer stuck against the wall. The machine clicked on, the harsh rush of hot air assaulting her ears. It wasn’t like her to be indecisive. She consoled herself with the thought that either way, her ordeal today would soon be over. Elizabeth pictured herself leaving Urth Caffe—exiting this floodlit stage and returning to her tiny house three blocks from the vast, unchanging ocean, where no one other than George Gissing awaited her. It would be such a relief.
Wouldn’t it?
She grew impatient with the dryer, wiping her hands on her pants. The sunspot was gone.
FROM ACROSS THE TERRACE, Elizabeth caught sight of him staring at her. She knew she had to act now, or else lose her nerve. She walked toward him, watching as he averted his eyes guiltily, taking refuge in a long, crackly pull on his straw. She almost laughed. He was harmless, wasn’t he? She could easily throw herself into his life for a two-hour lesson each week and then climb back out again, couldn’t she?
Elizabeth dropped into her seat, waiting till he finished slurping like a five-year-old.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” she said.
He nodded eagerly. Now he was a puppy. All he needed were the floppy ears.
“I’m willing, in theory, to take some crazy person’s money if they want to throw it away.”
“Hear, hear.” He proffered his iced coffee for a toast.
She stared at him till he lowered it.
“But let’s agree right now,” she said, “that we’re only doing this for the money.”
“Of course,” he said, cheeks ablaze once again, because of course he’d thought about the possibility that the Decent Proposal was some sort of matchmaking scheme. How could he not? Even Mike had been quick to point out that this was exactly the sort of situation in which love was supposed to spring up unexpectedly, a weed between a crack in the cement, a miracle of life where none existed before. But Richard had pointed out that this analogy was both gay and lame, and then Mike had pointed out that those were both offensive and outdated words to use, and the conversation had derailed from there.
“Why?” Richard couldn’t help himself from adding now, another grin spreading across his face. “Are you worried we’re going to fall in love?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes so quickly, it was more of a flicker. “I’m really not,” she said. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “We are one hundred percent doing it for the money. Roger that. Confirmed.”
“Good. Now from what I can see, it’s a valid contract. I’m a lawyer,” she added by way of explanation.
“Oh, cool!” he exclaimed. “Who do you rep, anyone I might know?”
“Probably not. I do corporate M-and-A.”
He was pretty sure that meant mergers and acquisitions, but instead of asking he just nodded.
“I did a little research on Jonathan Hertzfeld and his firm. And I consulted with a colleague who specializes in trusts—redacting our names, of course. It all seems legit.”
Richard nodded again. He hadn’t checked on anything other than the payment schedule. And while it sounded like she hadn’t told anyone about the proposal, he’d told upwards of a dozen friends and begun adding #DecentProposal to as many of his tweets as possible. But she didn’t need to know this. He approximated his best businesslike manner:
“So do we have a deal?”
She extended her hand across the table.
“We do.”
They parted a few minutes later, Richard eager to leave before she changed her mind, and Elizabeth figuring there would be more than enough time in the year to come to run out of things to say.