"That's funny, so was I. My best friend in ninth grade, Melody Miller, used to have a basset hound named 'Bilbo' - you know, from The Hobbit - and of course, because we had just learned what the word meant, we called the poor thing 'Dildo.' I remember coming home from Melody's and telling my mother about 'Dildo' and she washed my mouth out with soap. A green bar shaped like a brontosaurus."

"Creative woman."

"Apparently, It was a souvenir from the 1964-65 World's Fair in Flushing Meadow. She was saving it because, like those angled toothbrushes, it could reach back into every corner of your mouth."

"Do you mind if I pass judgment on your mother?"

"You could, but she'd one-up you. She's a civil court judge in Brooklyn."

Walker cleared his throat, then glanced back at Kathryn's Six in the City application. "I see here, under 'referred by whom,' you just wrote down 'a neighbor.' "

"Yup; our co-op's very own version of Gladys Kravitz. You know, that nosy neighbor on Bewitched? The woman who sent me to you lives in the penthouse and I run into her in the elevator from time to time. Very red hair - it's a color not found in Clairol, let alone nature. Wears all her Estée Lauder samples at once, along with various dangly, bangly, jangly accessories that are vaguely pre-Colombian, Pagan, and Pan-Asiatic. Sort of generic tribal. I've seen them in mail-order catalogues. And they usually clash with the pink designer cigarettes she smokes. I think she interprets "no smoking" signs as suggestions, rather than state law. Lots of flowy clothes in colors no redhead should wear - trust me. Lavender, fuchsia, persimmon. And don't let me forget her bloodred nail extensions. Kind of like a Hadassah sister gone Celtic."

Walker threw back his head and laughed in a full-throated burst of spontaneous recognition. At the same time, somewhere deep inside his head, a bell went off. She's like me, it seemed to tinkle, then the sound faded into the recesses of his mind.

"Oh, and take it from me. That woman's voice could cut corrugated."

The corners of Walker's mouth turned up ever so slightly. "And you trusted her referral of a matchmaking agency?"

"Put it this way, every time I see her, she launches into a litany of 'What's a nice girl like you doing sitting at home on a Saturday night? No boyfriend? So what's wrong with you that you wouldn't make some lucky man very happy?' She told me she owns a dating service. I should become a client; I'll meet the man of my dreams. I figured I'd shut her up by actually coming in and filling out an application. I don't see her - by the way - so my guess that she's a bit certifiable seems on the money. In any event, here I am. So she's certainly the pushiest woman on the planet."

Walker's smile broadened. "True. And she's more than a bit certifiable."

Kathryn felt a furrow breaking out on her brow. "How's that?"

His grin deepened into full Cheshire Cat mode. "I ought to know. She's my mother."

Whoops. Big Whoops.

If Kathryn had been any paler at that moment, the Egyptologists over at the Metropolitan Museum of Art would have rushed over with their mummification paraphernalia. "You . . . shit!" Her complexion flushed from white to rose. "Why did you let me go on like that?"

"I was enjoying it immensely. It isn't every day one hears one's mother so eloquently abused. Besides," he added, "I happen to agree with you."

It took several moments for Kathryn to recover her bearing. "But she said she owned this agency."

"She does indeed. I'm her designated hitter to manage it for her when she's out of town. Which she often is. On honeymoons. She's somewhat addicted to them. Been married at least six times that I can count, maybe seven, although one of them was a remarriage. Couldn't seem to keep her hands off of Cyril Haggerty."

Kathryn looked straight at Walker, not quite knowing what to make of him. "So what do you do when your mother isn't jetting off somewhere?"

"Ever watch CNN or the Financial News Network?"

Kathryn shook her head.

"Wall Street Week or The McLaughlin Report? C'mon, you must watch PBS. How could a high school drama teacher not be into some of that Masterpiece Theatre stuff?" He searched for a look of recognition in Kathryn's eyes. "I'm a guest on those financial shows from time to time. I just thought maybe you'd seen me."

"You mean while I was waiting for something less boring to come on TV?" Kathryn teased.

They both smiled.

"Exactly!" Walker exclaimed. "I'm a financial analyst. Not as exciting perhaps as trekking through an Amazonian rainforest in search of a rare species of wildlife, but I can't complain. I've made a pretty good living at it. Have you ever heard of The Hart Monitor?"

"Is that like a pacemaker?"

"More like a trendsetter." Walker grinned. "It's my own publication - a financial newsletter for people on Wall Street. Nowadays it practically prints itself; I could write my weekly column in my sleep and my staff takes care of the rest."

"No offense, but your weekly column would probably put me to sleep!" Kathryn quipped. "So how does being a financial analyst fit with matchmaking? It seems like an odd combination. What's the common denominator?"

Walker leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. "Either way, I'm speculating on futures."

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Copyright © 2002 by Leslie Carroll.

Tags: Relationship Fiction

About the Author

Native New Yorker Leslie Carroll is a professional actress as well as a novelist. She has appeared on stage, in short films, daytime dramas, and commercials, and has done voiceovers and talking books. She is the author of Miss Match. Leslie also writes historical and New York noir detective fiction, and is the author of three stage adaptations of nineteenth century/early twentieth century English novels: Ivanhoe, The Prisoner of Zenda, and The Scarlet Pimpernel. More