The Decent Proposal (3 page)

She rattled off a Gmail address he hoped she wasn't making up on the spot. And then, after an awkward pause, she swooped down to retrieve her copy of the contract, and for a moment he caught a bird's-eye view of those spectacular breasts. The next moment she was gone. Richard rolled his contract into a cylinder, batting it against his leg while saluting the lawyer ironically. By the time he reached the elevators, she was nowhere to be seen. He opted for the stairs so as to call Mike immediately.

THE TASK WAS
done, but Jonathan Hertzfeld felt no sense of accomplishment for having completed it. He walked to the window of the conference room and looked down. The Century City Mall spread out below him, the crown jewel of the neighborhood, a giant outdoor maze lined with high-end shops like Armani, Coach, and Louis Vuitton. The mall's food court was as elaborate as a food court could possibly be without becoming something better, but it always struck him as the block of cheese reserved at the center for the lucky rats that managed to find it. Usually he pitied the hordes that scurried below him. He had no taste for shopping, and was the rare attorney who enjoyed his job. He took old-fashioned pride in spending long hours inside his air-conditioned box on high, and had been doing so for forty years. But today he envied the vermin their simple pleasures. He rubbed his tie pin between his right thumb and middle finger, a fidgety habit from prep school days. Today, he would rather be anywhere but here.

The worst of it was that he was almost as clueless as the two young people who had just left him. He had no idea
why
his client had insisted on making this proposal. He had no idea
how
two perfect strangers had been selected, neither of whom
was a family relation. He had simply been given two names and an assurance that there
was
a connection, along with a set of instructions. And he had done his duty to the letter, as always.

Elizabeth Santiago, at least, had been a pleasant surprise. Jonathan had liked her reserved manner and businesslike attire. He had been able to admire her dark, watchful eyes and pleasing figure without feeling unwholesome, the way he did when noticing more . . . obvious women. (One of the many pitfalls of aging was how easily he could be made to feel like a dirty old man.) He guessed that her quiet brand of comeliness went largely unobserved, and forty years ago this would have been enough for him to single her out from inside a crowd, to do whatever he could to make those serious features relax into a smile. (It
had
been enough, though the woman, of course, had been another.)

Richard Baumbach had left a less favorable impression. Jonathan knew it was an old-fashioned term, but despite Mr. Baumbach's careless way of dressing, he had struck Jonathan as a “playboy,” one who would have been more in his element at a nocturnal social gathering surrounded by an adoring, mainly female crowd. Such men were no more likely to be good or bad men than others, but they didn't interest him much, and he wondered if Miss Santiago felt the same way.

But what he
really
wondered was what his wife would have to say about it all. Jonathan didn't usually take Rivka into his confidence on professional matters—she had more interesting things to think about, she liked to say—but every now and then he breached confidentiality when he felt it was necessary to his peace of mind. That evening, he told her everything while they were washing up the dishes. (They owned a state-of-the-art dishwasher, but preferred, much to their grown children's
amused disbelief, to wash up together by hand—a tradition dating back to the first years of their marriage.) Rivka cackled over the folly of the proposal and predicted with sadistic glee that it would do more to harm than help the supposed beneficiaries, should they be so idiotic as to accept it. Jonathan secretly agreed, but true to his profession he played devil's advocate now for the sake of teasing out the argument:

“I'm sure it's perfectly innocent. I can't see what harm will come to them.”

Rivka shook her head impatiently, setting free a cluster of soap bubbles. “With that much money? Nothing's innocent. You be careful, Jonathan.”

She pointed a knobby finger his way, and he grabbed hold of it, kissing its shiny tip.

“Little cynic,” he murmured, causing her to blush like a teenage girl, though she too was nearly sixty-five years old. Over time this phrase had become something of an endearment. “Nothing bad will happen, except more headaches for
me
.”

“The way they work you,” she grumbled.

Jonathan had given up reminding her he was no longer a bright-eyed young associate but his own boss now, with the luxury of choosing how hard he worked on any task. Rivka's scrubbing turned vicious, and he paused in his drying to admire her as she continued:

“It's too much! But you listen to me. Those two'd better forget it if they know what's good for them. Whatever it is connects that boy and girl, it's got to be some
trick
or else they'd know it from the start. It's meddling, and no good ever comes from
that
, let me tell you.”

It was, Jonathan reflected, one of the tragedies of his life that he could never prove his wife wrong. So rather than pursue a hopeless argument, he opted to pop a tiny bubble
that had landed on her wrinkled cheek, and kiss the soapy remains.

“Get back to work!” she scolded him.

“I thought you said I work too hard?”

“I take it back!”

For him, this was victory enough.

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 cloth
ing 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 worry
ing,” 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.