If the Fates Allow

Chapter 1

Henri

What’s your job again?” Porter asks as he fidgets at the table next to me.

His blue eyes jump from my face to the heavy oak doors of Bide, a quaint restaurant with warm lighting and dark wood accents that Spitfire Magazine has labeled as the perfect place to make your midwestern parents feel at home in the heart of Manhattan on its iconic, yearly “Feast in The City” list.

My late-lunch date is handsome in the way he doesn’t know that he is, with freshly-cut honey-brown hair, a crooked nose that his glasses insist on sliding off of, and persistent stubble hugging his square jaw.

Not handsome enough to typically excuse forgetting basic facts about me before meeting his parents for Thanksgiving, but this isn’t exactly a typical situation.

“I’m a freelance consultant,” I say, flashing my practiced reassuring smile.

He flushes, nodding and dislodging his glasses yet again. “Oh, yeah.”

“If they ask for more I’ll answer, but usually parents don’t. I’ve done this plenty, so if you feel like you’re stuck just tap my foot with yours under the table twice and I’ll take over.” I tap his foot with mine to demonstrate the motion.

My clients tend to be anxious, which is understandable. I would be anxious too if this wasn’t my hundredth time pretending to be in a committed relationship with someone I’ve come to know through a series of surveys and interviews.

The entry doors open, letting in a flurry of snow along with a brunette woman in a peacoat and a tall, blond man with fogged-up glasses that he pulls from his face.

Porter pushes back from the table abruptly, causing the pristine white plates to clatter against the glass table top. I rise with him to meet his parents as they’re led to us by the hostess.

“This place is just like Nanette’s, isn’t it Jacob?” Audre McCabe asks her husband, who has finally gotten his wire-framed glasses to clear.

Both are real estate agents in Ohio, members of their local bowling league, and advocates for their only child to move closer to home and out of the city.

All of which are facts I have written down on a stack of notecards tucked into the side pocket of my monstrously large purse, so they don’t get lost in the extra changes of clothes I have stuffed inside.

My mission for the next hour? Not only help sidestep their pleas for him to return home, but also, with any luck, show them how much he belongs in Manhattan. If all goes well, the family will get through this late Thanksgiving lunch miraculously argument free.

“Yes, yes it does. The herbs,” Jacob agrees.

“Rosemary,” Audre asserts, then turns to her son with an expectant expression. “Porter, doesn’t this make you miss home? I bet it’s half the price and just as good, same as everything else.”

“Well, I would miss him if he left,” I say to disrupt the classic nostalgia angle she’s employing. I grab Porter’s sweaty hand and give it a quick squeeze. “I’m Juliet, his girlfriend.”

Not my real name, of course. It’s a fun part of the fantasy and I couldn’t help but indulge. Maybe it would be different if I was a Sara or an Emily, but there aren’t enough Henrietta’s running around for me to just be handing out my actual name to folks.

And there’s the added bonus that if you search Henrietta Elm you’ll find about a thousand articles where my name is referenced alongside one Jeremy Elm, embezzler extraordinaire.

I’ve got to give credit where credit’s due, though, and the truth is, my dad knew how to steal money from his investors.

He had a hundred million stowed away before the Feds started to sniff around.

Call me crazy, but most people don’t want their sons dating the daughter of one of the most infamous white collar criminals of the last decade.

“Oh my gosh, she’s a stunner! You didn’t tell us that,” Audre gasps. I’m quickly learning she’s the type of person who can make even a breath end in an exclamation point.

“I promise, I tried to,” Porter says to me, a wince crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“They were just excited to see you! I mean, who wouldn’t be?” I say, then turn to Audre. “You have to tell me where you got the coat from.”

“Thrifted five years ago. They don’t make clothes like this anymore, and there’s no point buying something new every season if what you have already works,” she says.

“I couldn’t agree more; I’ve had this dress for years.

” I gesture to the simple, red knit dress that hits just above my knees.

Guiding conversations. Slipping to the right clothes.

Picking the appropriate restaurant. All of it is an art—how to be the perfect date.

If I were to have worn something flashier, or invited them to a small plates restaurant instead, I would have set Porter up for failure.

“That’s why I think you’ll love this place—classics, the way they should be.

I’m so excited for you to try everything. Let’s sit down and eat.”

Porter wraps his arm around my waist as we wave to his parent’s cab. He’s relaxed considerably since the start of dinner, and a soft smile has found its way to his lips.

“Thanks for tonight,” he says, stepping away now that their cab is out of sight, lost in the relentless stream of Manhattan traffic. “Really, I just wanted to get them off my back for the holidays, but they actually seem excited about coming back to visit again.”

“Of course. You obviously love the city and they love you. I’m just helping bridge the gap,” I explain.

Usually, that’s how simple things are. Be the girlfriend, but more importantly, be the intermediary for people who care about each other, but need help communicating because they’re scared to voice how they really feel.

I’m the person at the dinner table my clients know is on their side no matter what.

If I’m there, they’re not alone. Sometimes knowing you’re not alone is all you need.

“Can I tip you?” He starts to reach for his pocket, his coat flapping wide in a gust of brisk late fall air.

“Please don’t, you’ve already taken care of everything.” My services during the holidays don’t come cheap. “The rolls I snuck out in my bag are enough.”

“I mean, damn, you really say all the right things. Is there a possibility . . .” His expression brightens with misplaced hope.

My stomach sinks. He had to go and ruin it, didn’t he? God. I hate it when they get the wrong idea.

This happens plenty, which is why I stay as professional as possible—throw in as much business jargon as I can.

I’m their perfect person for them for a few hours.

I love doing it, helping in some small way that will hopefully support the relationships with those around them.

But that’s not the real me, and I need to remind them I’m not actually their perfect person.

I’m not saying the right things. The woman they’re paying to play their partner is.

I’d blame the male loneliness epidemic, but that’s probably the reason I have a semi-steady stream of income. I just wish men didn’t mistake a moment of kindness for genuine interest.

“I’m glad I could help, but I should get going—Thanksgiving is busy for me. I’ll send you the exit survey if you’d like to fill it out. Happy holidays, Porter,” I say, and give a curt nod before striding away.

Stopping around the corner, I pull out my phone and text my roommate, Iris, to let her know I’m alive.

Me

The nice Midwesterners didn’t serial kill me.

Iris

It’s the nice ones who look like they’ll make you pie who will get you.

Me

Next up: Tech Moguls.

Iris

You should actually get with this one. Marry rich and get it over with.

Me

Since I’m his cover story for being one of the city’s foremost horny bachelors, doubt that.

Iris

At least you get paid to go on shitty first dates. The rest of us do it for free

Me

And you get all the expensive leftovers. I have rolls and cheesecake for when you get to Fender after your shift

“Fuck!” someone shouts from the sidewalk near me as a taxi zips by. Its tires squelch as they send a spray of gray slush onto the curb.

Returning my phone to my bag, I look up.

A tall man is standing on the curb, pinching the bridge of his slender nose, now muttering to himself. His brown hair is plastered to one side of his head, and freckles paint his skin, kissing their way along his nose and up his cheeks, dispersing over his neck and forehead.

“New to the city?” I ask, taking pity on him. And hey, it’s the holiday season. It’s not like I’m a festive person, but holidays mean work. And work means I’m not constantly stressing over my bank account, so I’m in a pretty good mood.

“Four years,” he explains, giving a sheepish smile that causes his full bottom lip to pop into an accidental pout.

“Here, hop in with me.” I step out onto the street, waving my hand over my head. If I wasn’t working I’d take the subway, but I build taxis fare and other transportation costs into my contracts.

“Good luck getting one,” he mutters.

A cab with its light on comes our way and it pulls to a stop next to me.

I’m halfway in when I look back out the open door. “Are you coming or what?” I can’t help but sound a little smug.

He takes a moment to register the invitation then rushes over to join me as if I’ll rescind my offer if he takes another second. I scoot the rest of the way in to make room for him, before giving the driver the address for Pivoine, a Michelin starred small plates restaurant listed in Spitfire.

This is my first Thanksgiving in New York, since I move every six months or so, and Spitfire has always been a pleasure read for me.

Not a guilty pleasure—I don’t believe in feeling guilty about one of the few things that makes me happy.

Now that I have a chance to use their renowned “Feast in The City” list as a guide for my clients and not pay a dime for any of it, I sure as hell will.

“And you?” I ask my companion.

“I’m headed that way too.”