Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1
Cynthia Amas was wide-awake long before the alarm went off. She had spent twenty minutes watching the sun creep over the canyon wall, across the deck, and into the corners of her bedroom. It was autumn. One of those hot Los Angeles Octobers that would be the dog days of August in most places. Her mind had been racing, not only checking off the list of to-dos for the day, but also the events of her life that had led her here, to this moment, to this new venture.
Her own love life, an often-exciting series of failures——one short-sale marriage, many ill-advised flings, and one recent romantic encounter with the best man in an unlocked cloakroom at a wedding reception that literally lasted the length of the first dance, I mean it was an extended re-mix, but still hardly constituted the kind of romantic resume to impress the lovelorn ladies and gentlemen she was hoping to woo as clients. How that cummerbund ended up inside one of the legs of her pantyhose, she’d never know, but it made for a hilarious moment in the conga line. He lived in Melbourne and it turned out he had a wife and two kids back there. And a dog. Maybe a kangaroo. Probably a mistress. There were no second dates on the calendar.
And then there was Walter, who she’d met only a month ago and who seemed to be falling hard for her. Unfortunately, the feeling was not mutual. He was sort of a perfect guy—good looking, successful in business, lived in a great house that he’d already invited Cynthia to share with him. There was nothing wrong with Walter exactly, and that was the problem. He was devoid of idiosyncrasy—no spark, no spontaneity, no surprises. He’d never made a fool of himself, never made a dumb joke, and while she was prone to belting eclectic medleys out of the blue——from classic girl groups to the rock’s Black Keys to R&B’s Janell Monae to Adele to Billie Holiday——she’d never heard Walter sing a note, not even in the shower, which to her was unfathomable. When Walter discovered a tiny hole in his jeans, he immediately threw them out, despite the fact that, clearly, that glimpse of thigh was by far the sexiest detail in his entire wardrobe. To Cynthia it was a fortuitous entryway to a full-blown afternoon delight, but, “You must be kidding,” is all he’d said in a humorless deadpan when she’d tried to rescue the pants from the pile destined for the thrift-store. He was beyond safe, like he was walking through life in a suit of bubble wrap. Cynthia thought he needed his bubbles popped, but she was starting to think she wasn’t the one to do the popping.
Despite all that, Cynthia had an undeniable knack for matching other people. She had hooked up half of her friends and somehow their relationships invariably blossomed into shockingly successful unions. A strong promoter of psychosexual healing, she was thrilled at the possibility of playing doctor feel-good professionally, writing her own prescriptions for long-lasting love and lust. The epiphany struck during her own short-lived addiction to online dating services. She got a quick education about every site and decided that she could build a better mousetrap. Mantrap. Whatever. She was also not-so subconsciously hoping that being a soul mate searcher for others might somehow lead to finally finding something lasting for herself. Like most people, she wanted true love and a lasting relationship, and deep down she knew she deserved it. She just couldn’t figure out why, every time she got interested in someone, that elusive goal always slipped through her fingers. She rolled out of bed, wearing only a man-sized silk t-shirt, gray-green, incredibly soft, and barely long enough to maintain modesty, really the thing she felt sexiest in. It had been in her sleepwear rotation ever since Max left it behind. Even though he was long gone, and there had been plenty of others since, the garment was his enduring legacy. It had been washed a hundred times, so it couldn’t possibly still smell like him, and yet it somehow did. When it brushed against her skin, she recalled his skin, his hands, his everything…a sensation she obviously kept secret from subsequent lovers.
Max wasn’t even the ex-husband. In fact, their affair had lasted only three months, but he was still the first one she thought of when she considered might-have-beens. She should have probably thrown the shirt out a long time ago, switched to something not infused with these kinds of indelible memories, but he’d gotten married and lived halfway around the world, so it was a fantasy devoid of any real-world significance. Plus, she knew why it hadn’t worked out…he was bad for her. She had a tendency to be needy around him, something that had never happened with any of the others. What they’d had together was so impassioned, so deeply romantic, so all consuming, the rest of her life had instantly fallen to pieces. And then, as quickly as it started, it was over, and Cynthia found herself alone, sifting through the wreckage. But that was years ago now, and she was over him. It was just a stupid shirt.
Cynthia headed to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, where the day would begin: coffeemaker, laptop, action. The site had gone live at eleven the night before and she quickly checked the inbox: sixty-two new items.
BZZZZ…her mother calling. No way, click…straight to voicemail. Back to the task at hand. Quickly scrolling: junk, junk, bill, bill, junk, bill, bingo…a bona fide inquiry.
Dear Second Acts;
First, let me say I’ve never done anything like this before. I never thought I’d need to. But lately I seem to be something of a loser magnet…guys who you really don’t want to still be there in the morning. Hunks of beef who pass their expiration date on the way home from the meat market. I mean, I own my own business—I’m a dog groomer to the stars—and I do get my share of A and B-listers Ryan effing Gosling and his Weimaraners drop by once a month), but the unattached guys are all wannabes, has-beens, agents, or downright Hollywood sleaze buckets.
Speaking of which, last Sunday morning I spent an hour hiding under my covers, pretending to be asleep, waiting for the latest king dork to compose a kiss-off note. What, did he want me to dictate the thing? Excuse me, would you like to borrow a thesaurus or something? I mean, the night before when he passed out, I opened the door to let the dogs in, thinking they’d crowd him out of bed in no time, but there he still was at dawn, struggling to string together the six or seven-word dose of poetic psychobabble he thought he needed to let me down gently. Don’t you get it, Shakespeare? I’m kicking you out. I mean, move it, some of us have lives.
Anyway, I’m starting to think I may need help with this.
Best,
Sick and Tired in Beverly Hills
Wow, thought Cynthia, I like this girl.
Sick and Tired didn’t even bother to fill out the questionnaire. Cynthia remembered how long she’d spent coming up with it, avoiding the obvious questions that every dating site asks: likes/dislikes, musical tastes, last book read…blah, blah, blah. She preferred open-ended questions evoking longer responses that reveal personality. Short essays versus cookie-cutter multiple choice. Of course it would require more analysis and thoughtful consideration on her part, but that was what this boutique dating service would specialize in: personal attention. She wanted that same feeling she’d had while hooking up friends. . . helping good people find each other.
It started in junior high. One time, it must have been in seventh grade, she was at Darlene Dalvecki’s house for a sleepover. There were a couple of other girls there too and someone brought up Brian Bickford. Darlene really liked him, but Brian was clueless. That night, Cynthia thought about it while the other girls snoozed in their sleeping bags. Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. She didn’t know much about Brian. He was a super-shy kid. She could only think of two overlapping interests. Favorite band: The Ramones. Favorite drink: root beer. The next day at school, Cynthia hatched a plan. It involved Cynthia singing Rock and Roll High School while walking down the hall, getting Darlene to join in, then intentionally getting bumped into by Brian, causing his root beer to spill all over Darlene’s blouse, and then blaming the whole thing on him. He was so apologetic. He must have said he was sorry about two hundred times while he helped clean her up. Twenty-four hours later, they were a couple and stayed a couple until they graduated high school.
Cynthia wondered if they were married with a gaggle of kids now. Might be worth tracking them down on Facebook to get a testimonial out of them. In any case, this matchmaking thing has been with her for a long, long time.
BZZZZ…her mother calling again. Nope, sorry, click. Cynthia slid the phone across the countertop. Not now, Mom.
Sick and Tired was her first client and, by god, she was going to get extremely personalized service. Cynthia also figured that Sick and Tired might have girlfriends in similar situations in the 90210 and surrounding zip codes. She looked down the list of other messages and there were more prospective clients. She poured a cup of French roast and fired off a reply to Sick and Tired.
Dear S&T,
Thanks for the funny and insightful letter. I hear you and I can help.
BTW, speaking of Hollywood, it’s not you, it’s some men who’ve gotten small. But not all of them. Let’s meet for coffee near where you work and we can make a game plan.
Best,
Second Acts
Cynthia clicked on the next message.
Dear Second Acts Dating Service,
I’m a ridiculously successful hi-tech entrepreneur. I’ve been divorced for six years, but every time a guy gets a gander at the depth of my pockets, his gonads shrink like raisins and blow away in the breeze. Please send me a real man. Now. If not sooner.
-Lonely in Brentwood
Cynthia laughed. This was going to be fun.
Lonely—
Welcome to Second Acts. As God is my witness, you will never be lonely again.
Frankly, my dear, I give a damn.
-Second Acts
