1.Teagan

TEAGAN

My mom breaks the news to me at one of our monthly mother-daughter lunches, which are mandated as if by law. to happen at the ungodly early hour of 11 a.m. and are always set somewhere stuffy like the Yale Club or the restaurant inside Saks and always consist of a glass of dry white wine and a dry chicken Caesar salad. Maybe because she was a single mom, maybe because she seems to love these lunches so much, I can never begrudge her. This time we are sitting at a window table at Sarabeth’s, looking out onto the blur of traffic on Park Avenue South.

“A glass of Sancerre,” my mom says to the waiter. I open my mouth to scold her for drinking at such an insanely early hour, but as the waiter turns to me, I change my mind.

“I’ll take one, too,” Isay. Momgives asatisfied little nod.

“I signed youup forsomething,” she says casually, gazing down at the top of her menu as though we don’t both know her usual order.

“Mom, nooooo.” I sink down in my seat, my chest heavy with dread. “What is it? Not another one of those charity events, please. You know I hate those things.” Ever since I stopped painting, Mom has become my de facto publicist and PR team. Her meddling did help land me a job at a prestigious art gallery in Chelsea, which I loathe but at least gives me enough money to pay most of the bills. Now she’s pushing for my involvement in everything from influencer dinners to art auctions. If only she could understand that interacting with people like the ones I meet at these events, so-called investors who only care about art so long as it is attached to a gigantic dollar sign, is the last thing that is going to help me out of my slump.

“Oh, Tegan, stop! It’s just a little weekend matchmaking thing in Newport.” Mom shrugs. She’s clearly hoping that if she doesn’t make a big deal about it then I can’t either.

“A what?” My heart drops. This is not what I was expecting. Not even from her. I don’t want anyone meddling in my nonexistent love life. Least of all some stranger who might pressure me into something I never asked for. Mom waves her hand around innocently, just trying to find the words.

“Oh, you know. An event for singles! With a matchmaker to guide you to the right person.”

“A matchmaker?” I sputter, my voice rising. “Like from Fiddler on the Roof? You have got to be joking.”

My mom’s eyes dart around the nearly empty restaurant. “Shhhh, Tegan. Please. It’ll be good for you to try something different. Clearly those dating apps aren’t working. You’re thirty-two. When I was your age, you were already in elementary school.”

“And you were single,” Iremind her.

Her rings tap on the table as she leans forward and lowers her voice to a hiss. “Yes. And I don’t want the same thing for you.”

I sigh. “Okay. What is this event exactly?”

Her eyes glitter eagerly beneath their heavy mascara. “Well, you meet the matchmaker and tell him what you’re looking for in a man. And then while he looks for a match for you, you spend the rest of the weekend relaxing, doing yoga by the water, having nice dinners, and getting to know the other people there—all of them famous, Tegan. Then on the last day you find out who the matchmaker chose for you. It’s fun, like a little retreat.”

“Nothing about that sounds fun.” I give my mom a withering look. She ignores me with practiced patience.

“I thought it would be good for you, to put yourself out there again as a public figure.” The way she imagines it, five years ago I was like Madonna or Jeff Koons. But really my time as a “famous” artist was pretty short-lived. It took many years to make my art into something people wanted to look at, and then by the time I finally built a large enough audience to support myself, I stopped painting.

“What’s the catch?” I ask her.

“No catch. Goodness, Tegan. Socynical. You’re always thinking people are going to pull one over on you.” Mom pshaws, flapping a hand. “I was thinking that maybe you could start up your account again. Post about the weekend. Keep it light and fun this time.”

Now I understand. “God, Mom. Gross. So this is a press trip?” I lean back in my chair, disbelieving. Well, actually believing. My mom will stop at nothing to get me what she thinks I deserve. What she doesn’t realize is that I don’t actually deserve anything at all.

She puts down the menu and gives me a hard stare. “How many subscribers do you have on that account of yours, a hundred thousand?”

“More.” I sigh. She’s never quite understood social media. “But it’s for my art. People follow me because they want to see my paintings, not pictures of me on some weird matchmaking vacation with a bunch of desperate single people.”

“And how long has it been since you’ve posted a new painting?” My mother purses her lips at me.

I let my shoulders slump, bested. Out the window Manhattan goes about its very busy, very important day and I feel, as I do every day all day, completely estranged from it all.

Mom takes my silence as an invitation to continue. “Look. This weekend is at a nice, expensive, historic hotel just outside of New-port. By the water, I thought you’d like that. I know how you love your moody ocean views. Besides, Newport is full of art.”

I can imagine the kind of art she is talking about, beams of light, dimply women in long dresses, schooners under sail out at sea. Still, the idea of a minibreak from my life in New York is enticing. I visualize the stacks of unread books sitting on my dresser, compare that with another big night out with the other gallery girls, all long legs and terrible morals. I could use the weekend as a chance to relax a little, to unplug from life in the city. Maybe I could even be inspired to—no, I won’t go there. 

“How many people are going to find their perfect match this weekend?”

“There are fifty spots,” Mom says. “Fifty hand-selected people who are successful in their fields just like you are.”

I snort. “Don’t you mean just like I was?” We both look out the window at the pedestrians crossing Park Avenue South. I notice a woman wearing a perfectly cut trench coat tied around her small waist, a coffee cup in hand, a black purse slung stylishly across her body. She gracefully winds her way across the street dodging the other pedestrians. Surely she is rushing off to somewhere she wants to be. It is so wonderful to belong. A drug.

I don’t know if I will ever feel that way again. That’s the thing about success. You have to be constantly working for it. It is so easy for it all to disappear. And all I had to do was nothing.

“Humor your mother,” Mom says in her bossiest voice. A challenge.

Before I can reply, the waiter returns with our wine.

“Chicken Caesar. Dressing on the side,” Mom says, ever confident in her choice.

“I’ll have the same,” I say, defeated, as I hand him the menu. I wait for him to leave before saying to Mom, “Fine. I’ll go, but I’m not coming back engaged or something insane like that, so manage your expectations.”

“We’ll see,” she says, trying and failing to hide her delight. “Mom.”

She lifts her wineglass triumphantly. “Okay. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing if you found someone to settle down with. God knows with the luck in our family we can use all the help we can get. But if not, at the very least you can get back out there, remind people who you are.”

Even I can’t remember who I am, I want to tell her, but instead I give her a tight-lipped smile and drain the rest of my wine, gesturing for another.