is different. This is an invitation. This is an advertisement. Margot said yours was too self-effacing. Besides, it’s fun for us, a vicarious thrill!”
“So I’ve heard. And editing my ad will give you that?”
“The results will! The answers, the e-mails, the potential dates. I hope to have a front-row seat.”
As I switched the phone to my other ear, I missed the beginning of a sentence that was now ending in “. . . but she didn’t go into detail.”
I seized the opportunity to insert a new vein of vicariousness. “Are we talking about Margot’s new paramour?” I asked.
Betsy didn’t allow herself a telltale gasp, but there was a distinct and abrupt pause. I knew her and her silences. Wasn’t she supposed to be Margot’s number one confidante when it came to matters involving romance?
“His name’s Roy,” I continued. “And I think he’s around forty. I can fill you in. I know a lot.”
“I was away,” said Betsy. “And I have a job that doesn’t allow for lingering over breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“Like us, you mean? Your slacker sisters?”
“I didn’t say that. I just meant you two are under the same roof so, of course, you’d have the inside track.”
“You’re jealous that I knew before you.”
“Just fill me in,” she said. “We’re not children.”
I said, “Okay. Here’s what I know: They met in the PoorHouse chat room, where he’s a regular.”
“I know all the regulars! What’s his username?”
“How do you know all the regulars?”
“Visitors are allowed. I sometimes log on late at night.”
“As a chaperone?”
“No! So she won’t be the only one in there. She has no idea it’s me.”
I said, “That’s actually very sweet of you.”
“Just tell me it’s not HardUp.”
I said, yes, sorry—though not sorry at all and quite enjoying my one-upmanship—it was indeed HardUp.
“I’m speechless. She’s actually met him and dated him?”
“More than that,” I said.
I hadn’t realized how long I must’ve been standing at the bakeshop window until a young woman, wearing a chef’s apron, her hair in braids, her hands in disposable gloves, came outside with a pink-on-pink cupcake cradled in a napkin. She said, “You were out here so long, and we saw you staring at the display. We don’t keep our stuff overnight. We thought you might like to take one home.”
Oh dear. I must have been looking like a hungry waif. I said, “I was talking to my sister. I didn’t realize I was looking needy.” And added as proof of my own solvency: “In fact, the sister I’m talking to is a banker.”
“Please. It’s what we do around this time every night. We close at six and give away what we don’t sell.”
I accepted the cupcake as Betsy was squawking my name. I thanked the baker and said into my phone, “This is a nice city, you know. I don’t get out enough to appreciate that. I just got a free cupcake.”
Betsy was giving directions—which corner of which intersection she wanted, presumably from the back seat of a taxi. Then to me, contradicting my Manhattan testimonial, “Give me a sec. I’m paying with a credit card and he’s arguing about the tip!” Then to him, “Buddy! Get real! It’s not up for negotiation!”
I waited. The pink, I decided, was only food coloring. It didn’t suggest the cotton-candiness of Anthony’s. From what must have been her lobby, Betsy returned to the subject of HardUp. What was Margot thinking—rewarding a blatant flirtation that all the world could see?
“She’s happy,” I said. “It gets her out of the house.” I stopped there because I couldn’t remember if we had told Betsy that Margot felt the need to escape because Charles was on a two-nights-a-week meal plan chez nous.
Betsy said, “You sound . . . I don’t know . . . different. Like you’re fine with this HardUp, like you don’t disapprove of her dating a penniless and possibly homeless predator.”
“It started off as coffee in broad daylight. And then only because he was selling Girl Scout cookies for his daughter and Margot ordered three boxes.”
“Are we sure he’s not married?”
I said, “You’re quizzing me because you two never pry into each other’s personal lives?”
“Never mind. I got sidetracked. I’m about to get into the elevator. E-mail me your ad before you run it. I’ll have Andrew look at it, too.”
I couldn’t say “But Andrew isn’t the guy I’m looking for,” so I said instead: “It’ll be its own test. If I only hear from creeps or no one, I’ll revise.”
“Gotta run. Where’s the ad going?”
“To