“I mean,” she continued, “what do you read for pleasure? Thrillers? Grisham? Lee Child? Or maybe Henning Mankell? Camilla Läckberg? They’re Swedish writers with an international following.”
“I’m afraid I must disappoint you. For pleasure, I read sales agreements and contracts. I’m immersed in our business, as is all our family. Our firm is quite important, top-shelf, and we want to keep it that way. Also, our family is quite—active. We have a house on Lake George, and we spend much of our summers there. In the winter, we stay there and ski at Gore Mountain. Sometimes if the winter is too long, we go to St. John in the Virgin Islands for swimming and scuba diving. Have you ever gone scuba diving?”
“No,” Darcy responded simply, feeling slightly overwhelmed.
“Ah, you must go. It’s a sensational experience!”
“Mmmm,” she agreed, with a mouth full of chicken tikka and rice. It was an exciting thought, swimming in warm blue waters, gazing at wondrously colorful fish.
Deep inside, she had split into two halves: the Timid, Apprehensive Darcy who didn’t know how to ski, was terrified of flying, and probably would go into a claustrophobic fit if she put on goggles and a tank and flippered down into the ocean, and the Brave Bold Darcy, who could do it all, and why not? She was young. She probably hadn’t met all of herself yet.
That night Boyz didn’t try to go to bed with her, although he asked to take her to the ballet that Saturday. She usually worked weekends, but a waiter friend agreed to trade shifts with her, if she’d promise to tell him every detail of the evening.
She was excited about going to the ballet. It was Swan Lake. She knew the music and had seen clips of it on her PBS television station. She’d never seen it performed live. Boston Opera House was a stunning gold palace devoted to the arts, and Darcy was breathless when an usher showed them to the Szwedas’ box. From there, she could see not only the stage but the gorgeously dressed audience. She wore a simple black dress with pearl earrings and knew she looked good, but it made her breathless to think she was part of this cultured crowd. At intermission, Boyz spoke about Tchaikovsky’s life, his knowledge and enthusiasm practically making the man come alive before her eyes. Maybe it was the champagne they were drinking, or the rustle of silk and satin and the gleam of jewelry around her, but Darcy felt lifted into a rarified atmosphere, one she’d never visited before.
The next Saturday, he took her to a performance at Symphony Hall. Afterward, at dinner in the Top of the Hub, Darcy looked out over the sparkling city and shared insights about Shostakovich. She had read up on the composer earlier that day, but Boyz spoke of him almost as if he were a relative. When their meal was over, Darcy leaned her chin in her hand and studied Boyz as he talked. True, he wasn’t a reader. But he was a storyteller, one who knew much more about the complicated history of Eastern Europe and Russia than Darcy had ever known. Boyz mixed in anecdotes about his grandparents and great-grandparents with his stories about famous musicians and artists, and he spoke in such a way that Darcy could almost see the people shimmering before her eyes.
Later, after their marriage, she would hear these tales over and over again, and always word for word. Later, she’d realize that Boyz had his knowledge organized in categories, and he could call a subject up to fit the interests of the potential buyer of a multimillion-dollar home. Golf? Boyz could talk about Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus. Baseball? Boyz had season tickets to loge box 157; he’d be glad to share them. Art? He and his family were supporters of the Museum of Fine Arts. Boyz could arrange a private tour if they’d like. Cars? His knowledge ranged from the German Touring Masters to NASCAR.
That evening at the Top of the Hub, blissed out by the expensive wine and Boyz’s conversation, Darcy fell in love with the man, or, more accurately, with her idea of the man. Later, she’d realize how flattering her wide-eyed attention was to Boyz. Later, she would understand that he was always in a silent competition with his father for title of Most Fascinating, Cultured, Seductive, and, of course, King of Real Estate Sales. But in the early days of their relationship, Darcy felt like Cinderella who had met her prince. It didn’t occur to her that this had never been her favorite fairy tale.
For his part, Boyz enjoyed bathing in the glow of Darcy’s innocent admiration. Darcy looked sophisticated; he was proud to have her at his side during important events. She had good conversation; she knew things from books. She was tender and undemanding in bed. She remembered how he liked his coffee, how he preferred his socks laid flat, not rolled. When he lost a sale, she put her arms around him and murmured sweet nothings. She was kind. She was nurturing. She was beautiful, and she was his.