"Who is he?"

It's usually so noisy, almost boisterous when the committee meets ... except when the Big Guy is gonna be there ... like this day. Then it's nervous and nerve-wracking ... and you can hear a comment like that. And you catch the inflection. And you look where everyone is looking.

Except ... crap. Except that day I was in the hot seat. Or rather, I was standing in the hot zone with the clicker for the presentation in my hand. And I was so busy turning away from the rest of the room to give just one more attempt at wiping off that bit of coffee splotch on my white blouse ... in fact, as embarrassing as it is to admit, I was rather busy spitting onto my fingers and dabbing at the coffee stain and wishing it was an hour from now, the presentation over and I'd begin to have feeling back in my toes which had gone numb the moment Joe called and said the Big Guy was bringing in some consultant to analyze our security and he was coming to the Risk Management meeting. Today. This day. When I was giving the Risk Analysis of the latest fiasco that was about to maybe get our insurance premiums doubled except I thought maybe I had an idea of how to fix the problem and make us actually safer in the long run.

As opposed to everyone else there, except for Joe, I knew some guest was coming with the Big Guy. Some old fart of a security risk consultant. Probably some Army washout now trying to pretend he was more than the sum total of the number of his men who wanted to frag him.

So I was spitting on my fingers. Real flattering, eh? I don't think anyone noticed though ... my back was to them. When I turned around, well, I was even smiling as if I was pretty damned excited at the chance to do the dog and pony show before the Big Guy.

The consultant sat way at the back. The Big Guy sat off to the side, right in front ... and watched me without a single word, a single inflection, a single tell. All through the half hour it took me to give the analysis, run down the options, suggest my brilliant notion, defend it while we vetted it out ... everyone just waiting for the Big Guy to grunt or sigh or roll his eyes or glare or clear his throat or ... even ... ask a question.

But he just sat there.

And you know, it was like blood in the water. They all sensed that if they but asked the right question, raised the right objection, poked the right hole then I'd look bad but the person making the kill shot would look oh-so-executively and smart.

All things considered, I didn't get hurt too bad. You know? I mean, not death wound time or anything. And then it was over ... and Joe said, "So, is this our recommendation with the agreed upon changes? Or do we study it more?"

I didn't roll my eyes at that. I didn't sigh. If it had just been us, I would have said, "You gotta be kidding me! It's time to get off that cross because, cousin, somebody else needs the wood! Let's go for it and stop being a big target just because we screwed up one time and it was an honest mistake."

But I couldn't talk like that in front of the Big Guy.

So Joe looks around the room. Everyone kind of shifts in their seats and shuffles papers and goes "mmhmm ummm hmmm." But what they're really doing is waiting on the Big Guy to pronounce judgment.

Big Guy looks at me. I smile in what I hope is a rather endearing way. He says, "This would be your considered opinion, Carey?"

I say, "Yes, sir, it would be."

Inside I'm thinking, "Ya big goof. Of course it's my recommendation ... what'd ya think I'd been doing up here ... tap dancing? Jeez."

He leans back in his chair. Pulls at his lips. It's his way of showing he's considering what you've said and all the million ramifications only someone of his level would ever begin to understand. I'm waiting on something profound or mean ... instead he looks back at the consultant and says, "Mr. Thorne?"

All heads ... and I mean every single head in there ... swivel around. It's like I'm watching the movie "The Exorcist" only instead of some little girl in her bedroom, I'm watching 22 adults in suits in a boardroom with swiveling heads.

Well, that and the fact that Mr. Thorne did not exactly look like the Devil. Satan. Beelzebub. Whatever name they gave him in that movie. Of course, looks can be deceiving.

"I'll need a bit more time with the raw data and the reports of the security team in the field," the consultant guy, this Mr. Thorne, this 'who is he?' guy says. He glances up at me. I feel somehow like he's on my side and I hope I'm not imagining it. "However, it appears a logical and well-conceived plan based on the presentation." Oh, I could kiss him!

I could.

Except, of course, I wouldn't.

Ever.

Gawd. I'm not that grateful he's just saved my little buttinsky from the Big Guy making an example of me.

I don't know why I get nervous like that with things like this. It's not really like the Big Guy has ever treated me harsh or ragged me out in public. He's cooler than that. But he's kinda big and intimidating. Not to mention, I have heard him yell before. He is loud, baby. I mean loud as in everyone in a square mile jumps when he's yelling. He's just never yelled at me. But he has yelled one time when I was sitting out in his reception area, waiting on a meeting with him and my boss. I think my heart actually stopped.

I'm not real big on guys yelling. Especially big guys. Kinda intimidates me, which I hate but can't control.

So the meeting went well. And I was feeling flush with success. I shook the Big Guy's hand before he left. I shook the consultant's hand, too. I shook Joe's hand. Joe said, "You get to do all briefings for the Big Guy from now on." I hope he was kidding. Of course, he had to be. Although, I'm actually not too bad at the wonk briefings ... you know, where you get to dig into all the data and stats and everyone is sitting there staring at you wondering what it all means ... and then you tell them and they think to themselves, "Wow, Carey is really good at that. And she's cute, too."

Okay, so I know they don't think that kinda thing ... what they're really truly thinking is, "Thank God she's finished ... you know, if this meeting gets over in five minutes, I might still be able to get the last cup of coffee from the pot and then someone else will have to make the next pot."

So I'm a cynic about people.

I can't help it.

"Me like Mr. Thorne," purred Jessica Rabbit as she sashayed in front of me down the hall. I have to admit it annoyed me. Because she was that kind of woman, hence her nickname. You know the drill ... she couldn't help being sexy, she was drawn that way. Drawn as in 'she paid a lot for those boobs and butt.'

Meowwww.

So the cynic in me had Mr. Thorne in Jessica Rabbit's bed that night.

You know who needed a fling with someone who looked like Mr. Where-Did-You-Get-Those-Eyes-And-Thighs-Thorne? My friend Susan, that's who. I mean, she needed a fling with a classy guy like him. She hadn't had a date in ... well, in cobweb-gathering time. But instead of smart, forthright, fearless Susan ... Mr. Sexy-Man Consultant would wind up with rubber-titted Jessica Rabbit. Oh, well. Maybe he was a jerk and deserved her. Except he'd seemed rather cool, to judge by how he walked and talked.

"He has a great accent. Australian," I told Susan when I dodged in her office on the way back to mine. "I mean, he looks ... well, he looks like the kind of man you'd look good with."

"Leave me alone. I have work to do," she said, kinda grumpy but I was pretty sure she didn't like the fact that I'd opened the conversation by reminding her how long it'd been since she'd been on a real date with a real live guy. Don't ask.

She called me a minute after I got to my office.

"So ... what's he look like ... a bit more detail?"

"Very good looking. If you like them all tall, dark, handsome and drag me to your cave Tarzan."

She sighed. "So what's wrong with him?"

"I dunno. It's just speculation anyway. I mean for all I know he's gay. Or married although he wasn't wearing a ring. But a man like that is probably already taken. Besides Jessica Rabbit has her eyes on him."

"Oh, well, then." She chuckled. We share the opinion of Jessica. I call her Jessica Rabbit but Susan calls her St. Jessica of Perpetual Perfection. I think my nickname is much snazzier.

"Honestly, Susan, you should get out of your office and see if you can't just bump into the guy. Grab onto the gusto, eh?"

"There's gotta be something wrong with him. If not, you'd be going for him yourself."

There was this uncomfortable pause on the line. I cleared my throat. She coughed. She muttered something about needing to get back to a report and I said I was late with some strategic analysis report I had to get out for the board briefing.

I guess there's been less flattering ways to meet someone for a second time. But when this Mr. Thorne cleared his throat to announce his presence in my doorway, I was on my knees and my ass was wagging in the air as I stretched under the table in the corner of my office. Well, I can explain. I had hung up from Susan ... and had this unfortunate fit of pissiness so I tossed the stapler across the room but then it fell behind the table where I had all my neat little piles for the project I was working on ... and over the edge of the table, along with the stapler, flew whatever paper scrambled in the wake of it.

Simple, see? Just under there trying to retrieve the stapler and grab the papers. He clears his throat behind me and I thought it was Joe or one of the other guys and I said something ... well ... I think it might have been, "Oh, just stick it."

And he said, in that soft Australian burr of a growling voice, "Do I get my choice of sticking it wherever I fancy, love?"

I hit my head on the table as I tried to stand up. Dazed and confused, I wobbled to my feet and didn't miss the way he was trying hard to look serious. I narrowed my eyes at him and rubbed the top of my head.

"Just a few details," he said, brusque and businesslike. "About those figures you cited in the briefing ... like to see your source data ... if I might have a bit of a look?"

It took another tiny moment for it to dawn on me what he wanted. For the next 40 minutes, we poured over binders with spreadsheets and compilations of focus groups. All those wonky things I dug and could get lost in. I kept waiting on him to yawn and slide under the table in an utter daze of boredom. But he asked the greatest questions. And he was all business. And somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing things like his aftershave and the cut of his suit and the way his tongue would rest on his upper lip when he was assessing something.

I saw him from time to time the rest of the week. We'd pass in the hall, he'd give me a tight nod of recognition. He seemed just a trifle shy and like he was grateful to see anyone he recognized in the building during his first week with us. I took a liking to him, just on the basis of our meeting that first day and wanted him to feel at home with us. We'd end up in the coffee room at the same time and he'd hand me the half and half on his way out. I introduced him to the mysterious FedX delivery guy and after that he'd email me witty little stories about where Mysterious FedX Guy's unintelligible accent was really from and how he'd come to end up working for FedX. Very clever man, was our Mr. Thorne. And witty. I like that in a man.

We were in the same briefing on Friday morning and when he started asking questions about the rationale behind using a certain security contractor in Brazil even after two break-ins at the regional office there in one week that came less than a month after one of the execs there had been carjacked ... you could have heard a pin drop in the room.

Where had this guy been hiding all this time? Every answer elicited a more pointed question until the briefer looked like he was about to either crawl out of the room or lunge over the table at Thorne and choke him. But ... well ... you know, there was just this aura around Thorne that I think every person in there read the same ... I don't think he was the kind of man who could be taken. I was thinking he was the kind of man who took down other men and I had never seen anyone in a three-piece suit before who made me really believe he was capable of being dangerous.

This wasn't a man who was going to be fooled or bullshitted. 

I thought about this the rest of the day, really. It seemed to me that in that one fell swoop, he had made us all realize how far our company had to go in terms of risk reduction and security measures. I'd thought we'd been doing so good ... but we now knew that he was the real deal and he could see our every fault and failing. Now what?

The invitation to dinner came from out of the blue. Joe said to consider it a trap and to wear something nice. 

The Big Guy did this every so often, these dinners at his place. I'd heard about them, we all had. There were legends built around them. Some said they were simply boringly formal dinner parties at which you best not drink lest you make a fool of yourself and never again be able to be taken seriously at any meeting. Others said the real parties came after ... after the majority wandered off and a select few stayed and ... and "did things," is about all that was said. There were so many tales of the hot tub that I always figured it had to figure into the "did things" episodes.

No one ever quite knew who all had been invited. It was considered gauche to ask around to see if others were going if you scored an invite ... and to brag you'd gotten one to anyone not going was more than bad form ... "they" said that doing so was a sure way to never get invited to dinner at the Big Guy's place up in the hills again.

So I'll probably never get invited again because I told Joe about it when the envelope ended up on my desk on Friday afternoon for the Saturday dinner. I told Joe because I knew he'd gone to one or two. I was hoping he was going to this one but he wasn't. So I was on my own.

As I parked at the end of the row of 12 cars already there by the time I got there at 7:15 p.m., I thought to myself, "Jesus, don't tell me I was supposed to be on time!" After all, aren't you supposed to be fashionably late for social functions? Maybe that doesn't work for company dinners. And then I was walking across the pebbly parking area and I was thinking, "Carey, if you fall now, I am going to cry big baby tears and you'll be really embarrassed ... uhn ... oh jeezabeez ... for once in your life, do not trip and fall at the worst possible moment."

So I was smiling when I made it safely to the bottom of the stairs because I can crack myself up pretty easy, especially when I'm nervous. I sobered up by the time I hit the door and Mr. Big Guy opened it before I even knocked.

He half-bowed me in, was pointing down the hall to tell me that was where the bathroom was should I need one later ... even while he was ushering me toward the inner room where everyone was gathered, mumbling something engaging about a bar over to my left and about making myself quite at home.

And that was it ... he was off ... I'd never thought of him as a social creature. But to be so summarily deserted by the host? My momma taught me better manners, I thought as I watched him walk off down another hall.

Inside the room he'd pointed me to, I found others from the company. They were just not people I knew well ... and most of them seemed to be with spouses or dates ... which meant two things: there were now twice as many people I didn't really know well enough to chat with and I could have saved myself this embarrassment if only I'd read the invitation better because it probably said I could have brought a friend with me. I'm such a dork sometimes but not always. You know, us wonk type people don't really flit around that much in elaborate social circles, I suppose, but I do have a healthy if unpretentious circle of friends. I liked my low profile at work because sometimes it made it more effective to just show up to do a risk audit when no one quite knew me well enough to know what to make of my questions. I could get in and out easier if I got bored. But it sure had its disadvantages on this night, didn't it?

Approaching the bar, I tried to adopt a more comfortable appearance than I felt. The bar seemed like a good place to get my bearings ... I figured that while I fixed a drink, I could scope the room out and see if maybe there was some informal grouping into which I could insert myself and not be the wallflower all night.

I perused my selections and kept glancing up to study the room. Nothing really seemed too promising. So I killed some time by concentrating on fixing some kind of drink that might be my liquid courage.

Ah ... Grey Goose ... mmm ... let's see ... tonic? Yes ... here ... and lime wedges even. Ice? Of course, in the bucket.

"Make me one of whatever you're having while you're at it, love?"

"Thorne! Thank God!"

"I never get tired of that reaction from beautiful women."

I laughed. Relief at hand! He had such a wicked and dry sense of humor ... when it wasn't out and out naughty, that is, like the story he'd made up just the day before about the FedX guy. "Oh, get over yourself. I just meant, I'm glad there's somebody here I know well enough to chat with. You don't mind keeping me company just long enough for me to not look like Miss Social Geek, do you?"

So we ran through topics from American politics to global warming to Homeland Security to tulips to how I stood it here in Chicago in the winter because he was 'freezing his bollocks off' to coffee to how he dealt with the traffic in London without 'going postal' to Susan.

Susan?

Well, yeah, of course. She came walking in maybe ten minutes after we started chatting and I tried to be discreet as I waved at her to come join us. I know she saw me. But she got swept away by someone she knew in some cluster near this weird piece of sculpture and before I could glare her into coming to over to me so I could introduce them, Thorne insisted I go out with him so he could look at the pool and the view.

"There's the famous hot tub," I said to him, leaning in to stage whisper. "I hear that if it could but talk, we'd know for sure if Jessica Rabbit's boobs are fake or not."

"Pardon?"

"Fake ones float."

"They do not."

"They don't?" I looked him up and down. "How would you know something like that?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. Surely you're not challenging my body of knowledge?"

"Your body of knowledge of the female body, I take it we're talking."

"We're talking."

"I always thought they floated."

"A young wives' tale."

"I'm so disappointed."

"So ... guess that answers one question for me ... about yours, eh?"

I smacked his arm. We both chuckled. "That cinches it. I want you to meet my friend Susan tonight. The two of you are perfect for each other."

He frowned at me. "Have I led you to believe I need to be fixed up?"

"Every man likes being fixed up," I said, teasing him. "I have that on good authority."

"Get a better authority, Carey."

"Okay, okay. But ... you really should meet her. She's got such a great sense of humor and the two of you would have a good time together."

He looked off and shrugged. I took that to mean, "go on and fix me up because I've not met anyone I want to ask out since I've been here anyway."

When the Big Guy called us in to dinner, it was in a very large dining hall with a huge table down the middle. Chairs along either side were quickly filling up with the 30 or so people there. I spied Susan and there were two empty seats across from her. This seemed like fate was calling out, "Yoohoo!" So I yanked on Thorne's sleeve until he followed behind me. I introduced them as we claimed the seats I'd spied.

I sat there waiting for magic to strike. But Susan got tongue tied and Thorne smiled blandly at her. So I was forced to keep steering the conversation. You know, like mentioning to Thorne that Susan spent a lot of time in New York and maybe they knew some people in common since that's where his company's U.S. office was. He gave me this look out of the corner of his eye. Susan allowed as how New York was big enough of a town that it just might be they ran in different circles.

Okay.

So I nudged Susan to tell Thorne about her last vacation because it had been to Australia. But all she'd done was scuba along the Great Barrier Reef and he hadn't been there in like 20 years or something and the conversation went flat.

It lurched along from there. But they were both trying. And sometime after the main course had been cleared and the dessert was being served, Susan told him she'd heard he was former SAS and her brother was a SEAL. So they got to talking about training, missions and Iraq.

I slipped away at that precise moment when they leaned across the table to talk to each other and seemed to forget anyone else was around. It made me feel good. They would be so nice together. Just for fun, maybe, but still ... you never know, right?

In the morning, I called Susan at home. "So?" I said, feeling very smug about how right I was that he was great for her.

"Where did you disappear to last night?"

"I left. You two were getting along so great ... and I thought if I was gone it'd encourage you to just keep talking. So did you? Keep talking?"

"Well ..."

"And did you go out for drinks after? He's so great, isn't he? So interesting ..."

"So boring, you mean. No wonder you tried dumping him on me."

"What? Boring? Terry Thorne? No way!"

"Most boring guy I've ever been forced to spend time with. I mean, I admit I thought he'd be great fun so I agreed to go out after with him ... but, sweet Lord, the man just cannot relax and have a real conversation."

"I do not believe you. Maybe it's been too long for you since you've been out and you just ..."

"Just what? Forgot what's interesting and what's not? Look, Carey, he's nice to look at and all, but rather an empty shell, don't you think?"

"No, I don't think that!"

"You should go out with him then ... just so you could see for yourself."

"You know that's not going to happen."

He stopped by my office on Monday morning before I had to leave on a risk assessment over in Engineering. 

"Susan's a nice one," he said to me, looking almost shy. "Thanks for setting that up. I asked her out for Thursday dinner ... but she has other plans. Too bad, too. My partner is coming to town with his girl. Thought we'd make it a foursome."

"Oh. You liked her, did you?" I said, uncomfortable and wondering what to say to him ... should I tell him the Thursday "plans" were Susan's way of saying 'no' without having to say it?

"Sure. You were right." He leaned against the door frame and frowned. "Wish I had a date for Thursday, though. Now I'll be the third wheel, won't I?"

"Yes ... I can see that ... maybe I can ..."

"... come along as my dinner companion instead?" he asked hopefully. He still had that shy look on him. Oh, I felt so bad because he seemed so vulnerable. Maybe he sensed Susan's excuse had been a bald-faced lie.

"Me? Out?" I asked; he nodded. "No, I can't."

"Can't?"

"I ... I'm not dating at this time."

"Ah. I see. Steady guy, is it?"

I sighed and glanced away. "No. Just not dating at this time."

Now I could see he was curious. "You don't have to make up an excuse if you're not interested, Carey. Just thought you'd help me out here."

"It's not an excuse. It's just a statement of fact."

"It's been a while for me, too. Dating, I mean," he said. I saw something flicker in his eyes. "There was this girl, you see ... she ... was married ... very ill-advised ... took a while to get over that ..."

Oh, God. I wasn't sure what to say in response. He was looking at me like he thought I'd have an answer of some sort for him.

But he just seemed rather sweet all of a sudden. And like maybe he'd lost some confidence

So we had reached this impasse ... if either of us took it further, it was horribly rude.

But he had this look on his face and ... he just looked rather sweet all of a sudden. And that made me think of my yoga friend Wilhemina, who would treat him tenderly and she would be an excellent sort of 'trophy' to show off to his friend coming into town with his girl on his arm and knowing Terry would have to scramble to find a date. Wasn't that really the unsaid thing about this big wish of Terry's to have a date for Thursday dinner?

"Look, I've got this friend ..."

So, I scored my second good date deed for Terry Thorne and felt very virtuous on Thursday night as I thought of the two of them having a nice, gentle time together. Sure, it was a blind date but it wasn't like regular blind dates ... because ... well ... because they were going to be great together.

On Friday morning, I saw him in the coffee room. He handed me the half and half on his way out. At the door, he paused to say, "About your friend ... very nice woman and all ... but I'm not sure she's really my type. Or something."

And then he was gone. So when I got back to my office, I called Wilhemina. "How was last night? Wasn't he great?" I asked.

"Excuse me? Why would you set me up with such a self-centered, cocky bastard, Carey? Karma's a bitch, honey, and for convincing me to go out with him, I think you're in for something really bad in the dating department to happen to you now."

"I don't date anymore."

"Yeah, I know. So you've said. Well, I think I know exactly why you wouldn't go out with Mr. Thorne. He is insufferable. I thought you said he was sensitive and sweet?"

"But he is!"

"Sell it somewhere else. He made me so upset that I just ditched him and took a taxi home."

After she hung up on me, I leaned back in my chair and wondered what in the heck was going on. Was I really such a bad judge of men?

I posed this very question to Marcia, Joe's secretary, who's been married at least four times. We were eating lunch in the cafeteria and I mentioned to her that I'd set Thorne up on two blind dates and both women found him almost the opposite of how I found him.

"Do I just not 'get' men?" I asked her after we discussed the question of the day regarding what color panties Jessica Rabbit was wearing today. I had picked red; Marcia picked that she was wearing none. I won. But I had unfair advantage as I'd seen her bending over this morning to get Thorne a spoon to stir his coffee ... only trouble was, she was looking for it in the bottom cabinet when we all knew the spoons were kept in the middle drawer. So I'd had this brief peek and ...

Anyway, her undies are not the subject. It was men. And how I was a poor judge, apparently, of men and their date potential. Or DP, as Marcia called it.

"You do seem to have had a run of 'em, haven't you, hon?" she asked me. "Then again, he hasn't taken Jessica out, has he?"

"Not yet. That I know of."

"So he's not a total lost cause."

"It's just that when Susan and Wilhemina describe him, he sounds so pathetic. But working with him, he is another man."

"That's probably it, then," she said, snapping her fingers. "He's probably one of those men who clench."

"Clench?"

"Yes, hon. When he's at work or some other non-threatening environment, he's relaxed, charming, intelligent. When he's going out on a date, it's not his brain that drives him anymore. In the place of that intelligent man, you get a dick head."

"Oh, Thorne is not a dick head, Marcia."

"He sounds like a date dick head."

"This is ridiculous."

"It's not. How many times have you been out on a blind date?"

"A few," I mumbled nervously.

"Well, I've been on enough to tell you this much: men just do not handle blind dates well. They turn into date dick heads. I swear to God, I'd make a mint if I could give seminars to teach men how to handle themselves on a blind date. They make the worst mistakes ... they brag on themselves, they never let the woman talk about herself, or they get tongue-tied and bashful, which is never attractive. Or they curse all the time, something you know they do because they're nervous. They get pushy and put the moves on too fast."

"So you're saying that maybe he's just needing a few pointers and then some more experience?"

"That could work." She turned to look at the entryway to the cafeteria. I followed her eyes as they slid half shut in concentration. There he was ... the man in question ... one Terry Thorne. In the flesh. "A man like that ... you'd think he'd be so good on a date. Blind or not."

"He's a neat guy."

"He's a stud. I'd have him myself if not for the fact I'm still married."

"Still? You say that like your marital status is in a state of flux."

"It is." She frowned as she watched Thorne consider his options at the lunch counter. "At the rate he's going, he'll still be on the market when I'm looking for next year's model."

He seemed to almost know we were talking about him. He looked up and glanced around the room until he saw us. He gave a half-smile in our direction ... I wondered if he was flirting with Marcia.

"You know what? I think if he asks me again, I'll just mention to him that he needs to relax and be himself on a date, even a blind date. And I think I'll set him up with a few more ... so he can practice. Don't you think that's a good idea?"

"You're awfully interested in him."

"No, I'm not. Well, I am, but not like that." She grinned at me. "I mean it. Not like that! I just want to help him. Plus, I can't believe I've misjudged him so. No, that's it. I'm going to set him up with every single woman I know until he finds someone he enjoys going out with."

"My divorce should be final in about six months."

"You're not really getting another divorce."

"If you promise to set me up with Thorne, it may be just the incentive I need."

I rolled my eyes at her and went back to work. That afternoon, I began my project to fix Terry Thorne up with the right woman. I made a flow chart of the possibilities and created a database with their attributes.

The next time he stopped by my office was a few days later. I had the newest analysis of the Argentine office security risk factors he'd asked for. We spent two hours going over the figures and the options I'd begun to outline. He picked holes in many of them and then we came up with some new ones. He was truly a genius ... by that I mean he was definitely smart, but he was also able to see things I never had before.

When we finished and were waiting for the final report to print out, I worked the conversation around very neatly to him and dating.

"So, Thorne, what about giving the dating thing another try?"

He rolled his eyes, shifted in his seat, adjusted the lie of the crease over his knee. 

"I'm serious. I have a friend ..."

"A friend?"

"Look, women talk, right? So I know the other dates didn't go well ..."

"Didn't go well, love? Who you been talking to? I thought they went quite well. Did they say something to you? Susan or Wilhemina? They didn't like me? That why they've both been so busy?"

"Er ..."

"They really didn't like me?"

"Er ..."

He looked up at me; he looked like a little boy. He looked ... confused and almost helpless. "Have I really lost my touch with women, Carey?"

"Oh, I'm sure that's not it ... it's probably just cultural ... maybe American women just expect different things and you're Australian, so you wouldn't know? Maybe?"

He shook his head sadly. "I've dated American women, love. They're different but they're still women. I guess that's it, then. I've lost my touch."

Oy vey. This was going so badly ... poor dear man. I couldn't take his hangdog look. I had to help him. "No, no. Maybe I could just give you a bit of advice? And then you could go out and try again, right?"

"Advice?"

"Yes ... er ... from what they've told me, I would gather that you must have been somewhat ... er ... nervous on the dates?"

"Nervous? I strike you as the kind of bloke who'd get nervous?" He gave me a tough glare.

"No, but dating is different, isn't it?" I shrugged. "My only advice is this: be yourself, Terry. You're interesting and funny and ..."

"And I'm a loser? That what you mean?"

"Not at all. You've just had a bad few dates, is all. I've got some other friends I'd think you'd love dating. I really do."

"Is that the real reason you would never go out with me, Carey? You don't date losers?"

"I just don't date. I told you that. No exceptions."

He got up and paced in front of my desk as I perched a hip against its edge. Finally, he sighed deeply before turning to look at me as he squared his shoulders. "Okay dokey. Set me up. Let's give it another try."

"Great!"

"Be myself, you say? That easy, is it?"

"Yes, absolutely!"

Over the course of the next two weeks, I set him up with no less than six women. Six! One date was worse than the next, if the women were to be believed. But Thorne always thought they'd each been spectacular successes when he would stop in my office the following day to tell me about each date. When I reported back to him, as gently and diplomatically as I could, what each woman thought of him, he was just deflated for a day or so. But I give him so much credit ... he'd bounce right back up, determined to succeed. Each time, he'd call or visit me to say he was ready to try again and I'd send him off on his next blind date with another bit of advice.

For all my good intentions, he had to work hard to not give up. And somehow, we grew a quirky friendship from out of it all. He made me laugh. I made him roll his eyes.

We had already started seeing each other on Saturday mornings at the coffee shop near the office. I was putting in heavy hours preparing for another round of insurance inspections and he volunteered to help me get the security risk analysis finalized. So I'd treat him to coffee and a pastry on Saturday mornings. And then we'd go to the office and grind our way through paperwork and spreadsheets and the fine print. I kept telling him he had better things to do with his Saturdays ... but every Saturday for a month, he showed up to help me.

That's the kind of guy he was. Nice guy but all business and tough when we got down to our task.

Over coffee, we began to tell each other things ... personal history things. At work, we didn't let friendship interfere ... we were both quite clear on that without having to really discuss it. But ... the coffee shop was neutral ground, I suppose.

He told me about this half-nomadic life of his. How he had a swank apartment in London that he saw every so often, but that he figured was home for him. But he also had a place in New York for when he was there. Yet ... yet, he had spent two months in my Chicago and most of that had been devoted to working with our company ... so how often did he ever see anyplace he could even remotely call home?

What did he do for fun, I asked him once.

It took him almost a full minute to finally answer and when he did ... it was said quickly, tersely. Going out carousing, he said, with his partner and other old friends.

But there was something about the way he said it ... almost too flip, too easy after considering for so long. He was not the simplest man to get to know ... guarded about himself in ways that stuck out when he was so willing to put himself out there for you when you needed help he could give you.

"I don't believe you," I said softly. "I mean, I imagine you go out running the bars with the guys, cruising for women ... but I'm not sure I believe that's your first answer to what you do for fun."

"No? You know me so well, do you?"

I held his gaze; it was steady and inquisitive. Like he was testing me, seeing if I was friend enough to be honest. "I think maybe I know you well enough to know there are no easy ways to get to know you. No easy answers. And that answer you gave me was too glib by half."

"Then what is it you think I do to have fun?"

I tilted my head and acted as if I was examining him closely. Not that this was really such an awful chore, mind you. I tapped my lips with my thumb and then suddenly snapped my fingers. "I've got it. For fun, what you really do is collect action figures."

"Action figures?"

"Yeah. Those small plastic things they sell to little boys ... tied in with films and comic strips ..."

"Dolls?"

"Well, yeah, they're dolls but they call them action figures and then little boys ... and big boys ... can collect them and play with them without getting made fun of."

"You think I collect little dolls?"

I started giggling. The look on his face was priceless ... he could be so easy to wind up. "You're so macho. I love it."

"I do not collect dolls."

"Oh sure. The more you deny it, the more I think you're hiding something."

"If you must know, love, about the only thing I do for fun is watch rugby ... and footy. Soccer to you wanker Yanks. Though here in this godforsaken backwater, I have to watch on the television rather than in person. Nothing like a live game, y'know."

"They play that sport here in Chicago, you know. Over at the park near the lake, in fact, they have a league that plays on Saturdays."

"What they play here is nothing like what we play at home."

"Such a snob!" I was chuckling at him and he was fighting a smile. His eyes were warm and I found it hard not to notice how it felt to be holding his attention like this. What was wrong with all those women I'd set him up with? "I bet you haven't even gone to any game since you've been here. I'm going to find out when the next one is ... they play not too far from my apartment ... and I'm going to force you to go some Saturday when we're finally done with this analysis report."

"It's a date."

My mouth opened to say 'yes, it's a date,' but then I think I must have blinked a few times before saying, "Well, actually, it wouldn't be a date. Not really."

"Because you don't date," he said softly.

"Right." I nodded and took a deep breath.

"And why is that, Carey?"

"Oh, it's all rather boring."

"I'm not bored."

I don't know why I told him. Well, I think it's because he was regarding me so openly, with no judgment and no pressure. And it seemed silly to keep making it some mystery. So I shrugged my shoulders, looked in his eyes and just gave him the abridged version. The sanitized tale.

"Well, you know how it is. You get divorced and suddenly you're fresh meat. Added to that indignity is that all my friends kept thinking it was their personal responsibility to hook me up with someone."

"As in ... setting you up ..."

"On blind dates, yeah. Pathetic." I shook my head ... and then realized, jeez, that's just what I'd been doing to him. "Oh! But it's different for you ... I mean, I've got you some blind dates but it's not like I'm doing it because I think you're gonna get married to one of them ..."

"So ... when you set up the blind date, it's good. When you're set up on a blind date, it's bad?"

I had to simply chuckle at his face; he had gone to fixing me with that serious look but there was still a smile hiding there behind the teasing. "It is so different. I'm just introducing you to women I think you'd have a perfectly lovely time with while you're in town."

"Ah. Well, where I come from we call that the Mercy Date."

"You do not!"

"Like you'd know."

"It's good for your soul, Terry. And who knows? Right? See you can't just give up. Not a great guy like you. Knowing there's someone like you in the dating pool might be all the encouragement a gal would need to keep on dating."

"Except you," he said, his voice soft. "Because you're done with dating ... right?"

"Right," I said, my voice even softer. "No more dating for this gal."

"So why'd it end?" He dropped his chin; I stared at him, blankly. "Your marriage, I meant."

"Oh." I looked off. "My marriage ... well ... it was ..."

"You don't have to tell me."

"No, that's okay. After all this time, I can talk about it without a problem. I think." I grinned at him. But it was a half-assed and fake grin, I grant you that.

"Then talk."

"He was a fireman," I said, looking down at where my arms were folded over my chest. "I used to worry about losing him in some big fire. Nothing quite that tragic, okay? It was all rather sordid, really. He fell in love with another fireman ... er ... fireperson? Not a man ... it was a woman who worked at his stationhouse ... He came home after shift one day and said he didn't love me anymore ... that he had met someone he had more in common with ... that he just had stopped feeling a sense of intimacy with me."

"That must have hurt."

"Oh yeah ... and then some." I looked at his hands, folded neatly over his knee. So in control and self contained. I shrugged my shoulders, like this was no big deal. But then ... then I admitted, "I kept asking myself, 'when did he stop loving me?' Like I was just too dumb to even notice."

"Maybe you were just in love. You don't notice things like that when you're in love with someone."

"Maybe so." I had never really had a thought like that before. Something simple and actually probably very close to the truth if you took the sting of the fact it had happened to you out of it, you know? I reached out to pat his hands. "Thanks, Terry. No one's ever said something quite that generous to me before. I think that's what I'm going to start telling myself from now on. I like that."

"That why you don't date anymore? Given up on love, have you?"

He was grinning when he said it. I grinned back. "Nah. I gave up on dating mainly because I kept meeting one loser after another ... all those blind dates, you see ... and then it occurred to me. I'm just not into dating. So why bother? And everything got simpler after that."

I was looking right in his eyes when I said that. He frowned, ever so slightly, and I wondered if he believed my half-truth.

"So, your turn. Why'd you get divorced, Terry?"

"Classic tale, love. Hope it won't take from my mystique ..."

"No chance. You have no mystique."

We both chuckled. He said, "She was rebelling against her old man and married me. Eventually, she grew out of her rebellious stage. I no longer fit her expectations."

"I can't believe any woman would treat you like that," I said, feeling so protective of him. "You're such a great guy. You deserve so much more."

"I doubt it."

"Oh, Terry, don't be all mousy on me. Of course you deserve better than that. But ... isn't it bad the way you seem to meet the one person who will do the most damage and that's who you fall in love with?"

"Maybe you meet that person to get you ready for the one person who'll do you the most good."

"Lovely thought. I like the way you think."

"Except you'll apparently never meet him ... since you're not dating and all."

"Yeah, well ... there is that."  I chuckled at the fallacy of my own reasoning. "Except for one thing ..."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Well, if I dated him, then I'd lose him anyway. Men lose interest in someone like me pretty quick," I said nonchalantly as I jumped up from my seat. "C'mon ... enough philosophy for the day ... I'm bushed ... and we still have work to do."

On the drive home that afternoon, I got to musing over poor Terry ... tossed by some uppity bitch who thought she was too good for him. As if! Such a great guy ... he needed someone who would ... And that is when I got a brilliant idea.

"I know what you need," I said to him when he answered his phone.

"Of course you do, love, but do tell."

"Well, you need to date a woman who is so sweet and will see what a tender heart you have and will be good for you. And I know just who would do that ..." He wasn't saying anything. But I could hear him breathing. Anticipating ... "Brooke."

"Brooke?"

"Yeah, oh boy, I should have thought of her. She's a kindergarten teacher ... she's in my pottery class ... she's very pretty and very sweet. You would enjoy meeting her. Here's what I'll do ..."

"No, you've done enough already, Carey."

"I insist. I'll arrange to meet her for coffee tomorrow. You drop by ... I say, 'Oh, Terry, how great to see you here! Why don't you join us.' And then you get to meet her. And if things go good ..."

So that is what we did.

He showed up, just like clockwork. Brooke started hyperventilating when he walked up. She is a very nice girl. He liked her. He chatted away to us. I feigned a phone call from my mom ... 'gotta go ... my dad's late and she needs a ride to church ... Terry, would you be a dear and give Brooke a ride home' ... yada yada yada. It was perfect. The perfect set up.

I called her the next morning to get the gory details ... I had seen the instant sparks ...

"So? How'd it go? Isn't he fantastic?"

"He took me to lunch."

"And? C'mon! Dish!"

"You said he was sweet and had a big heart. You never said he was so clingy and needy. I couldn't believe it. What a wimp! Honestly, Carey. I trusted you. You said he was all manly and interesting. He started crying!"

"Crying? Why?"

"He took me out to a matinee after lunch. It was Wizard of Oz. He started bawling when Dorothy had to leave Oz. He said it made him so homesick he couldn't stand it. He's very odd, Carey. Very odd man."

"But ... but, there was chemistry between you! You thought he was hot, I know you did ..."

"Yeah. I did. And in spite of it all, in spite of his little crying jag, I decided he was too good looking not to take home and ... well, you know ..."

"I do, yeah. Yeah? So?" I asked, ever hopeful.

"So we ended up in bed."

"Oh. Good," I said with an inaudible 'whew.'

"My God. It was just jackrabbit sex ... and then he fell asleep. Has he never heard of the female orgasm?"

"Oh my."

"Oh, indeed."

Hmmm. This was so very weird. I thought long and hard over the next day or so about how Terry did seem to be fitting Marcia's analysis ... Terry Thorne, despite his fantastic qualities I'd come to know while working alongside him, was a clencher ... a date dick head. Alas. No wonder he was still single. His divorce had probably done a real number on his self confidence with women in romantic situations. Poor guy.

And then I ran into Terry just before the Risk Committee meeting the next day. He was in his professional mode. And he had to give part of a briefing. So I didn't want to ruin his buzz, you know? So when he told me how much he had liked Brooke and that he was going to call her again, I just kind of smiled.

So he knew she'd said something. He came by my office that afternoon to ask. So I just told him. "Gee, Terry, maybe you need to just keep your ... um ... your wonderful tender side not quite so obvious until a girl gets to know you ... Maybe just be more ... well, like you are in meetings ..."

"But you said Nora said I was too stiff and boring."

"I know. Well, maybe just be ..."

"And Linda told you I was uncouth and macho ..."

"I still think she just has something against Australians ..."

"And Amanda said I was too ... how did you put it? Too 'sexually antagonistic.'"

"I can't figure it out. Maybe I'm giving you bad advice. Maybe you need to forget everything I ever said ... and just be yourself ... Because I think you're great just like you are and if a woman can't see that ..."

"Well, maybe being myself is why I'm having such a run of bad luck with women."

"I just can't figure it out."

"Wish you could have observed me out on a date. Then you could have taken notes and told me what I was doing that is so wrong. Then I could fix it."

"That'd be great wouldn't it? Like that movie about the dating coach."

"Yeah. You could be my dating coach." He snapped his fingers and stood up. He got a very determined and resolute look on his handsome face. "This is what we'll do. You'll go out with me on a test date. I'll show you what I do on a date. You'll be in the best position to observe me. At the end of the evening, you give me a strategic analysis report with my strengths and weaknesses, and recommendations for improvement. You're good at those. Sound like a plan?"

"Well, it sounds like a good plan except for one thing ..."

"It's not a date, Carey. It's research. And then you'll do your analysis, report back to me, we'll come up with a plan of action. It's just like what you do here. Okay, that's settled then. I'll pick you up Friday evening at 6:30 p.m. Dinner and a show. Wear something dressy."

And with that ... he shot out of my office with a definite swagger. I had to hand it to him ... he was really going to tackle his dating problems head on. Nothing scared him. That impressed me a lot.

Only problem was ... man, what was I going to wear? It'd been well over a year since I'd been out on a date and even though this wasn't a date, I had to dress like it was or maybe it'd throw his technique off. So I took off the rest of the afternoon to go shopping for a dress. On Thursday when I got to my condo after work, there was a vase of orange tulips waiting just in front of my door. There was a note inside from Terry: Tomorrow. T.