Karen Whittenburg - The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal

The door swung open just as the cold, January rain started in earnest and without waiting for a formal invitation, he stepped into the sheltered entryway. “Archer Braddock,” he announced himself to the crisp, somber-faced butler. “I have a two o’clock appointment with Mrs. Fairchild.”

“Yes, sir. We’ve been expecting you.” The butler closed the door and Archer doffed his hat, sending a fine splatter of raindrops across the marbled tile. “Did you have an umbrella, sir?” the man asked as he expertly assisted in the removal of Archer’s topcoat and gloves.

“No. No, I’m afraid not.” There was one in the car, of course. His own man, Abbott, would never have let him leave the house without being properly equipped for every conceivable shift in the weather—it was a matter of pride among butlers, it seemed—but Archer had forgotten the umbrella when he’d dismissed the car. He hadn’t wanted anyone, including his completely trustworthy driver, to know where his appointment was today or with whom.

“Your scarf, sir?” The butler stood ready to accept the gray cashmere muffler, and Archer allowed his hand to linger a moment in the soft folds before he pulled it from around his neck. It was a gift from Janey one long-ago winter and a present reminder that she was never far from his side…if only in warm memory. And today, more than ever, Archer needed to feel her near.

The butler carefully folded the scarf and set it beside Archer’s hat on a marble top credenza. “Mrs. Fairchild is in the study,” he said. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

Archer settled his balance over the cane and set off after the butler. Not so many years ago, he’d largely have ignored his surroundings, taken for granted the beauty of luxury, and already been focused on the meeting ahead. But seventy-eight summers had taught him life was in a big enough rush without him adding to it and so he walked slower now, by choice as much as necessity. He’d never been to Ilsa’s home before, never had occasion or reason to be there until now and he was—as silly as it seemed—a little nervous. But the quiet charm of her home put some of his more niggling doubts to rest. Touches of elegance such as an Aubusson rug in the foyer, a Picasso on the wall leading upstairs, vases of fresh-cut flowers on mahogany tables in the open foyer were interspersed with simple indications—an old woven basket holding garden shears and a pair of women’s flowery cotton gloves, a pair of half-glasses sitting atop an upended book—that the woman who lived in this house was not overly concerned with appearances.

The butler led the way across the foyer to an open doorway and announced crisply, “Mr. Archer Braddock.”

“Mr. Braddock.” Ilsa Fairchild rose from an upholstered wing chair before a cozy fire to greet him warmly. “Right on time. Please come in.”

Archer stepped over the threshold, calling himself three kinds of a fool for setting out on this errand, for being an old man who still wished to believe in fairy tales and magic, but he extended his hand to her with a deceptively confident smile. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said. “I don’t often make the trip into Providence.”

“I’m thrilled that you called. It’s wonderful to see you again.” She accepted his handshake and then indicated with a gesture that he should be seated in the matching wing chair across from hers. “It’s been…what? Five years since we worked together on the library fund-raiser?”

“About that,” Archer agreed. “There have been so many of them through the years, I’ve lost track of which was which. The library always was one of Janey’s pet projects, you know.”

“Mine, as well.” Ilsa resumed her seat, graciously allowing him time to settle his less-than-graceful body into the chair while she addressed the butler. “Robert? Would you please bring us some tea and—” she looked a question at Archer “—coffee?”

He sank onto the cushions, grateful to be sitting after his walk in the moist afternoon air. “I would appreciate a cup of coffee,” he agreed.

Robert nodded acquiescence and withdrew, closing the double doors and enclosing Archer in the welcome warmth of the room and Ilsa’s smile. She still looked like a youngster to him although he knew she was in her early fifties, at most only a year or two younger than his own son, James. Age and experience had mined her beauty, faceted her charm, replacing lustrous youth with polished grace. She was still beautiful, tall, elegantly slender, with hair that had once been the color of new copper, but had faded to a muted auburn. Her gray eyes held the light of laughter and the knowledge of sorrow, but mostly the deep-set twinkle of a true believer and that, above all else, was the reason he had come.

“I was in Amsterdam when I heard about Mrs. Braddock’s passing.” Ilsa leaned slightly toward him with sympathy and the understanding of a widow for a widower. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t have attended the funeral.”

It would be two years in March since that day and still the word bothered him as much now as then. “Celebration,” he corrected gently. “Funeral has such a final sound to it and, well, the truth is, I prefer to remember that day as a celebration of her life. She would have wanted to go out on a high note, you know.”

“I wish I’d known her better,” Ilsa said. “But any woman who was so obviously adored by the men in her life had to have been very special, indeed.”

“She was the love of my life, and I knew it the first second I laid eyes on her.” Archer leaned against the firmly cushioned chair back, shifting the crook of the sturdy, cherrywood cane—yet another lasting gift from his Janey—to the chair’s curved arm. “I know the value of love and the benefits of a good marriage. That’s why I’m here. My dear Mrs. Fairchild…may I call you Ilsa? I find myself in need of a…matchmaker.”

ILSA WAS SELDOM surprised by comments made inside the privacy of her study. Her clients tended to be nervous, unsure and somewhat embarrassed about their decision to seek her services. Often, the person seated across from her had no real idea of what she could and couldn’t do for them, nor was there any clear understanding of what, exactly, a matchmaker’s role was in the twenty-first century. With experience, Ilsa had learned to be forthright in setting a businesslike tone for these initial meetings, in establishing her credentials and outlining her strategies. It prevented problems down the road, but usually the client needed to first feel at ease and the business aspect didn’t come into play until after Robert had served tea, and the social niceties were duly dispatched.

Archer Braddock was obviously not her typical client.

“You need a matchmaker?” she repeated, knowing her surprise echoed in the words. “For yourself?”

A hoarse rumble of amusement edged past his immediate smile and became a deep, satisfied chuckle. “Ah, Ilsa, it was worth the trip up from Sea Change just for that.” He lifted a wizened hand to his mouth, as if to cover his laughter, but when he let it drop back onto the arm of the chair, his amusement was still very much in evidence. “Thank you, my dear, for believing even for an instant that I could still fancy myself going a courting. But the truth is, I’ll be seventy-nine at the end of June and it’s too late in my life to go looking for love, even if Janey wasn’t—as my grandsons would say—such a tough act to follow.”

Ilsa could feel a blush warming her cheeks and had to wonder what it was about the Braddock men that made her feel like such an ingenue. James had had the same effect on her when they were in school together, and the few times she had encountered him since. And now within the first ten minutes, she had reverted to speaking first and thinking afterward with his father, too. Of course, it could have had something to do with the fact that the Braddock name was synonymous with wealth and power, not only in Rhode Island, but up and down the Eastern seaboard. Maybe even in the whole western hemisphere! But Ilsa was no stranger to the privilege of family name and fortune herself and suspected her reaction was rooted in a much more basic reality. James and Archer Braddock were old world gentlemen, possessed of an elemental charm, a warm, earthy attraction and a sincere, somewhat awed regard for women. Archer had spent half a century deeply in love with his wife, while James—the last Ilsa had heard—was still seeking his perfect match. Still, there was some indefinable quality in both men that women responded to, naturally and without hesitation. Ilsa recognized it, even if she couldn’t quite put a name to it.