Man Camp by Adrienne Brodeur

removes the cables in reverse order, looping them around her elbow and wrist, and returns them to the Wolfs’ neighbor in a neat coil.
    They are halfway home before Adam speaks. “I’m sorry, Lucy. There’s nothing I hate more than disappointing you.”
    Lucy says nothing.
    It’s a long ride back to the city.

CHAPTER 4

    “The male is a domestic animal which, if treated with firmness, can be trained to do most things.”
    Jilly Cooper
    MONDAY NIGHT — KURT BECKER
    Martha’s FirstDate client Kurt Becker waits for her at the bar of Mare, a celebrity-chef-owned restaurant that’s been getting a lot of buzz. When she arrives, only ten minutes late, he greets her with a firm handshake and plenty of eye contact. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. McKenna,” he says stiffly. “How do you do?”
    “I’m
terrific,
” she says. “Call me Martha.” Following his greeting, she wonders if hers seems too exuberant, but she’s just come from a voice-over audition that turned into a job on the spot, the first acting gig she’s had in weeks.
    “A voice-over?” Kurt says with uncertainty.
    “Voice-overs are to actors what mole removals are to dermatologists. Not glamorous, but necessary. They pay the bills.” Lowering her voice, she adds, “The truth is, I’m not the pickiest thespian,” and laughs at the thought of how many times that afternoon she’d been made to repeat the line “It takes grease out of your way” under the grave direction of an ad exec who advised her to sound more grateful to the product.
    Kurt seems taken aback by Martha’s gusto, as if it’s at odds with the earnest mood he’s trying to establish. He laughs awkwardly, and Martha decides to follow his lead and tone down her enthusiasm. He hands her a small yellow-pink rose, the stem of which is wrapped in a moist paper towel and covered in aluminum foil. “I grew it in my hothouse,” he says, and attributes his green thumb to his family’s Norwegian-bachelor-farmer roots. “I’m experimenting with heirloom roses.”
    Kurt looks to be in his early forties and Martha finds him unnervingly handsome, with dark blond hair, cool gray eyes, and gleaming white teeth. She lifts the flower to her nose and for a moment forgets Kurt is not a real date and hasn’t grown the rose with the real Martha in mind. She closes her eyes and gets lost in the delicate fragrance of the flower.
    Kurt clears his throat. “You still with me, Martha? Or am I talking to myself here?”
    Martha’s eyes pop open.
You’re on a job,
she reminds herself,
and your client wants his money’s worth of your attention.
“Sorry,” she says, noticing that when Kurt’s handsome face isn’t smiling, there’s something hard about his mouth and a vein in his forehead promises to bulge when he becomes angry. He has style—always tough to detect in conventional business attire, but discernible to Martha, who’s attentive to the subtle wit of tie selection, the play of checks on stripes, the daring vocabulary of collars. She starts to wonder why he hired her—he seems to be a fairly capable dater—and launches into her rote FirstDate questions: “What do you hope to get from this experience?” “How did you hear about FirstDate?” “What do you believe are your dating issues?”
    Unlike most of her clients, Kurt is ready with answers. “At the risk of sounding arrogant,” he starts right in, “I think I’m a decent catch.” He ticks off his attributes one finger at a time until his palms are open, all ten fingers extended: “I’m intelligent, healthy, financially secure,
well
educated,
well
traveled,
well
read—”
    Well, well, well, Martha thinks, assuming he’s joking.
    “—a fine cook, sophisticated, in excellent shape, and shall we say, not horrendously unattractive.”
    He’s not joking.
    “Basically,” he continues, “I can offer the right woman a pretty good life.” His pretty good life includes a house in the country, a fifty-foot schooner, a