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Overview
As far as her family and friends are concerned, Frieda has been the grieving widow for long enough. At 35, she's still (relatively) young, still (adequately) attractive. Her sex drive is very much alive; even Frieda admits she'd like to put it to use again. Besides, she has a son who certainly needs a father figure. With visions of the perfect second husband in mind, Frieda's sisters start to send eligible males in her direction.
Big sister Ilene -- herself substantially married -- has found the ultimate unattached catch: a gorgeous, independently wealthy, successful, divorced father, pillar of society and paragon of potential. What more could a single mom ask for? Apparently a lot more than loved ones realize. Frieda's own efforts bear very tasty fruit. Sam is young, talented, devoted, and incredibly sexy -- though broke, only sporadically employed, and clueless about kids. But he makes Frieda feel brand-spanking-new, in a most wonderfully wanton way. When all is said and done, does Frieda really need the "perfect man" ... or the far-from-ideal man who's perfect for her?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061860522 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 10/13/2009 |
| Sold by: | HARPERCOLLINS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 368 |
| Sales rank: | 1,051,703 |
| File size: | 429 KB |
About the Author
Valerie Frankel has written over thirty books, including three New York Times bestsellers. Her articles have appeared in O, The Oprah Magazine; Parenting; Self; Glamour; Allure; and the New York Times, among other publications. She lives in Brooklyn with her family.
Read an Excerpt
The Not-So-Perfect Man
Chapter One
Thursday, September 5
10:34 A.M.
"I've got the perfect man for you."
"Not another one," said Frieda Schast. "Is that why you came to Brooklyn? To give me the hard sell?"
Ilene, Frieda's older sister by three years, said, "You know I love coming out here. It's practically a trip to the country. I needed the fresh air."
"I'm not a cause," said Frieda.
"You are."
"Why?"
"Just ... 'cause."
Ilene didn't have to explain further. It'd been a year and a month since Frieda's husband died. The day after the deathiversary, Ilene began fixing up Frieda with suitors she'd located, apparently under a rock somewhere.
Ilene said, "He's an entomologist."
"So you did find him under a rock," said Frieda.
The two women sat behind the counter at Frieda's frame store on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. Ilene had taken the afternoon off work in Manhattan to make the visit. Despite her annoyance with the topic of conversation, Frieda was grateful for the company.
Frieda asked, "Does he twitch?"
Ilene said, "Not that I know of."
"The last one twitched."
"A tic is not a twitch," said Ilene.
"A tic is when someone tugs his ear if he's nervous, or twirls his hair. I'd even allow a tic to mean incessant blinking or handwringing. But the last one had full-body convulsions every two minutes. I thought I'd have to rush him to the hospital. Or that the force of his seizures would make his head fly off."
"Just as long as you're not exaggerating," said Ilene.
On the counter in front of her, Frieda held a small triptych of a girl on a swing. The photographer had taken the pictures of his daughter, and had carefully selected a three-quarter-inch cherry-wood frame. The girl's dress was red and pretty, and Frieda imagined herself on that swing. She could only guess which sensation was more thrilling for the girl, zooming backward, her hair floating around her head, covering it protectively, or zipping forward, hair blown back, exposing her to the world of the playground.
Frieda reflexively tucked some of her own brown curls behind one ear, leaving the bulk of it to hang down against her cheeks. She knew she'd have to move forward, that it was impossible to backswing indefinitely. Frieda asked, "Have you met this guy? How many degrees of separation are we talking here?"
Ilene said, "He's the brother of Peter's secretary's best friend."
Frieda calculated this information. "That's four degrees."
"Three."
"Best friend, secretary, Peter, you."
"I'm not counting myself."
"Why not?" asked Frieda.
"We're related," she said. "We shouldn't count Peter, either. You've known him for ten years. He's like a brother to you."
"I'm sure Peter had nothing to do with this," said Frieda of Ilene's husband.
"Peter likes my fixing you up," said Ilene. "He thinks it will distract me from the size of his stomach. But let's not even mention it. Peter's belly is too big a topic to get distracted by."
"It is an immense topic," agreed Frieda.
"It's more than a topic," said Ilene. "It's practically a tropic. Like the tropic of Capricorn. The one that spans the globe?"
"I've read the book," said Frieda.
Ilene said, "His name is Roger. He's a resident professor at the Museum of Natural History. The marriage potential is sky high. He could be The One."
Frieda had already had The One. So Roger Bugman would never be that. At best, he could be The Two. Hard to get worked up about The Two. Nobody ever says, "He's The Two, I just know it!"
Frieda said, "It would be helpful, when we have these conversations, if you could shift the pitch from, 'He's The One' to something like, 'You might have a pleasant dinner with him.' Or, 'He's good practice.' Or, 'He's easy on the eyes.' Or just, 'He's easy.'"
Despite her loss of a husband (which sounded like she'd misplaced him somewhere), Frieda hadn't lost her sex drive. It was just buried in her mental closet. She knew that, at thirty-five, it was unlikely she'd never have sex again. But the idea of getting naked with a complete stranger, having been with the same man for nine years, was intimidating. When she'd met Gregg, she was a dewy twenty-six-year-old. She hadn't any wrinkles then. Nor had her belly been thickened by a pregnancy.
Ilene said, "I can show you his picture."
Frieda felt a sudden flutter of nerves at the threat of coming face-to-photo. "You brought his picture?" she asked. "You're sick, Ilene. There should be a special hospital for people like you."
"His photo and bio are on the museum website," said Ilene. "He's very handsome. And he's the nation's foremost expert on dung beetles."
"No shit," said Frieda.
"Take a look," said Ilene.
"I'm very busy," said Frieda.
"I can see that," said Ilene, pointedly glancing around the store. Not a single customer was among the bins and boxes. Business was slow, but not dangerously so. At the Sol Gallery, Frieda sold original photographs and did custom framing. Photographs were mounted on cardboard, wrapped in plastic, and put in bins for customers to flip through. Frieda priced the photos according to size and subject matter ranging from $5 to $500. Her standard arrangement: The photographer would get 40 percent of the purchase price and she'd keep 60 percent. Retail photography accounted for about 20 percent of her overall business.
Rows and rows of L-shaped frame samples covered the walls by the back counters. They were grouped by medium (wood, metal, etc.), color and size (five-inch gilded ornate maple to quarter-inch fiberglass).
The Not-So-Perfect Man. Copyright © by Valerie Frankel. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.