Over the past months, we’ve been inundated with entries in our second short story contest. Our judges had a difficult task for sure, but they picked this “fun and clever” story about online dating by Barbara Joyce-Hawryluk as a runner-up. Enjoy and stay tuned to read another runner-up and the winning short story in the next two days. 

***

Bradley Snowden and Abigail Rumsby, thanks to Mature Singles, had been messaging for weeks, discussing the possibility of meeting in person.

New to the over-50 dating website, Bradley had instantly recognized a familiar theme, one shared by other match-up forums pimping the usual panoply of love seekers. Going all out in a profile photo for a man meant combed hair, brushed teeth, and occasionally a state-of-the-art grill by his side or a cute kitten or puppy snuggled in the crook of a sun-kissed arm. Hey girl, I cook and I cuddle. And oh, by the way, did you notice the guns?

Women, on the other hand, were decidedly more earnest, sparing no effort or expense. A professional photography session, salon visits for nails, face, and locks carefully colored and styled for that natural, I-didn’t-do-a-thing-with-my-hair look. And in some photos, he detected that copious amounts of money had exchanged hands in return for moderate to high degrees of pain in designer cosmetic facilities promising a more youthful—even an entirely different—you.

Bradley’s image showcased the full snare because he was on a serious hunt for a relationship with the right woman. Abigail had caught his eye.

There was a time when Bradley wouldn’t give someone like Abigail a second glance.

He paused inside the coffee shop entrance, ebony eyes drifting from the stunted heel of Abigail’s patent leather shoes to a salt and pepper chignon knotted and pinned to the nape of her neck. His pulse quickened, anticipation drawing an electrified smile between deep set dimples.

“Hi Abigail,” he said, as he approached the corner table where she sat, timorously huddled inside a black London Fog coat.

“Hi Bradley,” she demurred, pushing Peabody glasses up a sweat-slicked aquiline nose with one hand while the other fidgeted with a balled-up, coffee-soaked napkin.

There was a time when Bradley wouldn’t give someone like Abigail a second glance unless they’d stumbled upon each other at a bar or in a nightclub, cloistered in the trappings of dim lights and alcohol infused ambience. Come morning, when Bradley discovered that nighttime Nirvana had cratered into early morning Purgatory, a loosely memorized fiction would follow: “Good morning, sweetheart (generic observance for the Abigails of the world). I’d love to see you again, but my ex-wife has just been released from prison. She’s a violent woman, especially when she goes off her medication. I’m sure it won’t be long before she’s arrested again, but in the meantime it’s safer for you to stay away from me. Sure, I’ll call you when she’s back under lock and key.”

But Bradley had changed. A beautiful woman, he’d learned through extensive experience, didn’t guarantee happiness. A woman with money did. “May I sit here?” He was pointing at the chair across from hers.

“Of course, of course,” Abigail stammered, just like every other woman he’d met from every other dating site he’d scoured. Bradley Snowden, a striking, copper-skinned Adonis with dark Grecian curls fired pheromones like a pellet gun.

Nice wealth, the most relevant accolade, was nixed before it became a thought.

As he scanned his next investment—potentially the most lucrative one to date—searching for a compliment, nice legs was immediately dismissed. Luckily, the woman had no other physical trappings that could lead to a #MeToo transgression. Nice wealth, the most relevant accolade, was nixed before it became a thought. Several weeks of research had informed Bradley that Abigail’s full-time career involved management of dead daddy’s $100 million estate.

After an awkward silence, the praise of last resort poured, as silken as Baileys Irish Cream, from seasoned lips. “Abigail is such a beautiful name,” he said. “Father’s joy.”

The gold flecks in Abigail’s pale gray eyes took on a sudden sparkle. “Wow, how do you know that?”

“It’s my niece’s name, and she is without a doubt my brother’s greatest joy. Mine too in fact,” he said as he pulled out the chair and sat down. It wasn’t a total fabrication. Abigail, a one-year-old Labrador Retriever, was indeed the brothers’ one and only darling.

Her hand, nearly knocking over the coffee cup, went to her chest, cheeks ablush.

With all the swoon he could manufacture, Bradley delivered enough heat to fog Abigail’s glasses and melt her tightly crossed legs into a pair of trembling gummy worms. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the 51-year-old spinster would be shedding good sense faster than her knickers, along with the password to her financial portfolio.

Bradley’s near-psychic read on women had fast tracked him into a profitable sweet spot in almost five years. In fact, he’d been able to quit his day job as admissions recruiter for a private school and devote himself exclusively to full-time philanderer.

Bradley’s near-psychic read on women had fast tracked him into a profitable sweet spot in almost five years.

Maria, his first, still a work in progress, coughed up a down payment of $1 million when an explicit video starring her and Bradley threatened her 15-year marriage to renowned cardiac surgeon Dr. Nathan Glass. Monthly contributions of $10,000—not enough to put a dent in her personal savings—ensured that Maria’s secret would remain in Bradley’s safety deposit box.

And then came Jessica and a drowning accident in the Gulf of Mexico. His, not hers. Two days post wedding and one month after merging their finances, Bradley disappeared during an underwater dive while she made breakfast on the honeymooners’ 46-foot catamaran. For weeks, Jessie-My-Bestie, as he liked to call her, paid search divers a handsome fee only to have damaged gear turn up but no body. Not long afterward, she discovered an empty bank account and immediately suspended recovery efforts in favor of a police investigation that in the end proved futile.

Martha, his third, was a $10 million lottery winner. Sadly, her unexpected good fortune inserted itself into a life of extravagant self-sabotage, culminating in her tragic demise. Following an epic loss at the gaming tables, poor Martha succumbed to a heroin overdose in her Las Vegas hotel suite. Fortunately for Bradley, $2 million had previously been deposited into their joint account shortly after their engagement and three weeks before her expiration.

Each financial gain fed Bradley’s obsession for a personal best not unlike a high school track star with a shelf full of ribbons, medals, and trophies, one success piggybacking the next, hunger for escalating performance fed by insatiable compulsion. Abigail was Bradley’s Olympic hopeful.

One month and four dates later, it was go time. After an intimate dinner at Abigail’s penthouse apartment, Bradley readied himself for what she would expect next—a sober shag. As if the nasty parking lot fender benders masquerading as good-night kisses hadn’t been enough.

“Abigail, I think we should wait to have sex until we’re married.”

Abigail’s unaesthetic features lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Are you asking . . . Do you really want to . . . ?” she stammered.

He could certainly understand her shock. In his estimation, a man scoring 10-out-of-10 on the desirability scale rarely, if ever, ended up with a one-out-of-10 woman.

His hand reached across to cup both of her chins.

His hand reached across to cup both of her chins. “Yes, darling, I know we haven’t been together long, but you’re the one.” He paused, giving her time to process her windfall. “And I hope you feel the same.”

“Really? Oh, Bradley, I do, I do!” she gushed. “You’re a dream come true for me.” As if he didn’t know that.

“So, if you’re in agreement, I’d like to do this the old-fashioned way. Turn down the heat for the moment. Keep things cool ’til our wedding night. Frosty even. It’ll make the boil that much more delicious.”

“Oh, Bradley,” she cooed. “Yes, let’s wait.”

“Here’s to staying frosty then,” Bradley raised his champagne flute to touch hers.

Wedding plans, honeymoon destinations, and his favorite topic—how to plan financially as a couple (until they weren’t)—occupied most of their conversations, all while Bradley mapped out his exit strategy.

As weeks went by, Abigail shared more details regarding her financial empire, including the name of her long-time trusted advisor. Chad Cohen, senior portfolio manager and investment advisor at Black Rock, the number one investment company in the world with assets under management of more than $7 trillion, was a man who accrued clients on a referral basis only.

“I haven’t mentioned this before, but I have a fairly lucrative portfolio as well,” he told her. “Not like yours, sweetheart, but enough to make the grade for specialized wealth management services. Right now I’m not happy with my present advisor. Is there any chance you could introduce me to Chad?” Once she agreed to that, everything else fell into place.

Emails were exchanged between Abigail, Bradley, and Chad. Within days, papers were signed, and Bradley became a distinguished member of the Black Rock club.

Within days, papers were signed, and Bradley became a distinguished member of the Black Rock club.

From there it was a short trek to, “I’ll show you mine, sweetheart, if you show me yours.” Specifics. On paper. In black and white.

After a shared show-and-tell, he sketched out his final steps, a swift and seamless maneuver. Find her password, get in to her accounts, and transfer her funds along with his into a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands. And make sure she has no access to Chad or her portfolio.

“What’s this?” Abigail asked as Bradley handed her an envelope.

“Open it, it’s a gift for my lovely fiancé.”

Bradley had purchased Abigail a ticket for a five-day bride-to-be cruise featuring a full menu of wedding enchantment. Speakers, hen parties, promo pitches from dress and boudoir designers, wedding planners, photographers, floral and culinary experts. The list was endless for anyone willing to empty an oversized wallet for their fairy tale day.

A packed agenda would keep her cocooned in pre-game matrimonial play while Bradley curated his own dream-come-true event.

“Let me help you pack,” he offered while Abigail flustered with last-minute decisions over what to take and what to leave. When her back was turned, he slipped her laptop under the bed.

Dropping her off for the flight to Vancouver, first port of call, meant getting her there with only minutes to spare for check-in and security. No time to bother with your phone or computer, and you’ll be too flustered to check when you land because, darling, it’s a nail-biting hustle from plane to ship. Just the way I planned it.

Back at her penthouse, Bradley snatched the laptop from under the bed, flipped through her password notebook, and powered up the computer, fingers racing across the keyboard. Seconds later, red lines and an incorrect password message lit up the screen.

“Take a breath, slow down. Probably hit the wrong key.” This time his eyes studied and carefully reproduced each upper and lower case letter, numeric value, and special character. Then he pressed enter.

His pulse was racing, his jaw clenching, his mind on fire. “I will not lose this,” he told himself.

“What the fuck!” Bradley leapt up, furious legs gobbling 40 feet of marble floor and Persian rug. Back and forth. Back and forth. Onto the patio. Pulse racing, jaw clenching, mind on fire. “I will not lose this.”

Minutes later, he was hovering over the computer again, typing a message to Chad, story forming in his head as to why he needed access to Abigail’s accounts. After he pressed send, he doubled down and Googled the phone number for Black Rock after realizing he only had the man’s email address.

“I’d like to speak with Chad Cohen. It’s Bradley Snowden and I’m a client. Yes, I’ll hold.” The receptionist finally returned after what felt like hours. “What do you mean I’m not listed as a client? Of course I am. I was referred by Abigail Rumsby.” Another hold. “What do you mean Abigail Rumsby isn’t a client?”

Two chirps punctured a furor of what was quickly becoming homicidal rage. The first came from the computer with a message that his email to Chad had been kicked back. The second was from his phone. A text message from Abigail.

Hello, darling, Thank you for the trip. And the money. You’ve probably put two and two together by now. My name isn’t Abigail. But you can call me Chad lol. He is a real person, just not the one you’ve been cozying up to. Don’t bother trying to find me or your money. You won’t. Others have tried and failed. Stay frosty, sweetheart.

***