The Matchmaker's Gift(60)

“Oh my God. Did you find something scandalous? Did Grandma have another husband? Does Mom have some sibling she doesn’t know about?” Hannah’s voice grew giddier with every question.

“Hannah, stop! What’s wrong with you? Grandma did not have another husband!”

“Bummer. We could use a few more cousins. So, was there anything interesting? How could you even read them? Isn’t Yiddish written in Hebrew letters?”

“The first journal started out in Yiddish, but it switched to English pretty quickly. There isn’t much personal writing, though. They aren’t diaries. They’re actually lists, some of matches that Grandma made and others of people she wanted to set up. I found a few newspaper articles, too. Remember how she used to tell us about the Pickle King?”

Hannah started to laugh. “Of course I do! Wait, did Grandma write about him?”

“Yes! I found an article about his daughter’s wedding. And get this—it’s from The New York Times!”

“Wow. I guess she was telling us the truth—I could have sworn she was making up half of what she told us.”

“I know, me too,” Abby agreed. “But it turns out, those stories were based on real people. Speaking of which … remember that doctor I was talking to at the funeral? The ophthalmologist who came up to me before we left the cemetery?”

“I think so. Why?”

Abby told her sister the story of Jessica’s grandparents. “I read about them in one of the journals. Her grandfather sold eyeglasses from a pushcart before he went to optometry school. Grandma introduced him to his wife.”

“For real?”

“Yup. And when Grandma found out Dr. Cooper wasn’t married, she tried to make a match for her, too.”

Hannah whistled. “That’s insane. I mean, Grandma was ninety-four years old. I thought her matchmaking days were long behind her.”

“I haven’t even told you the weirdest part.”

Hannah sucked in a breath. “Is the ophthalmologist related to us? Did Grandma have a guy on the side after all?”

“Hannah! Grandma did not have a guy on the side.” Abby laughed in spite of herself. “But Dr. Cooper did tell me something else. It freaked me out, actually. And ever since then, things have been weird. Like, I’m having these flashes about people I meet. About my clients and Will. I can’t even describe it.”

“What did Dr. Cooper tell you?”

Abby walked into her kitchen and opened her refrigerator. She pulled out a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay, pulled out the stopper, and took a long swallow.

“Abby? Are you there? What did she say?”

Abby took a second swallow straight from the bottle and let the wine trickle down the back of her throat. “Dr. Cooper thinks I could be a matchmaker, too.”



* * *



The next morning, Abby arrived at Victor’s apartment a few minutes before nine o’clock. She assumed he would hand her the appraisals and dismiss her, but when the designer opened the door, he invited her inside. He was dressed as impeccably as always, but a pair of dark circles bloomed beneath his eyes.

“I don’t want to keep you from your work,” she said. But Victor wanted her to stay.

“I have a few questions,” he began. “Please, may I offer you a cup of coffee?” His voice was soft and melancholy, lacking its usual confidence and flair.

Abby panicked—she knew absolutely nothing about real estate valuations, and she didn’t want to embarrass herself, or the firm, in the process. But as Victor waited for her answer, she got the feeling that his questions had nothing to do with the appraisals. It wasn’t as if she could refuse. “Of course,” she said. “I’d love some coffee.”

She followed him into the dining room, where two china place settings had been laid out. Victor poured piping-hot coffee from a silver carafe and gestured to a plate of chocolate croissants. “Please,” he said. “Help yourself.” He plucked a croissant from the pile. “The last time you were here, you mentioned to Nicole that many of your friends are getting married.”

Abby nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“And these friends of yours … do they tell you much about what they are planning for their weddings?”

“Oh God, absolutely. They never shut up about it.”

“What exactly do they talk about?”

“Which dress to pick, how they want to do their hair, what the song for their first dance should be. The food, the band, how many bridesmaids they want. Where they’re registering, what their bouquet should look like. It goes on and on. They’re all obsessed.”

“I see.” Victor stared into his coffee cup.

Had she said something wrong? “I’m sorry, I must be boring you. You probably hear about all of this from Nicole.”

He looked up from his coffee and shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “I do not. Nicole does not talk about the wedding. Everything you describe—the excitement, the obsession? Nicole speaks that way about her new clothing line, she speaks that way about her classes and the business. When she talks about her new designs, her eyes light up. She smiles, she laughs … she is radiant. But when I ask about the wedding—or any of those details, she tells me she would rather have me decide. She says she doesn’t have time to discuss it.”