The Matchmaker's Gift(62)
Abby turned toward Ms. Morgan. “Does that mean you have your father’s disease?”
“I don’t think so,” Jessica interrupted. “The onset of the symptoms is very late for that, and retinitis pigmentosa rarely affects women. Luckily, we had a long discussion about Ms. Morgan’s medical history.”
“I don’t like to talk about my rheumatoid arthritis,” Evelyn admitted. “I’ve always kept my medical conditions private. When you’re a woman in a man’s business like I am, your competitors will seize on any kind of issue to gain an advantage or to paint you as weak. I broke my leg once in the early eighties, and I almost lost out on a new hotel because of it. My rival at the time told all the investors that I suffered from a debilitating orthopedic condition.”
“It’s a good thing I dragged the information out of her,” Jessica said. “Ms. Morgan takes Plaquenil for her arthritis—a drug which has been known to cause pigment deposits.”
Abby glanced at Evelyn again, searching her face. “But that’s fantastic news, isn’t it? If you stop taking the Plaquenil, will your vision go back to normal?”
“It may not be quite that simple,” Evelyn said. “But Dr. Cooper has given me a great deal of hope. She’s recommended a retinologist, and I will consult with my rheumatologist tomorrow.” Evelyn reached for Abby’s hand. “I know I’ve been stubborn,” she admitted. “But I want to thank you for convincing me to come today.”
Abby felt herself blush. “It was nothing,” she murmured.
“I disagree. I’ve had countless lawyers over the years. Some were brilliant, some were abysmal, but none of them possessed your power of persuasion. You, my dear, are the only one who ever made me do something I did not want to do.”
“She’s a loveable nudge!” Jessica chimed in, and Abby’s cheeks grew even redder.
“It’s a personality flaw,” Abby said.
“Not at all,” Evelyn Morgan said. She lowered her sunglasses just enough so that her eyes peered at Abby over the top of the frame. “What you have, Abby, is a gift.”
* * *
Though it was almost seven o’clock, Abby returned to the office. She needed to get in a few more billable hours, especially since she’d left so early the day before. She was in the middle of writing a memo for Diane when Will called to cancel their Friday night plans.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, as if he’d never broken a date before. “Nicole won’t be done with her shoot until six, and she asked if I could go over some new licensing agreements. Believe me, I wish I could tell her no.”
Abby couldn’t help wondering whether Will and Nicole would get around to something more than business, but she kept that to herself. “It’s not a problem,” she said. She’d been planning to have “the talk” with Will tomorrow—the one where she intended to explain that the two of them would be better off as friends. It was a conversation she dreaded having, and she was happy enough to put it off.
“Are you mad?” he asked.
“Not at all! I completely understand. Bringing in a client like Nicole is a really big deal. You can’t turn down a meeting with her.”
The firm’s receptionist, Tom, tapped on Abby’s door. “Hey,” he said, waving an envelope in his hand. “This just came for you by messenger.”
The envelope was made of thick ivory paper, with Victor étoile’s name embossed on the back. When she pulled out the flat, ivory card, two tickets fell onto her desk.
Abby,
Thank you again for your visit this morning. I enclose two tickets for tomorrow evening’s New York Shakespeare Festival production. My sincere apologies for the late notice, but I do hope to see you there.
Kind regards,
Victor étoile
Tom nearly passed out when he saw the tickets. “Lucky!” he said to her. “I’m dying to go, but I never have time to wait on those lines.”
The Shakespeare Festival had always been one of Abby’s favorite New York traditions. The program staged two plays every summer at the Delacorte Theater, an open-air theater in the middle of Central Park. Tickets were technically free, distributed on the day of the performance. But because people lined up hours beforehand, getting tickets was a nearly impossible task. Some people bought resold tickets at exorbitant prices; some paid others to stand in line for them. Abby knew there had to be other ways, especially if one was a generous donor to the Public Theater, the nonprofit company that produced the shows. Abby couldn’t say how Victor came by his tickets, but she was certain he hadn’t stood on line for them.
Abby had been to the festival twice before—once when she was a teenager and a second time in law school—but she hadn’t been back for several years.
On the bus ride home, she thought about the extra ticket and who she wanted to invite. Will would be busy with Nicole at their meeting (perhaps that was why Victor had offered Abby the seats?), and her mother was still out of town for work. Abby was trying to decide which girlfriend to ask when the bus reached her stop, and it was time to get off.
She remained undecided as she swapped her work clothes for a pair of shorts, as she searched her grandmother’s journals for an entry about a young woman named Klein, and as she ran her fingers over the yellowed newspaper clippings that she discovered between two of the faded pages—advertisements for Finkel’s and Klein’s Knishes.