The Matchmaker's Gift(82)
As soon as she spotted the foil-covered loaf, Abby felt a lump in the back of her throat. She carried the bag of coffee and the frozen babka to the living room and put them into the box, beside the two journals. She would come back later with her mother and go through her grandmother’s other belongings. For now, what she had would be enough. On her way out of the building, she asked Paul to make sure the door to her grandmother’s place was locked.
By the time Abby got back to her own apartment, the frozen babka had almost thawed. She turned on her oven to warm it a bit and filled her coffeemaker with her grandmother’s ground beans. Just as the water began to hiss, Abby’s phone rang.
“Abby! It’s Jessica. Your secretary said you’d gone home already. Is everything all right? Are you sick?”
“Hi, Jessica. No, I’m fine—”
“Good,” Jessica interrupted. “Do you have a minute to speak?” She lowered her voice. “I have a patient waiting, but I just saw Victor. I ran out for a coffee at the bakery, and he was sitting at one of the tables in the back. He said he’d been waiting there since before noon, hoping I might come in again. Can you believe that?”
“Wow,” Abby said. “That’s … wow. What else did he say?”
“He wanted me to stay and have coffee with him, but I had to get back for my patients. He looked terrible, Abby—like he hadn’t slept or showered. Then he asked me to have dinner with him tonight. I couldn’t say no. He looked so desperate. You don’t think it’s wrong of me to meet him, do you?”
“Wrong? Of course not! I already told you, there’s something between the two of you.”
“I know, but you also told me he’s engaged.”
“Engaged isn’t married. He’s obviously having doubts.”
“But how do you know that?”
Abby sighed. “Victor was at our office this morning. He was supposed to meet my boss to discuss his prenup. She rushed back from Miami for the meeting. But like you said, Victor was a mess today. He told us he couldn’t focus, and he left the office without even looking at the documents. If he didn’t have doubts about the wedding, he would have stayed to go over the agreement.”
“Maybe.”
“Jessica, last week you told me you couldn’t stop thinking about him. You told me he was charming. You said he made you breathless.”
“I did, didn’t I? Okay, I’ll go to dinner. Oh my god, it’s four thirty already—I have to run. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know how it goes.”
* * *
When she got off the phone, Abby pulled the babka from the oven. Her apartment smelled like someplace else—the coffee, the cinnamon, and the yeast transported her back to her grandmother’s kitchen. If she closed her eyes, she could see her grandmother’s hands, patting the babka dough, sprinkling the filling, and tucking it all into the narrow loaf pan. Abby cut through the golden outer layer to the gooey center of the cake. As the cinnamon crumbs dissolved on her tongue, the lump in her throat gave way to tears.
She carried her plate and mug to the couch and opened the second journal from her grandmother’s apartment. Abby figured she would read a bit and then watch something on TV. There couldn’t be more than a few entries, at most. The first journal went up to the late 1950s, and Sara had given up matchmaking after that.
Or had she? The book looked newer than it should have, and as Abby scanned the dates jotted down inside it, she grew increasingly confused—the entries spanned from 1990 until the last month of Sara’s life. The realization was shocking at first, then inspiring, and, finally, hilarious. Her grandmother hadn’t come out of retirement just for Jessica. In Sara Auerbach’s tenth decade on earth, she had begun actively matchmaking again! And, from everything Abby could glean from the pages, Sara hadn’t lost her touch.
This last journal was different from all the others. The names of the clients were from varied ethnic backgrounds; they were twentysomethings, octogenarians, and every age in between. Was it possible for an eighty-year-old man to find love? Abby’s grandmother certainly seemed to think so. Not only that, but there were other surprises, too. These new pages showed that Sara had matched women with women, men with men, people from all religions and races. It seemed that in her final years, Sara saw no barriers to love.
Abby smiled when she saw the name of her grandmother’s doorman, Paul, among the pages.
Paul McCormick, age 62
Occupation: Doorman
What a mensch Paul is! Such a caring and wonderful man. I have known him for almost twelve years.
In all that time, I don’t believe he’s dated anyone. But there is a lid for every pot. I won’t let such a treasure of a man be alone!
The notes in this journal felt more personal than the others. Perhaps it was because the pages were written not by the twenty-or fifty-year-old version of Sara, but by the version of the woman Abby knew and loved so well. These words sounded like Abby’s grandmother—heartfelt, determined, and filled with purpose.
“Did you like being a matchmaker?” Abby had asked once, when her grandmother had first come to live with them in New York.
“Darling, it was the greatest honor of my life. To make a true match, to see two souls united—I wish everyone could experience it.”