The Matchmaker's Gift(85)

TWENTY-THREE

SARA




1990

There’s a Lid for Every Pot




Sara Auerbach returned to matchmaking on the eve of her ninetieth birthday.

Beverly and Abby took her to dinner at her favorite Italian place near Lincoln Center. When they got to the restaurant, Eddie and Judy were already there, along with their sons, Jason and Bobby. The biggest surprise of the evening was Hannah, who had flown in from California that day. Eddie asked the waiter for two bottles of champagne, and as soon as everyone was holding a glass, the family went around the table, making toasts.

“To ninety more birthdays.”

“To the most wonderful grandma.”

“The most supportive mother.”

“Who makes the best kugel.”

“And the most delicious babka.”

“Who tells the funniest stories.”

“Thank you for always being there for us.”

Sara ordered her favorite—eggplant parmesan—but she made sure to save room for dessert. Not only did the waiter bring her a giant dish of tiramisu, but a few minutes after the coffee was served, a group of waitstaff headed toward them with an extravagantly decorated pink-and-white cake. It was three tiers high, like a mini wedding cake, swathed in buttercream flowers and ten sparkling candles. “We thought ten candles was probably enough,” Abby explained.

Both the servers and the people at the tables surrounding them lifted their voices to serenade Sara. When it was time to lean forward and blow out her candles, she felt as if the entire restaurant was watching. At first, the tiny flames on the cake resisted, but, eventually, Sara’s breath won out.

She hadn’t seen a flash at the edge of her vision for at least thirty years. After Gabe passed away, Sara had stopped matchmaking, and although she’d seen flickers of a different sort for Marlene Fishman and a handful of others, even those darker bits of intuition had petered out by the time she reached sixty. She was entirely caught off guard, therefore, when one of the cake candles bounced back to life, leaving a whisper-thin trail of light for her to follow. It pinged back and forth between two of the waiters before the candle sputtered out again. An electric thrum traveled from Sara’s lips down the tunnel of her throat and to her chest. She imagined it felt something akin to the sensation of switching on a pacemaker. A renewed sense of purpose pumped its way through her as she called the two waiters over with a flick of her fingers.

“Darlings,” she said softly, so the others wouldn’t hear. “Thank you so much for the beautiful singing. If you don’t mind my saying, you make a lovely couple.” She pulled a crisp twenty-dollar bill from her purse and pressed it into the hand closest to hers. “Do an old woman a favor, will you? When you’re done here tonight, get a drink together. I think the two of you will have a lot to talk about.”



* * *



After her birthday, more matches revealed themselves—not as regularly or as brightly as they had in her youth, but just frequently enough to make Sara feel useful. She began sitting in the lobby of her building with a book—sometimes reading, but more often chatting with her neighbors and taking mental notes. There was Dr. Salcedo, the cardiologist from the fifth floor, who liked to ask Sara about her novels. There was Mr. Singh, from 11B down the hall, who was always carrying canvases and boxes of art supplies through the lobby and to the elevator. Sara sensed a latent loneliness in both of them and made up her mind to do something about it.

Was it wrong of her to schedule an appointment with Dr. Salcedo despite the fact that she had no coronary complaints? Perhaps, but she did not think anyone would question a ninety-year-old asking for a checkup. Was it nosy of her to knock on Mr. Singh’s door to ask if she might take a look at his work? Perhaps, but who would refuse an art lover’s request, especially if the art lover was as old as she was and holding a homemade cinnamon babka?

In this not-so-subtle but charming way, Sara became closely acquainted with the two neighbors. And, after putting in several months of effort, she was able to find love matches for both of them.

After Mr. Singh announced his engagement to a lovely poet Sara had met in line at the grocery store, Paul—her favorite of the building’s three doormen—scolded her. “You’re going to get yourself a reputation,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered. She pulled a shiny compact mirror from her purse and checked to make sure her lipstick hadn’t smudged. Paul raised his eyebrows and wagged his finger. “You might fool some of the other tenants,” he said. “But I see you down here every day. Sitting in your chair, pretending to read, watching the others come and go.”

“I am not pretending to read!”

“Snooping, stalking, meddling in people’s business…”

“Is it wrong to be interested in my neighbors? Is it a crime to help other people find love?”

“I suppose that depends on whether you believe in it.”

“Paul!” Sara put a hand to her chest as if his words had mortally wounded her. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in love? You’re one of the most loveable men I know.”

The doorman laughed. “Mrs. Auerbach,” he said. “That sweet talk isn’t going to work on me.”