The Matchmaker's Gift(86)

After that, Sara focused her attention on Paul. He was sixty-two years old and he had never been married. He had eight nieces and nephews, but no children of his own. He’d been working as a doorman for over twenty-five years, long before Sara ever moved to the building. Before that, he had worked as a security guard, at an office building all the way down by Wall Street.

“Don’t look at me that way,” he told Sara one morning, as she peered at him over the pages of her book. She had begun carrying her coffee to the lobby in the mornings, sipping from a mug while she flipped her pages. Sometimes, she brought Paul a cherry danish or a piece of her homemade apple strudel. She always dressed nicely for her lobby mornings—a jewel-toned cardigan and a crisp white shirt. Sometimes, she regretted her plain black slacks, but her legs just weren’t what they used to be.

“Like what?” she said innocently. “How am I looking at you?”

“The same way you used to look at Dr. Salcedo.”

Sara sighed heavily and snapped her book shut. “Fine,” she admitted. “I’m looking at you. But that’s only because I want to help. As my people say, there’s a lid for every pot.”

“No disrespect, but I’ve been lidless for a very long time.”

Sara rose from her chair and made her way to the reception desk, behind which the doorman was currently sitting. She lowered her voice just enough to sound mysterious. “I’m going to tell you a little secret. I was a professional matchmaker, once. I’ve been making matches since I was ten years old.”

“Ten years old?” Paul said. “Well now, that’s really something.” His feigned admiration came off too sweetly, and Sara could tell he was trying to humor her.

“Don’t you patronize me, young man,” she snapped. “I made hundreds of matches in my day. I might be a little out of practice, but I assure you I haven’t lost my touch.”

Paul hid his laughter with a few well-timed coughs. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Auerbach.”

A few weeks later, Sara was sitting in the lobby, reading The Remains of the Day for the second time, when a middle-aged man she did not recognize led a wide-eyed young couple into the building. The man wore a soft tweed jacket, a blue bow tie, and an old-fashioned fedora on top of his head. He was obviously a Realtor, there for a showing, and told Paul as much when he stopped at the desk. “Albert Campbell to show 12F,” he said, passing Paul a card from his jacket pocket. After he checked the schedule book on his desk, Paul handed Mr. Campbell the key.

When the key was passed between the two men, the flash of light was unmistakable. Sara hid her smile behind her book and waited for Albert to return to the lobby. Half an hour later, when he passed the key back to Paul, the light shone as brightly as before.

Sara told Paul the next day, without mincing words. He blinked a few times and scratched his head, uncertain of how much he should say. “Things are different for young people nowadays,” he said. “But when I was growing up, I had no one to talk to. I had three older brothers, and everyone assumed I’d grow up to be exactly like them. I knew I was different, but I didn’t have the words to explain how. Even if I had, I don’t think my parents would have understood.”

Sara laid her wrinkled hand over his. “I’m sorry, Paul. It must have been difficult.”

Paul shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t easy, but it got better. These days, I’m happy with my life. I have some wonderful friends I can be myself with—friends who accept me as I am. But I never had much luck in the romance department. I’m sixty-two years old, Mrs. Auerbach. I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sara said, straightening her shoulders. “I’ve been on my fair share of cruises, and those ships always turn around. You’re going to have to trust me, tateleh. In eighty years, I’ve never been wrong.”





TWENTY-FOUR

ABBY




1994




For the rest of the week, Abby worried what Victor’s engagement party would bring. She went to Bloomingdale’s for something to wear, but on her way to look for dresses, she found herself drawn to the lingerie department.

“You need a new bra,” Grandma Sara told her, on one of their last afternoons together.

“What’s wrong with my bra?”

Sara pointed to the fraying shoulder strap peeking out from the side of Abby’s tank top. “Never underestimate the power of a quality undergarment. A well-fitted brassiere is a wise woman’s armor.”

When Abby thought about seeing Diane at the party, she decided that a little armor couldn’t hurt. So, she followed the overeager saleswoman to the dressing room and let herself be measured from every embarrassing angle. She left with three bras—two beige and one black. The prices were high for a few scraps of fabric, but Abby bought them anyway. Finding a dress was far less complicated. She chose a simple black sheath that was just chic enough so that she wouldn’t feel embarrassed in a room full of couture.

On the way out of the store, she bought a fresh lipstick—one more layer of protection to help her face her boss. Though Abby usually favored soft pinks and mauves, this time she chose a bolder hue. The saleswoman nodded in approval while Abby rubbed her lips together. She turned the tube over to check the name of the shade. Bulletproof Burgundy.