The Matchmaker's Gift(88)
“But why would she tell Jessica Cooper I could help her? I help people get divorced, for God’s sake. What made her think I could help anyone find love?”
Abby’s mother reached for her daughter’s hand. “You’ve never understood how perceptive you are. You’ve always had a sixth sense about people, sweetheart. Remember our old upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Adelson? Her husband died before you were born. When you were seven years old, we saw her here, having a cup of coffee at the counter. She waved at you and you waved back. Then you turned to me and said, clear as day, “Frank loves Mrs. Adelson.”
“Who was Frank?”
“The waiter who worked behind the counter. A year later, they moved in together.”
“I have no memory of that.”
“Well, it happened. And when I told your grandmother, she wasn’t surprised.”
“You make it sound like I was some kind of freak.”
“Not at all! It was just that every once in a while, you seemed to … know things about people. You knew your piano teacher was pregnant before she was even showing. And remember when your father and I took you to Rumpelmayer’s? He wanted to make it a big, fun outing, but you knew something bad was coming. You knew we were going to get divorced.”
Abby grimaced. “Well, yeah, that certainly rings a bell.”
“After the divorce, you stopped having those…” Beverly paused for a moment to find the right word. “Insights. Or maybe you just stopped talking about them. It was like you turned off a switch to protect yourself. Maybe your grandmother wanted you to flip the switch on. Maybe she thought you might be able to help a few people the same way that she did.” Beverly paused again. “I guess what I’m trying to say is: none of this is as strange as you think it is.”
* * *
That night, on the way to the party, Abby asked her taxi driver to stop by Jessica’s apartment. When Jessica opened the door to the cab, Abby’s mouth fell open. The ophthalmologist’s hair hung in soft, smooth waves. She wore a silk chiffon, off-the-shoulder black cocktail dress, with a triple-strand pearl choker around her neck. Her black silk heels were definitely not sneakers.
“Please don’t look so shocked,” Jessica said. “It’s not as if I don’t know how to get dressed.”
“You look stunning,” Abby told her.
“Stunning for a thirty-seven-year-old ophthalmologist—not for a twentysomething fashion model. Of which there will be many at this party, I’m afraid.”
“You look stunning, period.”
* * *
The party was on Greenwich Street in Tribeca, at a former factory turned celebrity restaurant. Vaulted ceilings and uneven walls were covered with the factory’s original bricks. It was one of the hottest reservations in town, but there would be no customers there tonight. Instead, two hundred invited guests filled the exquisitely cavernous space.
The room smelled like an overwhelming mixture of designer perfume and expensive alcohol. No matter where Abby looked, she saw important and vaguely familiar-looking people—people she had seen in The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, or the pages of Vogue. When she looked more closely, her head began to pound. There was Diane, chatting with Victor, in front of the ornate mahogany bar. Jessica didn’t know who Diane was, but when she spotted Victor, she grabbed a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and downed it in a single gulp. “Come on,” Jessica said, looping her bare arm through Abby’s. Before Abby could extract herself, Diane caught her eye and waved her over. There was no escaping now.
At least Victor looked like himself again. The puffy eyes and greasy hair were gone. He wore another perfectly tailored jacket, made to fit easily over his broad shoulders. When Jessica approached, he reached for her hand and gave it a single, tender kiss. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. “Please, allow me to introduce you. Diane Berenson, Dr. Jessica Cooper. Jessica, this is my attorney, Diane.” After an awkward pause, his eyes drifted toward Abby. “Abby!” he said, as if she’d suddenly appeared. “Thank you for coming.” He leaned forward. “And thank you for encouraging Jessica to attend.” The last part was intended for Abby’s ears alone, but Abby knew from the look on Diane’s face that her boss had heard every word.
Victor did not let go of Jessica’s hand. “If you will excuse us,” he murmured, “I have something to discuss with Dr. Cooper in private.” He led Jessica to the other side of the room and ushered her through an unmarked doorway. Diane frowned. “Let me guess—that was the ophthalmologist. You didn’t tell me she was so glamorous.”
“Jessica isn’t glamorous,” Abby said. “She normally wears a doctor’s coat and sneakers. And for the record, I didn’t invite her to the party. That was all Victor’s doing.” Abby decided it was best to keep quiet about the macaron towers and the roses.
“Well, why does he want her here? What did he tell you?”
“Honestly, Diane, I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to Victor since Monday.”
Diane considered Abby’s answer. “Before you ask, I haven’t decided whether you still have a job. Victor has ignored my calls all week—he’s no closer to signing his prenuptial agreement than he was on Monday morning.”