The Matchmaker's Gift(6)

“When is the funeral?”

“It’s not settled yet, but probably the day after tomorrow.”

“Thursday then? You should get out of here; go, be with your family. I’m sure your mother will want your help; there’s always so much to do at a time like this.”

“I’ll leave soon, but I want to finish up the Nichols interrogatories before I go.”

Diane pursed her lips together and frowned. “That’s why I came to see you, actually. I just got off the phone with Michelle Nichols and her manager. You can stop working on those interrogatories.”

“What do you mean?”

“Turns out she and her husband aren’t splitting up. Her publicist was leaking false stories to the press—marital troubles, an affair with her costar—–all to manufacture interest in the next movie. The publicist made her meet with us, and when the paparazzi didn’t catch her, he made two more appointments, just to make sure that they’d get photographs of her coming in and out of our building. That bastard convinced her to fake the whole thing.”

Abby’s pulse began to race. Was it possible her grandmother had been right? It’s not over for those two, not by a long shot. “You’ve got to be kidding. That’s … incredible. Are you sure?”

“Positive. People magazine will run a cover story next week about the reconciliation with her husband. Michelle said she was sorry for wasting our time.”

“What did you say?”

Diane’s face was a mask of mock na?veté. “You know how forgiving I can be, Abby. I accepted her apology as graciously as possible.”

For the first time that morning, Abby let herself smile. “Let me guess,” she said. “Once Michelle was off the call, you told her manager you expect him to pay our bill in full.”

“Close, but not quite. I told that Hollywood son of a bitch that Berenson and Gold will be charging him double. I told him that if he doesn’t pay us immediately, I’m putting in a call to People magazine myself.”

Abby coughed. “Sounds reasonable to me.”

“I’m always reasonable. But I will not tolerate being used.” Diane rose from her chair, buttoned her jacket, and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Enough of all that. The important thing now is that you have some unexpected free time—time you should be spending with your family.”

“Thank you, Diane,” Abby said. She hesitated, debating whether she should share the conversation she’d had with her grandmother. “You know,” she began, “the last time I saw my grandmother, she told me she’d been following the Nichols divorce in the news.…”

“Good for her for keeping up at her age! Of course, half the country has been following this mess.”

“They really have, haven’t they? But my grandmother took a special interest. She was kind of an—expert on marriage. She used to be a matchmaker, actually, decades ago.”

“A matchmaker. Really? Like in Fiddler on the Roof?”

Abby thought it best not to reveal how much her grandmother loathed the comparison, how she cringed every time the word yenta was used. “Not exactly. Anyway, she brought up the divorce because she was convinced that Michelle would stay with her husband. I told her she was wrong, but she insisted.”

As soon as the words were out of Abby’s mouth, she wished that she had kept the story to herself. She’d made her grandmother sound like some sort of kooky fortune-teller. Her boss’s smile was polite but pitying. “I think it’s lovely that you put so much faith in your grandmother’s … instincts. And that she took such an interest in your work. I’m sure she was incredibly proud of you.”

Perfect. Now Diane thinks I’m nuts. “Yes, well, I appreciate that. Of course, I know what she said was only a coincidence.”

“Of course.”

Later, on the way to her mother’s apartment, Abby recalled her grandmother’s words. I see what I see, and I know what I know. Abby wished she could see what her grandmother saw, wished she could know what her grandmother knew—about life, about people, even about love. If only she had thought to ask the right questions; if only she had thought to write down the answers. In the wake of her grandmother’s death, all Abby could see were lost opportunities. She felt poorer, duller, emptier than before. All she had now were faded recollections and a few ancient stories she could barely remember.

Those would have to be enough.



* * *



The morning of the funeral was chilly but clear, the sky a brilliant but insensitive blue. The cemetery in Queens went on for miles, with rows of headstones as far as Abby could see. The last time she’d been there, it was to accompany her grandmother on a visit to the grave of her grandfather, Gabe. Abby’s grandfather had died in 1954, at the age of sixty, from congestive heart failure. Abby had never met him, but she had heard the stories. She knew how he relished a good cigar, that his nickname for his wife was “the beauty queen.” Her grandmother took Abby to the cemetery once a year to savor old memories and place pebbles on Gabe’s headstone. In the Jewish tradition, flowers were reserved for joyful occasions—never funerals. It was customary, when visiting the grave of a loved one, to leave small stones behind.

During those visits, Grandma Sara spoke to her husband as if he could hear her, as if he were alive. Here’s Abby, Gabe. Isn’t she something? Look at how grown up your oldest granddaughter is! She liked to catch him up on all the important gossip—the births and the deaths, their old friends’ children and grandchildren. Can you believe Morris Shapiro’s grandson is a surgeon? The kid who couldn’t eat an ice-cream cone without dropping it on the sidewalk is cutting into strangers’ brains!