Playing With Matches (18 page)

“You’re such a bad influence,” I groaned as she dropped the book on the counter with a heavy
thwap
. “Do we really have to do that?”

She studied my face, trying to make sense of a member of a non-homework-loving species. “We have a math assignment due tomorrow. Why not?”

“Because I’ve got … bursitis?”

“Forget it, Irving, let’s get to work.”

We spent the next forty-five minutes working on the math sheet “together” then took a break to whip up some eggless blondies. When the batter was mixed, we returned to the kitchen island with the mixing bowl and two spoons. Dahlia opened her chemistry textbook while I pored over the Matchmaven files.

There was a new request in my account: a message from a woman named Esther.

Dear Matchmaven,

I heard that you’ve succeeded in helping people with challenges and I suppose that as a “senior citizen” I would be considered a “challenge.”

Senior citizen?

I was born and raised in Chicago and was always a strong student. When I completed high school, I had dreams of becoming a doctor. After I completed a year of undergraduate study, my father died and my mother was diagnosed with MS, so I went home to run the store to support her and my three younger sisters. I attended a community college at night and became an elementary school teacher.

After my mother died, I went to live with an aunt in Toronto. I was single for a long time and had no luck finding a husband until I met the love of my life, Lev. We got married when I was almost thirty and the next six months were the happiest of my life. Tragically, he died suddenly from a brain aneurysm. I never remarried, never had children, and I’ve been alone most of my life. I know that there’s almost no chance that you’d have anyone for me at this age, but I thought I’d try anyways. I really want to believe in second chances. And you have the reputation of being very special.

Esther

Was it me or did it seem like the requests just kept getting sadder? My clients had shown me how much aloneness was out there, but this Esther seemed to be in a class of sorrow that outdid the others.

I tried working on an English assignment, but I had Esther on the brain and it haunted me all evening. When we finished studying at 9:30, Dahlia drove me home. I climbed the stairs to get ready for bed and checked my phone. Daniel was ready to email.

Matchmaven:
How’s it going with Deb?

Daniel:
She’s awesome.

Excellent! Now was the time to intervene on Deb’s behalf.

Matchmaven:
Any thoughts about popping the question?

Daniel:
All the time.

Matchmaven:
!!!! So why not just do it?

Daniel:
One thing is bothering me.

Matchmaven:
???

Daniel:
It’s my dog, Bronx. He’s extremely intuitive. Almost analytical in how he views people, if you know what I mean.

Matchmaven:
For sure.

Daniel:
He’s actually brilliant. Anyway, I’m crazy about Deb but why isn’t he more excited? He’s not responding to her. I don’t get it.

Matchmaven:
So you’re saying you need Bronx’s blessing.

Daniel:
Basically, yes. I want to go to the next level with Deb, but this is concerning me.

Matchmaven:
Well, tell Bronx not to take too long. Deb won’t wait around forever.

I certainly wasn’t about to wait around either. Immediately, after Daniel and I said goodbye, I called up Deb.

“Deb, I found out what’s holding up Daniel,” I said breathlessly. “It’s the dog.”

“I
knew
it,” she said. “It’s that Brooklyn.”

“You mean Bronx?”

“Whatever. Look, it helped Daniel loosen up at first. But that dog
hates
me. It constantly slobbers on me.”

“That’s what dogs do,” I said. “They’re like babies with fur glued on.”

“Well, this is
targeted
slobbering. And you should see the look he gets in his eyes, Rain. His drool is hostile.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“No, I’m telling you. He bares his teeth at me when Daniel turns away.” Her voice darkened. “He pretends to be one thing in front of Daniel, but to me he’s a different animal. Rain, I’m just going to come out and say it.
Brutus is a two-faced dog
.”

“Yeah, but he’s part of the package, Deb.”

“I finally meet a guy I like,” she moaned, “and he’s got a dog with the integrity of a snake oil salesman.”

I could hear her groaning “Why, why, why, why?” as I padded back to the desk and flopped into the chair.

“Maybe Bronx feels threatened by you,” I said. “Because Daniel will love
you
more than
him
.”

“Get out.”

I kicked off my shoes and spun the chair around. “You know what you need to do? You need to win him over. You need to buy that dog a pie or something.”

There was silence on the phone. Then a new energy burst out from the other end. “That’s it!” she said, her voice ringing with excitement. “I’m going to buy that dog a pie!”

“Well, maybe not an actual pie —”

“No, it’s perfect. Botox loves Daniel’s food — challah, blueberry muffins, and donuts.”

She paused for a second. “Now I understand. Boris has
no idea that he’s a dog
!”

“Daniel probably doesn’t have the heart to tell him.”

“Daniel’s going out of town soon and I’m supposed to be taking care of the dog. You know, walking him and feeding him. I’m going to take him a treat!”

“I think Bronx is going to fall in love with you too!” I said. “Especially if you ever get his name right.”

“I’m so excited. I’ll drop it off when I go to walk him,” she said.

Dogs are so easy to solve.

chapter 20

A Match Made in Fenway

Professor K. beckoned me into the kitchen, where the bok choy and cauliflower sat defiantly on the counter next to the juicer. When the juicer finished grinding the vegetables, he handed me my glass. I smiled and raised it to him.

“Why don’t you check your mail,” he said as he uncovered the aluminum pan. It was filled with Mira’s pickled carp and rice.

I swear I’m not making that up.

A really unfortunate cocktail of oxygen, nitrogen, and carp followed me past the ficus tree as I trekked toward the computer.

“I think my plant likes your company,” he yelled from the kitchen. “Ever since you started visiting it’s become so robust!”

Which proves my point. Those hideous drinks that he was serving me weren’t beverage, they were fertilizer. I inched over to the plant and tipped over my glass. “You’re welcome,” I whispered to it.

I sank into the chair and contemplated the matchmaking. It was eating up my time, affecting my grades, and putting Mrs. Levine on my tail more than ever. She kept calling my aunt and uncle because I was underperforming. The worst part was that I still hadn’t found someone good enough for Leah.

My mind churned and I blankly twisted a lock of hair around my finger as I stared at the ficus. The whole purpose of my secret life was to find Leah a husband, but it had exploded into a full-time effort to help an entire network of individuals who had placed their trust in me and depended on me helping them. They were people with hopes and dreams and lots of pain and they deserved happiness. But still, I was in over my head with this business. If I could only find a fabulous — and willing — matchmaker who could take over my caseload, I’d finally be able to focus on passing my courses.

But I knew that was unrealistic. Because if someone else had been willing to do it, my clients would never have come to me in the first place.

How could I ever have known how complicated and time-consuming matchmaking was? That would partially explain why Mrs. Marmor was so mad at me.

I gazed at the ficus tree, bursting with green foliage thanks to all the vegetable waste I’d been dumping into its soil. And then it occurred to me. That fragile plant was Deb, Daniel, Ilana, and all the others. Even Leah.

And me?

I was the revolting liquid they depended on.

I had no choice. I had to carry on.

I returned to Matchmaven to learn that Ilana and Aaron’s date was a disaster. When he came to get her, he started playing a video game with her little brother and wouldn’t leave until they finished an hour and a half later. Needless to say, Ilana deserved another date.

Aaron deserved a smack.

And I deserved a break for once.

Aaron:
It was a fantastic date. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since my broken relationship with Susan.

Matchmaven:
I hate to break it to you but it wasn’t really a date. You spent most of it playing video games with Ilana’s brother.

Aaron:
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.

There were no new emails so I signed out just as Professor K. emerged from the kitchen. I watched in horror as he carried Mira’s dinner spooned out …
on two plates
.

He set them up on the dining room table, complete with cutlery and napkins.

“Oh, look at that,” he said, noting my emptied glass. “You finished it already. Delicious, isn’t it?”

“Um … for sure.”

“Then let me make you another one.” He grabbed the glass and bounded back to the kitchen.

I was defeated. I dropped into the dining room chair and waited for the gag-fest to begin. When he returned with my refill I nibbled on the rice, trying not to choke.

Five parts ketchup, one part Mira-“food.”

He dabbed his face with a napkin. “Rain, you look more tired every time I see you.”

“It’s the schoolwork,” I said, rising from my chair to leave, even though I sensed an opportunity to gripe. But I had an English assignment that I was going to have to finally force myself to confront.

“Well instead of going home right away, maybe I could help you.”

“I’m good.” Time to make my getaway. “I’ve got a short story to analyze for school.”

“Well, hang on,” he said, even though it was obvious that
he
was the one hanging on. “Maybe I can help you.”

I pursed my lips and pretended to consider it for a few seconds. “It’s okay,” I said as I picked up my plate. “I have to go home.”

“Please,” he said. “How else can I thank you?”

The front door was so tantalizingly close.

He gazed at me with his watery eyes. “I insist.”

I hesitated. “Sure,” I said, dropping back into the chair.

“Which story do you have to analyze?”

“We can choose any short story.”

He smacked a fist on the table. “I have the perfect story for you! It’s called ‘The Lottery.’” He jumped out of his chair, and strode to the living room bookshelf where he retrieved an ancient-looking book. A musty odour rose from its pages when he opened them to the correct spot. “Do you want to read, or should I?” he said.

I waved my hand. “It’s okay, I don’t need to read.”

I clutched my purse and pulled my cell phone out. I was tired and just wanted to go home. At this point, I could do nothing but wait it out.

“The flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green . . .
” he read. I glanced at the cell phone sitting discreetly on my knee. No messages or texts. Matchmaven was quiet tonight.