Chapter One
Five Years Later
My grandmother used to say that it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it was with a poor one.
My grandfather usually followed that line with one of his own: “Do you know why Jewish husbands die before their wives? Because they want to.” And although my mother was a hopeless romantic and worked as a matchmaker, she refused to date anyone herself.
I was a very confused child.
Even now, at the age of twenty-eight, there are still plenty of things about love and life that leave me shaking my head in bewilderment.
Such as why men who have perfect aim on the golf course can’t manage to keep their pee contained inside a toilet bowl.
Or how we women can have rooms full of clothes and still have nothing to wear.
Or why couples who live together before marriage are statistically more likely to divorce than those who don’t.
And why do cockroaches exist instead of, say, fairy godmothers with magical wands?
But perhaps the biggest mystery of all is why Caleb Kahn became Orthodox again and bought a house in the community a year ago.
For it is a truth universally acknowledged that when a single man moves into the eruv and buys a property large enough to raise a tribe of children with room left over to host extended family, alllll the mamas come running.
As for my current relationship with Caleb, it’s, you know . . . fine. Ellipses and all.
We’re not friends or anything, but I’ve unblocked him from my contact list, so make of that what you will. We’ve also shared plenty of Shabbos and holiday meals, and the occasional birthday party.
I’m always careful to keep my distance though. I sit as far away from him as possible, and limit our conversations to bland topics like the weather, or how very, very busy I am.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not aware of when he walks into a room, or where he is at any given moment in it. The air changes when Caleb is nearby. I can feel the goosebumps appear my skin, a sort of sixth sense that’s uniquely tuned to Caleb.
It’s really annoying.
Even more annoying, is that it’s hard not to look at him.
He is objectively beautiful. And despite his advanced age of thirty-three, he’s only grown better-looking with time.
His hairline hasn’t receded, his body is in its best shape yet, and the few lines around his eyes only add to his air of intrigue and sex appeal.
I know because at least once a week, someone mentions these as a not-so subtle hint that they want to be set up with him.
Just like the young woman currently sitting in my living room, for example.
We should be discussing Yitzchok—the man I set her up with and that she’s been dating for the last month.
The one she seems to have conveniently forgotten exists since eating Shabbos lunch with Caleb.
Sitting across a table from him is, apparently, life changing.
So here we are, talking about Caleb Kahn.
As if he’s even a viable option. As if he didn’t already say no when I mentioned Eidel’s name to him a few days ago, the same way he’s done with every other woman that I’ve thrown his way.
For a man who claims he wants to get married, he sure has a funny way of going about it.
“Ashira?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head and smile at Mrs. Schwartz and her daughter, Eidel. “It’s just—can we talk about Yitzchok now? The man you’ve been dating?” I add, on the off-chance that she’s experiencing a sudden case of amnesia.
“In a sec,” Eidel replies, batting her hand impatiently. “I’m not done talking about Caleb yet.”
OMG. Someone put me out of my misery and kill me.
“Unfortunately,” I say, making sure to maintain eye contact because—pro tip—liars never do, “he’s still currently unavailable.
” I say still because we had this exact conversation yesterday.
Does she think going around in circles will produce a different answer?
Because that’s not how these things work. “Now, about Yitzchok—”
“But what does ‘he’s unavailable’ mean?” Eidel scowls. “Are you saying he’s dating someone?”
Hey, now—that’s an idea. Maybe then she’ll drop this fantasy.
“It’s possible.” I bob my head up and down, trying to convince all three of us. The mother and daughter exchange a confused look.
“I mean,” I cough, “it isn’t impossible. In the realm of what is and isn’t possible.”
Why can’t I just lie like a normal person?
“Did he say he was dating someone or didn’t he?” Mrs. Schwartz asks, looking at me like I’m an idiot.
“I don’t remember his exact wording.” I scratch my neck and tuck my hands under my armpits. If I could go back in time, I’d have put on several more layers of deodorant before this meeting. “But he definitely used the word ‘unavailable ’.”
“That’s the only reason he’d be unavailable though, right?” Eidel says, turning to her mother since I’ve clearly proven myself to be an unreliable narrator.
But Mrs. Schwartz turns to me. “Is it?”
“Is it, indeed?” I tap my chin, pretending this was posed as a philosophical question rather than a literal one and channel my inner Socrates. “Who’s to say?”
“What’s wrong with her?” Eidel says to her mother, not even bothering to whisper.
Mrs. Schwartz puts up a hand to silence her daughter, then leans toward me. A vein throbs on her forehead, and up until this point, I’d never realized just how intimidating the effects of the cardiovascular system could be.
“You are the matchmaker. It’s your job to say.”
My palms become itchy with sweat. Actually, my entire body is turning itchy. If matchmakers could rate clients, I’d give these two a one-star review and then write in the comments section: will cause spontaneous outbreak of hives. Proceed with caution.
People like to complain about matchmakers, but no one talks about the grief and hardship we suffer at the hands of our clients. If it isn’t one thing they find to complain about, it’s another.
“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Schwartz,” I say. “And I plan on clarifying with him what he meant. So.” I clap my hands and turn to Eidel. “How are things going with Yitzchok?”
“Wait,” Eidel says, holding up a finger. “Did you use my name when you spoke to Caleb? Or did you just ask if he was hypothetically interested in going out with someone?”
I take a deep breath and paste on a polite smile, the one that fools everyone except for my best friend Miri. She calls it my sociopath face.
“Yes, I used your name. Eidel Schwartz,” I add, in case that was going to be her follow-up question.
“He’s probably already dating someone,” Mrs. Schwartz says to her daughter.
“Like you’re dating Yitzchok,” I add pointedly.
“When I had Shabbos lunch with Caleb this past week,” Eidel continues, as if both her mother and I hadn’t spoken, “I felt this deep connection, and it was unlike anything I experienced before. It was almost like . . .” her eyes turn dreamy, “a preview of love.”
A preview of love? What the hell is she talking about?
Clearly Eidel finds something offensive about my facial expression because her own turns into a scowl. “I’m telling you, we had a connection.”
Oh child, please. If I had a dollar for every time someone told me they had a connection with Caleb, I’d be drinking pina coladas on a beach right now being fanned with giant leaves by attractive pool men.
“Call him.”
I tilt my head at Mrs. Schwartz. Something about her tone of voice seems extra menacing. “Of course,” I say. “I’m not sure what time he gets home from work, but I’ll call tonight.”
But what comes out of her mouth next causes a chill to run down my spine.
“Now.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“Call Caleb now.”
“You mean . . .” I swallow. “Right now?”
Mrs. Schwartz bares her teeth. Actually shows them to me, like a wolf that’s closing in on its dinner. Except a wolf wouldn’t have a smudge of lipstick on its canines. It sort of dampens the effect, to be honest.
“Right now,” she barks, and I jump a little in my seat.
Another truth universally acknowledged is that the Schwartzs are one of the most powerful families of Brooklyn. They have the money, influence, and connections to satisfy any whim of theirs within the boroughs of NYC, 5 towns, and then some.
Think Vito Corleone. Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Jay Gatsby. The Kennedys, the Rothschilds, the Rockefellers. Then combine them, and that would be the Schwartzs.
And in my experience, powerful, influential people don’t mind making enemies, especially if said enemy has no leverage. Someone with no money or low ranking in society.
Someone like me.
Despite the fact that I already have eight years of matchmaking experience under my belt, the only reason that Mrs. Schwartz chose to work with me was because she was friends with my mother, who made several matches for their family.
I’m good at my job, but I’m still a small fish in a huge matchmaking pond.
I’m hugely lucky to have this opportunity, and all I have to do is not screw it up.
Which in theory, doesn’t sound hard, but in reality, is turning out to be quite the nightmare.
I’d been handling them well enough until now, but today took a massive one-eighty and I still can’t understand how we got here.
“Well?” Mrs. Schwartz says, making a flurrying motion with her hand. “What are you waiting for? Call him, already.”
I turn to Eidel with a silent plea for help, but she’s too busy staring at her mother like she’s a genius.
“Yes,” Eidel says. “This is a terrific idea.”
This is a terrible idea.
Mrs. Schwartz nods. “We’ll have clarity this way.”
I rub my forehead. The woman doesn’t want clarity, she wants reassurance; either that Caleb is already dating someone and that his disinterest isn’t a personal slight to her daughter, or she wants to be told that not only is he available, but he’s practically chomping at the bit to go out with Eidel. Which is simply not the case.
And we all know what happens to the messenger.
“I would call now, but he’s at work,” I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my skirt.
“So what? He’s the CEO of his own company,” Mrs. Schwartz says, waving her hands again. “Who’s going to fire him if he takes a phone call?”
She makes a fair point. Caleb built his security firm from the ground up, putting his Navy SEAL skills to good use after retiring from the teams three years ago. Now, people from all over the world hire bodyguards from his company to help keep them safe.
“Do it,” Eidel urges, taking my phone off the coffee table and handing it to me. I stare at it in horror, as if it’s a murder weapon that now has my fingerprints all over it.
Don’t do it. There is literally no scenario where this ends well.
But the intensity of the Schwartzs’ combined stares is starting to affect my ability to breathe. Each tick of the living room clock sounds like a bomb set to detonate in my ears. I rub a fist over my chest, trying to loosen the knot of tension that’s building.
“Let’s go.” Mrs. Schwartz claps her hands. “Chop-chop.”
“I . . .” I lick my dry lips and stand up, gripping the wall to steady me. “Okay. I’ll be right back, and let you know what he says.”
But Mrs. Schwartz has shockingly good reflexes for a woman of her age. “Oh no, you don’t,” she says, yanking on my wrist and pulling me back down. “You’re going to stay right here where I can watch you.”
I can’t fault her instincts.
All right, here goes nothing. I take a deep breath and unlock my phone. I lower the volume so they can’t hear what he says. Brilliant.
“Put it on speaker,” Eidel commands.
I sigh, but this might be even better. I’ll start off the call by casually mentioning who’s listening.
“But don’t tell him we’re here,” Mrs. Schwartz says, reading my mind. Turns out, she’s great at that.
I look up from my phone and frown. “Don’t you think this is a little unethical?”
Mrs. Schwartz laughs for the first time since we’ve sat down. “You’re funny.”
Eidel takes the phone back after I’ve dialed and sets it on the coffee table.
We wait in terse silence as it rings. Maybe he won’t pick up.
Maybe he’ll be in a meeting or getting a haircut or working out at the gym.
There’s lots of reasons why he might not answer.
Please don’t pick up, please don’t pick up, please don’t—
“Hello?”
Damnit, he picked up.