Playing With Matches (17 page)

I returned to the den just as Fisk was sauntering up to bat, and positioned the plate between us.

Bubby glanced down at the plate. “Monkey food you feed me?” she said with a look of disgust on her face.

“But they’re sweet and nutritious!”

“Oh please.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you at least get me a beer?”

Mira appeared at the doorway. “Everyone okay? I just finished working on some briefs and I’m going to sleep now.”

Mira glanced down at the plate on the couch. “Would you like these sliced bananas, Mira?” Bubby said. “They’re sweet and nutritious.”

“It’s okay, Ma.” Mira stepped into the kitchen and disappeared upstairs. Fisk was now poised at the plate. We watched breathlessly as the pitcher wound up. He released the ball and it flew toward home plate.

“I’m having heart palpitations,” Bubby called out as she fanned her face with both hands.

Fisk smacked the ball and we watched as he danced to the side and directed the arc of the ball with his arms, willing it to stay inside the foul line.

“Bingo!” Bubby yelled out. I clapped as Fisk’s teammates mobbed him.

She nodded and turned to me. “Tell me what’s more exhausting then a game-winning home run in the twelfth inning? I’m going to bed.” She pulled herself to her feet and tousled my hair.

“Thanks Bubby,” I said.

I now had the floor to myself. I sat in front of the computer and opened the Matchmaven account, which was now a portal to the emotional universe of Leah, Daniel, and Ilana. There were two new matchmaking requests. I added them to my database. There were also messages from Leah, Ilana, and — surprise — Jonathan, urging me to set them up. I still hadn’t figured out how to inform Daniel that Leah wasn’t interested in seeing him again.

There was some serious customer loyalty happening here.

My first goal though was to find someone new for Leah. When the failure of the date with Daniel hit her, she might tailspin into despair. I combed the emails over and over again and frankly couldn’t find anyone … good enough.

I glanced at the clock on the computer — 11:30 p.m. My arms had grown heavy, my mind was wandering, and I still had an English composition to complete. An instant message came in from Daniel.

Daniel:
Maven, Leah was so sweet. Did she say anything?

Maven:
Actually, yes. I did talk to her.

Daniel:
Excellent! I thought it went really well.

Help.

Maven:
It’s a bit complicated.

Daniel:
Is there a problem? JUST TELL ME.

Maven:
It’s about the dog.

Daniel:
Bronx? You said to do whatever it takes to stay calm as long as I didn’t bring my nieces or nephews.

Maven:
I did not tell you to bring a dog. You see the problem, Daniel? When a girl goes on a date —

Daniel:
Did I blow it?

Maven:
— she generally assumes it’s with only ONE mammal.

Daniel:
I’M SUCH AN IDIOT.

Maven:
She said you were nice but you’re not for her.

Daniel:
Maven, I’m begging you. Please find someone for me.

So here’s a rule of thumb. When a grown man uses the word
beg
— you’re cooked. What was I supposed to do? I felt like I had no choice so I relented. While I searched through my little database I caught Deb Cohen on Gchat. I felt a bit more confident after Leah’s date with Daniel. Leah had liked the man after all; she just wasn’t interested in the beast. I typed away, describing Daniel to Deb and confirmed that she was okay with the dude/dog combo.

After I warned Deb about the dog, I warned Daniel about the dog. What I really wanted was to warn the dog about the dog, because he was seriously messing things up for everyone. But everyone was very cooperative so I returned to my English assignment and finished it at 1:30 a.m.

My goal was to find Leah a husband but somehow I was getting sucked into this World Wide Web of Sadness, and it was expanding with each new match. The truth was, the world of Matchmaven was much more compelling and urgent than my schoolwork, which was kind of tanking. And that could be a problem because the more successful I’d be in making matches, the more people would be begging me to help them. In other words, winning for them meant losing for me.

Plus, they were undaunted by my failure. I now had
four
separate people expecting me to make new matches.

The mind of an eligible single is an unknowable one.

Dear Maven,

Can you help me? I want nothing more than to find a long-term relationship, but I’ve had so much heartbreak. Unfortunately, I have exceptional looks that tend to intimidate guys. I just moved here from London so maybe I’ll have better luck finding a life partner. I’m a financial advisor, forty-seven, blond-haired and blue-eyed. People just assume that I’m thirty, and the truth is that I feel young and find older guys set in their ways and stodgy. I’m looking for a kosher, solid, decent, intelligent, good-looking, interesting, and financially independent guy with a great sense of humour who can deal with my looks.

Dena

In the past two months I had encountered an ocean of grief and loneliness but I had never really considered the emotional pain of the supermodel. It was touching. Still I
loved
this woman. She was made for Jonathan Sandler. They were two variations on the same theme. They were both extremely self-assured about their abilities and looks. And the beauty of the whole thing was that by the time they stopped lying to each other about their ages, they might already be madly in love. I sent off introductions to both of them.

With Deb, Daniel, Jonathan, and Dena taken care of for now, I had to focus on Ilana and keep my eye open for something great for Leah. I studied the emails. I made a short list, and for Ilana I chose Aaron, the mathematics doctoral student.

I leaned back at the chair and gazed at the stucco ceiling. I still couldn’t quite digest how bizarre this was. No matter how unsuccessful the dates were, these people were all
still
begging me to fix them up.

Any doctor with this failure rate would probably lose their medical licence. But apparently, when it comes to fixing up singles, there’s no such thing as matchmaking malpractice.

chapter 19

Dogs Tend to Enjoy Eating Disgusting Items

The following Monday, with Leah on the family room computer, and me in my bedroom, I started to step up my plan.

Matchmaven:
Leah, Daniel was crazy about you. Guys like you.

Leah:
Maven, I feel like such a loser.

Matchmaven:
No, no, no. You’re the one of the highest quality people I’m working with.

Leah:
Really?

Matchmaven:
Absolutely. How are you adjusting to Toronto?

Leah:
*Sigh* I’m so lonely. Between work and school I feel so alone.

Like a wrapped package with a pretty bow, here was my opportunity.

Matchmaven:
Didn’t you say that you used to be really close with your sister?

Leah:
We were always best friends.

Matchmaven:
So why not reach out to her?

Leah:
I don’t know. I do miss her.

I clasped my hands to my chest.
Yes!
She was finally coming around.

Leah:
But she’s given me and my family so much grief. I’m wary.

Matchmaven:
Whatever happened, you’ll be healthier if you let go of your anger. Maybe it’s time to reconcile.

Leah:
I’m afraid to trust her.

This was too good to be true. It was so ridiculously
easy
to work on her like this.

Matchmaven:
Start slow. You may find that she’s matured. Why impose unnecessary loneliness on yourself?

Leah:
Maybe.

I leapt onto my bed and jumped. When I was done, I landed on my butt, took a sip of soda water from my night table, and returned to Matchmaven. Deb was online so she gave me the complete scoop.

She and Daniel were now in good shape, even though they got off to a shaky start. Without Bronx along, Daniel was uptight and nervous. But when he’d finished power sweating after the first hour, he calmed down and they enjoyed themselves enough for Deb to agree to another date two nights later. This time, Daniel brought the dog again, explaining to Deb that the vet insisted he not be left alone because Bronx was unwell. Deb sympathized, and the date went smoothly, even when she discovered that the “vet” was actually a dog psychiatrist who was treating Bronx for depression.

That night Deb finally accepted that Daniel and Bronx came as a complete set. Individual parts not for sale.

Just as Deb and I finished instant messaging, “Sweet Caroline,” my phone’s ring tone, jolted the silence of the room.

“Hi Rain, it’s me, Deb,” she said.

My breath caught in my throat.

“Listen, I hope you don’t mind that I called you,” she babbled. “Ilana’s my best friend and she told me your name and number, but I promise I won’t tell anybody.”

A shot of terror pushed me off the bed. “But Ilana said the same thing.”

“Please don’t worry,” Deb said. “I swear neither of us will tell anyone else.” My dad was so right. When you tell just one person — it isn’t a secret anymore.

“Why are you calling?” I said as I paced the bedroom.

She sighed. “Because I’ve never felt such happiness in my life and it’s all because of you.”

I stopped. “Really?”

She was practically singing now. “I know I’m not supposed to have your number but the messaging couldn’t convey my gratitude to you. Daniel’s
great
!” Her voice was effervescent, like a glass of freshly poured seltzer.

“Cool,” I said. I leapt onto my bed and bounced in the air.

“I think he might be my soul mate, but he hasn’t hinted at anything. Should I be nervous?”

“No,” I said, as I flopped onto my back. “If it’s meant to be, then it’ll work out at the right time. Trust me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” I said. “In the meantime hang tight and I’ll dig around and find out what’s going on in his mind.”

“I love you, Rain!”

I scratched my jaw. If she only knew.

The next day Dahlia approached me as we filed out of math class. “How’s the spreadsheet working out?”

“It’s amazing except for the fact that I don’t have any privacy at the Bernsteins. They moved the computer, which helps, but Leah uses the printer and Bubby’s always in that room.”

“Hmm.” Dahlia hiked her knapsack over her shoulder. “If you want you can come to my place after school. We can whip up some cookie batter that will
never
see the inside of an oven.”

It was the first week of December and this was the first invitation to anyone’s house I’d received from someone who wasn’t over the age of seventy-five.

“You got me,” I said.

Five hours later I was trailing after Dahlia across the marble tiles of her lobby, into a kitchen that must have housed a food preparation business, because it was utterly colossal. I mean, it was epic. There had to be a hundred feet of counter space, miles of hardwood cabinets, industrial-sized stainless steel appliances, and so much granite that somewhere in Italy a quarry must have been stripped clean.

She opened the fridge door. “Sushi or cake batter?”

“What, no compote?”

“If you dare bring up Lillian Shimmel,” she said and we both giggled. Dahlia grabbed two Styrofoam trays of sushi from the fridge and set up her laptop on the breakfast nook counter while we settled onto two barstools.

“Feel like working on some math?” Dahlia dug into her bag and scooped out the textbook.