Page 8 of The Matchmaker

“Mr. Latif, slandering me and my business will only end up hurting you.”

“Sounds like you need some lessons on what slander is,” he replies. “It’s—”

“Spreading false information?” I tilt my head. “Knowingly?Maliciously? I have this entire conversation recorded. One click and I could post this to social media—”

“You’re recording me?” he bellows.

“You consented to it in the paperwork you signed. Honestly, I think your constituents would be interested to hear about our chat. If you call again, I’ll make sure they do.”

The vein throbbing at his temple is the only indication my screen hasn’t frozen. He’s there. Quietly seething. But he gets it now.

“Glad we could talk this all out, Mr. Latif. I have another appointment to run to.” Then, with more steel in my voice: “You’d be well advised not to reach out again.”

I end the call. He won’t call back. They never do once they realize what they’ll lose.

“Knock knock.” Darcy enters. She sets a steaming mug of coffee on my desk. Taking in my expression, she frowns. “What happened?”

“Was Basit Latif one of the people we declined this morning?”

“I think so.” She checks her tablet. “Yep. There he is. I emailed him along with five others. Why? Did he take it poorly?”

“He called me just now and tried to convince me to change my mind. Offered to double my rate, and when that didn’t work, he tried to threaten me.” I cradle my palms around the warm mug. “Some people think money can buy them anything, and anyone.”

“Gross.”

The front bell buzzes.

“That’s gotta be Beenish.” Darcy eyes me. “Do you need a minute?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Men like him are just the cost ofdoing business. Besides, distraction will do me good. Why don’t you get her settled in the conference room? I’ll be there in a second.”

She rests a hand against the doorframe. “Want a real distraction? You and I are overdue for a girls’ night. How about some good old-fashioned axe-throwing sometime soon?”

Axe-throwing? I make a face, and Darcy laughs.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it! There’s a place near me having a two-for-one special. You know I’ll keep pestering you until you eventually say yes. It’s my favorite way to get the feels out.”

“Let’s do it.” I smile at her. “Thanks, Darcy.”

“And hey, don’t sweat that jackass,” she says. “Helicopter parents gonna helicopter, right?”

Darcy’s right. People like Basit arrange their children’s entire lives from the moment they schedule their C-sectioned arrival into this world. The right nanny. The right preschool. Sidestepping other applicants with a healthy donation to a private school of their choice all the way to Harvard. This is what the wealthy do. They pay their way to the life they want. My help finding their child the perfect partner is one more thing they think they can buy. Rising, my silver bracelets clink against my arm as I switch back into my heels, gather my notebook and coffee mug, and head toward the conference room. The Basit Latifs of the world don’t get to linger in my head. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

Three

I step out of the car and take in Khala’s house. I’m in and out each week for Friday dinner—but with Azar coming over tonight, I linger in her cobblestone driveway, seeing the two-story stucco home with Spanish tiles through his eyes. Overgrown ivy tangles around the brick mailbox. Clumps of clovers and daisies litter the once perfectly mowed lawn. When did the shrubs lining the windows dry up? Khala had mentioned her landscaper retired last fall, but it didn’t occur to me that no one had replaced him.

I glance at Azar’s immaculate home across the street, a trail of freshly planted petunias lining his walkway—hisoldwalkway, I correct myself. His parents have long since retired to Pakistan. How did Khala let it get this bad? And even if it had slipped her mind, what about Nina?Nina has her hands full,I remind myself.She’s going through a lot.But she moved in to take care of Khala, so couldn’t she actually take care of things? I make a mental note to call around for lawn service quotes tomorrow.

The house smells like my aunt’s favorite lavender-scented candles when I step inside. I set my purse on the ottoman in the foyer. At least the interior of the home hasn’t gone to shit quite yet—it still looks exactly like it did when I was growingup. The walls are gray and there are framed art pieces by Jamali that Khala purchased at various auctions through the years. Handwoven Persian rugs decorate the dark hardwood floors in every room.

I hear the pitter-patter of small feet. My cousin Nina’s four-year-old daughter, Lilah, emerges from around the corner. She’s wearing a tiny apron tied at her waist, and wraps her arms around my leg.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthdaaaaay, Auntie Nura, happy birthday to you!”

“Wonderful rendition!” Lilah’s springy curls tickle my face when I give her a kiss.

“Me and Mama are making you a cake, but it wasmyidea.”

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