The Summerman Time Travel Matchmaking Agency: Book One: Open for Business

By Laura Szabo-Cohen

If you're a woman with a big brain but a lust for beach-reading, do not miss the premiere of Szabo-Cohen's The Summerman Time Travel Matchmaking Agency with its mind-blowing premise and addictive writing. In Book One: Open for Business, meet the Summerman sisters of Brooklyn, NY, who have just inherited their family's matchmaking business. Dagny, spiritually gifted beyond her own imaginings, inadvertently sends client Amanda Fox back 150 years to a very different Brooklyn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626759398

Book preview

Time(s)

PART I

2008/1854

Let me go to the window,

Watch there the day-shapes of dusk

And wait and know the coming

Of a little love.

-from Carl Sandburg’s At A Window

CHAPTER ONE

Two Businesswomen

Amanda Fox thought she might be frigid. When her husband Jack was alive, after sex she’d pray, Heavenly Savior, what were You thinking? Am I disrespectful to think You might have thought of a more appetizing and guaranteed method for reproduction and/or pleasure? She suspected even Jack didn’t enjoy the whole thing that much. But, like God, he gave her no feedback.

#

Amanda Fox and Bess Cimino were Cimino & Fox Party Rentals. Their shop was the Number Eleven Hem Street Warehouse, a vast, three-story industrial building located on a watery cusp of Brooklyn.

The first floor contained inventory and offices. They had remodeled the second floor into a quirky loft residence. Via the freight elevator or clanging metalwork stairs, the women got from breakfast to business in 140 seconds. I feel like walking to work today, was an old joke they never tired of using on each other, for it confirmed how clever they were to simplify their lives by living above the store.

The third floor remained empty. Bess had girlie fantasies that one day they’d both be married with families, and either she or Amanda would move upstairs.

Oh my God, Amanda, I don’t know how I can bear to tell you this news! Bess’s eyes were wet bronze.

Amanda’s stomach acid took a familiar detour upward – goodness knew she had had enough shocks in her young life. Just tell me, she said with forced evenness.

Sweetheart, your husband…the hospital called…Jack…oh my God, Amanda, Jack is dead!

Amanda went still for several seconds, then yanked her hands out of Bess’s, scanned her housemate’s drenched face, and whispered, You’re scaring me. Jack’s been dead four years. You know that better than anyone. What are you trying to pull?

Bess appeared confused. "You’ve been widowed for four years? Jack didn’t just die today? What are you trying to pull?"

Amanda led Bess to the sofa. She felt Bess’s pulse, pulled down her bottom lids, smelled her breath. No fever, no signs of anything mind-altering. She said firmly, Four years ago, one year to the day after our wedding, Jack died in the Vero Beach jet crash on his way back from a seminar. You were with me when I got the news. You’ve never abandoned me since. Don’t start now. Just tell me what’s up.

Bess, tears drying on command as befit the part-time actress she was, popped off the sofa and artistically re-tied her kimono sash. "What’s up is my best friend is still refusing every date or hook-up her friends can arrange over the course of three years. So maybe her husband didn’t really die at all! Or maybe he died only a short while ago – because what’s up is my best friend is mourning as if her husband had died this very morning. But no, you’ve set the record straight. Your husband Jack has been dead and gone four years. Thank you, Amanda Fox. That’s all I wanted to know. I thought maybe it was me who was crazy."

It took Amanda a moment to become calm enough to become enraged. That was low. No matter how much you wanted to make a point, that was a low piece of drama. I know this is about my standing up Gavin O’Day for the Party Party, and I’m sorry about that. But Bess, close as we are, you should still remember a person’s grief is on her own timetable. Nobody else’s.

Bess didn’t look even a little guilty, just disgusted. "Grief, ha. This isn’t about grief. I don’t know what it’s about, just that it’s not about grief. And I probably will never know because you play things so close to the chest. If I were insult-able I’d be insulted."

Amanda was wearing one of her trademark vintage pinafores. An historian by avocation, with a particular interest in the social history of the American industrial revolution, Amanda used these proto-jumpers as her daily uniform. Marching through the four seasons in poplin, serge, piqué, and seersucker versions, she appeared somehow lush and prim at the same time. Bess, while politically correct, feminist, and respectful of female autonomy in most cases, did see the lush as being tragically wasted.

Defeated for the moment, she said, Listen, Amanda. I’ll see you at the shop. I feel like walking to work today. And with that, she slipped paisley silk cropped pants under her clashing crimson-flowered kimono, donned the running shoes with the tiny painted portraits of all the female characters in Enchanted April, slanted a leather beret over her shiny black bangs, and like some bizarre, lovely patchwork griffin, strode toward their elevator.

CHAPTER TWO

Two More Businesswomen

Across the alternating asphalt densities and arbored concourses of Brooklyn, at 89 Abbot Street, stood a classic Argyle Hill brownstone with maroon trim and shutters. (Warped. Peeling.) There, two other women resided above their business – the Summerman girls. Dagny and Karenina were sixth-generation matchmakers and the newest proprietors of Summerman Matchmaking and Marriage Brokerage, Inc.

"Dagny, this time you have really, really lost it. What gave you the idea Tristan and I are working on time travel, you nincompoop? Karenina pulled a stack of papers out of her sister’s hands. And mind your own business!"

Across the table, two wide pairs of navy blue eyes narrowed at each other.

Dagny spared a last, strained glance at the sheaf of chicken tracks. Oh, don’t panic, you know I can’t read them. You’re the physicist.

"Yes. I am. So listen. I know ‘privacy’ is not your favorite word, but you must understand that whatever theoretical discussions Tristan and I have about time travel are just for fun. Or at least for what physicists consider fun…."

"We’ll write a user-friendly brochure. We can call it The Desperate Romantic’s Guide to the Physics of Time Travel. You can put in a few impressive lines about Schrödinger or the split-second time discrepancies in high-flying jets, and…."

Daggers! Karenina dropped her face into her palms, making her weighty brown ponytail fly over her head and tip a cut crystal decanter holding amaryllis. Both women steadied it. We are not writing any technical manual or…or…guidebook, fergodsake. I keep my research – which has nothing to do with time travel – secret. And the same for our brother’s research. No matter what Tristan or I or both of us are working on. Which isn’t and will never be time travel.

Then what is it?

I said. To mind. Your own. Business.

But Dagny in plotting mode was impossible to derail. We’re geniuses, she said. Don’t turn your back on me, Kar, we are most definitely geniuses. She chased after Karenina. "You and I and Tristan will discover the answer to the challenge of our millennium: how to find romance in a world devoid of romance. How to guarantee weddings in a world where marriage is a slightly suspect menu choice instead of a universal noble aspiration. And – unimportant spiritually, but useful – we are going to be extremely rich, big sister, all because resting beneath your long, stupid, bouncing ponytail is a scientist’s brain which makes Richard Feynman’s look like sweetbreads. Yes! We shall be richer than Gates, richer than Oprah. We shall be rich enough to be able to replace a Brooklyn brownstone furnace!"

Karenina reached for Dagny’s hand, and holding it too tightly, said, "Try to recall our discussion about using words like ‘guarantee.’ Try to recall the one about science not moving forward at the same speed as frying latkes. Or how about the discussion about how NOBODY WILL BE ABLE TO SAFELY AND CONTROLLABLY TRAVEL THROUGH TIME FOR CENTURIES AND PROBABLY NOT EVER EVER NEVER!"

"Hmm, latkes. Howzabout I fry up some potato latkes. Hungry, Kar?"

A little. Karenina was also tired – her usual state after attempting rational discourse with her sister. She sighed and tugged on her sister’s short brown hair, dislodging one of the many small, pebble-covered barrettes Dagny had glue-gunned back in Slomovitz Hebrew Academy art camp. But fergodsake, Daggers, keep the gravel out of the sour cream.

CHAPTER THREE

Meanwhile Ago

How nice for Hiram Danzig to be at his architect’s office finalizing the exterior of a new mansion overlooking the Hudson River. All headaches could be left briefly in the capable hands of his foreman, Davey Herring, and Herring’s assistant, Preece.

While Danzig was deciding between veined buff limestone and Algerian pink marble, Line Four of the Danzig Textile Mill went down. Line Four was a block long, so when one small cog stopped whirring, so did over eighty men, women, girls, and boys. I’ll have things up in no time, Willie assured Herring.

But Willie observed the relief of the workers. The adults leaned wearily, gratefully, against their stilled looms, and the children puddled to the floor, marbles and jackstraws quickly appearing. Then and there Willie made a management decision – fine practice for the day when he would trade his stiff blue coveralls for a stiff white collar.

For ten hours daily, hungry men, ailing women, and gaunt children ran the new-fangled and dangerous machinery of the exploding New York garment industry. But until the day when labor unions like the ones forming in England came to Danzig’s, Willie Preece’s only tool for revolution was finagling the workers a brief respite. Hidden under the belt, wrench in hand as if to conquer the problem, Willie closed his eyes.

CHAPTER FOUR

Cimino & Fox Party Rentals

The Party Party was the annual hospitality trades gala. Organized and attended by first-string New York City area caterers, event planners, bands and orchestras, florists, stationers, photographers, and rental businesses like Cimino & Fox, this ultimate celebrator’s celebration raised funds for those whose idea of a party was a roof over their heads.

Amanda sailed in solo, her usual professional self. She greeted Bess briskly and walked off in high networking gear. Bess’s date for the night was Terrell-the-Porcelain-Consultant-for-Tiffany’s. He immediately aimed himself toward the sushi station hoping to snag the uni before it was strip-mined. Bess was stranded, loyally but unsuccessfully trying to deafen herself to the buzz about Amanda.

I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but it’s not as if Jack Yaeger were anything special.

"What did she see in him anyway? She’s so creative, so focused…and pretty to boot, not that that should be important. She made a fortune coming out of nowhere, co-founding C&F. She was a baby, but smart enough to hook up with Bess Cimino. But Jack Yaeger? He was kind of nondescript if you ask me…may he rest in peace."

Look at her in that antique, pleated Worth. A gown for waltzing until dawn and she’s standing there conferencing with videographers, would you believe? The speaker paused for breath. She dreamily perused the harbor strewn with stars and lanterns. A series of immense cabana-striped tents trimmed the pier, and a ten-piece orchestra played from a closely-moored yacht. Ack. She might as well be holed up in her office. How can a person who creates magical events herself ignore all this magic? Jack can’t be that hard to replace.

A man interjected. Maybe Jack was magic in the sheets.

"God! Why do men think that’s important enough to attract and keep anyone, much less a woman like Amanda Fox?"

Cut my tongue out. I just couldn’t figure out any other reason a sexy, fascinating, go-getter like her would marry a junior high school history teacher, that’s all.

"Maybe she likes hist…ssssh, here comes…. Hi, Bess! Loved that Sweet Sixteen you and Mandy did in the Hamptons! Saw the Times shots. How do you guys think up your stuff? Pink-stenciling the tablecloths with the girl’s profile!"

#

The first person at work to greet Bess was the last person she wanted to run into. Nicknamed (behind his back) The Quiet Man, Timothy O’Day was a master carpenter and head of Furniture and Repairs. He and his staff checked and maintained the thousands of tables and chairs as they returned from their rental stints. He also designed unique pieces for his own private clients and for special customers of C&F.

Several weeks ago, Bess had whispered into his ear a request for a blind date for Amanda for the Party Party. She knew he had a single brother. Timothy, monosyllabic as usual, had affirmed her with, Gavin, then kindly overcame his contained persona enough to agree to arrange things. Today, Timothy said a civil Good morning, Bess, but the look in his eyes belied the sentiment.

Bess blathered. I’m sorry, Tim. When Amanda gets…gets…well, there’s not much one can say to her, and…

Gavin rented a tuxedo for it.

Oh Timothy, I am so sorry! Please let me pay for the tuxedo! It’s my fault, I should have…

Forget the tuxedo. You know, Amanda should be told she’s not the first person to lose a spouse. My brother…

Oh, don’t say it, Bess groaned. Why didn’t you tell me this before? Your brother is a widower? I can’t bear it! I’m so, so sorry!

My sister-in-law died three years ago, and this would have been Gavin’s first date. So ended the longest conversation Timothy O’Day had conducted in his years with Cimino & Fox. Bess thought about pushing Amanda off the freight elevator.

Amanda approached with a flatbed cart of fabric samples. Bess was silent; Amanda was all business. Look, I saw you talking to Tim. You’re both furious at me for standing up his brother. I don’t blame you. I’m furious at you for almost giving me a heart attack. You can’t blame me. But you know our deal: Even if Bess and Amanda implode, Cimino & Fox carry on.

Of course I know the deal. Bess surveyed the pile of tablecloth and napkin textiles. There were simple tickings, sprigged cottons, and some faux-homespun solids and plaids in multiple colorways. There were beautiful classic dobby weaves, tattersalls, and retro apron prints. Are these the only table-dressing candidates for next season’s informal line? Sheesh, Amanda, I hope we can bring in a few linen blends for those clients living in the 21st century. Okay, okay, let’s mark our preferences then pow-wow. But honestly, what this line needs is an emergency dose of Milan.

#

Amanda soaked and took stock. Glacier Algae Once-a-Month Hair Treat nourished her coppery blonde, chin-length curls. They were coppery blonde courtesy of Fabienna and her chemicals, and curly courtesy of Arno and his, but Amanda really liked her hair. Organic Provencal Lavender Bath Salts gently exfoliated her already silky skin, which she really liked too. The grainy, fragrant water sloshed over her individual parts. She could have used bigger breasts in summer clothes and smaller ones under sweaters (and sometimes vice versa), but these would do. Her legs and butt were…female. She knew she had the graceful neck and shoulders that come with vigilant posture. Her thighs were, as in the end all thighs are, thighs. One had to proceed with life. She really liked her feet; she thought her toes looked like seashells.

Amanda thanked her tub. She knew how fortunate she and Bess were to have generous and relatively cheap space, and the income to design their own very different rooms within it. (Spaces would be a more accurate term than rooms being that the walls of the private areas were only private until five feet short of the fourteen-foot ceilings.)

Bess’s bedroom walls were decoupaged with photos ripped from orchid catalogs, and the mattress on her floor was draped with a 60’s Scandinavian graphic. Brightening her black, glass-tiled bathroom, an immense, glass fishmobile in primary colors hung above her shower.

Amanda’s room was paneled halfway up the walls in recycled mahogany. Bess labeled it gentleman’s club meets nun’s cell. Her pinnies were stored in the open, hung from rows of wooden pegs, and the folded stacks of identical white blouses she wore under them made artfully teetering towers on an ancient Welsh sideboard. Her bathtub had claw-feet and no shower at all. She kept an antique pitcher nearby for rinsing out shampoo. Amanda used it now and pulled the stopper.

Down, down, down the reproduction copper drain went glacial algae, went poor, innocent, stood-up Gavin O’Day and his angry brother Tim, went an entire delivery truck of chafing dishes sent to the wrong borough, went shaved-off armpit stubble, went Bess’s morning shock tactics and some hideous, shiny acetates which had infiltrated the fabric samples.

But there the effluvium stopped. The holes in the drain were too small to let Jack’s death through. The guilt at not missing him was too big.

CHAPTER FIVE

A Wise Man Knows What He Says; a Fool Says What He Knows

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Summerman, Dagny, and Karenina, Thank you for yet another year of good press and great referrals. C&F could not have become what it is nor remain successful without the engagement parties, showers, and weddings of the happy couples sent our way by Summerman Matchmaking and Marriage Brokerage, Inc. Mr. and Mrs. Summerman, it was a treat to see you recently at the Party Party. May your New Year and all the rest of your autumn holy days be filled with health and peace. Gratefully, Bess Cimino and Amanda Fox

To send a basket and holiday greetings to us now instead of at mid-winter! exclaimed Mrs. Summerman, Such good girls, such sensitive people.

Mr. Summerman didn’t take his head out of the newspaper. Such smart businesswomen.

Yes, that too, Asher darling, laughed Debra Summerman. Happiness was having her daughters visit them in their newly purchased Brighton Beach high-rise. Now and then she longed for the charm of Argyle Hill, and of course all would be sweeter if their son were at the table. But the sun was shining on the Atlantic, their daughters were renovating the family brownstone and steering the family firm, and their late-in-life baby boy, Tristan, was thriving at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Now girls, let’s rip open that lovely blue cellophane and see what treasures C&F sent this year.

Ooh, said Dagny, "two pounds of Arabian Mocha Sanani. Get out the French press! Currant biscotti. Figs. Those women have perfect palates. Ooh, a five pound wheel of pecorino di grotta Tuscano – "

Karenina interrupted. Mama, you didn’t mention you and Daddy saw Bess and Amanda. In fact, you didn’t mention the Party Party at all. How was it? She unwrapped a scrolled bundle. Very pretty. Six of them. Who wants place-mats?

Darlings, the Party Party was as gorgeous and scrumptious as always. Wonderful fennel hors d’oeuvres.

From behind his paper, Asher Summerman said, "Ugh is what they were. What joker thinks up food like that? And what’s with the ‘pier’ and ‘harbor’ shtick? You think you put enough tents and fennel there and it’s all of a sudden not the New York City docks? You keep the place-mats, girls. Unless your mother needs four hundred and one sets."

All three women kissed a different piece of his head. Debra spoke. "I worry about that Amanda. Terrible about her young husband. I think it made her a little strange. She looked driven. And miserable. And lonely. I doubt she’s dealt with Jack’s death one iota. Years after, still single? Lovely, chic, erudite. She and Daddy spent a good chunk of time discussing the roots of the industrial revolution in Manhattan. Sweet as sugar. Brought him a big plate of ‘normal food.’ So I’m looking at her being alone, and listening to all the yentas gossiping about her being alone, and I’m feeling powerless and awful, and then – bam! – I smack myself and say, ‘Debra, you idiot, you’re from a family of matchmakers! If we can’t do something, who can?’ What do you think, girls? Can my beautiful new professional matchmakers take care of this one?"

Mr. Summerman had not turned a page and the girls had stopped chewing their currant scones. Finally, Karenina responded. Well, Mama. Of course we would be happy to be of service to Amanda Fox. But clients come to us, not vice-versa. Certainly you aren’t suggesting we approach Amanda? That would be unprofessional of us, and would absolutely humiliate her. At least that’s what you and Daddy drummed into our heads.

Daddy. Just Daddy. Daddy drummed professionalism and the appropriate behavior of minding-your-own-business-until-it-becomes-your-own-business into your heads. Only Daddy, corrected Daddy.

Dagny was fascinated. Mama, is Daddy implying that you actually drummed up business?

Business had nothing to do with it, replied Debra.

She’s accurate there, mumbled her husband, back to reading.

I will happily explain, trilled his elegant wife, carefully spilling the tiniest drop of Arabian Mocha Sanani on his newspaper. "Attorneys do pro bono work. Physicians contribute a percentage of their time to free clinics. People in the building trades donate their expertise to Habitat for Humanity. Should we be any different? If God gives a person a talent and a livelihood from that talent, are we not taught to freely give away a percentage of these God-given gifts to those of God’s children who cannot afford them?"

Or perhaps, added the faceless Mr. Summerman, to those of God’s children who are such morons they need to be told outright they need your mother to fix their barren lives – God not being up to the task.

Karenina rose first. It’s been a lovely morning, Daddy, Mama. But it’s time we returned to the ancestral salt mines. Kisses traveled the table.

Bye, said Dagny, Here. You guys can keep the place-mats, the chenille throw, and the rest of the biscotti. We’ll take one bag of coffee beans, the little bisque ramekins, and this lovely gift certificate for Zabar’s.

Their mother put everything back into the basket, and gave it to her daughters. Here, darlings, take it all. The present was addressed to Summerman Matchmaking and Marriage Brokerage. From now on that’s you, and in a few years God-willing your baby brother. Yes, the place-mats too. Daddy’s right, I have more place-mats than C&F Party Rentals. I’ve begun to divest, to de-clutter. It feels right with our semi-retirement, which by the way we’re enjoying very much. Don’t make that awful sound, Asher. But if we’ve left too much of a load on you two, we can come to the brownstone several days a week, peek in, supervise or help…

Dagny, suddenly picturing her new, secret, scientific aspirations, interrupted. It’s not too much at all! We love every minute of the business!

Tortoise-like, Asher Summerman’s head slowly emerged from his paper. He fixed one drooping, suspicious eye on his younger daughter for a full twenty seconds before returning to the Times.

#

Dear Amanda,

First the public part of this letter. My parents, my sister Karenina, and I were touched and delighted by your generous, charming Rosh Hashanah basket of goodies. Please pass on these thanks to Bess, and know that both of you have made my family’s holiday season especially festive.

Now for the exceedingly private part of this letter. As you know, Summerman Matchmaking and Marriage Brokerage is particularly proud of how we incorporate modern services into our age-old practice. Foremost among these advancements is our counseling service.

Summerman has found that counseling accomplishes a multitude of different goals. It helps the client define what s/he wants, not only in a spouse and marriage, but also in her/his own heart and life. Sometimes the client decides not to go on to the matchmaking phase of our services, and far from disappointing us, this always affirms our way of operating.

We are aware we sound old-fashioned, but we believe our business is a sanctified one: The quality of life of entire generations hangs on our devotion to clarifying a prospective bride’s or groom’s – a prospective mother’s or father’s – values and dreams.

Amanda, I’ll just launch into the next part since there’s no way to do this of which Miss Manners would approve: Would you consider using our counseling and perhaps our other services? I received my psychology masters from Hunter College, and my Master of Arts in Psychoanalysis from the New York Graduate School of Psychoanalysis. I have a unique passion (at least I’ve never heard of another person having it): using my therapeutic training and talent in the service of romance.

I know I am interfering shockingly in your personal life, but I can’t help it; I have the Summerman DNA. I get mine through my mother…who is actually a Gutbaum not a Summerman, but you get my point.

Speaking of my mother, if I remember her words correctly (and I seem unable not to), she said that at the Party Party you looked as driven, miserable, and lonely as you looked chic, and she surmised that you have probably not dealt with Jack’s death one iota.

It was also Mama who, not with any intention I can prove yet, put the idea into my head to contact you. Although she would approve, she hasn’t the foggiest idea I actually am doing it, and I would be most appreciative if you didn’t inform her or anyone else in Brooklyn. Or in the galaxy. Including Karenina. My sister will immediately figure it out and will wish to put me out on the street, but without your confirmation would restrain herself. My father would pack me off to his cousins with the nice new apartment in Gaza.

Anyway Amanda, I thought I’d write and invite you to chat. I am all too aware that I am doing something considered unforgivably gauche in both Western and Eastern cultures and Northern and Southern Hemispheres, but I could never figure out why that is. When people keep things inside, they die. (G-d forbid.)

Call soon!

Dagny

Dagny Avigael Summerman

Phone: 718-555-WEDO

Fax: [phone]

#

Dagny was born talking. This was a good thing as she was born into a business necessitating the most intimate and delicate of conversations and negotiations, a business in which she had to fill more than her fair share of awkward silences.

Dagny remembered matchmaking as being much simpler during her childhood. Parents came to Summerman’s, gave their child’s name, age, gender, and education, spoke about their child’s personality, hobbies, and tastes, put down a deposit, and left. Older singles came in on their own with slightly more complex agendas, but still filled with the hope of human connection. Certain conditions were assumed. The girl and the boy, whom it was then not a hanging offense to refer to as girl and boy, were virgins. Devotion to God and an honorable family were their calling cards. It would never occur to clients to state, whether on behalf of their child or themselves, that they wanted someone upstanding, honest, hardworking, and loving, with marriage and children as the goals. This would have appeared extraneous to the point of mental imbalance, as if specifying, I want someone alive. Boys and girls met. Chemistry and pheromones were chemistry and pheromones even in the presence of supervision, and children made the final selection from the choices they were offered. Love and marriage inexorably occurred, and few were preoccupied with which occurred first. As for sex, it came either second (marriage, sex, love), or third (love, marriage, sex), but it did not come first.

Around the time Dagny graduated from high school and was working summer hours for the firm until she began college in the fall, she and her parents began noticing a shift. Religious clientele were dwindling, either because the religious population in general was decreasing, or because even dyed-in-the-wool New Yorkers were leaving the city and boroughs for suburban and rural enclaves. Parents came in less, the individuals themselves more.

By the time Dagny graduated Hunter, Karenina was a graduate student