Mrs. Kelsey tipped her tight white curls toward the stranger in front of us. The elevator was crowded, so my nose was about three inches from his back. A very nice back, I couldn’t help but notice; broad shoulders in a bespoke pinstripe suit. “Your future husband,” Mrs. Kelsey stage-whispered in my ear.
 
A flush rose to my cheeks. Mrs. Kelsey’s whispers carried the same decibel level as a Bronx taxi driver on a rant. All I needed was for the unknown man to turn his head.
 
Which he promptly did, one eyebrow raised. Sharp brown eyes swept Mrs. Kelsey, then me. I caught a side-eyed impression of a faint grin.
 
I glanced at down at Mrs. Kelsey as she laced bony fingers around my upper arm and gave me a knowing squeeze.
 
“Mrs. Kelsey!! Shh!” I patted her wizened hand in embarrassment as the elevator dinged, confirming we had successfully reached the lobby.
 
“Of course,” she chortled, tottering along as the elevator crowd surged forward. “Wedding plans can come later. Now, bagels await!”
 
Mrs. Kelsey might be Irish, not Jewish, but she had lived in the City for over seventy years and knew a great bagel when she tasted one. And the new nosherie around the corner from her apartment building had the best bagels either one of us had ever eaten. Our morning bagel fix had become the high point of her day. Mine too, for that matter. Besides, for someone pushing 88, the half-block walk doubled as “exercise.”
 
Mrs. Kelsey’s kitten heels made tiny, precise raps on the tile floor as we crossed the lobby, her hand still firmly tucked in the crook of my arm for balance. The man from the elevator had already reached the door and paused as we approached. Muscles in his lower jaw bunched, politeness apparently warring with an understandable urge to simply flee. Politeness won out, and a ghost of a smile tipped his lips. He held the door open.
 
“Thank you, young man,” Mrs. K. nodded, her cherub-face wreathed in happy wrinkles. “See you again soon!” Pinching my arm as we reached the sidewalk, she shot me a knowing wink.
 
“What was all that about?!” I asked, as we settled into our usual table in the corner of the coffee shop.
 
Mrs. K. took her time before answering, stirring a fresh packet of sugar into the coffee in front of her. That made three, possibly four sugars. “I like it sweet,” she’d confessed during our first bagel outing. “Like life, don’t you think?”  
 
Life hadn’t exactly been sweet for me in the past year, so I’d choked down a grumpy reply. Losing both parents to a freak car accident in January, then quitting my dream job in June, after my randy boss made it crystal clear what exactly he had in mind for ‘overtime’ — No, sweet wasn’t quite the word I’d used for life, lately. Painful was a better fit. Stressful. Not to mention uber-scary financially.
 
Oh, I’d landed on my feet, after a fashion. Pet-sitting, house-sitting, elder-sitting – I’d created my own sort of wonderful catch-all job, where I, for once, was the boss. It wasn’t going to buy me the Brooklyn Bridge. But there was enough coming in to cover cheap rent and bagels. And I had Mrs. K. as a beloved client, someone I’d gladly have elder-sat for free.
 
“Here, try it,” she said, interrupting my reverie by pushing a pair of sugar packets across the table.
 
“Try what?”
 
“Your coffee.” She waved a thin finger in a circular motion over my cup. “You could use a little sweetening-up.”
 
I wasn’t actually sure if she meant the coffee or my life.
 
I ripped the paper corner off one of the wrappers and shook a few crystals in my mug to placate her. She leaned back with a contented smile. “There. You’ll see,” she said. “Now, about that nice young man you’re going to marry.”
 
My mug was already at my lips when she said it and I nearly choked, swallowing fast. She’d been right about the sugar, though, I realized as the coffee slid past my tongue. Even that tiny sprinkle had eased the bitter edge on the café’s signature brew.
 
“Who said anything about getting married?” I asked once I found my voice again.
 
Mrs. Kelsey lowered her gaze. “Sorry, I forgot that you don’t know.”
 
 “Don’t know what?”
 
Those faded blue eyes lifted to mine, twinkling with merriment and – something else. Anticipation, maybe?
 
“That I’m an intuitive. Becky didn’t think it was important that we tell you.”
 
Becky was Mrs. Kelsey’s daughter, the one who had actually hired me. She’d gone into great detail about medication schedules, dietary restrictions, walking precautions, emergency phone numbers, and the plant watering schedule. But no, she hadn’t mentioned psychic abilities.
 
Purported psychic abilities, I reminded myself. Maybe Mrs. Kelsey had made that up. At age 88. . . well, who knew what she’d convinced herself was real? Though so far in our six months together, I hadn’t seen any evidence of fantastical fabrication. In fact, if anyone had her kitten pumps solidly affixed to terra firma, it was Mrs. K.
 
“I just — know things. I sense connections,” she continued, patting my hand as if she thought I needed reassurance. “Ever since I was a child, I’ve been able to see – well, I guess you’d call it relationships between people. My mother and the milkman, for example.” She waved a hand airily. I didn’t have the heart to ask her to elaborate.
 
“If two people are connected – in the psychic sense, I mean – I simply know it. I’m not quite sure how I know; I just do. I’ve seen it happen again and again. And you and that nice young man in the elevator –” Her hand was waving again, a looping oval meant to signify my part of this mysterious connection.
 
“I’m sure he’s a very nice man, but I’m really not in the market for a husband right now.” I tossed a pinch more sugar in my coffee and took a large gulp, mostly to buy time while I tried to figure out how to change the subject. “Maybe someday I’ll meet the perfect guy.” I threw her a disarming smile. She was having none of it.
 
“Well, you’ve already met him, of course, today in the elevator. But obviously you’re going to really meet him soon. Properly, I mean. Rubbing shoulders inside an elevator isn’t really meeting, is it?” She laughed, a lovely, tinkling, happy sound. “And it won’t be long, now that your paths have crossed. I can tell.”
 
She patted my hand with a far-away gaze as if she was already contemplating wedding china and plotting my honeymoon.
 
“But Mrs. K—”. I was poised to unleash all the logical reasons why the likelihood of marrying a complete stranger was utter hogwash. But I knew she would mow them down like a souped-up bulldozer running on airplane fuel. Better to not even bother with logic.
 
“Well, we’ll see,” I temporized with a wan smile, standing and gathering up our paper plates and napkins for the trash.
 
Mrs. Kelsey struggled awkwardly to her feet, then shoved a handful of sugar packets in my coat pocket. “Just humor me,” she grinned. “You can choose to believe it or not, but I do believe your life’s about to get a whole lot sweeter.”
 
What could I say to that?! Nothing. But I did my best to steer the subject away from weddings and good-looking strangers in elevators during our short walk back to her apartment. The weather came in for a few trite remarks, and we both agreed heartily that more dogs and fewer politicians would make the world a much nicer place.
 
The door to the elevator was just whooshing closed to whisk us upstairs when a well-shined shoe wedged itself in the crack. “Excuse me,” a man’s voice said as the doors sprang open.
 
Mrs. K’s eyes were Fourth of July sparklers of happiness now. She nudged me sharply with her elbow, but I’d already recognized the classic stripe of that suit. My purported fiance.
 
“Sorry to barge in,” he said, extending his hand to me with a grin. A very nice grin, I had to admit. “But I think you dropped these back in the lobby.”
 
Bunched in his palm were not one, not two, but three small paper packets.
 
Grimacing, I patted the side of my coat. “Thanks,” I mumbled, grabbing the sugars from his outstretched palm. “Must be a hole in my pocket!”
 
By now he’d stepped inside, punching the button for the penthouse level. Mrs. K’s blue eyes were flitting back and forth between us, her smile growing wider as the seconds ticked by.
 
With a slight mechanical groan, the elevator doors finally closed again and the car began its slow ascent.
 
“Sugar made me think of coffee, and coffee makes me think of bagels. And I’m pretty sure I heard this lovely lady mentioning bagels a while ago,” he continued, smiling warmly at Mrs. K. “The doorman tells there’s a terrific bagel place around the corner where you two go every day,” our new friend continued. “Perhaps I could join you both tomorrow?”
 
He looked up again, those liquid brown eyes snagging mine. A small jolt of energy went through me. He didn’t just have a nice back and great smile, I decided. Those really were very nice eyes.
 
My fingers clutched the little packets of sugar tighter. In my head, a faint memory of Mrs. Kelsey’s voice prattled on about how my life was about to get ‘a whole lot sweeter. . .’
 
“I think that would be a lovely idea,” I found myself saying.
 
At my side, Mrs. K. nudged me hard in the ribs and winked.

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