They’re going to solve the shidduch crisis with a spinner?
L
ibby clutched the engraved invitation a bit tighter and looked around the lobby. It had said 19 Brookside, hadn’t it? So it must be here.
There was no one at the reception desk. Her heels echoed in the cavernous, marble-lined room.
She was about to go home when a thin, petite woman in a black pencil skirt and black cashmere sweater (so classy, Libby noted, fingering the collar of her cotton top ruefully) rushed over to her. “Liba Mayor?” she asked, one eyebrow raised. At Libby’s hesitant nod, the woman led her to the bank of elevators, where she confidently jabbed at the button, then ushered her into an elevator and pressed -10.
The doors opened into a large windowless (well, it was underground, Libby reminded herself) room, bustling with activity. At one desk, a group of women argued vigorously; at another, three women riffled importantly through filing cabinets, pulling out papers and gesturing. But it was the back left corner of the room that got Libby’s attention.
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