The doorbell rang, and she went to answer it. Years earlier, Nana had converted the living and dining rooms into the reception and office areas for Marriages by Myrna. Like her grandmother, Annabelle lived in the rooms upstairs. Since Nana’s death, Annabelle had repainted and modernized the dining room office space with a computer and a more efficient desk arrangement.

The old front door had a center oval of frosted glass, but the beveled border allowed her to see the distorted figure of Mr. Bronicki. She wished she could pretend she wasn’t home, but he lived across the alley, so he’d seen her pull up in Sherman. Although Wicker Park had lost many of its elderly to gentrification, a few holdouts still lived in the houses where they’d raised their families. Others had moved into a nearby senior living facility, and still others lived on the less expensive fringe streets. Every one of them had known her grandmother.

“Hello, Mr. Bronicki.”

“Annabelle.” He had a lean, wiry build and gray caterpillar eyebrows with a Mephistophelean slant. The hair missing from his head sprouted copiously from his ears, but he was a natty dresser, wearing long-sleeved checked sports shirts and polished oxfords even on the warmest days.

He glared at her from beneath his satanic eyebrows. “You was supposed to call me. I left three messages.”

“You were next on my list,” she lied. “I’ve been out all day.”

“And don’t I know it. Running around like a chicken with your head cut off. Myrna used to stay put so people could find her.” He had the accent of a born-and-bred Chicagoan and the aggression of a man who’d spent his life driving a truck for the gas company. He bulldozed past her into the house. “What are you going to do about my situation?”

“Mr. Bronicki, your agreement was with my grandmother.”

“My agreement was with Marriages by Myrna, ‘Seniors Are My Specialty,’ or have you forgotten your grammie’s slogan?”

How could she forget, when it was plastered over every one of the dozens of yellowed notepads Nana had scattered around the house? “That business no longer exists.”

“Bull pippy.” He made a sharp gesture around the reception area, where Annabelle had exchanged Nana’s wooden geese, silk flower arrangements, and milk-can end tables for a few pieces of Mediterranean-style pottery. Since she couldn’t afford to replace the ruffled chairs and couches, she’d added pillows in a cheery red, cobalt, and yellow Provençal print that complemented the creamy new buttercup paint.

“Addin’ some doodads don’t change a thing,” he said. “This is still a matchmaker business, and me and your grammie had a contract. With a guarantee.”

“You signed that contract in 1989,” she pointed out, not for the first time.

“I paid her two hundred dollars. In cash.”

“Since you and Mrs. Bronicki were together for almost fifteen years, I’d say you got your money’s worth.”

He whipped a dog-eared paper from his pants pocket and waved it at her. “‘Satisfaction guaranteed.’ That’s what this contract says. And I’m not satisfied. She went loony on me.”