by Wendy Wax
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“Oh, Daddy.” Her heart squeezed painfully. “After all my screwups it’s no wonder you couldn’t recognize a true breakthrough when I had it.”
His apology touched her and she felt love and gratitude flood through her. But it was his acknowledgment of her ability, his sincere praise, that freed her from something heavy and clanging she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying around.
“If you want to become the Schwartz in Schwartz and Associates, the firm’s still mine to do with as I will.”
The moisture pressed against her eyelids as she pulled into her parents’ driveway. The house was dark; her mother hadn’t gotten back from dropping Judy off yet. She hoped her sister’s ride home had been as liberating.
“What about Ross Morgan?”
Her father studied her calmly. “Ross Morgan’s a survivor. And he understands what family means.”
It was a non-answer, but at the moment Shelley didn’t care. She was too busy examining the new paths now stretching out before her. Her options kept expanding, but instead of feeling anxious about the choices she faced, she felt a stirring of anticipation. Whatever path she traveled, she’d be taking her hard-won knowledge and her father’s approval with her.
Her father. She considered him now, the beak of his nose, the determined chin, the intelligent brown eyes. He’d been carrying her in one way or another since she’d played in this driveway as a child. Perhaps it was the lack of expectation he’d just apologized for, or maybe she’d just taken longer than most to grow up. The past no longer felt so important, because she was no longer afraid of the future.
“You go on ahead and sell, Daddy. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Now, sweetheart . . .” He paused as the garage door went up in front of them and her mother drove past them and inside to park. Their mother had apparently whipped Judy into shape in half the time it was taking her father to deal with her. She hoped Judy had survived.
“No, I’m serious. You created that agency and you deserve every penny Chase Miller is willing to pay you. I could never live with myself if I thought I’d stood in the way.”
They sat together and watched the garage door go down. Lights flickered on in the house. The last was the lamp in the front window, the one that had always been left on when one of the girls was out.
She leaned across the seat to wrap her arms around her father’s neck. “I love you, Daddy. And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But it’s time for me to make my own name instead of trying to live up to yours.”
He pulled back and looked right into her eyes, trying to read them there in the dark. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Now, you’d better get on inside before Mom comes out and hauls you in.”
She waited while her father walked slowly up the driveway, and waved back to her mother when she opened the front door for him. Her parents hugged in the sliver of light from that lamp in the window, their heads bent in conversation. And then the door closed behind them.
Shelley drove home with her thoughts.
chapter 31
The next day at 4:59 P.M., Judy rang the doorbell of her home. Mouth dry, palms sweaty, she waited on the welcome mat, in front of her stained-glass sidelights, for someone to open the door.
Then Craig stood in the open doorway. He took note of her lack of luggage, saw that she’d left her car in the driveway rather than the garage. He didn’t comment, but stepped back so she could enter.
Wiping her palms on her pants, she followed him through the entry and past the formal living and dining rooms. The scent of lemon and freshly polished wood teased her nostrils, and she sighed with relief at the first sight of her kitchen; Eva, or at least someone with ovaries, had put it back to rights.
“Where are the boys?” she asked, noting the bottle of red wine breathing on the counter. Arrangements of fresh flowers sat on the counter and in the center of the kitchen table.
“Out.” His look was steady. “With friends.” He locked his gaze with hers. “They could be spending the night out. That’s kind of up to you.”
Judy swallowed and slid onto a bar stool. The granite countertops gleamed and the copper flecks sparkled. Her husband seemed so sure, so forceful. So completely focused on her. It was what she’d wanted; she didn’t want to blow it.
“About Brett,” she began, wanting to get what she knew would be Craig’s biggest issue out of the way. She’d spent the day practicing how to explain the flirtation, and had imagined segueing into a cozy heart-to-heart.
Craig walked behind the counter and poured them each a glass of wine, then came around to take the stool next to hers. “Did you sleep with him?”
“No.” She met his gaze straight on, accepted a glass of wine. “I’m married.”
He digested her answer. There was a flicker of relief in his eyes. “Good. Me, too.” He leaned forward to set his wineglass down and she caught a whiff of the Boucheron cologne she’d bought him for his last birthday.
Through the kitchen window she could see their next-door neighbor getting ready to mow his lawn. She couldn’t understand how everything could look so ordinary when the future of her marriage hung in the balance. She studied Craig, pondering her next move. Her mother had given her her marching orders last night, but Judy didn’t want to march anywhere. She intended to communicate her needs and expectations, and then she was going to listen to his.
“OK.” She checked Brett O’Connor off her mental list. “Shall we move on?”
“Absolutely.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Talk to me. I’m listening.”
“Say that again.”
“I said, I’m listening.”
She blinked. She’d been prepared for argument or evasion, but not for total cooperation. She hadn’t expected the wine and flowers, either. Or the way her heart was pounding in her chest.
Please God, she prayed silently, don’t let either of us screw this up.
“I want to hear everything you have to say.”
Judy blinked again and tried to regroup. She’d allotted a good half an hour to getting Craig to utter those words; he’d done it in five minutes.
He was still looking into her eyes, still completely focused on her. “If you tell me what you want, Jude, I’ll do my best to deliver.”
OK. She tried to fast-forward past all the rational arguments she’d prepared and didn’t seem to need. She took a sip of wine to give her brain time to get to the bottom line. “I want—no, I need to work. I’m good at it.”
He took a sip of his wine and nodded, but she was too nervous to count on nonverbal communication.
“This is not negotiable.”
“Not a problem,” he said.
His total capitulation was throwing her completely. She searched her mind for her other points.
“And, um, we need to talk more and spend more time with each other,” she said. “I can’t stand how we’ve been taking each other for granted.”
“Agreed.”
“And we have to make sure the boys understand that I’m not a servant here. Everyone has to help and contribute to our family.”
“Yes, that’s important, too.”
He was utterly sincere; she could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. He was looking at her as if she were the most interesting woman in the universe. Something deep and primal stirred inside her.
“You,” she whispered, “you have to tell me what you want, too.”
His gaze was steady. “You,” he said softly. “Just you. The house felt so empty while you were gone. You’re the center, Jude, the heart of us. You’re all I want. The rest is just . . . details.”
He leaned forward and brought his lips to hers. And then he kissed her. Completely. Thoroughly. And with such gentleness it made her want to weep.
Judy pressed as close to Craig as the bar stool would allow. She wanted him—both physically and emotionally—with a certainty that took her breath aw
ay.
His lips brushed the side of her neck and his teeth teased at her earlobe. He pulled back to look into her eyes.
She couldn’t believe how turned on she was. By Craig Blumfeld. And the life she wanted with him.
At her nod, he kicked his bar stool out of the way and moved to stand between her thighs.
“OK,” she whispered as she looped her arms up around his neck, “sex now, details later.”
His hands slipped under her buttocks and he lifted her up against him. Judy wrapped her legs around Craig’s waist and held on with her thighs as he carried her to their bed.
The next morning she snuggled up against him and breathed in the scent of husband and home. She didn’t think she’d ever get enough of either.
With a contented groan, Craig flipped onto his side to face her. Idly, he traced the curve of her hip with his hand. “Do you want to go out for breakfast and then over to Shelley’s to get your things?”
She shook her head and cuddled closer, molding her body to his. She was home, where she was meant to be. This morning she didn’t intend to set so much as a foot outside. “Let’s stay right here for as long as possible.”
Later, she thought, when the boys were home and it was time to start putting their new life together, would be soon enough to admit that her bags were already sitting outside in the car.
“Are you sure Rabbi Jordan is going to be there?” Nina slid into Shelley’s car and tucked the hem of her black dress under her legs. A beautifully arranged plate of chocolate-covered matzo sat on her lap.
“Nobody turns down an invitation to my mother’s seder.” Shelley looked at the offering in her friend’s lap. “Did you make that?”
“Um-hm. Right after I got rid of all the chametz in my apartment.” She pronounced the ch sound with the correct Hebrew inflection.
“Chametz?”
“You know, all the food products that contain wheat, barley, oats, spelt, or rye that has leavened,” Nina explained.
“Yes, I know, but . . . did you say spelt?”
“I’m assuming that’s some sort of grain.”
“Nina, where did you learn all this?” She herself tried to eat matzo during the week of Passover, but had never actually gone through her condo to get rid of all traces of . . . chametz.
“Askmoses dot com. You can actually e-mail questions to rabbis and scholars. It’s very informative.”
Shelley turned to her friend. “Nina . . .” She wanted to warn her friend that rabbis, especially the old-school sort like Rabbi Jordan, might not be impressed with her command of Jewish trivia, or her burning need to . . . belong. Unlike other religions, the Jewish faith didn’t seek converts and often made conversion difficult.
Nina’s desire to marry the very men Shelley had been so arduously avoiding had seemed amusing at first, but it had become clear Nina was actually looking for something more than a man; she was soaking up the details of Judaism like a sponge, throwing herself into the knowing, striving to carve out a place for herself. Nina’s quest humbled her; Shelley was simply Jewish by birth. And while she’d never been ashamed of or tried to hide her heritage, she hadn’t really embraced it, either. Or made it at all central to her life.
It was just a part of who she was, like her eye color and the part of town in which she’d grown up. Something she’d taken for granted and never had to prove herself worthy of.
Like her job in her father’s firm, it had been handed to her and unappreciated.
The truth smote her: Like Moses and the Children of Israel, she had wandered aimlessly in the desert. It was time for her to find her own Promised Land.
When they arrived at her parents’, cars already filled the driveway and spilled out along the curb in front. Shelley saw Judy’s car alongside Delilah’s vintage Cadillac. Sarah Mendelsohn’s Mercedes was parked near the mailbox, and a florist’s delivery was loading table arrangements through the front door.
“We’re here,” Shelley cried as they walked through the kitchen door.
“Hello, darlings.” Her mother poked her head into the kitchen. “Has anybody seen Harvey? He was supposed to pick up those extra folding chairs and now he’s disappeared.” She flew back out without waiting for an answer.
Delilah bustled over and took the chocolate-covered matzo from Nina and set it with the other desserts. Hands on hips, she gave Nina a once-over. “Why, I do believe you’re starting to actually look Jewish,” she said. “Before you know it, you’re going to be standing under a chuppah”—she pronounced the Hebrew word for a wedding canopy with the appropriate kh sound—“I’m going to get me a front-row seat for that.”
While her mother flitted in and out of the kitchen with Sarah Mendelsohn at her heels, Delilah put Shelley and Nina to work setting up the seder plates that would be placed on each table. Judy peeled hard-boiled eggs while Great-aunt Sonya counted out bowls for saltwater and broke off tiny branches of parsley. Matzo ball soup simmered on the stove, and jars of gefilte fish sat on the counter next to plates dressed with lettuce leaves and horseradish.
Shelley moved to her sister and gave her a hug. “My condo’s getting kind of messy. Anytime you’d like to come over and organize me again . . .”
“Ha,” she said. “My focus right now is teaching my husband and sons how to organize themselves. No more picking up after everyone and feeling like a doormat.” Her eyes glowed; Shelley couldn’t remember ever seeing her so happy. “I’m taking a month to whip them into shape, and then I’m putting out my event-planning shingle.”
“Good for you.” Glad her sister had found her way, Shelley fought back the automatic twinge of envy. Her sister’s life was so together—for real this time, not just on the outside—while hers was still so uncertain. Her eyes narrowed. “What did you bring for the seder?”
Judy laughed and reached for the grocery bags beside her. One by one she lifted out the boxes of matzo that were her contribution to the meal. She crossed her heart and raised her palm solemnly. “I did not bake a single thing.”
“No flourless chocolate cake? No sponge anything?”
“It never even crossed my mind.”
They high-fived and went back to work.
An hour later the tables, which stretched throughout the living room and dining room like some great cloth-covered train, were set and ready, and the rest of the guests began to arrive. The men, knowing better than to set foot in the overcrowded kitchen, milled together in the family room. They munched chopped liver on matzo crackers and pretended not to watch the Braves game on Harvey’s big-screen TV.
Shelley left the kitchen to hug her father hello and have a word with Rabbi Jordan. Great-aunt Sonya’s egretlike boyfriend, Horace Zinn, was talking to Howard Mellnick. Shelley’s brother-in-law arrived with her nephews, and she couldn’t help noticing he wore the same loopy smile her sister had on. Soon a small herd of kids were romping through the house, tromping down to the basement for Ping-Pong and video games. A baby’s cry pierced the room, and she found Uncle Abe cradling his newest grandson in his arms.
On her way back to the kitchen, Shelley swooped down on the head table and switched two place cards. Even God had sent an angel occasionally to set things up for him.
Just when the decibel level threatened to reach the breaking point, Miriam Schwartz came out of the kitchen with her bevy of helpers clustered around her. “Shall we begin?” she said, and then everyone went about searching out their seat assignments, settling kids at age-appropriate tables—close enough for supervision, far enough away to allow for enjoyment.
“Oh!” Nina yelped with pleasure when she saw her dining companions. Shelley was pleased to see that the rabbi’s small frown of displeasure was countered by Howard Mellnick’s warm smile.
Shelley took in the faces surrounding her, most of them as familiar as her own, but with a few unknowns to help leaven the meal. Thank God her mother had not felt the need to shove someone acceptable at her right now; she had all she could handle trying t
o figure out her life and forget about Ross Morgan. The thought of beginning anew both energized and terrified her.
Her father, as leader of the service, reclined slightly on a pillow. At the opposite end of the head table, Rabbi Jordan did the same. Soon her youngest nephew would ask the first of the four questions: “Why is this night different from all other nights?” The evening would be spent in the ceremonial answering of those questions.
It was then that she noticed the two empty seats in the middle of the long table; a heartbeat after that, the doorbell rang. Her father stood and walked to the front door.
When he opened it, Ross Morgan and a woman who looked old enough to be his mother stepped into the room.
Shelley gasped as her father clapped Ross on the shoulder, embraced the older woman as if she were a long-lost friend, and led them forward. “Everybody, this is Patricia Morganstern and her son, Ross.”
Ross smiled a casual hello. “Sorry we’re late. My mother’s flight was delayed.”
Conversation resumed around her, but Shelley barely heard it. She watched in amazement as Ross Morgan politely seated his mother and then took his own chair opposite her. Ross Morgan had a mother and her name was Morganstern. And they were here for Passover.
That meant Ross Morgan was . . .
He placed his napkin on his lap and picked up his Haggadah, the Passover prayer book, not having to think twice about the fact that it would be read from right to left.
Ross Morgan, the tall, blond, athletic man whom she wanted to hate and whom—much to her dismay—she continued to lust after and think about, was JEWISH.
How could she not have known this?
And why did she have to know this now?
She swung her gaze to her mother, who made a point of not looking back. Her father avoided her gaze, too. The only one looking right at her was the one person she couldn’t believe was here. He sent her an inappropriately saucy wink and then settled back in his chair. A moment later the seder began.
Shelley heard none of it. Not the retelling of her ancestors’ backbreaking life under the cruel Pharaoh of Egypt, not the ten plagues that God brought down on the Egyptians to free the Jews, not even the parting of the Red Sea after Moses, with God’s help, forced the Pharaoh to let his people go.