“Oy, I should only live so long!” moaned Blake’s grandma, pouring glass number four. “G’zei gezunt.”
“Mazel tov,” exclaimed Blake’s father at the head of the table, raising his wine glass.
Blake’s sister threw her arms up in the air. “Great. The same day as Matt’s wedding to bubblehead. Now I have an excuse not to attend.”
I didn’t appreciate her mouthful of sarcasm, but she was probably hurting. Blake shot her a dirty look.
My mother, oblivious to Marcy’s off-color remark, had tears in her eyes. “Oh honey, that’s wonderful. I’ll call Father Murphy tomorrow to reserve the parish.”
Helen’s eyes grew as wide as they could. She’d definitely had one too many doses of Botox. Her harrumph silenced everyone.
“Meg, darling, there’s no way we can have the wedding in Idaho. Or is it Iowa? I always get those two states mixed up. Regardless, at that time of year, the weather can be atrocious. I can’t have our guests flying in those risky conditions.”
Shit. I hadn’t even thought of the weather factor when I’d agreed to Blake’s date. But Helen was right. It could be blizzarding in the Midwest. With the airports shut down. And even the West Coast weather was volatile at that time of the year.
My stunned mother didn’t blink an eye while Helen continued. “And as you can imagine, we have a plethora of guests to invite.”
“How many?” ventured my father, showing no emotion.
“At least a thousand. Maybe more.”
A thousand?
“I see.” My pensive father pressed his lips thin while my poor mother gaped in shock. She seemed to be getting smaller and smaller in her chair. There was no way my parents could accommodate or afford a wedding of that magnitude. Why hadn’t I thought things through? Her lifelong dream of making me a wedding had just left the planet. The look of defeat on her face was gutting me.
Finally, she built up the courage to say something. “Well, at least, Helen, let me help you plan it. I’m very handy, right Harold?” My mother, always looking for the good in the bad, turned to my father for moral support.
Helen responded before my father could say a word. “Puh-lease, Meg. Don’t even think about it. With the wedding date so close, we can’t afford any mistakes. Enid will handle everything.”
“Enid?” I asked meekly.
“My mother’s event planner,” replied Blake flatly.
“Enid Shmeenid,” chimed in tipsy Grandma. “Bubala, you and my Blakela should go to Vegas and elope.”
“That’s what Matt and I did,” said Marcy, getting in her two cents.
Helen pursed her mouth; clearly, Marcy’s elopement was a sore subject. She set her fierce gaze on Blake. “Blake, darling, we will have nothing of the sort. This is going to be the wedding of the century.”
I hadn’t even started to prep for the wedding and I was feeling all stressed out. My chest was tight. I met my mom’s sunken eyes and then connected with my dad’s. He wore a look of resignment.
Helen called out to the family housekeeper. “Rosa, please get me my phone.”
Jumping at her beck and call, the uniformed Rubenesque woman scuttled out of the dining room and returned promptly with Helen’s cell phone. Silently, she set it on the table and went back to cleaning up.
My eyes stayed on my future mother-in-law as she picked up the phone with her perfectly manicured hand and tapped the screen with a long red-lacquered nail. Putting it to her diamond-studded ear, she twitched a small smile, indicating her call had gone through.
“Enid, darling, Blake and his fiancée are getting married on December twentieth.” She paused briefly, listening to the voice on the other end. “Yes, that would be wonderful if you could get the save the dates out this weekend. And yes, I’ll get you the names of the McCoys’ guests. I’m sure there won’t be too many. And don’t forget to book Rabbi Silverstein…and yes, that would be divine if you got the announcement into this Sunday’s New York Times. MWAH, darling!” And with that, she ended the call.
My parents and I exchanged a nervous glance. I twisted my engagement ring. Reality set in like a crashing meteor. News flash: the wedding of the century had landed.
Chapter 4
Blake
After dropping her hushed parents off at The Beverly Hills Hotel, Jen and I drove back to my condo in tense silence. Following our announcement, the Jewish issue had come up again. Since we’d been engaged, we’d talked about it on and off, never coming to any resolution. Though they were secular Jews, both my parents wanted Jen to consider converting. For the sake of the children being their main bone of contention.
“Jewish Shmewish,” my grandma had growled, with a dismissive flick of her wrists. “The only thing she needs to know is the vay to a Jewish man’s shmekel is through his stomach. Learn how to be a good cook,” she’d advised Jennifer.
Grandma’s words had put a small smile on Jen’s face. They had also turned it as red as beet soup. I loved my grandma, and you know what, she was right. Well, at least partially. Yes, I had a hearty appetite. But my cock had an appetite of its own, and my tiger knew damn well how to satisfy that. No one sucked me off better than Jen or could bring me to mind-blowing fulfillment while buried deep inside her ravenous pussy. She knew how to cook my cock to perfection.
I broke the silence. “Jen, we’ve gone over this. You don’t have to convert if you don’t want to. There’s really no pressure.”
She sucked in a short breath, a sexy sound that always turned me on. “It’s not that, baby. It’s the wedding.”
“It’s going to be spectacular.”
“It’s going to be a spectacle. And it’s going to cost a fortune.”
I made a sharp turn onto Wilshire Boulevard and picked up speed. I put the top of my Porsche up so we didn’t have to shout above the whipping wind.
“Don’t worry. My parents are going to pay for everything.”
She turned to face me. Her eyes flared. “Blake, you don’t understand. My parents were counting on making me a wedding. In their own backyard. Especially my mom. Didn’t you see the expression on her face when your mother broke the news about that Enid lady?”
The truth, I wasn’t really paying attention. While my mother’s best friend Enid had planned all of my mother’s philanthropic events and was indeed the most sought after party planner in town, I wasn’t that keen on her planning something that was personally mine. Though she’d stayed close to my mother, she’d distanced herself from me. Our encounters were always cordial but cold. She carried a silent grudge. And time had not erased it.
I kept my feelings about Enid to myself. What Jennifer didn’t know wouldn’t hurt. I responded.
“Baby, you don’t understand. My parents are like royalty in this town. They have a social obligation to put on a show and invite every Tom, Dick, and Harry they know.”
“Well, your sister didn’t have a big wedding.” Her tone was confrontational.
“Marcy pissed my parents off. But she didn’t care. I do. Part of my job is to make my parents look good.”
Another thick wave of silence rolled over us as we neared my condo. Finally, as I pulled into the circular driveway of the majestic high-rise building, she cupped her slender fingers over my hand that was clutching the stick. I shifted into park and met her gaze. If anger had filled her eyes, it had dissipated.
“Baby, I’m sorry. I think maybe I overreacted. I’ve had this image in my mind of what my wedding would be like—it just wasn’t a big flashy Hollywood one. But I get where you’re coming from. And I don’t want to let down your parents…or you.”
Fuck, I loved her. And once we were upstairs in my apartment, I was going to show her just how much. The grateful kiss I smacked on her lips wasn’t enough.
Chapter 5
Jennifer
After yummy morning sex with Blake, I rolled out of bed, took a shower, and got dressed. Jeans, sneakers, and my favorite USC sweatshirt. I was taking my parents to the airport
.
“Jen, let me come with you. Or at least, let me get them a town car.”
I gave my beautiful bedhead a peck on his forehead. “That’s sweet of you, baby, but a limo is so not their style. Plus, I want to spend some time alone with them before they leave.”
“Just be prepared to spend some time alone with me when you get back,” Blake responded, ducking under the covers. “Quality time.”
“Or do you mean quantity time?” I teased, his big dick filling my head. And in my mind’s eye, my pussy too.
“Both,” I heard him laugh as I waltzed out the door.
The Beverly Hills Hotel where Mom and Dad were staying was not far from Blake’s condo. With no traffic on Wilshire, I got there in fifteen minutes. A feat by Los Angeles standards. I didn’t even have to valet my Kia. My punctual parents were already waiting for me at the curbside when I pulled up to the entrance. Amongst the throng of trendy guests dressed in the latest designer fashions, my parents, in their simple conservative attire, stood out like a sore thumb.
“Did you guys have breakfast?” I asked as I drove down Sunset.
“No, dear,” said my mother. “I thought your dad and I could catch a bite at the airport.”
With light traffic and time to kill, I decided to take my parents to The Farmer’s Market on Fairfax. An old tourist attraction adjacent to The Grove shopping mall, it was a hubbub for tourists from Middle America. I thought after all the Bernstein’s fancy wining and dining they would like something down to earth. Something that reminded them of home. And reminded me of home. Old-fashioned DuPar’s diner fit the bill.
We settled into a booth, me facing my parents. All of us ordered good old sunny side up eggs, hashbrowns, and bacon. Plus OJ and coffee.
“We had such a lovely stay here, darling,” said my mother over coffee.
“The Bernsteins are fine people,” added my father.
“Mom, are you really okay with Helen planning the entire wedding?” The crestfallen expression on her face when she heard the news was etched in my brain.
“Yes, darling. They have so many people to invite. We could never accommodate them in our backyard. Nor could we afford the cost.”
“But, Mom, Dad. You’ve wanted to make me a wedding your entire life.”
“No, honey,” said my father. “We’ve wanted only to make you happy our entire life. With the money we’ve saved for your wedding, we may do something else we’ve always wanted to do.”
My eyes grew wide as did my mom’s.
“What would that be, dear?” she asked.
“Sail to Europe on the Queen Mary.”
My mother’s eyes melted into my dad’s. “Oh, Lordy! Could we really?”
“As soon as Jennifer and Blake tie the knot, I’m booking two first-class tickets.”
Clapping her hand to her wide-open mouth, my mother let out a loud gasp.
I was brimming with happiness. My parents deserved this trip. In a way, Blake and his family were making it possible for them.
While I wanted to treat them to breakfast, my father reached for the check right away. It would be an insult to offer. My father was a mensch to use one of the Yiddish words I’d learned from Grandma. While waiting for the change (he had paid in cash), his eyes searched mine.
“Jennie, I want to ask you something.”
“Shoot, Dad.”
“Are you going to convert to Judaism?”
My mother looked at me unblinkingly; her faith and family traditions were so important to her. My stomach tightened. “I don’t know. Right now, I can’t fathom the idea of giving up Christmas and Easter.”
My mother’s expression relaxed as I continued. “Blake and I have discussed it. He’s cool with that as long as we celebrate the Jewish holidays too and our kids have bar mitzvahs. I told him I want Father Murphy to officiate our wedding along with their rabbi.”
My mother’s eyes lit up. “That would be wonderful, darling. I think Father Murphy would really appreciate that. He’s known you since you were a little girl and is such a close family friend.”
My father nodded with approval. I was thrilled this decision pleased my parents so much. I made a mental note to discuss this with Enid, the wedding planner. But the discussion about Judaism wasn’t over.
“Mom, Dad. I want to be honest with you. Down the line, I may decide to become Jewish. Would you be okay with that?”
My father smiled at me warmly and then clasped my hands in his. “Jennie, you must always know that both your mother and I are okay with anything that makes our little girl happy.”
My mother grew tearful. “Honey, you’re going to make a beautiful bride.”
My father beamed. “And I’m going to walk my beauty down the aisle. G’zei gezunt!”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I did a little bit of both. How I loved my mom and dad! They were definitely the best parents in the world. And the most loving. Secretly, I made a wish hoping Blake and I would grow old together and have an everlasting love like theirs.
“Happy Birthday, darling,” said my mother as my father placed a tip on the table.
“I’m sorry we can’t spend it with you,” said my father.
“Oh, Dad, it’s your day too. I want Mom to film the ceremony and send it to me.”
“Of course, darling,” said my proud mother as she reached into the large tote bag parked between them. She handed me a package. “Your birthday present. I hope you like it.”
I took the perfectly wrapped box from her and gently tore off the whimsical Happy Birthday paper. “Oh, Mom, it’s beautiful! I love it!” Inside was a truly lovely ivory cashmere cardigan. I took it out of the box and brushed it against my cheek. “And it’s so soft.”
A radiant smile beamed on her face. “Oh, honey, I’m so happy you like it.” With an equally radiant smile, I carefully folded the sweater and put it back in the box.
“And this is from me.” Reaching into the tote, Dad handed me a small package. From the looks of it, it was a book. Something he always gave me on my birthday. I eagerly unwrapped it. I couldn’t help but smile. It was a Jewish bible.
“Read it, Jennie. It’s not that different from ours.”
Tears formed in the back of my eyes. I was going to miss them terribly after I dropped them off at LAX. But hopefully, the other Jewish education lesson I’d set up would keep my mind off them.
*
“Bubala, they’re gawgeous!”
Blake’s grandma wasn’t talking about the gorgeous diamond and tourmaline earrings he’d given me nor about the gorgeous flowers I’d brought over.
She was talking about the matzo balls I’d just made. I poked my head into the aromatic, steamy kettle of soup simmering on her old fashioned Merritt and Keefe stove, and a big smile spread across my face. My matzo balls did look perfect—big and round—just like the ones Grandma made.
But, let me tell you, I didn’t get them right the first time. Something went wrong and they fell apart the minute they hit the hot chicken broth. Honestly, they looked more like vomit bits floating around in a toilet. Yes, that bad.
The second time was hit and miss. A couple worked; the rest fell apart or sunk. I was frustrated and deflated. Ready to give up.
Twice, we had to drain the broth, which earlier Grandma had shown me how to make. That part was simple. Just throw together some water, chicken parts (preferably kosher), celery, carrots, parsley, and a pinch of salt. Simmer for an hour and you couldn’t go wrong. Matzo balls, however, could go wrong. Terribly wrong.
Grandma was so patient and the third time was a charm. I’d finally gotten them right. They were perfectly formed and fluffy. I’d lined up the three cherries—the right ingredients, the right consistency, the right timing.
“Trust me, Bubala, the way to a man’s shmekel is his stomach. Blakala is going to go nuts over these.”
I gave Grandma a big hug and couldn’t wait to show off my new talent to my husband-to-be.
While the
matzo balls cooked, Grandma and I retreated to the living room, the tantalizing aroma of the soup trailing us. After quietly asking her to show me how to make matzo balls at the end of last night’s Shabbat dinner, she’d immediately invited me over to her guest quarters on the Bernsteins’ property. Some guest quarters…her guesthouse was bigger than the biggest house in Boise. A mini-mansion. But unlike the Bernsteins’ antique-filled palace, it was unpretentious and filled with cozy lived-in furniture and a lifetime of memorabilia. Tchotchkes and family photos were scattered everywhere. Many framed photos of a handsome man who looked a lot like Blake filled the room, including several with Blake as a toddler. And there was even an elaborately framed sepia photo of a beautiful young bride and her dashing husband on one of the walls. I studied it. It was definitely taken in the fifties. The stunning dress was Grace Kelly-like, but what most caught my eye, was the delicate lace veil that puddled all around her. It was a work of art.
“Is that you and your husband?” I asked Grandma.
Her face lit up. “Yes, that’s my Leonard. The love of my life.”
I didn’t know much about Blake’s grandma and felt a window of opportunity shining in my face.
“How long were you married?”
“Sixty-two years.” Her wistful voice tugged at my heartstrings.
“How did he die?” I ventured.
“Do you really vant to know? Five years ago. One thrust and bada bing! I vas coming and he vas going!”
My eyes popped. Only Grandma!
She put a silencing finger to her mouth. “Don’t tell anyvon! Our little secret. Everyvon thinks he died peacefully in his sleep.”
Then, she clasped my hand. I promised I wouldn’t say a “vord.”
“Oy. Such a good man. A mensch. Her voice grew effusive. And oh vhat a shmekel. He shtupped me till the day he died.” She paused and squeezed my hand. “Blakela reminds me so much of him. You’ve given me so much nachas marrying him. Such a bashert.”
Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. The first member of Grandma’s erotica book club filed in. Fifteen minutes later, they were all here. With their canes, dentures, reading glasses, and Kindles. One hour later, after a heated discussion of one of my favorite serials, Whitney G.’s Reasonable Doubt, which I hoped to option, I had no doubt. The book belonged on my schedule. And I had a lot to look forward to in my old age. A lot of laughs. Good friends. And gumming my hubby.
THAT MAN 4 (The Wedding Story-Part 1) Page 3