Hostile Makeover

by Wendy Wax

  She carried the snacks out to the living room. Craig looked up as she bent to put them on the table. His smile fell when he realized it was her. “Oh.”

  “Your wife’s busy in the kitchen. And tired.” She didn’t wait for a response but set the snacks as far away from him as possible, then moved to give her father a passing hug. Her next stop was the dining room, where her nephews were now arguing about the ice-to-water ratio.

  “Hey, chill out,” she admonished as she surreptitiously checked the number of place settings against the number of people already present, sighing with relief when the two jibed. The last thing she wanted to deal with tonight was one of her mother’s marital candidates. “And cut your mother some slack. She worked hard today.”

  When Jason and Sam left, grumbling, for the kitchen, Shelley poured a glass from the bottle of Mogen David Concord grape wine that would be used for the blessings, and downed it in one gulp. Its sticky sweetness slid down her throat and warmed her belly, its very lack of sophistication comforting in a way that defied explanation.

  At the table the traditional blessings over the candles, bread, and wine were quickly dispensed with. They moved more slowly through the soup course, conversing easily while Delilah cleared their empty bowls. Shelley continued to help herself to the Mogen David. It was Miriam who raised the issue of Nina’s husband hunt.

  “You know,” she said as she reached for a slice of challah, then passed the basket of twisted egg bread around the table, “if you really want to convert, we’ll do what we can to help. But whatever you end up being, you’re going to have to find your own men; no more going out with the ones I dig up, er, find for Shelley.”

  “But I don’t want those men, Mother,” Shelley pointed out as her Mogen David glow began to kick in. “So there’s no reason for Nina not to date them. They’ll just be going to waste.”

  For some reason this struck her as excruciatingly funny. “You’re always telling me not to be wasteful.” She giggled. “Waste not, want not.” She poured another glass of the sacramental wine.

  “I certainly hope you’re not getting tipsy like this when you’re out on dates.” Her mother’s tone was disapproving.

  “It’s a real turn-off,” Craig observed.

  Shelley looked more closely at her brother-in-law. He’d always been a little too acceptable for her personal taste, but she didn’t remember him seeming so . . . stodgy. “I try to keep the Mogen David guzzling to a minimum when I’m out.” She dissolved into a fit of giggles as she pictured Trey Davenport ordering a bottle of Mad Dog at a favored Buckhead eatery. “Here, Nina.” She refilled her friend’s wineglass. “If you want to be Jewish you’re going to have to learn how to drink this stuff; it takes the edge off the religious holidays. And certain family gatherings.”

  “Shelley, that’s enough,” her father said. “Let’s find another topic of conversation.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, noticing for the first time how avidly her nephews were watching her. But there was something driving her that she didn’t quite understand. “And what about you?” she asked her nephews. “What kind of husbands will you be if you make things so hard on your mother?”

  “Shelley.” Judy’s voice held a warning tone that Shelley totally disregarded.

  Craig sat up and leaned in closer.

  “You could make things easier on her, you know,” Shelley said, somewhat amazed that she was trying to use guilt in the same way that her mother did. And that she felt so protective of her sister. “Let her enjoy the project she’s working on. She’s always been there for you guys.”

  “It’s not like she needs to work,” Craig pointed out reasonably, which for some reason put Shelley’s teeth completely on edge. “Why are you dragging her into the office all of a sudden? It’s not like you’ve ever taken your job all that seriously.” It was a long speech for Craig Blumfeld. And not at all the genial sort of conversation he normally put forth.

  Shelley looked at her brother-in-law, then at Judy’s stricken face. “People change,” she said quietly. “I have it on good authority that breakthroughs are possible at almost any stage. If somebody wants to change and you try to hold them back, you can get left behind.”

  The phone rang, releasing some of the tension that filled the air. Her mother scraped her chair back and went to answer it. Slowly things returned to normal at the table. Shelley got up to help Delilah serve the next course. Judy picked up the water pitcher and offered refills around the table.

  Miriam came back from the kitchen with a smile plastered on her face and a determination to change the atmosphere at her dinner table clear in her eye. “That was Abe Mendelsohn,” she said to the table at large. “The bris for their new grandson is going to be at Abe and Sarah’s next Wednesday.”

  Shelley smiled and went along with the buzz about the news, but she watched Judy and Craig as she did so. A bris, the ceremonial snipping off of the foreskin of a newborn’s penis, was the first covenant a Jewish male child entered into with God.

  In her current mood there were a few men she’d like to help snip down to size. And she wouldn’t be doing it with anesthesia or the traditional sacramental wine. Tonight, Craig Blumfeld was an attractive candidate. She grinned wickedly as her imagination took off. Ross Morgan was second in line.

  chapter 17

  Trey Davenport had inches to spare. He also had charm, a washboard stomach, and a set of buns that might, in fact, have been made of steel. He possessed all the equipment needed to get a woman off.

  The only thing he didn’t have was Shelley’s complete attention.

  “Earth to Shelley.” He lifted his head from between her legs.

  “Hmmm?”

  Sighing, he lowered his body on top of hers, braced his weight on his forearms, then nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck. “Where are you, Shelley Schwartz?” His teeth nipped gently at her ear. “I’m ready for liftoff, and I don’t feel any of your engines revving.”

  In answer—and apology—she looped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts tightly up against his chest. With a little gasp, she took him inside her and felt herself stretch to accommodate him. They began to move together, their hips automatically moving in sync, but he was right; even though her body was now fairly happily engaged, her mind was elsewhere.

  Trying to bring it back to the matter at hand, she wrapped her legs around his buttocks, and matched his increased pace. The sensations were entirely pleasurable. Trey was a strong, enthusiastic lover and she was feeling friction in all the right places. If she just turned off her brain and focused, she’d come.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Trey didn’t seem to be having any trouble keeping his body and mind together. He was completely and utterly focused. On her—or at least on that spot where their bodies were fused together. He moved faster, driving deeper, and she felt the first stirrings of possibility. Soon, wonderful little tendrils of pressure built inside her. There was an orgasm out there with her name on it. All she had to do was reach for it.

  Her body writhed beneath his. It bucked and pressed in its search for greater contact and friction. Their pace quickened and their skin grew slick with sweat.

  Yes, she thought, that’s good. And then she thought about the Simms budget, and the Tire World grand opening, and Nina’s husband hunt. She absolutely refused to think about Ross Morgan while Trey Davenport was buried inside her and panting in her ear.

  “Oh, God, Shelley. That’s it. Oh, God.” He pumped harder. “Oh, God!”

  Oh no. Shelley tried to whip her brain back to what was happening, tried to center it on her . . . center . . . so that she didn’t get left behind, but she was too late.

  Trey groaned and his body went rigid above her. The buns of steel clenched under her hands. A heartbeat later he gasped his release in her ear and collapsed on top of her.

  Trey had crossed the finish line and she hadn’t even entered the race.

  Ho-kay.

  Trey pressed a kiss to
the nape of her neck and pulled himself off her, flopping on his back beside her—all liquid and happy and sated. “Sorry.” His arm went around her shoulder as he drew her closer. “I was too far gone to wait.” His hand dropped idly to her breast, but his breathing was already evening out. His tone was drowsy. “What can I do for you?”

  What did she want from Trey Davenport? An orgasm would be nice, but then, that was what he always gave her. One missed trip to the moon was not really a disaster; the fact that she couldn’t seem to pay attention long enough to get there with him was.

  He drew a finger over her nipple then circled it. He would do whatever she asked, do his best to satisfy her sexually. That had always been enough to keep her totally tuned in. Until now.

  His breathing slowed further and when she looked over to study him, his eyes were closed. Her gaze traveled down his body and she noted the broad shoulders, the perfect pecs, the awesome abs. What lay below that was equally impressive. Like most men, Jewish and not, Trey had been circumcised. She studied his flaccid penis for a few moments, wondering why it was no longer . . . enough.

  Her contemplation of Trey’s penis led to contemplation of the Mendelsohn bris. Which shouldn’t be too surprising since she’d thought about everything else in the world over the last twenty minutes.

  She tried to picture Trey there with her, surrounded by her family and their oldest friends. Trey was fun and personable; he’d make conversation, be polite. Women would sigh after him and envy her. But he would be the one, as they said on Sesame Street, who was not like any other, the one that did not belong. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t Jewish; other women married non-Jewish men and it worked out fine. They exposed their children to both religions and backgrounds and found a way to meld both cultures into their lives.

  It was his complete and utter WASPness, that white-bread lack of ethnicity that she seemed to be drawn to over and over again, but which she could never quite picture herself eating for the rest of her life. This was her MO, to continually reject the rye bread with its hard crust and slivery caraway seeds in favor of the bland and flavorless white bread, only to complain that her choice didn’t “taste right.” That he didn’t fit into her world.

  Maybe she was wrong about that. Maybe Trey could fit, maybe he’d want to. She didn’t even know what he’d be willing to be a part of because she never even asked.

  In his sleep he pulled her closer. Slipping her arm across his chest, she breathed in his scent and settled her head in the crook of his neck. “Trey?” she said.

  “Hmmmm?” His voice was half asleep and his eyes stayed shut.

  “I was wondering,” she began snuggling closer to his side, “have you ever been to a bris?”

  Shelley didn’t call Brian Simms on Monday. She justified this by keeping busy enough to claim a lack of opportunity, and tried to stay out of Ross Morgan’s way. On Tuesday she tiptoed around the office until she heard that Ross was out. Convinced that Simms would go for her proposal, she waited as patiently as she could to hear from him while moving ahead with the booking and coordination for the shoot and putting the finishing touches on the presentations she would make later in the week.

  On Wednesday morning, she got to the office early so that she could afford the time off for the Mendelsohn bris. Trey was going to meet her downstairs and then they were going to pick up Nina, who’d known the Mendelsohns through Shelley most of her life and who absolutely could not resist the chance to witness this aspect of Judaism in action. Shelley was starting to see it as a kind of Judaic field trip.

  At ten o’clock she went to the ladies’ room to freshen her makeup. When she got back to her office, Ross Morgan was waiting for her. He was wearing a black pinstriped suit with a crisp white shirt and the Armani tie, and sat in the chair across from her desk.

  She’d barely had time to acknowledge his presence or line up her excuses when a knock sounded on the door. They both turned to look as Mia stuck her head into the office.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Morgan, but I’ve got Brian Simms on line one.”

  Shit. Shelley walked around her desk and sank down into her chair. Still clutching her purse, she sat ramrod straight and braced herself.

  Ross gave Shelley a look that pretty much shouted “Gotcha” and leaned across her desk to punch on the speakerphone. A moment later Brian Simms’s voice reverberated through the room.

  “Morgan?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” Ross replied smoothly. “Shelley’s here, too.”

  “Oh.” There was a brief pause. “Good, good.”

  There was another pause and then, “I got the proposal.”

  Shelley drew in a breath and held it. She couldn’t tell from Simms’s tone whether he was preparing to yank the account or simply ask a question. The look on Ross Morgan’s face told her he was expecting the former.

  The sound of paper shuffling reached them in the completely silent office.

  “If you’re calling about the production budget . . .” Ross began.

  “I am. I spent the weekend going over it. And the last two days in meetings about it.”

  OK, this was not necessarily a bad thing. Shelley swallowed, not an easy task while holding one’s breath.

  “It’s completely fixable,” Ross said. “If we just scale down the—”

  “Fix it?” Brian Simms’s incredulous voice boomed into the room. “You want to fix this?”

  Shelley winced. Ross closed his eyes briefly then opened them. They stared at each other, both now expecting the worst.

  “Why, I wouldn’t change a thing. You should see my nephew, Charlie. I can hardly pry him off the ceiling, he’s so happy. An apprenticeship with Jake Helmsley at Hightower Films? He’s practicing his Academy Award acceptance speech.”

  “So you’re OK with the budget?” Ross asked.

  “Never been to Rodeo Drive or rubbed shoulders with any celebrities. And I see here we’re booked at the Four Seasons Hotel!” He snorted happily. “Shelley promised us a big step up, and it sure as hell looks like she’s delivering.”

  She was, wasn’t she? Shelley dropped her purse and scooted forward in her chair as relief flooded through her.

  “Hi, Brian.” She let her pleasure ring in her voice. If it hadn’t been for the set of Ross Morgan’s shoulders and the tic in his cheek, she would have pumped a fist in the air. Or done a little happy dance around her desk. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She shot Ross a triumphant look. “I’m really excited about your shoot.”

  There, she thought, as irritation flashed across Ross Morgan’s face. Take that. She had a completely childish urge to stick out her tongue at him and add nyah-nyah-nah-nah-nah, but she managed to resist.

  She schmoozed for a couple of minutes and ended the call with promises to courier over the travel itinerary when it was ready. Then she and Ross contemplated each other across the wide divide of her desk. He was shocked, that much was clear, and she braced herself once again. But Ross Morgan didn’t lash out, unload, or try to slap her down to size. In fact, he was disappointingly calm.

  “I guess you read that one better than I did.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Her victory would have tasted much sweeter if he’d shouted just a little bit. Or used a few capitals. Or broken down and cried.

  He shrugged and stood. “You made a client happy. We’re spending way too much money to do it and you disregarded every directive I gave you. You gambled and won.” He cocked his head. “But the agency wins, too.”

  He turned to leave the room but stopped in the doorway. It really bothered her that he was being so gracious in defeat.

  “Just make sure I’m booked on that trip. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you loose with the company funds in Beverly Hills.”

  “Right.”

  He started to leave, but turned back once more. “I need directions to the Mendelsohn bris.”

  She blanched and told herself she must have heard wrong. “You’re coming to t
he Mendelsohns’?”

  “Abe Mendelsohn is a client.” He shrugged again. “And he can, in fact, sell ice to Eskimos. How long will it take to get out there?”

  Shit. She was already responsible for Trey and Nina. Adding Ross Morgan to the mix was decidedly stress-inducing.

  “About twenty-five minutes,” she said, already picturing him there cramping her style. The only way she’d be glad to see him there was if he were the one whose penis was on the block. So to speak.

  chapter 18

  In the Jewish religion a bris is a joyous occasion right up there next to a wedding or graduation from law school. When Shelley and Trey and Nina arrived, Abe and Sarah Mendelsohn’s home was stuffed with people. Its spacious rooms rang with laughter and good wishes and a bartender mixed mimosas and poured champagne.

  People milled everywhere, dressed for the event, circulating with their drinks in their hands and hugging and kissing as if they hadn’t just seen each other the night before for dinner at the club. Or tennis or golf. Or bridge, or mah-jongg.

  Baskets of bagels and assorted cream cheeses shared table space with lox and whitefish. Herring and chopped liver sat alongside egg salad. By the time all the food was put out, there would be enough of it to feed a small army. At all such events the hostesses’ biggest fear was the possibility of running out of food, or that a guest might leave hungry, not that Shelley had ever seen this happen. The eating would commence after the ceremony.

  The guests got to eat; the baby got to give up a part of his penis.

  Nina had spent the entire drive regaling them with the rationale behind circumcision and other Jewish rites of passage. Trey, who had evidently thought a bris was more like a confirmation or honorary event, rather than the minor surgical procedure that it was, was looking a little green around the gills by the time they arrived.

  “Are we really going to watch an eight-day-old baby—who’s never done anything to anyone—have part of his penis cut off?” he asked for the third time.

  “Yep,” Shelley said. “Although I don’t intend to actually watch. I generally pick a spot in the back of the room and make a point of not watching.”