Finally, realizing he was being ignored, he left. When he returned only a moment later with some type of electrical contraption in his hand, I glanced up only for a second. He smiled at me, but I kept cool, looking back at my computer.
He disappeared into the back without a word. Six minutes later, as promised, the air conditioning kicked in with a loud whoosh.
Whoops and hollers could be heard from the back room. Thank God, I thought, holding my arms up to air out my dangerously damp armpits.
A client came in, a frown creeping onto her face as she approached the counter. “A bit warm in here,” she said.
I smiled, relieved to be able to deliver good news. “We just had some service done to our air conditioner. It should be comfortable in here very shortly. And you are?”
“Francine. I’m here for my…” she looked up. Mr. Blue Collar had materialized from the back and now stood waiting patiently at my counter.
I looked at the day’s schedule on my computer monitor. Francine was booked for a Brazilian bikini wax (gross, she had to be like sixty). I saved her some embarrassment and nodded. “Bev will be right out, please take a seat. Can I offer you a beverage? I realize you probably don’t want something hot, but we have iced jasmine tea that’s very nice.”
“No, thank you, I’ll just sit.” She stepped over into the waiting area while I buzzed the back room.
“Bev, your twelve o’clock is here.”
Nate was staring at me, giving me the willies. I looked up at him. “Can I help you?”
“What kind of service can you recommend?” he asked. That smile just wouldn’t quit.
What was he talking about? “Excuse me?”
“Your boss said I could have a gift certificate for a free service. I was just wondering what you would recommend.”
“One second, please,” I said as I picked up the phone to dial Rita’s extension.
“Rita, did you want me to write up a gift certificate for the air conditioner repair man?” I wasn’t about to use his name. Who knew if it even was Nate—maybe he’d borrowed someone else’s shirt.
“Oh shit, Shosh, I forgot to buzz you. Yeah, give it to him for one service—whatever he wants—with no expiry.”
I hung up the phone. “Okay, well what would you like?”
“Besides your phone number?” Wow, a great smile and chutzpah—quite a combination for a grease monkey.
“Dream on,” I said, my voice as gritty as our Dead Sea scrub, a perennial favorite of fifty-something Jewish housewives. “How about a manicure?”
He bent down to put his toolbox on the floor and brought his hands up, laying them on the counter for my inspection. They weren’t exactly clean (not surprising considering his job), but they were very tidy and not bitten. He obviously took care of himself. Nice.
“I’m not sure a manicure would be something I would bother with. My hands get so dirty every day, it wouldn’t be worth it.”
I shrugged. “A lot of men get facials, it cleans out and minimizes pores.” Not that he looked like he needed the help. From where I sat, his complexion looked flawless.
“Okay, set me up.”
I looked at my screen. “How’s next Thursday at seven p.m.? I’m assuming you want an evening appointment.”
He leaned over the counter. “Why would you assume that?” His breath smelled like coffee and mints.
I pointed at his uniformed chest. “Uh, don’t you work during the day?”
“It’s my own business. I can schedule myself out anytime. But Thursday evening is okay.” He leaned down and picked up his toolbox. “Do you work Thursday evenings?”
“Yes,” I said, pasting a sour look on my face.
“Don’t be so sad,” he said. “I’m not that horrible am I?”
You absolutely are not, I thought. “You just might be that horrible,” I said aloud.
Then he left, giving me one more look at his tight little blue collar ass.
Chapter 3
Tuesday evening meant martinis and sushi with my mother, Tziporah Rosenblatt (as far back as I can remember, people called her Tippy). After I finished work, I walked down to the little place that my mom and I had made our regular Tuesday night rendezvous. It was a dark, badly decorated (much to mother’s horror) hole in the wall, but the sushi was fantastic and the martinis were even better. Who knew the Japanese had such a flair for the martini?
Mom kept kosher, had since the divorce. We had never kept kosher in the house when the three of us had lived together, but since the end of the marriage, she said she wanted to get back to her roots. Not her brunette roots, mind you; Tippy Rosenblatt would go to her grave a blonde. Anyway, apparently my grandparents had brought her up in a very strictly kosher home. So sushi worked for both of us. It wasn’t a kosher restaurant, but mom was a bit more lax when eating out. She just stayed away from anything containing meat.
Frankly, this place also had the best beef teriyaki in town, so while mom daintily ate her California rolls and inari with chopsticks, I was often mowing down shamelessly on the beef.
“So what’s new this week?” she asked, after I joined her at our regular table, my martini already waiting patiently in front of my placemat. Her drink was already half gone and might not even have been her first. I didn’t bother to ask.
“Not much,” I said, picking up the glass and taking a sip. Perfect as usual.
“And how is your father?” The fingers on Mom’s left hand involuntarily fidgeted around the empty spot where her wedding band used to be.
“Dad’s fine,” I answered the same way I did every week.
“And his whore?” Mom asked, the same way she did every week.
I picked up the menu, pretending to look at the pictures. “Susan is fine. Sends her love.”
“Don’t be smart with me, young lady,” Mom spat. “That woman caused the destruction of a very happy marriage.”
And I suppose Dad thought it was a very happy marriage up until the time Susan the whore seduced him into shtupping her? Dad was responsible also, but Mom wouldn’t accept it. She just wouldn’t believe her husband was at all responsible for his affair. Men are weak, she always said, and couldn’t be blamed for their ‘indiscretions.’
It was hard not to be annoyed; I had endured this conversation more times than I could count.
But sadly, giving in was the only way to stop it. “Sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay, dear. I know that woman has poisoned you against me.”
Ugh. It wasn’t true. Mom’s version of the truth, much like Mom’s version of life, was extremely biased and often conformed to her complaint du jour.
In fact, Susan had been nothing but nice to me since I met her a few months before the divorce became final. She had actually been an old friend of my mom’s, which I’m sure made the whole situation that much worse. They were in the synagogue’s sisterhood together after Susan’s marriage broke up and she had moved back to town, looking to connect with people she’d known when she was younger. Apparently Mom had even been the one to introduce Susan to my father at some five-hundred dollar a plate fundraiser.
Anyway, although Mom was falling apart, my dad had never been happier. Since shacking up with Susan, he exuded a new type of contentment that I had only seen snippets of when he was with Mom (and then usually only when she was on spa retreats hundreds of miles away). And although I would never admit it to my mother, I was happy for him.
Trying not to respond to my mother’s disparaging comments about the person who would become—in only a short time—my stepmother, I turned back to the menu. “I think I’ll have some salmon skin rolls with my teriyaki,” I said. “Would you like to share them?”
Unfortunately, Mom was not so easily distracted on this particular Tuesday night. “So when is the wedding again? Does that little kurveh have the nerve to wear white when she walks down the aisle with my husband?”
“Ex-husband,” I corrected automatically, before I realized it had been very unw
ise to do so.
Mom’s eyes threatened to pop out of her head. “Are you taking her side?”
I exhaled, trying to purge the frustration from my lungs. “Mom, have you taken your meds today?” It was cruel of me to say; she was like a jack in the box and I was turning the crank, winding the spring tighter and tighter…
“I am not on medication, nor do I need to be, Shoshanna Yolanda, and if you can’t give me the respect I deserve, perhaps we should leave.”
Dropping the menu, I looked up at my mother. “Listen, Mom, I’m sorry for being belligerent, but you’re driving me crazy with all these questions about Dad. If you want to know what’s going on in his life so badly, just call him.”
“He won’t take my calls,” Mom said, pouting like a five-year-old denied her candy.
Yeah, well, maybe there’s a good reason why he won’t take your calls, Psycho. Okay, I didn’t think she was really crazy or in need of meds, she just needed a good dose of reality and maybe a good kick in the ass. And maybe her weekly sessions at the shrink could use to be upped to twice per week—at least until after the wedding. “Can we change the subject, please?” I begged. Anything else would have been a better topic of conversation. Anything except…
“How’s Max?” she asked.
Thankfully Jenzo—the waiter—came by and we ordered. Once he was gone, I lifted my martini, hoping Mom had lost her train of thought.
Nope, not that lucky. “So you were going to tell me about Max.”
May as well spit it out; she would have found out sooner or later when she ran into Max’s mother at some Hadassah luncheon, bar mitzvah or some other event where the ladies wore big hats and matching gloves.
“I dumped him,” I said casually, fingering my tennis bracelet.
Mom was shocked. “What in hell for?”
Did I dare tell her the truth? Why not, what could it hurt? “He was terrible in bed,” I declared.
It appeared that I had rendered my mother speechless. Not a small feat, either; I felt oddly proud of myself.
For some unknown reason, I felt like I should elaborate. “I mean, he was so clumsy and he never ever made me have an or—”
“STOP!” she interrupted me.
I gave her a confused look, trying to hide my amusement. “You asked about Max, I’m just telling you want you wanted to hear.”
“I don’t want to hear this, Shoshanna. And just because a man isn’t…” she cleared her throat before continuing, looking anywhere but at me, “accomplished in the bedroom isn’t a reason to get rid of him. Your father…”
Now it was my turn to interrupt. “NO thank you. I don’t need to know about you and Dad in the bedroom.”
“I’m just saying there are other things to get out of a relationship, Shoshanna.” Mom sipped at her drink.
“The guy’s a putz.” I waved at the waiter, pointing at my empty glass once I got his attention.
“Well, that I agree with,” Mom said, bobbing her head in sympathy. “His parents are not much better.” She rolled her eyes.
“If you thought that, why didn’t you say so?”
Mom shrugged. “The heart wants what it wants. Who am I to judge? And besides, I was hoping maybe on my birthday…”
My eyebrows headed skyward. “A little diamond happy birthday gift from your future son-in-law?” I had her number; we were, after all, cut from the same cloth.
She shrugged again, refusing to answer. “So it’s over. You’re returning all the jewelry, right?”
I looked at her to see if she was serious. Of course she wasn’t; we had a good laugh about that one.
Chapter 4
The worst thing about meeting with my mom on Tuesday nights was the following Wednesday mornings. Sporting my pair of extra-dark sunglasses, a double espresso latte in my hand and a hangover that would put any freshman college student to shame, I rolled into the spa wishing I was a trust-fund celebuspawn who didn’t have to work.
Bev was sitting at my reception desk, checking out her schedule for the day. “Good night out with Mom?” she asked, barely even looking at me.
“The usual,” I said, not taking my shades off. I wasn’t ready for the world just yet.
“I’ll be out of your way in a sec,” Bev assured me. “Your mom still a basket case?”
“Yeah, she’s freaking about my dad’s wedding coming up.”
Bev got up out of my chair. “Oh yeah, I guess so. When’s the wedding again?”
I slid into my chair. “September nineteenth. Haven’t you sent your reply back yet?”
She shook her head, looking guilty. “No, but I guess I’d better. Wow, that’s just over a month away. What are you wearing? Is Max renting a tux or does he own one?”
Taking off my sunglasses, I stared stupidly at my friend. It hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment, that in dumping Max, I had lost my date to my dad’s wedding. Not that he was a great date, but even he was better than going alone.
Bev leaned back in the chair. “What? What did I say? Does Max have an aversion to tuxedos? Stop looking at me like that. What? Is there something on my face?” Her hands lifted and she began wiping non-existent crumbs from her mouth.
I finally blinked. “No. You’re fine. But…I broke up with Max,” I said, my voice catching on the dryness in my throat.
Bev dropped her hands from her face and her eyes became saucers. “What? When?”
“Saturday night, after the restaurant opening.” I began to mentally go through my phone book. Who could I dredge up to be my escort to the wedding?
“Why?” Bev asked. “I thought it was going okay. How have you not told me this?”
I arranged my coffee cup and pencils on my desk just the way I liked them as I formulated my answer.
“He was… I’d just had enough.” I shook my hand, dismissing my whole relationship with Max in one little gesture.
“Okay, Channing Tatum he is not,” Bev nodded. “But he was okay. Do you think maybe you’re being a bit picky?”
Well, honestly, why shouldn’t I be picky? If I could find the perfect man who met all my needs, why shouldn’t I?
I’d never say it out loud, but I knew Bev was a bit jealous. She wasn’t the most attractive girl and always had a bit more trouble getting dates than I did. She had the attitude that I should be appreciative of any man who was interested in me, made a decent living and wasn’t a serial killer. I’m sure that’s how she felt about her own love life, but frankly, for me it just wasn’t enough. I could afford to be picky. If I kicked one guy to the curb, indubitably, another one would be waiting to take his place.
But in answer to Bev’s question, I just shrugged and took a sip of my latte.
“You’re unbelievable,” she said as she turned to leave the lobby. “Let me know when my nine-thirty gets here.”
I opened my purse, got out my phone book and flipped through the pages. I didn’t really relish the idea of calling old flames out of the blue to see if they’d go with me to my dad’s wedding: they would smell the desperation on me and there was nothing worse than a man who knew he had you where he wanted you. No, that would be a last resort.
And, anyway, I hadn’t officially told Max we’d broken up, I’d just dodged his calls for a couple days. Maybe I could still salvage the relationship and drag it out until after the wedding. I considered the alternative: going single to my dad’s wedding. Ugh, that was so not an option.
Time for some damage control, I thought. Glancing at the clock, I realized I had a few minutes before the spa opened. I picked up the phone and called Max’s store.
“Levine’s Jewelers,” Max’s dad answered the phone.
“Hi Mr. Levine, it’s Shoshanna, is Max there?”
“Hi Shosh,” he said and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, he’s here. We’re looking forward to having you for Shabbat dinner Friday night. One second, I’ll go get him.”
Shabbat dinner? I didn’t remember signing up for a Shabbat dinner
. I opened my date book frantically turning the pages to Friday’s date. Sure enough, there it was: Shabbat dinner at the Levine’s. Maybe the fact that Max hadn’t told them I wouldn’t be coming for dinner was a good sign.
“Hello?” Max came on the line before I had a chance to figure out a strategy.
“Hi Maxie,” I said in my best smitten girlfriend voice.
“Oh, imagine that. I thought you’d fallen off the earth. I was about to start sitting shiva.”
Oy, a drama queen, I thought, but bit my tongue. “Sorry, babe, just been really busy. Mom’s been having another post-divorce crisis.” Well, that was true, at least. “I was just calling to see what you think I should bring to Shabbat dinner at your parents’ place on Friday.”
“Are you kidding?” he sounded pissed.
“Why would I be kidding?” I tried to sound like a poor kitten stuck up in a tree—that had always worked on him in the past.
“I haven’t heard from you since you disappeared from my place Saturday night. You haven’t returned my phone calls. As a matter of fact, I thought you dumped me.”
“I told you, Maxie, Mom’s in crisis.” I couldn’t have sounded more pathetic. I had years of practice manipulating men. Tippy had been a damn good teacher.
He exhaled loudly. “Why don’t you bring a challah? And make sure you’re on time; you know how my mother gets.”
Yes, I did. Last time I was only twenty minutes late (I had broken a heel on my favorite Jimmy Choos in a sidewalk grate and needed a few moments to grieve) but Candace Levine had just about given birth to a heifer right there in her kitchen. She stood there, hands on hips, telling me that the Shabbos didn’t wait for me and I should have some respect. She was as much a bitch as her son was a moron.
“Of course, Maxie. I’ll be there right on time,” I purred.
“Why don’t you come by tonight?” he suggested. In the back of my mind, I could hear the clank clank clank of the fireman’s ladder as he came up the tree to rescue his kitten.
Dating Kosher Page 2
