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. 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.
Chapter 6
Blake
I spent Sunday afternoon at Equinox where I played a mean game of racquetball with my best bud, Jaime Zander. I kicked his ass and hence he treated us to a round of beers at the upscale sports complex bar.
“We set a date for the wedding,” I told him over a frothy Guinness on tap. “Saturday, December twentieth.”
“Awesome, man. Where’s it being held?”
“At my parents’ house.” I took a swig of the golden ale. “I think Jennifer was disappointed. She was hoping it would be at her parents’ house.”
“She’ll get over it. It’s going to be the wedding of the century.”
I twisted my lips. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. Anything my mother plans is always over the top and you can’t get in her way.”
“I hope I’m invited.”
I smiled at my best friend. “You’re more than invited. I want you to be my best man.”
“Fuck, man. Get out. I’d love to. Come on, let’s toast.” He lifted his mug and clinked it against mine. “To the wedding of the century.”
“To making it through the wedding of the century.”
We simultaneously took a slug of the beer.
Jaime set down his mug. “Let me give you a bachelor party.”
“Let me think about it.”
“Don’t think too hard. It’ll be fun. A guys’ night out.”
“What if you get me smashed and I go MIA?” I asked, thinking about the movie The Hangover. While every guy I knew found this flick hilarious, it creeped me out. I didn’t want to miss my own wedding.
Jaime snorted and guzzled his beer. “Don’t worry. I’ll have your back. In the meantime, why don’t you and Jen go out to dinner with Gloria and me tonight? Our treat. We’ll celebrate.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. It’s been a crazy weekend. We’re just going to hang out. Maybe order in and watch something on Netflix.” And fuck our brains out.
“Sounds good, man,” said Jaime, reaching for the check.
After showering, I headed home. I thought about ordering-in dinner while I was driving; I was that hungry. Maybe Thai or Chinese or something from
that new Vietnamese restaurant that had opened on Westwood Boulevard. The thought of Jennifer and me feeding each other with chopsticks sent my cock into overdrive. I was hungering for her. A good game of racquetball often had that effect.
I opened the door to my condo and was greeted by a tantalizing familiar aroma. Upon hearing me enter, Jennifer came running out of the kitchen. Fuck. She looked delicious, wearing a dainty little apron over a pair of cropped leggings and barefooted.
She flung her arms around me and, on her tiptoes, gave me a kiss. “How was your game?” she breathed against my neck.
“Awesome. I creamed Jay-Z. And guess what, he’s agreed to be our best man.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m going to ask Gloria to be one of my bridesmaids.”
“Cool.” With a sniff, I wrinkled my nose. “What smells so good?”
She smiled seductively. “I have a surprise for you.” My eyes stayed on her as she dipped her hand into the deep pocket of the apron and pulled out a stunning jacquard tie.
“A new tie?” Jennifer loved to buy me ties.
“Mmm hmm,” she purred. “I want to put it on you.”
“But, baby, don’t you think I should put on a dress shirt to get the full effect?”
“You don’t need to right now.” She stepped back up on her tiptoes, and the next thing I knew, the tie was wrapped around my eyes like a blindfold.
“Are we going to have some kinky sex?”
“Maybe. But I’ve got another surprise for you.” She took my hand and led me in the direction of the kitchen. The delicious aroma grew stronger.
“Sit on the counter,” she ordered when we got there.
I hoisted myself onto the granite countertop. My imagination was flying. Was she going to suck me off?
“Open your mouth,” she breathed.
I did as she asked, and on my next breath, a spoon with hot broth filled my mouth. I swallowed.
“Jeez, Jen. This is good. It tastes just like—”
“Your grandma’s matzo ball soup. She taught me how to make it today.”
“You spent the day with Grandma?”
“Yes. She’s amazing.”
I heard a spoon clink against a bowl.
“Okay, baby, now try one of my matzo balls.” I felt her warm breath against my neck as she blew on the ball. The sexy sound and sensation made my cock twitch.
“Take a bite and tell me what you think.”
My lips clamped down on the fluffy ball, and I bit into it.
“Wow! It’s delicious. As good as Grandma’s.”
Still blindfolded, I could imagine my tiger’s adorable smile as I swallowed.
“She taught me the trick to the balls. You have to use club soda.”
“Soda shmoda,” I mock-mimicked Grandma. “Let me have another taste.”
“My turn.”
In my mind’s eye, I could see her lips going down on the tender ball. Circling around it. Taking it into her mouth. My pulse sped up, and my own balls tightened as my cock strained against my jeans. What was it with matzo balls and Jen that turned me on every fucking time?
“Are there any other tricks to the balls?”
“Uh-huh. There’s an art to rolling them.”
Seriously? My cock was going stir crazy.
As if she read my mind, she yanked down my fly. Commando, Mr. Burns came flying out. She curled her fingers around my enormous erection, and getting down on her knees, began stroking it, hard just the way I liked it. Then, without stopping her hand action, she flicked her tongue along my smooth sack of balls, hitting a spot on the bottom that made me want to jump out of my skin. Holy shit! And if I wasn’t already on my way to heaven, she wrapped her soft lips around them, rolling them around in her hot, hungry mouth, one big ball at a time. An insufferable electrical current spread from my head to my toes, the blindfold heightening every spark I was feeling. Squirming on the counter, I fisted her hair.
“Jesus, tiger,” I hissed. “Is this what Grandma taught you?”
“Mmm hmm,” she moaned, feverishly sucking my balls and pumping my dick. It felt fan-fucking-tastic. She was making my soup to nuts fantasy a reality. Who cared if the soup was getting cold when my balls were on fire? An orgasm of titanic proportions was not far away. That telltale tingly feeling of fullness saturated my cock, and in a harsh breath, I came all over Jen’s talented hand.
Back on her feet, she undid the tie. I blinked. My river of release was seeping through her fingers. She gazed at me, her green eyes glistening with pride. “Did you like that?”
Hell, yeah. I took her into my arms. “Is this going to be one of our rituals as husband and wife?”
She smiled sheepishly. “It could be.”
“What other tricks did Grandma teach you?”
“What you can do with an apron is amazing.”
Leave it to my sex-crazed grandma. I glanced down at the sexy little one strewn around her waist. “I’m eager to find out.”
She cocked another smile. “Come on, let’s finish the soup.”
I jumped off the counter. “No offense, baby. Your soup is awesome, but I’m more interested in getting a taste of your new trick and anything else you’ve got cooking.”
Her eyes smoldering, she draped her arms around my shoulders. “Babykins, I’ve got a lot of things cooking.”
“You’re going to make one hell of a wife.” I tore off her apron.
One breath later, we were fucking our brains out right on the kitchen floor. The strings of her apron bound around my wrists, I discovered what other wonders my bride-to-be had in store.
Chapter 7
Jennifer
“Happy Birthday, girlfriend!”
Libby was at the door of my office. Holding a small shopping bag, she barged in and placed the bag on my desk.
“This is for you. It’s just a little something.”
“Oh, Lib, you didn’t have to get me anything,” I protested, already dipping my hand into the bag. I broke into a smile. It was a T-shirt with “Mrs. Always Right” printed boldly on it.
“I know it’s a little premature, but you need to remind ‘Mr. Right’ that you’re the smart one.”
“This is perfect. I love it.” I stood up and rounded my desk to give my redheaded best friend a big hug.
“Why don’t I take you out for lunch?” she asked.
“Can’t,” I sighed. I then explained to my future maid of honor that Blake and I had finally set a date and his mother was planning the entire wedding.
Libby knitted her brows. “Are you cool with that? What about your mom?”
“Yeah, we’re both okay with it. With all the guests the Bernsteins have to invite, we don’t have much of a choice.” I glanced down at my watch. It was almost noon.
“Shit. I’ve got to go. Blake’s mother set up my first meeting with the wedding planner.”
I grabbed my purse and walked out of my office with Libby.
“Good luck. I want to hear everything. I can’t wait to tell Chaz.”
One for punctuality, I got to Enid Moore’s office early. Located not far from Conquest Broadcasting’s headquarters, it was housed in a lovely two-story brick townhouse right off fashionable Robertson Boulevard. Upon entering it, I was greeted by a stylishly dressed male receptionist, handsome enough to be called pretty.
“You must be Jennifer.” His voice was effete yet warm.
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Have a seat, sweetie. I’ll let Enid know you’re here. Can I get you some tea or water in the meantime?”
“I’m fine,” I said, plunking down on the very formal loveseat and soaking in my surroundings.
The reception area was elegantly decorated in shades of ivory, all silk and gilt, and lit by a crystal chandelier. Antique oil paintings of aristocratic brides were artfully scattered on the walls. Soft classical music piped through hidden speakers.
The coffee table in front of me was lined with impeccably arranged bridal magazines from aroun
d the world. In the center was a thick leather-bound album labeled “Moore is More.” I lifted it into my lap and began flipping through the parchment leaves. Page after page was filled with photos of events that Enid had created. My eyes widened. Each event was more extravagant than the one before—ranging from a baseball-themed bar mitzvah featuring namesake baseballs at every seat and a life-sized ice sculpture of a young boy swinging a bat—oh my God, it was thirteen-year-old Blake!—to a Cinderella-themed wedding, complete with a pumpkin-shaped horse-driven carriage carrying the bride and groom and flower-entwined cages of white mice for centerpieces. I shivered, not knowing if the mice were real or not.
The sound of an intercom buzzed in my ear. I looked up from the album.
“Enid can see you now,” said the receptionist. “Her office is upstairs.” With a roll of his twinkly blue eyes, he wished me good luck.
I set the album back on the coffee table and clambered up the marble stairs. As I neared the last step, a shrill voice pierced the air.
“I personally don’t care if you have to rent a private plane and go to France yourself. My client wants fresh mussels flown in from the Côte D’Azur. Period!”
Enid was still on her cell phone when I stepped into her office. She acknowledged me by lifting a perfectly manicured bony finger that silently said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Studying her spacious office, which was even more elegant than the reception area, I took a seat on a gold-leafed velvet armchair facing her desk. I kept my purse on my lap while she finished up her call.
“I will not take no as an answer. You’re fired!” With a loud, exasperated huff, she terminated the call and slammed her phone onto her pristine desk, which looked to be a museum quality antique. My eyes stayed on her as she lifted, pinky finger out, a cup of tea.
For a woman likely in her fifties, she was extremely beautiful though surely preserved with the help of some nips and tucks and the magic of Botox. Her tight-skinned face with its high cheekbones and emerald eyes was made even more regal by her tightly pulled back jet-black hair. Substantial diamonds glittered on her earlobes, and a pair of pearl encrusted reading glasses dangled from a gilt chain and rested on her ivory silk blouse. She twitched a small smile. Something told me that was as far as her mouth ever went to avoid smile lines and other wrinkles. There was seriously not a line on her face.
THAT MAN: The Wedding Story Page 4
