Dating Kosher (3 page)

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.

For the first time that morning, I was able to smile. “Okay, I’ll come by after work. Oops gotta go, there’s a client here.” It was a lie; there was no one there. But I hung up on him, not wanting to bother with the formality of saying goodbye. What if he had said he loved me? Easier just to avoid those situations. It wouldn’t be too hard; it was only a month until the wedding.

I looked at the empty lobby in front of me and then back to my computer screen. I opened up Solitaire on my computer, eager to break my record—the day before I had won six games in a row.

Chapter 5

“So what’s on your agenda for today, Bubby?” I asked my grandmother over my shoulder. My nose tickled from the mixed smells of rosewater and mothballs; anywhere else the aroma would be nauseating, but here in my grandmother’s apartment nestled in the new wing of the retirement complex, it smelled just like home.

I’d finished my apple-cinnamon tea and stood up from the too-soft sofa, restless. Picking up a picture of my grandparents from the mantle over the electric fireplace, I held it only inches from my face for closer inspection. It was an old black and white photo of them on their honeymoon. They were in their early twenties, both slim and in bathing suits on the beach in Florida; ever after their favorite vacation spot. My zaidy stood barefoot in the sand, his arms around my tiny grandmother who stood in front of him. They were both laughing, making me think he’d told a joke right before the shutter clicked open and closed, sealing their happiness on celluloid forever.

I’d seen the picture a million times but it still made me smile.

He’d been gone for over ten years, but my memories of him were still fresh, especially all the games of blackjack we played when I was a child. Begging him to play whenever I saw him, he indulged me most of the time, always having a deck of cards in his back pocket. I thought I was such a talented card player; the reigning twenty-one champion of the family. It wasn’t until many years later, after I lost a huge amount at the tables in Vegas, that I learned the truth: I was indeed
not
a talented blackjack player but the victim of a longstanding hoax perpetuated by my well-meaning grandfather. But by then it didn’t matter that he had let me win almost every game. In fact, it just made me love and miss him more.

Bubby sighed. “Oh, well, Shoshie, you know. I’m getting my hair done at noon and then Mah Jongg with the girls at two.” It didn’t matter that ‘the girls’ were all over eighty, the ladies in her Mah Jongg group would always be ‘the girls.’

I replaced the picture and turned back toward my grandmother. She had creases around her eyes and deep lines in her cheeks, but she didn’t seem old to me. Although she had trouble walking and sometimes complained that the Mah Jongg tiles fell from her hands because of her arthritis, she was still one of the most active people at Beth Shalom, her seniors’ home. She swam most mornings in the complex’s heated pool and walked most evenings with bridge, gin (the game, not the drink) and Mah Jongg slotted in between. Last year she’d even been in the center’s production of
Fiddler on the Roof
, playing the part of Tzeitel. It was one of the sweetest things I’d ever seen: a bunch of seniors acting out the parts of teenaged girls, my own bubby up on stage, wistfully singing “Matchmaker…matchmaker…make me a match…”

“You should learn to play Mahj, Shoshie. That Barbara Solly isn’t what she used to be. We don’t have the heart to kick her out of the group, but she just can’t keep up anymore.” She shook her head, pursing her lips. It was hard on her, watching her friends deteriorate. Many of them had passed on in the last few years, forcing ‘the girls’ to constantly be on the watch for new recruits for their Mah Jongg group. “We could use a new fourth. And we love hearing your stories, dear,” she winked.

“Oh Bubby, you’re terrible,” I scolded, the smile on my face tempering my words. I’d made the mistake of telling my grandmother and a couple of her cronies about a particularly wild party I had gone to once. They were just so mesmerized by what the single life was like these days, that I found myself telling them things I never would have dreamed of telling a group of senior citizens. They really got a kick out of it. Maybe I felt like I was doing them a service: educating them on the ways of the modern world. Now whenever I saw them, they would all wink and smile at me. It was pretty embarrassing having them think I was some sort of hero. And I would never live down telling them about that time I’d had a quickie with a stranger at a party in a front hall closet, standing up between all the guests’ coats.