FOUR
Willow
Confession. When Ryan Madewell had agreed to sign my book, I clambered upstairs to my room and had a mini-panic attack. My heart was beating a mile a minute, and butterflies swarmed my stomach. I could barely breathe. Sliding down against my bedroom door into a crouching position, I gulped in a big breath of air, ready to swoon. No one had ever had this effect on me…not even Gustave.
Over a week went by without hearing from him. Or seeing him. With each passing day, my heart sank deeper with disappointment. Maybe he had second thoughts. He probably was still suffering from the loss of Allee. The love of his life. I understood that.
Fortunately, my father’s restaurant was crazy busy, which helped keep me distracted. The Jewish holidays had snuck up, and the eve of Yom Kippur, the holiest of days, was approaching, this year falling on a Friday. All day long, people had been flocking here from all over the city to order platters from Mel’s Famous for their break-fasts tomorrow night. Mel’s had the reputation of preparing the finest deli and dairy platters in the city. There was no one—except my mother—who could make a more beautiful platter of lox than me. She had taught me how to do it. Around a mound of cream cheese, layer the tender, shimmering pieces of smoked salmon like delicate petals, and then surround the salmon with slices of cucumber, onion, and tomato plus some lemon. Then decorate the platter with parsley and capers. And voilà!
I was exhausted but not alone. My father had a lot of loyal help—including the sandwich guys, servers, hosts, busboys, cashiers, and short order cooks—and everyone pitched in. My extended family. This was hard work, but it kept my mind off the dark places it could travel. And assembling the platters along with slicing bagels also kept my mind off Ryan.
As I sliced an onion bagel, a familiar raspy voice captured my attention with one breathy little word—“Hi.” My breath hitching, I almost cut myself as I looked up. Oh my God! It was him. Ryan Madewell. As beautiful as the day I met him in a ridiculously sexy leather bomber jacket and a pair of faded jeans. My gaze met his. A smile twitched on his gorgeous face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked a little nervous. But there was no way he could be as nervous as me. Every nerve in my body was buzzing. The heart palps and butterflies were back with a vengeance.
“You should be careful with that knife,” he commented as I fumbled with it.
“I’m an expert,” I muttered, floundering for words. “Can I get you something?”
“No thanks; I’m good.” He paused, the sparks between us palpable. “Hey, I know this is spur of the moment, but I was wondering—do you want to catch a movie with me tonight?”
My heart was practically beating out of my chest. His gorgeousness had no idea of the effect he was having on me. I should have been smiling brightly—even done a happy dance—I mean, he just asked me out, but instead I inwardly sighed with regret.
“I’m sorry; I can’t. It’s Yom Kippur. My dad and I are closing up early and going to temple for Kol Nidre.”
His face flashed a blank look. Then, I remembered he was the penultimate WASP. From a Mayflower descended family.
“My mom…she passed away.” My already heavy heart grew heavier. “We always go to temple on Yom Kippur to remember her.”
He surprised me.
“I’d like to come with you.”
Shocked, I uttered two letters: “O. K.”
The synagogue was packed. Every seat taken. Luckily, Pop and I arrived early and found three together. On the walk over, I told him that Ryan Madewell was joining us. “I didn’t know he was Jewish,” my father commented. I told him he wasn’t…that he was just interested in seeing what the service was like…maybe doing research for a new book. In my peripheral vision, I saw my father raise a skeptical brow. “Maybe he’s checking something else out.” Not responding, I left it at that.
Once we sat down, I kept looking out for Ryan and staving off congregants who were not too pleased that I was saving the seat next to mine. Just as the service was about to begin, Ryan came dashing through the entrance doors to the sanctuary. He was wearing a beautifully cut gray suit and an elegant blue tie that matched the color of his eyes. And looked dazzling. Scanning the sanctuary, he found us seated toward the back and quickly headed to the vacant seat. He breathed a quick hi to my father and me before sitting down. His warm breath heated my cheeks.
“Put this on,” I whispered to him. I handed him a white satin yarmulke, thinking that he probably wouldn’t have thought of putting on this mandatory skullcap. He adjusted it atop of his silky hair and I quirked a smile; God, he looked adorable. “Now wrap this around you.” I handed him a tallis, a fringed silk shawl. As he adjusted it around his broad shoulders, I couldn’t help thinking how handsome my guest looked. He gazed into my eyes, with an expression that asked: is this okay? The little nod I shot back at him was his answer. Beneath my solemn black A-line dress, my heart was hammering.
Reaching into the pocket of the seat in front of his, I handed him a prayer book. “You can follow along; there’s an English translation as well as a transliteration, and the rabbi is pretty good about telling us what page to turn to.”
“Thanks,” he said softly with an adorable dimpled smile as the service began with the traditional Kol Nidre cello solo. Silence fell over the sanctuary.
I loved this opening cello piece. One day I hoped to choreograph it. The melody was so, so beautiful. And haunting. It never failed to send chills down my spine and tug at my heartstrings. Sadness surged inside me as I thought about the indignities suffered by the Jews over the centuries. And then my mind jettéd to my mom. Later in the service, I would say Kaddish, a mourning prayer for the dead.
The service was long, but I enjoyed it. I didn’t go to temple often nor did I consider myself a very religious or spiritual person. But when I did go, it was an emotional, otherworldly experience that got me both out of myself and in touch with myself. The beauty of the sanctuary with its stained glass windows and high Romanesque ceilings also awed me. It was one of the oldest in the city. Generation after generation had worshipped here, including my grandparents on both sides. My Nana, my only remaining grandparent on my mom’s side, unfortunately wasn’t here tonight as she didn’t live in the city. Or socialize with my father.
In the middle of the service, the rabbi gave a moving sermon on forgiving and forgetting, fitting for this Day of Atonement. His profound words sank into me. Would I ever be able to forgive the man who had brought me to my knees? Brought me deep into an inferno of lust and despair. And would I ever be able to forget? A shiver shimmied through me.
The Mourner’s Kaddish came near the end of the service. Everyone in the congregation rose. I mumbled the words in Hebrew. Ryan followed along with the transliteration. He, too, had someone to mourn. As tears poured down my face in memory of my mother, I gripped my father’s thick calloused hand. He gave mine a squeeze. There wasn’t a day that my father didn’t miss or mourn my mom. I jolted when my other hand was suddenly also occupied. Without looking my way, Ryan had taken it in his. His hand was soft and warm, the grip steady and firm. Maybe he didn’t want to grieve alone.
“Oh seh shalom,” concluded the rabbi. The cantor, with his rich, operatic voice, began to sing, repeating the word “shalom” over and over. Tears continued to spill down my face. Oh, mom! How I missed her and wished I could right the wrongs.
The choir and congregants joined in, including both my dad and myself.
Shalom. Yes, peace is what I was seeking. In the world. And in myself in the year to come. As the hymn ended with an “Amen,” Ryan squeezed my hand. I held back a sniffle, but heard my companion inhale deeply through his nose. Unbeknownst to him, I turned to look at him, and saw a tear running down his magnificent profile. He was in mourning, profoundly affected by this service. I squeezed his hand back and then felt his thumb rub the side of my wrist. The magical connection between us at this moment couldn’t be put into words.
At the conclusion of the service, everyone filed out the back doors of the sanctuary. Since we were sitting in the back, we were amongst the first to exit. Pop and I said hello to many congregants we’d gotten to know over the years, some of whom frequented his deli. Ryan stood awkwardly by my side; he must have felt like such an outsider. Women of all ages stared at him, many shooting him seductive smiles. I’m sure some even recognized him from his fame and fortune. His Waspy gorgeousness was definitely a head turner and a force to be reckoned with. Even men, gay and straight, held him in their gaze. I inwardly laughed as congregants sauntered up to us to wish us a Shana Tova. A Happy New Year. Something I so needed after the past six turbulent months.
Before leaving, my father told me had to use the “little boys’ room,” and left me alone with Ryan in the synagogue lobby.
We stood awkwardly facing each other. I was a petite five foot four, and even in my three-inch heels, I was a lot shorter than he was.
“Did you enjoy the service?” I asked nervously.
“It was beautiful. Thank you for letting me come.” He neatly hung up the tallis on a stand and set the yarmulke into a nearby basket.
“My pleasure.” Sheesh. Couldn’t I come up with something less mundane? Worse, the word “come” was whirling around in my head, playing crude mind games.
His cornflower-blue eyes gazed into my pickle-green ones—my “deli eyes” as Pop called them. I didn’t know what next to say. Thankfully, Ryan spared me from coming up with something.
“Would you like to go out for a drink? There’s a really great wine bar that’s not far from here.”
Dammit, that sounded good…so good…exactly what I craved after the emotionally draining service. But I couldn’t.
“I can’t. I’m fasting.”
“Oh.” The infamous little word when you didn’t know what else to say. His voice and face registered disappointment.
Before my heart sank, I had an idea. “Why don’t you come tomorrow night to my dad’s deli. He hosts an open house break-fast for the neighborhood—and any one who doesn’t have one to go to.”
Ryan’s face brightened. “I’d love to.”
The word “love” danced around in my head.
“Do I need to dress up?”
“No, it’s totally casual.”
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
As he loped out the front doors of the synagogue, my heart was racing.
He could show up in his birthday suit and I wouldn’t care.