“What are you looking forward to most about this year’s Matzo Baller?”
The ending?
She thought of her Saturday solo coffee-at-a-café vision. Maybe there would be pastry involved. She let that reward dangle like a carrot in front of her…oh, maybe it would be a carrot cake muffin with cream cheese piped inside, if she was lucky.
“Hard to choose just one,” she stalled.
Kara had described the annual gala like a grown-up version of Maccabiah Days at their Jewish summer camp. Lots of games and activities, except no sunburn and way better bathroom facilities. “Probably the Minor League Dreidel competition… and the kugel ravioli.”
“Vera Wexler, Kara! Page Six. Can I get a quick quote on the engagement rumors?” The woman’s smile was sharp. “Who’s the lucky guy? Sources say you two were spotted at a jewelry store in SoHo last month. Any truth to the speculation?”
Shit. At least Shel and Kara were a step ahead – and already in the air.
“I don’t comment on my personal life,” Tzipi said, too fast.
Wrong answer. She could see it in the way the woman’s smile widened, predatory.
“So there is something to comment on?”
Great. She hadn’t even spent an hour in Kara’s shoes, and she was already sticking her foot in her mouth.
Teflon. Don’t let it stick.
She smiled, deflected, nodded, waved. “Happy holidays, everyone.”
One hurdle down, a boatload to go.
“Your bag, miss.”
The one called Ham stood off to the side, holding out her tiny beaded clutch. It looked like a Barbie doll accessory in his big hands. Darrell Hamilton was a former NFL player, and he’d given her a rundown in the limo; he would be six paces behind at all times as she made her first public appearance in years.
And her first, posing as Kara.
Neither Ham nor the driver acknowledged anything was different in their world; just another shift on the clock, discreetly getting their client where she needed to go. Whoever she may – or may not – be.
“Have a nice night, Miss K.”
“Wait, you’re not coming on the boat?” Panic began lapping at her nerve-endings, matching the dark choppy water as it slapped up against the huge vessel currently anchored at the dock. What happened to six paces at all times?
“You don’t want me going all Dr. Seuss on you, trust me.” He laughed at the quizzical look on her face and added, “You know. Green Eggs, Green Ham? I can barely look at that thing, the way it’s bobbing. Max’ll take over from here, he’ll meet you on that deck.”
Ham gave a peace-out salute in the direction of where Tzipi had, minutes earlier, noticed a similarly big guy at the railing. He’d given a wave, hardly discreet.
At least this Max guy was already on board and she would have one person making sure she did all the usual things Kara was known to do on this floating city. Her sister had mentioned he was Jewish, so at least he could point her in the direction of menorah and the food, in that order.
But first, she had to board the boat. And not get either heel of her sister’s very expensive shoes stuck in the grate of the gangplank. Talk about a Cinderella moment.
She carefully ascended, swept up in a small crowd of well-dressed revelers. “I love your hat,” she commented to a woman rocking a dramatic, feathery fascinator.
The woman thanked her warmly, did a double-take, then hurried to catch up with her group. Note to self, Tzipi thought. Don’t freak people out by being all normie in front of them.
“Kara!” A warm, booming voice drifted above the excited chatter and low rumble as the belly of the boat fired to life.
J is for Jewish event planner.
“Jay Katz!” Tzipi appreciated his wait for her approach, not rushing at her as some hosts might do. “Another year already.”
She’d seen Kara do the move countless times: in person, on TV, frozen in time in photos. The subtle step to initiate, the eye contact. Then the effortless lean-in, inviting a cheek kiss. The event planner pulled his headset off and mirrored the ritual; their faces touching briefly but enough for her perfume and his cologne to mingle in the crisp December air.
