“Oh, first stop, for sure.”
“But first…” She held out her hand, palm up. “Phone, please.” She wiggled her fingers impatiently. “Can’t exactly stick with you if we get separated and I can’t find you in this floating city.”
He pulled it from his inner jacket pocket, unlocked it and handed it over. She immediately started typing, thumbs flying across the screen.
“There.” She handed it back. “Now you can text me if you find more secret spots. Or if the ravioli supply runs low. Life and death situations only.”
Jonah looked at his screen. A new contact: Kara, with the little purple menorah emoji next to it. As if he had any other Kara or famous actresses in his phone that needed that reminder.
“You coming, or am I going to have to get my fry on, all by myself?”
He sent her a text so she’d have his number, too. The frying pan emoji.
“That’s our mission,” he said, deadpan. “Should we choose to accept it.”
Chapter Eight
Tzipi now understood why Kara never missed the Matzo Baller. She totally got it. The collective community, all sanctified by the commandments to kindle the Hanukkah lights, made her feel part of a powerful thing. It wasn’t even an important holiday, religiously speaking. But gazing down on the menorah and the crowd, and hearing Max next to her, matching her word for word, made her feel like Judaism was their own superpower.
Los Angeles obviously had a big Jewish community, but there was something about New York. She always noticed it when she visited Kara. Like a low, hereditary hum amid the hustle and bustle of the city. But now, on the Matzo Baller? It was harnessed into a concentrated, electric current that ran from bow to stern.
All powered by fryer oil and amped up with sufganiyot sugar.
“Hi, Vanta!”
“Kara, love your dress!”
“Rosie Bloom in da house!”
“Happy Hanukkah, Kara Koff!”
It was sensory overwhelm. Thank goodness for Max.
The bodyguard seemed to know the boat like the back of his hand. Leading her down hidden corridors, taking shortcuts to avoid swirling crowds of revelers. And finding the motherload of that addicting appetizer.
Luckily, the dress so many people were complimenting her on wasn’t the type you had to fluid-restrict or food-deprive yourself for. Especially since the Baller was all about the food, drink and excess of it all.
Girls swung on silks at dizzying heights from the main ballroom. A champagne tower that defied the laws of physics – on a boat? – flowed underneath. Max waved at them with his fork as he guided her back to the deck where the hanukkiah was, so they could see it up close.
It had to be at least twelve feet tall, and felt like a movie prop. At close range, you could see the details in the “flames” of stained glass, lit up as colorful as the Chihuly glass ceiling in the Bellagio Las Vegas. She walked around the base of it, snapping pics and marveling.
“How about a photo of you and the menorah?” Max set down their plates and held out his hand for her phone. “To send to Dr. A.”
“Oh. Sure.” It felt a little weird to be sending photos to Kara’s fiancé, who at this very moment was probably sitting right next to her sister at a Hawaiian luau or somewhere equally exotic.
It’s not like you’re sending nudes, Tiz.
Great, her sister really had taken over her headspace. Talk about role immersion.
Still, she smiled to unlock the phone. Then smiled as her bodyguard aimed it at her. He walked backwards to get the entire monster menorah in the shot. She offered up two fingers, flashing what could be interpreted as a peace sign. Two more nights and you’d better be back in New York lighting the last candle with me, sister.
A pop-up performance had begun on the deck, as a three-piece klezmer band assembled. Friends were grabbing friends, starting to form little dance parties of two and three to the joyful music.
“Show him what he’s missing!” Max called, peering at her from behind her phone. She reached down for the plate he had set out of the shot. Then picked up a ravioli between thumb and pinky, and took a bite with a wink. “Yeah, girl. Make that cold kugel look hawt.”
She doubled over, laughing. What was going to her head more: the champagne, or Max? All she knew was that she hadn’t laughed this much in a long time. He jogged back to her, his grin in the light of the menorah just spectacular.
“Trade ya,” he said, handing back her phone as he reached for the plate. She passed it over with a laugh, and he plucked the last ravioli from it. “Pro tip: they’re even better cold.”
