“I know,” I say to appease Mrs. Eisenberg, and I make a mental note to get product line feedback from my classmates at Stanford. That’s whose expertise I really should be tapping.
“I’m feeling tired. Do you mind keeping Ash company for a bit while I take a catnap? These past weeks all he’s been doing is working and taking care of me. I think he could use some company his own age.”
Ah, of course. Ash must have himself a trophy wife years younger than him. Típico.
“Sure, I can stay for a little while longer,” I promise Mrs. Eisenberg, but her eyes are already closed, indicating taking my leave wasn’t a choice.
I stand and quietly pick up our finished club soda tumblers from the coffee table. I lean over to turn off the decorative lamp above Mrs. Eisenberg’s head and the ice tinks in the glasses, but she doesn’t move. Tiptoeing into the kitchen, I’m met with Ash who, before I can even soap up the tumblers, tells me, “My grandmother’s not wrong. Your lotion names won’t work on the market. Brand recognition is everything. And if people can’t pronounce what they want, let alone remember it, you’re sunk.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, purposely leaving the glasses on the counter. Ash puts them in the dishwasher without calling me out. As he dries his hands on a dishtowel, Ash’s eyes move left to the kitchen table in the lamest invitation to sit down I’ve ever received.
“Is this an example of the ‘free advice’ you were so generously offering me?” I do as his eyes suggest and pull out a chair, determined tostay for five minutes tops because that’s what his grandmother asked me to do.
“It’s as good a place to start as any,” Ash counters, clearly enjoying the banter that comes with throwing around business ideas.
“Beautiful kitchen,” I observe, stretching to make small talk that has nothing to do with my product line. “I could prepare enough bacalaítos to feed an entire town on that eight-burner gas stove.” Mrs. Eisenberg’s kitchen looks like anArchitectural Digestphotoshoot with a special sponsorship by Wolf.
“My grandmother’s not much of a cook, but I’d love to try your bacala—what were those?” Ash says, butchering the dish’s name.
“Bacalaítos. It’s a salted cod fritter. Lots of prep and plenty of kitchen space required.”
“Sounds tasty,” he says, licking his lips and carrying a bag of tortilla chips and a container of salsa over to the table. Of course, because we live in California and I have light-brown skin, Ash makes an attempt to serve snacks from my culture.Joke’s on him, I hate tomatoes.
“Your grandmother probably has her own cook,” I assume out loud.
“A few days a week, but Bubbe isn’t eating the food at the rate Emma is making it.” Huh, this is the first time I have heard Ash refer to his grandmother by an affectionate name.
“You call Mrs. Eisenberg Bubbe?” I ask. “Kind of an undignified nickname for your grandmother, isn’t it?”
“It’s common Yiddish for grandmother. It’s what I’ve always called her.”
“Oh. My girls go to Catholic school,” I say in my defense, placing the blame of my ignorance on Coco, Lou, and their Christian-focused education.
“What does your family call your mom?” Ash asks, appearing genuinely interested—which throws me for a second.
“A busybody.”
“Ah. Bubbe can mean that too,” Ash jokes, putting me at ease.
“So, what did Eddie do to get all ... this?” I ask and circle my arms around my head indicating the entire acre-plus property. I realize how rude of a question that may have been to ask and drop my limbs in embarrassment.
“My grandfather? He was a trumpet player in Chicago,” Ash answers breezily, seeming eager to talk. Maybe life has been a little quiet for him the last few weeks.
I stare blankly at Ash because a midwestern musician to Silicon Valley mansion owner does not compute. Maybe ol’ Eddie made his money the old-fashioned way—he married into it.
“Have you never asked my grandmother about her life?” Ash whispers when we hear Mrs. Eisenberg shift on the couch. I can’t tell if there is a hint of condescension in his question or if this is an indictment of my conversational skills.
“Of course, I have,” I insist, and too late I hear the defensiveness in my voice. “From what your grandmother has told me, she and Eddie had a beautiful love story.”
Ash chuckles and rocks his chair onto its back legs.
“Yeah, they did. Their love story is the stuff of legends. But my grandmother, she’s the real legend.”
I grab a chip but don’t dip it in the salsa. I’m determined to stay for only a few more minutes, but something about the reverence with which Ash uses the termlegendmakes me want to hear the account from his point of view. Pushing the snack bowl closer to me, Ash looks pleased I’m sharing food at his table, but he doesn’t continue.
“Well, okay then, are you going to leave me out on this cliffhanger to guess the rest of the story on my own?” I tease.Whoa, was that flirting? Where’d that come from?
Ash grins at my eagerness. “Okay then, here goes. At age six, my grandmother was one of the very last Jews to make it out of France. It was 1941, and though many Americans were sympathetic to what was happening to European Jews, they didn’t want them here. Her escaping France and reaching the United States was a miracle.”
