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14

Ironically, the fifth night of Hanukkah brought us to a Christmas festival. “Kylie has a booth where she sells her homemade ornaments,” Seth said. “So the whole group is going to support her. You’ll come, right?”

I shrugged. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice. “Sure.” I was actually kind of excited. I didn’t hate Christmas or Christmasy things. I’d been known to listen to Christmas music during the summer sometimes and appreciated a good holiday light show. There was nothing wrong with Christmas.

I just didn’t want Christmas in my Hanukkah, the same way I didn’t want to dip a grilled cheese in my cinnamon roll latte. Both were delicious, but I didn’t want them together.

Speaking of coffee. Once Seth and I got up the next morning and he started talking with his parents about what we were going to do for brunch, I ducked into the other room to give Maggie a call. Everything was going great, she assured me, except that we were running low on whipped cream. I was deeply suspicious she’d been giving it out for free to her grandchildren and her grandchildren’s friends, but I instructed her to pick up some more from the grocery store and told her I’d pay her back for it when I returned.

In the kitchen, Bev, Benjamin, and Seth all turned to stare at me when I walked in. I resisted the urge to pat my head to see if a bird had landed there or something. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s great,” Bev said. “We were just talking about what to do for brunch. I called up our favorite place, but they don’t have any openings, and then Seth just started raving about the brunch at your café, and saying it was the best brunch food he’d ever had and how you’ve been talking about adding some new specialties to the menu…”

“Did he, now?” I narrowed my eyes at Seth, who was studiously avoiding looking at me.

“I’d just love to try it,” Bev said brightly, ignoring the way I was attempting to assassinate her son with laser eye beams. “Of course, I don’t want to ask it of you. I know it’s a lot. Just let me know if you’re not in the mood, and I’ll put something together.”

Inwardly, I groaned. My brunch service consisted mainly of items that were easy to make ahead and whip up quickly on order: French toast casseroles; salads with hard-boiled eggs and crispy bacon on top; cold sandwiches and a few simple egg dishes. Not the kind of elaborate meal that would impress someone like Bev, at least not yet. And while I was semiconfident in my babka baking ability, that was a several-hours-long project.

But I had to try. I’d literally just thought about how much Seth had helped me with this Hanukkah festival, no matter how Lorna was trying to fight it. I took pride in doing well at things. Including being a Good Fake Girlfriend.

I pasted a smile on my face. “Of course. I’m sure whatever I make won’t compare to yours, but I’d love to thank you for having me here.”

The preening, satisfied look on Bev’s face told me I’d said exactly the right thing. Good Fake Girlfriend, indeed.

“I’ll need a sous-chef, of course,” I said, turning to Seth. “You should do adequately.”

“He’ll be more than adequate,” Bev said. Benjamin raised one single eyebrow. “That boy grew up in the kitchen with me banging on pots and pans. It’s in his DNA.”

“Not from my side,” Benjamin said. Which was fair, judging from the plain oatmeal he ate every morning.

Upon some urging from Seth, Bev and Benjamin went out for a nice long walk in Riverside Park for some fresh air. “I don’t care about the fresh air,” Seth said as soon as the door closed behind them. “If they stayed here while we made brunch, my mom would be hovering over your shoulder the whole time, sticking her nose in everything. And I don’t mean figuratively.”

“Should I worry you’re going to do that, too?” I asked. “After all, it’s in your DNA.”

Seth rolled his eyes. “She sees what she wants to see. There’s a reason I’m at your café picking up food and coffee every day instead of making it myself.”

“And here I assumed you just enjoyed annoying your local barista.”

“That, too,” he said, grinning. “So? What should we make?”

“It’s your house,” I said. “Shouldn’t you decide?”

“If you let me decide, we’re doing bowls of cereal.”

That would certainly not impress Bev, not even when she got her nose wet sticking it in the milk. So I did a pass-through of the fridge, the counter, the pantry, and even the secret drawer where Seth said Benjamin hid his sweets supply. (I’d fancied finding cotton candy and Pop Rocks and multiflavored jelly beans for when the buttoned-up old man let loose his wild side, but of course his sweets supply consisted of plain bittersweet squares of chocolate.)

After a bit, the two of us surveyed my finds, splayed out on the counter like treasure we’d dug up. A slightly stale loaf of cinnamon challah. Some eggs. Berries on the softer side of ripe. “Well, it’s obvious, right?” I waited for him to come to the same conclusion, but he just stared blankly at the counter. “Thank god you sent your mom out, because she would be terribly disappointed in you right now,” I told him. “We’re making French toast. Just do what I tell you and you’ll be fine.”

He grimaced. “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” I said firmly. “Now go crack maybe three eggs and whip them up in a bowl.”

“Maybe three, or three?”

I sighed. “Three.”

He hadn’t exaggerated when he talked about how bad he was. I realized that when, after slicing the challah into two-inch-thick slices, I found him trying to fish bits of shell out of the bowl. “Use the eggshell,” I said.