Hostile Makeover (35 page)

She shook her head and cuddled closer, molding her body to his. She was home, where she was meant to be. This morning she didn’t intend to set so much as a foot outside. “Let’s stay right here for as long as possible.”

Later, she thought, when the boys were home and it was time to start putting their new life together, would be soon enough to admit that her bags were already sitting outside in the car.

“Are you sure Rabbi Jordan is going to be there?” Nina slid into Shelley’s car and tucked the hem of her black dress under her legs. A beautifully arranged plate of chocolate-covered matzo sat on her lap.

“Nobody turns down an invitation to my mother’s seder.” Shelley looked at the offering in her friend’s lap. “Did you make that?”

“Um-hm. Right after I got rid of all the
chametz
in my apartment.” She pronounced the
ch
sound with the correct Hebrew inflection.

“
Chametz?”

“You know, all the food products that contain wheat, barley, oats, spelt, or rye that has leavened,” Nina explained.

“Yes, I know, but . . . did you say
spelt
?”

“I’m assuming that’s some sort of grain.”

“Nina, where did you learn all this?” She herself tried to eat matzo during the week of Passover, but had never actually gone through her condo to get rid of all traces of . . .
chametz.

“Askmoses dot com. You can actually e-mail questions to rabbis and scholars. It’s very informative.”

Shelley turned to her friend. “Nina . . .” She wanted to warn her friend that rabbis, especially the old-school sort like Rabbi Jordan, might not be impressed with her command of Jewish trivia, or her burning need to . . . belong. Unlike other religions, the Jewish faith didn’t seek converts and often made conversion difficult.

Nina’s desire to marry the very men Shelley had been so arduously avoiding had seemed amusing at first, but it had become clear Nina was actually looking for something more than a man; she was soaking up the details of Judaism like a sponge, throwing herself into the knowing, striving to carve out a place for herself. Nina’s quest humbled her; Shelley was simply Jewish by birth. And while she’d never been ashamed of or tried to hide her heritage, she hadn’t really embraced it, either. Or made it at all central to her life.

It was just a part of who she was, like her eye color and the part of town in which she’d grown up. Something she’d taken for granted and never had to prove herself worthy of.

Like her job in her father’s firm, it had been handed to her and unappreciated.

The truth smote her: Like Moses and the Children of Israel, she had wandered aimlessly in the desert. It was time for her to find her own Promised Land.

When they arrived at her parents’, cars already filled the driveway and spilled out along the curb in front. Shelley saw Judy’s car alongside Delilah’s vintage Cadillac. Sarah Mendelsohn’s Mercedes was parked near the mailbox, and a florist’s delivery was loading table arrangements through the front door.

“We’re here,” Shelley cried as they walked through the kitchen door.

“Hello, darlings.” Her mother poked her head into the kitchen. “Has anybody seen Harvey? He was supposed to pick up those extra folding chairs and now he’s disappeared.” She flew back out without waiting for an answer.

Delilah bustled over and took the chocolate-covered matzo from Nina and set it with the other desserts. Hands on hips, she gave Nina a once-over. “Why, I do believe you’re starting to actually
look
Jewish,” she said. “Before you know it, you’re going to be standing under a
chuppah
”—she pronounced the Hebrew word for a wedding canopy with the appropriate
kh
sound—“I’m going to get me a front-row seat for that.”

While her mother flitted in and out of the kitchen with Sarah Mendelsohn at her heels, Delilah put Shelley and Nina to work setting up the seder plates that would be placed on each table. Judy peeled hard-boiled eggs while Great-aunt Sonya counted out bowls for saltwater and broke off tiny branches of parsley. Matzo ball soup simmered on the stove, and jars of gefilte fish sat on the counter next to plates dressed with lettuce leaves and horseradish.

Shelley moved to her sister and gave her a hug. “My condo’s getting kind of messy. Anytime you’d like to come over and organize me again . . .”

“Ha,” she said. “My focus right now is teaching my husband and sons how to organize themselves. No more picking up after everyone and feeling like a doormat.” Her eyes glowed; Shelley couldn’t remember ever seeing her so happy. “I’m taking a month to whip them into shape, and then I’m putting out my event-planning shingle.”

“Good for you.” Glad her sister had found her way, Shelley fought back the automatic twinge of envy. Her sister’s life was so together—for real this time, not just on the outside—while hers was still so uncertain. Her eyes narrowed. “What did you bring for the seder?”

Judy laughed and reached for the grocery bags beside her. One by one she lifted out the boxes of matzo that were her contribution to the meal. She crossed her heart and raised her palm solemnly. “I did not bake a single thing.”

“No flourless chocolate cake? No sponge anything?”

“It never even crossed my mind.”

They high-fived and went back to work.

An hour later the tables, which stretched throughout the living room and dining room like some great cloth-covered train, were set and ready, and the rest of the guests began to arrive. The men, knowing better than to set foot in the overcrowded kitchen, milled together in the family room. They munched chopped liver on matzo crackers and pretended not to watch the Braves game on Harvey’s big-screen TV.

Shelley left the kitchen to hug her father hello and have a word with Rabbi Jordan. Great-aunt Sonya’s egretlike boyfriend, Horace Zinn, was talking to Howard Mellnick. Shelley’s brother-in-law arrived with her nephews, and she couldn’t help noticing he wore the same loopy smile her sister had on. Soon a small herd of kids were romping through the house, tromping down to the basement for Ping-Pong and video games. A baby’s cry pierced the room, and she found Uncle Abe cradling his newest grandson in his arms.

On her way back to the kitchen, Shelley swooped down on the head table and switched two place cards. Even God had sent an angel occasionally to set things up for him.

Just when the decibel level threatened to reach the breaking point, Miriam Schwartz came out of the kitchen with her bevy of helpers clustered around her. “Shall we begin?” she said, and then everyone went about searching out their seat assignments, settling kids at age-appropriate tables—close enough for supervision, far enough away to allow for enjoyment.

“Oh!” Nina yelped with pleasure when she saw her dining companions. Shelley was pleased to see that the rabbi’s small frown of displeasure was countered by Howard Mellnick’s warm smile.

Shelley took in the faces surrounding her, most of them as familiar as her own, but with a few unknowns to help leaven the meal. Thank God her mother had not felt the need to shove someone acceptable at her right now; she had all she could handle trying to figure out her life and forget about Ross Morgan. The thought of beginning anew both energized and terrified her.

Her father, as leader of the service, reclined slightly on a pillow. At the opposite end of the head table, Rabbi Jordan did the same. Soon her youngest nephew would ask the first of the four questions: “Why is this night different from all other nights?” The evening would be spent in the ceremonial answering of those questions.

It was then that she noticed the two empty seats in the middle of the long table; a heartbeat after that, the doorbell rang. Her father stood and walked to the front door.

When he opened it, Ross Morgan and a woman who looked old enough to be his mother stepped into the room.

Shelley gasped as her father clapped Ross on the shoulder, embraced the older woman as if she were a long-lost friend, and led them forward. “Everybody, this is Patricia Morganstern and her son, Ross.”

Ross smiled a casual hello. “Sorry we’re late. My mother’s flight was delayed.”

Conversation resumed around her, but Shelley barely heard it. She watched in amazement as Ross Morgan politely seated his mother and then took his own chair opposite her. Ross Morgan had a mother and her name was Morganstern. And they were here for Passover.

That meant Ross Morgan was . . .

He placed his napkin on his lap and picked up his Haggadah, the Passover prayer book, not having to think twice about the fact that it would be read from right to left.

Ross Morgan, the tall, blond, athletic man whom she wanted to hate and whom—much to her dismay—she continued to lust after and think about, was JEWISH.

How could she not have known this?

And why did she have to know this now?

She swung her gaze to her mother, who made a point of not looking back. Her father avoided her gaze, too. The only one looking right at her was the one person she couldn’t believe was here. He sent her an inappropriately saucy wink and then settled back in his chair. A moment later the seder began.

Shelley heard none of it. Not the retelling of her ancestors’ backbreaking life under the cruel Pharaoh of Egypt, not the ten plagues that God brought down on the Egyptians to free the Jews, not even the parting of the Red Sea after Moses, with God’s help, forced the Pharaoh to let his people go.

She roused momentarily when Nina, who was called on to read responsively during the service, did so in flawless Hebrew, much to Rabbi Jordan’s amazement. And again later when Howard Mellnick offered a thumbs-up to Nina, who was chosen to open the front door for the spirit of Elijah and who led the singing of the hauntingly beautiful Hebrew song that was sung to him.

But mostly her mind was stuck on one unavoidable fact: Ross Morgan was JEWISH, and her parents had known it all along.

Worse, Ross Morgan was exactly the sort of man her parents would have chosen for her had she not been rejecting the exact sort of man her parents would have chosen for her. He was exactly the sort of man her father would have—make that HAD—chosen as a son and successor.

It was absolutely and completely MACHIAVELLIAN. Which meant there was only one person in this universe who could have come up with it.

chapter
32

A
t the conclusion of the seder, Shelley got up from the table and walked, on rubbery legs, upstairs to her childhood bedroom. She stayed there for a long time, sitting on the pink floral-covered twin bed and staring at her reflection in the white oval mirror over the dresser.

She ignored Nina and her sister when they called to her through the door. Howard Mellnick knew better than to try to talk her out.

Downstairs, the kitchen door swung open and closed and there was the murmur of voices and the clatter of silverware as the tables got cleared and the evening drew to a close.

The spoiled, immature part of her wanted to fling herself down the stairs so that she could shriek out her anger and humiliation. She pictured her family’s faces if she were to do that, then imagined Howard Mellnick’s embarrassment; imagined him handing her parents back all the money they’d spent on her counseling sessions. “I tried,” he’d say, “but she refuses to grow up.”

“No,” she said aloud. “No more steps back.” She’d taken so many she should be in Florida by now.

And why, exactly, was she so upset? Because she’d been manipulated and kept in the dark? Her mother’s specialty was manipulating the members of her family for their own good. It was a fact of life. What would having a scene about it accomplish?

By nine-thirty people had started to leave. She knew she should go down and at least pretend to be an adult, but she couldn’t seem to make herself move.

“Shelley?” Ross Morgan’s voice startled her out of her reverie. “Are you coming out?”

“No!”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Go away!” she shouted, feeling incredibly stupid. “And don’t call me silly!”

She waited for the sound of retreating footsteps but there were none. The doorknob turned and the door opened. Ross Morgan stepped inside.

“I’m Jewish,” he said, “and I have a mother. It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, which must be why no one bothered to mention it to me.”

He came closer and stopped in front of the bed.

She didn’t ask him to sit down. She was too angry and embarrassed to make anything easy for him.

“There are a few other things that haven’t been mentioned yet,” he said, “and I guess this is as good a time as any to mention them.”

She shrugged. Her reflection in the mirror told her she was putting on a pretty good show of indifference.

“For one thing,” he said, “I didn’t come into Schwartz and Associates with the goal of ousting you. I was given an opportunity that meant everything to me at the time, and I took it.” He paused, obviously searching for the right words. “I wasn’t attempting to take your place or steal your father’s affections—not that I ever could. Believe me, if anyone understands the importance of a father/child relationship, it’s me.”

She stared at him, mute. It was one of the first personal things he’d ever told her. She sensed its importance, saw the promise of more in his eyes, but she was holding so tightly to the shreds of her indignation she couldn’t grasp on to anything else.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Ross said. “I wasn’t trying to string you along or make you jump through hoops. It just seems to have worked out that way.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t the cocky grin she was used to. “You definitely proved yourself, Shelley.” His smile turned rueful. “You may have done it just to spite me, but you did it. You’d be dammed good at running an agency. I’m truly sorry it won’t be your father’s.”

She felt herself soften, but resisted it. Much safer to let him remain “the obstacle” or “the enemy.” Lust was one thing, the feelings he was tugging on right now were much more vulnerable.

Shelley rose to face him. Ignoring the promise she saw in his eyes, she reminded herself that she was the injured party; she was the one who’d been duped. It was easy enough to be magnanimous when you had won so handily. “Is that it?” she asked.