Chapter Twelve
I glance around the crowded room and smile in gratitude. The Chanukah party is underway, and thanks to my hard work and amazing networking skills, I found the perfect venue.
“Thank you everyone for coming tonight,” I say, raising my voice over the chatter.
“We have lots of fun activities planned. But before we get this party started, I want to give a special shoutout to our generous host, Caleb Kahn, who practically begged me to use his house for tonight’s event.
” I clap and grin at Caleb, who rolls his eyes good-naturedly at me.
While it’s true that he said “Hell no” and “Over my dead body” the first ten times I asked, somewhere between the twentieth and thirtieth time, he caved in and said, “Fine. But you owe me.”
I knew he’d come around.
Once the applause dies down, I add, “Caleb is going to light the menorah now, and then tell the story of Chanukah. And after that, we can get this par-tay started.” I add a woo hoo and wave my hands like a dorky parent chaperone at a school dance.
Caleb must agree because he pauses lighting the menorah to glance at me with a pained expression.
I can hardly believe how many people showed up.
It was a brilliant move on my part to have Caleb host the party because every eligible female between the ages of eighteen and eighty signed up.
When word got around about the number of women going, the men swiftly joined too.
And because the main floor and finished basement are about 4,000 square feet combined, there’s plenty of space for people to move about comfortably.
“. . . leh-hahd-lik nayr cha-noo-kah,” Caleb sings in his beautiful melodic voice, standing before the giant eight-branched candelabra in front of his living room window for all the world to see.
The miracle of how a single jar of oil lasted for eight nights following the Greeks’ destruction of the Temple, never fails to inspire me.
It’s a reminder that light will always outshine the darkness.
And placing the menorah in front of a window is a signal and prompt to be proud to be Jewish, especially in times of hardship.
After Caleb lights three candles—because it is the third night of Chanukah—the fifty or so people in the room sing and clap to Hanerot Halalu.
Based on how the singles are dressed, there’s a mix of observance among the group.
Some of the men are wearing yarmulkes on their heads, and a few women are too.
Some are dressed so modestly that everything from their collar bones to their ankles is covered, while others are wearing plunging necklines and miniskirts.
There are two men near me sporting beards and long, curly sideburns, but instead of wearing the traditional Hasidic garb, they’re in T-shirts and jeans. Hasidic hipsters.
I’m always taken aback when other people are surprised that Orthodox people are quite varied. The media tends to box us all together in one way, when in fact, there’s a huge range of observance and traditions within the Orthodox community.
Caleb commands the room, describing how Antiochus IV had banned Jews from practicing Judaism, killing those who disobeyed, and plundered the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. I smile, watching how everyone hangs on to his every word.
I glance across the hallway to the dining room where servers are putting the finishing touches to the buffet table.
“Sissel,” I whisper-yell, bending backwards to see her. Unlike me, she isn’t trapped in a crowd of people. “Can you make sure that they have pink applesauce for the latkes?”
She gestures to the menorah. “Did you forget that women aren’t allowed to work when the candles are lit?”
Ugh. There are times during the year when Jewish women are forbidden to work as a “reward” for being better than men.
Well, not better exactly, just holier. Unlike men who have historically fallen prey to idol worship and other scams, Jewish women have remained steadfast in our belief system and therefore, get credit for our continued existence.
So, yeah. Basically better.
“It’s not work, it’s just asking a simple question,” I say.
“Shhh.” She puts a finger over her lips. “Can’t you see that I’m trying to listen to the story?”
“You already know the story.”
“Yeah, but I’m having fun watching that woman in the green dress eye Caleb like he’s a lollipop she wants to lick.”
“Sissel.”
“Okay, okay. I’m going,” she mutters.
I continue running through my mental checklist when I notice Zevi and Jack huddled in a corner of the room, each wearing a garish holiday sweater. Zevi’s has dreidels on it with the words they see me rolling, and Jack’s sweater has a winking Santa saying, I got ho’s in different area codes.
Everybody’s interest is captured by Caleb’s powerful storytelling—something that doesn’t often happen when there’s a crowd of Jews who have yet to be fed.
But then it’s not every day that Caleb speaks.
He talks with the easy confidence of someone who not only belongs, but has arrived.
You’d never guess by watching him that he still sometimes feels insecure.
I find myself smiling at him. I can’t help but marvel at how the once-bullied kid grew up to be one of the most respected and sought-after men in the community.
People go to him for advice on everything, from halachic questions to where to buy the best bourbon to settling financial disputes.
Even things he has absolutely zero expertise in, like medical stuff. It’s kind of hilarious.
I startle as Sissel taps my arm, and turn to her expectedly. “Don’t freak out, but the caterer left early and none of the servers can get a hold of her. They think she sampled the hard cider a little too much. Also, the third and fourth batches of sufganiyot never came.”
I shake my head. “What?”
“And there are no sugar cookies either. The baker has the flu.”
When I tried calling the caterer I used to work with for events, it went straight to voicemail which wasn’t sketchy at first—until I noticed she had blocked me on social media. And that is how I ended up with a catering company with a 2.4 Yelp review average.
Thank you, Mrs. Schwartz.
“Also did you ask for the latkes to be charred?” Sissel asks, tilting her head. “Or did you just hire an idiot?”
“Charred?” I put my hand over my chest and try to breathe. This is a disaster.
“I told you not to freak out,” she says.
“I’m not freaking out,” I bark, which causes a few heads to swivel.
“Oh, and one of the servers just left because she found out her uncle died. And then another server left to offer emotional support.”
I press my fingers to my forehead. Stay calm. Breathe. It could be worse. At least we have plenty of liquor.
“And the caterer thinks they swiped some of the liquor on their way out,” she adds.
I clench my jaw, and try not to think violent thoughts. After all, I remind myself, the poor girl’s uncle just died. And maybe she was very close to him. Maybe he was like a father to her. Maybe he even raised her—
“And guess what?” Sissel says, lowering her voice when someone shushes her. “The pink-haired guy said that she doesn’t even have an uncle.” She snorts. “What do you think of that?”
“I think I’m going to kill her,” I say firmly, and push my way through the crowd, determined to get my liquor back.
“Ashira, wait!”
I’m almost at the front door when I turn to the sound of Miri’s distressed voice. She looks stunning in a hot-pink dress that perfectly complements the auburn in her hair and brings out the natural rosiness in her cheeks.
“My cousin needs to talk to you,” she says, pointing to a man hovering in the hallway. I can only see his profile, but he looks to be mid-thirties, average height, and good-looking in a clean-cut way. “He’s having a relationship crisis and needs your advice—”
“Can you tell him that I have to do something first? I’ll just be a minute.”
Miri stops me, grabbing my arm, and hisses, “He’s crying.”
I glance at the front door longingly. “Are you sure it isn’t allergies?” I whisper, but it’s too late because she’s already maneuvering me toward him.
“Here she is,” Miri says in a falsely brightly voice. “And don’t worry, Lieber, you’re in good hands. The best,” she adds reassuringly.
Seeing the pain in his eyes, I can tell that this man is suffering a lot more than I am. I force myself to let my anger at the servers go. “Hi,” I say gently, “I’m Ashira.”
“I’m Lieber,” he sniffs. “Sorry to drag you away from everything,” he says, and makes a vague hand gesture.
“No worries, I could use a break anyway. Miri can take over. Right, Miri?” I say, knowing she’s memorized the schedule as much as I have.
“Absolutely.” She nods, but I can detect the panic in her eyes. She’s not big on leadership type roles.
“You’ll do great.” I glance around, trying to think of the best place to talk to him.
Both the main level and the basement are set up for the party, which leaves upstairs as the only option.
I chew on my bottom lip and wonder how bad it would be to use Caleb’s study, given that it’s attached to his bedroom.
(I might have given myself a quick tour of his house while he was at work and I was setting up, but it was strictly for professional reasons.
And I have to say, his underwear drawer is way more organized than mine.) His study does at least have a desk and a couch which is a lot more professional than any of the other bedrooms. Or bathrooms, for that matter.
“There’s an office upstairs we can use,” I say, moving aside the rope at the bottom of the stairs with the ‘do not enter’ sign attached.