Chapter 1 #2
Alfie held her hopes in his hands. Her armpits prickled with sweat. Palm Beach or bust. She hadn’t known how badly she needed a break—and a chance to relax—until this exact second. Plus, delaying her flight would throw off her donut-making schedule.
“Let me ask Klara.”
While he texted, she opened her graphic design app and sketched her vision, a sleek, five-tier cake that combined elements of English austerity and Austrian elegance with a flowing half-sugar, half-heirloom rose cascade down the front of the cake.
Freaking glorious.
Her gaze flowed over the design she’d created, seeking flaws and finding none. Alfie and Klara have to say yes. She wanted them to agree so she’d make her flight, but she was also truly excited to bring her vision to life.
“I’m sorry, Libby. Klara really has her heart set on the sugar flower design.”
Her heart sank, and her mind spiraled down with it. The cake is going to be boring, and when they see it, they’ll hate it. I’ll miss my flight. I’ll never meet Waterman, and my cakes next year will be just as tired as my cakes this year.
That was the crux of her problem—burnout. She needed a break, an inspiration-filled, well-filling vacation, or she would never make it through the rest of the holiday event season with her spirit intact.
Libby cleared her throat. “Klara only loves that design because she hasn’t seen this one.” She texted the mock-up to their group chat and crossed her fingers and toes.
Sadly, outrageous, last-minute requests were the norm, not the exception, for most weddings.
She was used to this nonsense, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.
On the bright side, if Klara and Alfie wanted to go with the boring design, at least she’d be in Manhattan should anything happen to the cake post-delivery and pre-wedding, God forbid.
Her flight took off twenty minutes before they began their vows, and she was nervous about not seeing the cake through the wedding reception.
The hotel pastry chef had promised to handle any disasters, but still.
Klara and Alfie were shelling out big bucks for this cake.
Speaking of money… “I must remind you that changing the cake within twenty-four hours of the wedding activates my bonus clause, but if you choose my new design, I’d be willing to waive that fee.
I’d really like to put this unique cake in my portfolio.
” It captured the essence of Waterman’s art, an homage to stark lines melded with voluptuous colors and curves.
Maybe she would name this design after him, provided she got the chance to create it.
Alfie was silent, probably having a muted back and forth with Klara, oblivious to the fact that Libby’s holiday sanity hung in the balance. She took one last wistful look at the flight app.
A tear rolled down her cheek, which was stupid, and she wiped it away with the sleeve of her chef’s coat. First world problem, Lib. Suck it up.
If she had to miss the exhibit kick-off, she’d channel her disappointment into creating the most glorious pulled sugar flowers of her career. The design might seem boring now that she’d come up with the new one, but it was still beautiful, one of her best.
Alfie’s voice blasted her out of her pep talk. “Is it too late to add petit fours? Klara’s asking.”
“Happy to do it.” In for a penny, in for a pound. At least those were in the freezer and just needed a layer of fondant.
Her phone pinged, and she glanced at the screen.
A heart appeared on the new cake design.
Her breath caught, and her heart hammered. “Does that mean what I think it means?” she asked.
“We love our new design and can’t wait to see it tomorrow.” Libby was so relieved, his smug appropriation of her concept didn’t ruffle a single nerve.
“Fantastic! I’m thrilled for this opportunity.” She repeated that sentiment in a quick text to Klara in their group chat.
“Thank you, Libby. We really appreciate your flexibility.” He ended the call.
Alfie, you have no idea. She sank onto the stool next to her workstation. What have I done?
Even as she’d lobbied for it, she’d known changing directions would be challenging, but she was going to move heaven and earth—and isomalt and luster dust—to make their cake absolute perfection.
Too bad Hanukkah doesn’t start until Monday night. Because I’m going to need a miracle to make my flight.
Rabbi Micah Wasserman opened one eye and then shut it again. Judging by the bright Palm Beach sun flooding his makeshift studio, it was well after noon.
Canvases were propped against every wall, displaying the beginning of his next series.
He didn’t have to open his eyes again to see them.
What was on the canvases didn’t hold a candle to what he could see in his mind’s eye.
He’d used pencil, charcoal, and even a black marker once when his muse bum-rushed him when he was in the kitchen shoveling yogurt into his face.
All the sketches were bare bones, lines waiting for flesh, arresting images only he could see. He had enough work to keep him busy for months, maybe even all year, and the compulsion had eased, leaving him exhausted.
He felt for his phone, first in his pocket, since he was still wearing jeans, then under the couch, where he must have finally collapsed, but it was nowhere to be found.
Growling, he opened both eyes, blinking and muttering a curse. He needed coffee. An entire pot of it—and food. It had been days since his last real meal.
Grunting, he found his phone beneath him, digging into his hip, the battery dead.
He rolled off the couch onto all fours on the floor, flexing and arching his spine like that yoga guru he’d met during his vacation a few years ago had taught him.
He got his feet under him and pushed upright, rolling his neck and catching a whiff of himself.
If he painted that smell, it would be a skunk with its tail on fire, acrid and alarming.
He plugged his phone in, left it on the desk in the corner, and staggered into the kitchen.
A disaster greeted him. Not only was the tub of yogurt still sitting out on the counter, but the fridge was open.
A dull beep sounded intermittently, as if it had been going on so long, it had given up hope of being noticed.
He shut the fridge, grabbed the garbage can, and pushed trash off the counter until he had enough room to make coffee.
His stomach rumbled loudly, and he surveyed the wreckage, hoping to find enough unspoiled food for a meal. He unearthed an apple under a sad pile of brown-speckled bananas, gave it a rinse, and jammed it into his mouth.
His phone rang, apparently having charged enough to come screaming back to life.
He ignored the summons. No one needed to talk to him until he’d caffeinated, stabilized his blood sugar, and figured out what day it was. Had he missed opening night? Surely Sol, the gallery owner, would have come knocking since he’d given him the address of his parents’ condo—just in case.
The coffee maker beeped, and he grabbed a cup, poured, and took a careful sip.
Barukh HaShem, that’s good. His parents stocked the best. Then he reached for his phone.
As much as he wanted to disconnect, he couldn’t.
One of the other rabbis was handling Shabbat services and responding to non-urgent calls and emails, but Micah was always available for emergencies.
He might be enjoying a week in his parents’ beachfront condo while they were in Barcelona, but he was a new-ish associate rabbi at Temple Beth Hatikvah, a thriving Reform synagogue in Midtown Manhattan, and he didn’t want to shirk his responsibilities completely.
He checked his phone. It was Saturday, the opening night for his exhibit—a win. He hadn’t accidentally painted through the event.
His voicemail displayed only one message, and it was from Sol—another win.
He’d met the eccentric gallery owner last year when he’d been wandering in a shop, admiring the most eclectic collection of paintings he’d ever seen.
When Micah had admitted his hobby and reluctantly shared a few photos of his paintings, Sol begged to show his work.
Micah rarely visited his parents in Palm Beach because they loved coming to New York to visit their son, the rabbi.
Since no one knew him as “the rabbi” down here, the temptation to slip into the role of a real artist—if only for a night—had been too much to turn down.
Micah had agreed to the showing, providing that Sol was willing to wait until his parents’ next vacation.
He slugged coffee until his mind cleared of cobwebs, and then returned Sol’s call, answering his questions about gallery lighting like he had any idea how his paintings would look on an actual wall instead of stacked in his closets, and getting two iron-clad promises: no one would be permitted to take pictures, and he would not be introduced as the artist. It would be just his luck if one of his parents’ friends recognized him from a random picture taken at the event.
Not for the first time, he wished his muse were obsessed with Jewish relics instead of the human form. Bodies were holy too, but he doubted his mother—or Beth Hatikvah’s board of trustees—would see it that way.
He refilled his coffee cup and surveyed the canvas propped up against the kitchen wall, the one he’d sketched in black marker. Joy surged through him, making his pulse race and his blood heat. The urge to paint felt very similar to arousal, and it inspired the same drive to push to completion.
He flexed his aching hands and circled his tired wrists. He glanced at the time and sniffed his pits cautiously. He didn’t smell that bad. He could paint for a few hours and still have time for a shower.
He carried the canvas to his easel.
Humming happily, he opened a tube of paint and lost himself to inspiration.