Chapter 5 #3
Jay grimaced. “Actually, I was going to say I need to track down the caricature artist. I forgot all about the cookie assistant.”
Ezra slung a cajoling arm around his shoulders. “Micah is great with the temple youth arts and crafts nights. Could he lend a hand with the cookies?”
Micah shrugged out of his grip. “Sorry, I need both of my hands to stuff my face with brisket, fried kugel ravioli, and knishes.” And donuts, all the donuts, although they couldn’t possibly be as good as the toe-curling raspberry jelly-filled wonders Libby had made for him.
“It’s an eight-hour cruise, Rabbi Wasserman. There’s plenty of time to eat. Be a mensch.” Ezra was using his senior rabbi voice. Micah wasn’t being volunteered; he was being volun-told.
Oh well, it’s a mitzvah. Decorating cookies was well within his skill set, although Ezra didn’t know it. How different could frosting be from paint? He forced a smile. “I’m happy to help.”
“Really? Thanks, man!” Jay beamed at him. “I’m going to be putting out fires all night, or I’d assist myself. I did it last year. It’s a fun time. Maybe she even has my special apron for you to wear—”
He broke off at the sound of his name, called in an urgent tone from across the deck. Micah saw a twenty-something guy with a buzz cut waving his arms frantically.
Jay gulped. “That’s my new event coordinator. This night is gonna be fire, all right.”
“I’ll show Rabbi Wasserman where to go,” Rebecca offered.
“Thanks, Reba.” Jay was off like a shot.
“We’re right behind you,” Ezra motioned them ahead. “I see fried kugel ravioli over there.”
“Grab one for me!” Micah called over his shoulder as Rebecca steered him toward the corner of the salon.
“Tell me about Palm Beach. I’ve never been there.” Rebecca’s green eyes were wide and friendly, guileless. He must have imagined that smirk.
“My parents have a condo on the beach, and they let me use it when they’re on vacation every year.”
“You don’t say? Where did they go? I would think Palm Beach would be heaven in December.”
“It is,” Micah responded, thinking of Libby. Heaven is an understatement. “But they have friends in Barcelona they’ve wanted to visit for years. They finally took the plunge.”
She chuckled. “Barcelona is on my bucket list. So many fantastic art galleries.”
He swallowed the lump of panic in his throat and nodded. “So you’re the director at Brightworks? That’s amazing. What’s your favorite thing about your job?” C’mon, Micah, get her talking, so you don’t have to tell any lies.
“Discovering new artists is my jam. Do you like art?”
“Love it,” he said truthfully.
“Then you and Libby, the chef doing the cookie class, will have a lot to talk about. She’s an art lover, too.”
He’d lost the beginning of her sentence as a shout went up from the crowd surrounding the aerialist suspended over the champagne tower, filling glasses for their launch.
Had she said the name Libby? No way. That would be a wild coincidence.
It wasn’t a common name these days. What was the chance the pastry chef on the Matzo Baller was his Libby?
His heart thumped. “I’m sorry—what did you say her name was?
” he asked just as they reached a white-coated chef bent over a table in the corner of the salon.
Scarlet fabric fell to mid-thigh, revealing her incredible legs.
Jewels sparkled on strappy heels that reminded him of the sandals she’d been wearing when they met.
“Libby.” Rebecca’s green eyes gleamed and her lips stretched into a knowing grin. “Libby Sugarman, our peripatetic pastry-chef-to-the-stars and Palm Beach shower lover, or so I’ve heard.”
A very familiar brunette head turned, and violet eyes rolled skyward. “Rebecca, seriously?! You are the last person I’d expect to talk shit about my sex life, you wall-banging hussy.”
Her laughing gaze focused on him, and her jaw dropped. “Mike? What are you doing here?” She raised her arms, coming toward him.
“Libby?” he choked out.
Her smile lit the entire salon, sparking instant, answering joy in his heart. He hadn’t realized how dull his world had been since he’d returned to New York until she smiled at him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ezra approaching. Instantly, his body iced.
This wasn’t Palm Beach. He wasn’t M. Waterman here, and Libby knew things about him no one else did.
She could ruin me.
He stuck out his hand, begging her with his eyes. “Nice to meet you.”
Libby halted suddenly, staring at his hand.
Her arms dropped, and her smile flattened. Her gaze rose to his tie—blue with a subtle dreidel pattern—and stayed there. Her brow furrowed, and then her small, strong hand slid into his.
A shock jolted through him, and he clutched her fingers. One mention of his paintings, and his world would unravel. His parents would find out. Ezra would no longer trust him as a spiritual leader. His refuge would become his shame.
“Micah, you didn’t tell us you had so many friends on the boat,” Ezra said.
Words jammed his throat. He was squeezing her hand too hard, but he couldn’t let go. It felt like she was anchoring him in a storm he hadn’t seen coming.
“We aren’t friends.” Libby yanked her hand out of his and stepped back. “Actually, I thought he was someone else. Rebecca, would you mind making introductions?” Her voice was distant, polite, and colder than the icy sweat dripping down his sides under his shirt.
Without her touch, he felt bereft, which made no sense. Libby hadn’t outed him. She’d kept his secret. Why did he feel like his life was over?
Rebecca’s shocked expression morphed into smooth cordiality.
“Libby, this is Rabbi Micah Wasserman. He’s the newest staff member at Jay’s temple.
Rabbi, meet Libby Sugarman, OG Matzo Baller and world-famous pastry chef.
” Swiftly, she made the rest of the introductions.
“Libby, I thought Micah could assist you with your cookie class, but somehow I thought you two were acquainted. Rabbi, you’re off the hook. Enjoy the party.”
It was a clear dismissal. Escaping this situation without Libby exposing him as an artist was what he’d wanted. He should be breathing a sigh of relief and dragging his temple friends to the nearest buffet. Instead, his feet felt frozen in place.
“OG Matzo Baller, huh?” Ezra said to Libby. “I see your all-access black wristband. Does that mean you were on the first cruise?”
“Yes.” Libby’s smile was strained. “But it was just the eight of us on a forty-foot power catamaran, trying to light candles at ten knots. The candles sputtered out, and we got lit, instead. The pictures Sylvie Shapiro took that night could be serious blackmail material.” She turned to Rebecca. “Has Jay ever shown them to you?”
Rebecca looked up from her phone screen, frowning. “Sorry—what? Jay is blowing up my phone. We launch in five minutes, and the caricature artist still hasn’t checked in.”
A loud yell went up outside on deck. Several more angry shouts followed.
Both women frowned.
“What was that?” Libby asked.
Rebecca checked her phone. “I need to see what’s going on—”
“I’ll go with you.” Libby darted around the table. “It was nice to meet you all.” Her gaze caught his, spearing him briefly before they rushed toward the door, moving through the crowd like water.
“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Micah said. “I—”
“No need to explain.” Ezra cut him off with a chuckle. “We could feel the sparks from here. Go have fun.” He winked. “Wish they’d had this cruise when I was your age.”
“Me, too.” Miriam dug an elbow into her husband’s side. “Maybe I could have landed a rich doctor instead of a poor rabbi.” Then she linked their elbows and hauled him away, winking at Micah over her shoulder.
Sparks? Ha. Those two hadn’t seen sparks unless they had come from Libby’s fiery glare as she’d left him in her dust, which is exactly what he deserved. He’d handled that horribly.
He scrubbed his hands over his face, like he could wipe away the memory of her bewilderment, her justified anger. With his back to the wall, he’d denied knowing her rather than trust her to keep his secret.
But it was more than that. He’d hurt her to protect his reputation.
If it’s bashert, you’ll know. Ezra’s words haunted him.
Libby wasn’t his soulmate, but somehow, in the short time he’d known her, he’d begun to care about her.
He should have known better than to believe he could have a casual fling.
Pretending to be Mike didn’t actually change who he was at heart.
He would never have been intimate with her if he hadn’t felt a connection.
A connection he’d destroyed by acting like she didn’t matter to him when what they had shared had made him feel truly seen—maybe for the first time in his life.
He had to make this right.
He followed the crowd moving out on deck, searching for a glimpse of her brown hair and red dress in the sea of glamorous partiers. He owed her an apology, several, actually.
He should have texted. Called. Asked to see her again.
The reasons why he hadn’t crowded his mind.
Libby only knew a fraction of him, a ruse he couldn’t keep up.
Being with her had made him want to spend more time painting, and it simply wasn’t possible.
He’d been hiding M. Waterman for so long that anything connected to him felt forbidden.
But the feelings Libby inspired in him did not belong in the dark.
Admitting that was going to cost him, but denying the truth no longer felt possible.
He only hoped she’d give him a chance to explain.