Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Libby watched him set up the easel and drag over a two-top table to hold the rainbow assortment of markers.
A middle-aged couple was heading straight for their corner of the salon. Libby recognized them immediately. “Buckle up,” she warned him. “Your first subjects are your boss and his wife.”
He nodded once. “I’m ready.”
Rabbi Ezra beamed at him. “Beth Hatikvah should have charged for your services tonight. I didn’t know you could draw. You should put that on your resume. If the rabbi thing doesn’t work out, you could make a mint at bar and bat mitzvah celebrations.”
“Thanks a lot, Ezra,” Micah said dryly. “I appreciate the reassurance of my job security.”
“Have another drink, dear.” His wife patted his hand. “You’re very entertaining.”
“Thank you, my love.” Ezra gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
Libby chuckled and turned to Micah. “Where would you like them to stand?”
He was already sketching. “Right there is fine. They don’t have to do anything.
” He was laying down strokes so fast his fingers blurred.
His hands moved with quiet authority, fluid and assured, black lines dancing across the page in quick, confident sweeps.
A faint smile played on his lips as he drew.
She couldn’t stop watching. His talent was mesmerizing.
She wasn’t the only one spellbound; a hushed crowd gathered a respectful distance behind the easel. Phones came out. Oh boy.
There were several zones on the Matzo Baller where pictures weren’t permitted, but this wasn’t one of them. Should she ask Rebecca to change their location?
“People are taking pictures,” she said under her breath. “Do you want me to stop them?”
“It’s fine.” He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
What did that mean? Her heart leapt, and her pulse began to thud. Had he taken her urgings to heart? Was he ready to claim M. Waterman?
“What do you think?” Micah beckoned to Ezra and Miriam. He’d drawn the rabbi mid-turn, examining a Torah scroll, while his wife leaned in with puckered lips. It was funny and warm—and stunningly good. It looked just like them, a little younger, a little rounder, but with the same playful vibe.
Miriam clapped her hands to her cheeks. “It’s perfect!”
“Our first date, immortalized.” Rabbi Ezra had clearly had a few drinks, but the look in his eye wasn’t clouded at all. “I’m impressed, Micah. Is this a hobby of yours?”
“Something like that,” Micah’s words were clipped. He was clearly uncomfortable, but he’d told the truth.
Her heart swelled.
“How should we store these?” she asked, rescuing him from further interrogation.
She searched the tote for a clue to what the original artist had in mind, finding a pack of stickers she could use as labels and some extra-long twist-ties.
“If you hand the sketch to me, I’ll roll it up for safekeeping and label it.
Stop back here before we dock to pick it up. ”
“One sec.” Micah leaned to sign the bottom corner, his hand steady as he added the familiar flourish—and elegant looping M and a sweeping W. To anyone else, it was just a signature. But Libby knew.
Her pulse skittered. He’d signed it M. Waterman.
Right here. In public.
He caught her watching and winked, so small and private it stole her breath. Libby busied herself carefully rolling and securing the sketch, but her heart was pounding like a bass drum. Watching him like this—fully himself—did something to her.
This felt like more than the spark of a fling.
They had the kind of heat that lingered, making her imagine what it would be like to celebrate other Jewish holidays with him, see him lead Shabbat services, and have him as a part of her life.
Since when did she want a steady boyfriend?
She was far too busy delivering cakes to celebrity weddings all over the world to free up her weekends for anyone.
“Karaoke when you’re done, Micah?” Rabbi Ezra called.
Micah gave him a thumbs-up.
Over the next hour, the line never thinned.
With only a few minutes of conversation, Micah put his subjects at ease and drew information from them to make their picture unique.
He sketched nonstop—laughter rippling through the crowd as he captured the quirks of his subjects, adding flourishes of unexpected tenderness or humor.
A mother and son. A pair of old friends.
A newly engaged couple surrounded by floating dreidels embellished with hearts. Every finished page earned applause.
Midway through, she darted out to gather food for him to take a quick break, and he smiled at her like she’d handed him the moon. By the time he finished his last caricature, he’d abandoned his jacket, his sleeves were rolled up, and marker smudged his hands.
Rebecca hurried up, just as Micah was about to tear off the last sketch and hand it to Libby.
He’d gone all out on this one. The subjects were florists, married, and celebrating their tenth anniversary on the Matzo Baller cruise.
He’d sketched them a little more true-to-life than his other drawings tonight, and then he’d woven flowers throughout their figures and the background.
It very much resembled an M. Waterman painting in progress. He’d also signed it.
If Rebecca noticed, she didn’t let on. “Rabbi Wasserman, you’ve outdone yourself tonight. You blazed through the reserved slots and racked up another dozen donations. Thank you for allowing last-minute sign-ups.”
Libby glanced at the time on her phone and gasped. “Holy crap! I can’t believe how late it is. No wonder I’m hungry again.” She turned to Micah. “Should we hit the buffets?”
His gaze lifted over her shoulder. She turned to see Rabbi Ezra and the temple crew sitting at a table a few away. “Or are your friends waiting for you?” she asked.
“Probably.” He looked sheepish. “Tonight was supposed to be a team-building event, and I’ve pretty much abandoned them. Want to join us for karaoke?” He arched one brow in a challenge she was tempted to accept, but she had her own obligations.
She shook her head. “I need to check in with Talia and make sure I’m not wanted in the kitchen.”
Rebecca gave her a grateful smile. “I was hoping you’d say that, but I can do it if you’d rather—”
“Nope,” Libby cut in. “I’ve got you.” She caught Rebecca up on the boxed cookies and tied sketches that were labeled for pick-up while Micah packed up the markers and easel.
“We’ll put those back in the office,” Libby said. “Go have fun.”
“Meet me at the menorah at midnight?” Micah asked. “I should have earned some free time by then.”
“Deal.” Her stomach swooped. Oh, she had it bad.
He squeezed her hand, calluses striking sparks on her fingers, and gave her a soft smile.
She watched him walk away. She glanced down at her hand, finding black marker streaks on it. He’d made his mark on her, all right—in more ways than one.
“You’re never going to wash that hand, are you?” Rebecca teased.
Libby made a fist and grinned. “Nope.”
The karaoke room was packed.
Micah nursed an Empress gin and tonic while Ezra crooned the words to “Candle in the Wind.”
His heart was thrumming, restless. He knew spending time with his colleagues was the right thing to do, but he felt Libby’s absence acutely. She was the only one who understood the enormity of what he’d just done.
He’d spent the last hour drawing as Micah—not M.
Waterman. People had seen him—and loved his work.
One woman had asked him to paint her fifty years younger, and the sketch he’d handed her had brought tears to her eyes.
Several people had told him they’d treasure their caricatures, hang them in their homes and offices to remind them of this happy time.
He was elated, but he also felt strangely hollow, like his skin was thinning, and his insides were visible, vulnerable, exposed.
Had Rebecca recognized his signature? Brightworks specialized in emerging artists. Since Libby had known his paintings, there was a good chance Rebecca had seen them, too. She’d said nothing—but she’d given that sketch a very long look before he’d managed to get it rolled up.
Adrenaline shot through him, putting him on edge. Maybe he wasn’t as ready to step into the light as he’d thought. “Rabbi Micah, you’re up next!” Ezra called, snapping him out of his spiral.
The crowd whooped.
Micah groaned and scrubbed a hand through his beard. “Do I have to?”
Ezra beckoned, playing to the crowd. “Did you all see Rabbi Micah light the hanukkiah?”
The cheers and whistles made the metallic gold streamers hanging from the ceiling vibrate.
Micah gauged the distance to the door. Could he make a run for it? He’d assumed he’d get roped into singing with the Beth Hatikvah group, but he hadn’t planned on doing a solo.
“Let’s hear it for Rabbi Micah’s cookie decorating prowess!” Ezra bellowed. “Did you get a chance to decorate with him? And his caricatures! I think he sketched half the boat. After all of his mitzvahs tonight, he’s already a rock star, but I want to see him make it official. How about you?”
That earned a roar of approval. More partiers crowded into the room, blocking his exit. He wasn’t getting out of this.
He stood, drink in hand.
“Ra-bbi! Ra-bbi!” The crowd chanted as he made his way up on stage.
He looked out over the sea of faces, raised his glass, and then drained it. “All right, Rabbi Ezra, what’s my fate?”
The din was so loud he couldn’t hear the music, but the words flashed up on the screen “Don’t Stop Believin’.”
Oh, for God’s sake.
He couldn’t help but laugh. “My very favorite Hanukkah anthem.”
Ezra thrust the microphone into his hand.
Since resistance was futile, he gave it his best shot.
It wasn’t half bad. Ezra joined in midway through, dragging Miriam up on stage. The cantor and her wife lent their voices to the chorus. Most of the room was belting out the words, and when the song ended, the applause was thunderous.
They ceded the stage to the next group and grabbed fresh drinks from the bar.
Miriam patted him on the arm once they were seated at a table in the back of the room. “So, tell me something, Micah. Those caricatures were really something. Where’d you learn to draw like that?”
Micah froze mid-sip. “My older sister taught me.” His earliest memories were of Shiri leaning over his much smaller self, pencil in hand.
He also faintly remembered his parents hiding her sketchbook at homework time.
More vividly, he recalled the drag of his pencil as his mother pulled his notebook away from him— and handed him a Siddur.
The path to success in his family had been clear.
Miriam smiled. “You’ve got real talent. Do you have any finished pieces at home? The temple gallery is small, but we’d love to make room for one of our own. And I bet there are a lot of people in the congregation who would love to learn from you. Have you ever thought about teaching?”
He searched for words that wouldn’t betray too much.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no,” he said carefully.
“It’s just—art is personal for me. Not something I’ve ever felt comfortable teaching or putting on display.
” Not yet, anyway. He needed to talk to Ezra before he got roped into anything.
They might not want him to share what he knew, considering his usual subjects.
His throat tightened. Am I really going to tell Ezra about my art?
Ezra’s wife nodded kindly. “That’s understandable.
Vulnerability isn’t easy. But after what we’ve seen tonight, I think you’ve got a gift.
You made a lot of people happy with your sketches tonight.
I’m going to frame the one you made of us, and I overheard several people saying the same thing.
” She patted his arm again. “Thank you for sharing your gift with us, Micah, especially if it was difficult for you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said around the lump in his throat.
Her gratitude was eye-opening. He’d always thought of painting as his escape, his release, his freedom. It was something he did for himself. Something selfish. Tonight, he’d learned how incredible it felt to share his art with others.
His drawings had made people happy tonight. Even if they hadn’t said it directly, he’d seen it in their smiles. But would they be smiling if they saw what he usually painted?
He imagined the whispers during oneg. The awkwardness that would grow between him and Ezra, as his boss was forced to negotiate the scandal. Eventually, his parents would find out. His sister would call to ask him what he was thinking.
Ezra slid a fresh drink in front of him. “What’s next?”
Micah pushed the what-ifs from his mind. “I’m game for anything.” He still had an hour to kill before he could meet Libby on deck.
“Drag show?” The cantor suggested. “It starts in five minutes. I’ve always wanted to see Matzo Belle. I’ve heard she’s a hoot. Gets the audience up on stage and everything.”
“Maybe Micah can get up there with her,” Ezra teased. “He seems to be in demand tonight.”
“Yeah, thanks to you for volunteering me,” Micah shot back.
“My pleasure—the pretty pastry chef caught your karaoke number, if you were wondering. I saw her in the back of the room, swooning.”
Just my luck. “I hope she enjoyed it because I’m never singing again.”
Ezra chuckled. “Fine, fine, but are you sure you don’t want to lead a craft night for us? Those paint and sip things are all the rage these days. How about it, Micah? Are you any good with a paintbrush?”
His heart stopped. He couldn’t flat-out lie.
Miriam smacked her husband’s arm. “Stop teasing the boy and get moving. I don’t want to miss Matzo Belle.”
She’d saved him for the moment, but Ezra was like a dog with a bone. Once he got his teeth into something, it was almost impossible to get him to drop it.
Ezra was too smart to think his artistic ability sprang out of nowhere, and M.
Waterman wasn’t that far from Micah Wasserman.
What if Ezra searched the internet for clues?
Was he being paranoid? Probably. But if he was going to come clean, he wanted to do it on his timetable.
He didn’t want to get forced out of hiding by his curious boss.
They needed to talk—soon.