Chapter 14 #2
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Jay’s chuckle was diabolical. “You know you’re totally making my matchmaker day, right? You definitely called the right guy for the job. Rabbi Wasserman isn’t going to know what hit him.”
“Thanks, Jaybird.” She ended the call before she could cry again—or freak out.
Because she knew she wanted Micah in her life—on more than a night-by-night basis—but would he still feel the same?
Micah had been in the temple office since dawn, getting organized for the week, and settling into being a new, improved version of Rabbi Wasserman. Thoughts of Libby kept him company.
So did the new painting he’d hung on his office wall, the second one he’d painted last night, an ultra close-up of forget-me-nots in the style of Georgia O’Keeffe. He’d painted them on a curved surface…at eye level. It sent a zing of excitement through him every time he looked at it.
He forced himself back to the spreadsheet in front of him. He was adding a few art-related activities to their January calendar, including the requested paint-and-sip. He’d spent most of the morning replying to the flood of texts, emails, and voicemails that had poured in from congregants.
Rabbi, we support you!
Your art is beautiful!
My husband says you made him look ten years younger in the sketch—can you do our holiday card?
He’d answered every single message and returned every call with gratitude, even though the praise put him on edge. He wasn’t used to being seen like this.
He wasn’t sure how to handle the hundreds of comments on his Instagram post. Responding to them individually would be a full-time job. Instead, he posted a picture of the forget-me-nots with the caption:
We all contain multitudes.
We are allowed to be whole.
We are allowed to shine.
We are allowed to begin again.
Had Libby seen his posts? Something told him she’d reach out when she did, but maybe she’d written him—and M. Waterman—off entirely.
Finally, he reached the end of his voicemails.
He tapped play.
Micah! It’s Sol. Listen, I wanted to tell you in person, but this will have to do. We sold out your show. Everything. Gone. And—uh—most of it went for above asking price. I’ll email the breakdown later. Congratulations, kid. I knew you had it in you.
Micah stared at the phone in his hand.
Sold out.
Above asking.
He sank back in his chair, stunned. They’d talked about pricing, sure. But he’d expected to sell maybe one piece. Two at most.
Not…all of them.
That was a lot of money.
Money that didn’t feel like it belonged to him, really. Those paintings had been made by a different man. The seed of an idea sprouted in his mind, growing and blooming into a perfect solution. He reached for his phone.
Before he could dial, there was a sharp knock on his office door.
“Come in,” he called.
The door swung open.
His parents stepped inside.
Micah shot to his feet. “Mom? Dad? What—how—why—”
“You weren’t answering your phone, Micah.” His mother swept across the room, chunky heels thudding in the carpet. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed both cheeks. “We were worried about you.”
His father nodded, setting a duffel bag on a chair and giving him a brief, hard hug. “You said you’d be in touch.”
“It’s only been a day,” he protested.
“Too long,” his mother said. “We want to see your paintings! We’re thrilled you’re drawing again.
So many people posted pictures with their caricatures from that party.
You did such a good job! And then Shiri sent us those articles—blogs, whatever—about M.
Waterman. And we saw your latest posts. So beautiful, Micah.
When on earth did you learn to paint—and why didn’t you tell us? ”
He blinked. “You’re happy?”
“Of course we’re happy!” she said. “You were always so talented. We never understood why you stopped drawing.”
“You hid my sketchbooks.” The words popped out, from his heart, the past, somewhere carved deep and filled with forgotten emotions. “You didn’t want me to draw. You wanted me to study.”
She blinked at him. “Oh, Micah, my bubbeleh.” She reached up and grabbed his head, dragging him down into her arms. She was a good six inches shorten than his six feet, but he felt completely enveloped as she rocked him back and forth.
“Is that what you thought? I hid them once, Micah. Once. Because you talked back to me, and I got angry. I had no idea you thought I didn’t want you to draw, ever.
I just didn’t want you to fail social studies.
” Her voice caught. She hugged him tighter.
“I’m sorry for doing that now. Of course you should draw, sketch, paint—I want you to do whatever makes you happy. We both do.”
Her words shed light on a dim memory, a moment he’d seen from a much different perspective.
His childhood self must have been a lot like his adult self: nearly impossible to break out of the creative zone.
“I forgive you. I’m so glad to have your support.
It means a lot to me.” He rose to his full height, lifting her off her feet and squeezing her to his chest.
When he set her on the floor, she looked at him expectantly. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, who is the woman in your Instagram post?”
Micah nearly choked on his tongue. “Uh—a friend?”
His mother clearly didn’t buy his story. “Now that I know about your painting, I can guess why there’s blue paint on my otherwise pristine white couch. But what happened to my guest room sheets? Those are not the sheets I bought.”
Oh shit, he thought he’d found a good match for the ones they’d ruined.
His father snorted. “Careful, dear, you might not want to know.”
Micah opened and closed his mouth.
“Stop catching flies and start talking, Micah.” His mother folded her arms and gave him the look, the one that made him squirm like a thirteen-year-old caught looking at…the kind of pictures he painted.
“I—uhh—well—I—”
“Wait,” his mother commanded. She pointed at his dad. “Call Shiri and put her on speaker. She won’t want to miss this.”
His father was already dialing.
Seconds later, his sister’s voice filled the office. “What? I’m on call. Someone better be dying.”
Micah sat down behind his desk and dropped his face into his hands. “Kill me.”
“Micah!” Shiri squealed. “Is that you? Those paintings are smoking hot, baby brother. Who is she?”
He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
Even if he’d wanted to explain, he couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Shiri was monologuing a stream of questions and comments on his work, his mother was interjecting, and his father was beaming silently, probably glad the heat was off him, for once.
Just when Micah thought he wasn’t going to have to answer for anything, his mother turned to him and said, “Well? Who is she?”
Before he could answer, his phone rang in his pocket. He fished it out.
Jay Katz—almost like he’d known Micah had been thinking about him before his office was invaded. “I need to take this,” he said. “It’s Jay Katz, the founder of the Matzo Baller cruise.”
“Put him on speaker! I’d like to meet him,” his mother insisted. “That cruise is famous! Is he handsome? I bet he’s handsome. Does he know your sister is a brilliant doctor?”
“Hi, Jay,” Micah answered, rolling his eyes. “Give me just a second.” He moved the phone away from his mouth. “Mom, I’m not putting him on speaker. This will just take a minute. And he has a serious girlfriend.”
He lifted the phone. “Thanks, I’m back.”
“Did I hear you talking to your mother?” Jay asked.
“Yes, they flew in from Palm Beach in a show of…support.” He still couldn’t believe they were happy about his paintings. All that worry and angst—for nothing. A misunderstanding that had shaped half his life. He wondered how many other people struggled with issues like that in their own lives.
“That’s amazing,” Jay said. “Put me on speaker. I want to tell them what a mensch you were last night.”
Micah sagged, surrendering, and tapped his screen. “Go ahead, if you must. She wanted to meet you anyway.”
“Perfect—you can bring them with you to my parents’ house tomorrow night.
Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Wasserman! Consider yourself invited to our extended family Hanukkah bash.
Your son will be the guest of honor because he was so mensch-y last night.
Have you seen the video of him lighting the menorah on the boat?
He really saved my tuches...” Jay laid it on thick and finally ended with a resounding “You should be proud.”
His mother clasped a hand to her chest. “We are.”
Surreal. He was in his office with his parents, a painting of Libby’s boobs covered in flowers, his sister on speakerphone, and Jay Katz kvelling over him, one big happy family with no secrets. This was his life now. He should be overjoyed—and yet his heart ached.
He wished Libby were really here instead of just his painting of her.
“Is it true your sister is the Jewish Grandma? Will she be there tomorrow? I love her knishes. To die for!” His mother was practically drooling.
“She cooks all day, and Micah’s friend, Libby Sugarman, is making sufganiyot,” Jay threw in casually. “The best you’ll ever have.”
Micah’s heart stopped. “Jay—”
“We’ll be there,” his mother declared. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Same,” Shiri said from his father’s hand. “I’m off shift in an hour. I’ll sleep on the plane.”
“I’ll text Micah the details,” Jay said. “See you all then!”
Just as Jay hung up, Micah realized he’d forgotten to tell him his idea for the Palm Beach money. He’d have to pull him aside tomorrow.
He set his phone on the desk.
“Let’s put a pin in Libby Sugarman for a second,” his mother said, grinning. She held out her hand, and his dad unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out a stack of old, battered sketchbooks.
“You left these under your bedroom rug,” she said. “I knew you’d want them. Hang onto them, darling. I think they’ll be worth a mint someday.”
His vision blurred.
She’d saved them.
She’d seen him—all along—and loved him.
Just as he was.
He pulled her into his arms again. “Thanks, Mom. You have no idea how much it means to me that you guys are happy for me. I thought you’d be disappointed. People will gossip—”
His mother held up her hand. “Micah, you’ve always been so hard on yourself. We never had to say a thing. You wouldn’t accept less than perfection, whether it was attainable or not.”
“Yes,” Shiri’s voice was dry. “It was very irritating. I was the first born and caught all the flak. You came along, the golden child, and proceeded to get straight As, ace your bar mitzvah, and then become a rabbi. Now you’re going to be a famous artist. I can’t win.
You’re all aware I save lives every day, right? ”
“We know, dear,” their mother said. “We’re proud of you, too.”
“Too,” Shiri said sourly. “I always suffer in comparison. Just kidding, Micah. I’m your number one fan.
I won’t tell your girlfriend anything incriminating tomorrow.
I won’t show her your bar mitzvah pictures, either.
Oh wait—yes, I definitely will. Love you.
Bye!” Her cackle abruptly cut off as she ended the call.
Micah sighed. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Libby Sugarman?” His mother arched a brow. “Can we hear about her now?”
“Yes.” He couldn’t avoid it any longer. “She’s a big deal pastry chef, and we met in Palm Beach—” He gave them a wildly edited version of the events of the past week. “She’ll be at the party, but she won’t be happy to see me—I really let her down. I’ll be lucky if she talks to me.”
His mother gave him a squeeze. “How could she resist you? You’re perfect.”
Far from it. But he had returned to his true self, and he was on a path that felt meant for him.
Hope kindled in his heart.
Tomorrow night, he’d walk into that party with his family at his side, his temple behind him, and the truth finally out in the open.
He’d see Libby.
And God willing—she’d still see him, too.