Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Tzipi now understood why Kara never missed the Matzo Baller.
She totally got it. The collective community, all sanctified by the commandments to kindle the Hanukkah lights, made her feel part of a powerful thing.
It wasn’t even an important holiday, religiously speaking.
But gazing down on the menorah and the crowd, and hearing Max next to her, matching her word for word, made her feel like Judaism was their own superpower.
Los Angeles obviously had a big Jewish community, but there was something about New York.
She always noticed it when she visited Kara.
Like a low, hereditary hum amid the hustle and bustle of the city.
But now, on the Matzo Baller? It was harnessed into a concentrated, electric current that ran from bow to stern.
All powered by fryer oil and amped up with sufganiyot sugar.
“Hi, Vanta!”
“Kara, love your dress!”
“Rosie Bloom in da house!”
“Happy Hanukkah, Kara Koff!”
It was sensory overwhelm. Thank goodness for Max.
The bodyguard seemed to know the boat like the back of his hand. Leading her down hidden corridors, taking shortcuts to avoid swirling crowds of revelers. And finding the motherload of that addicting appetizer.
Luckily, the dress so many people were complimenting her on wasn’t the type you had to fluid-restrict or food-deprive yourself for. Especially since the Baller was all about the food, drink and excess of it all.
Girls swung on silks at dizzying heights from the main ballroom. A champagne tower that defied the laws of physics – on a boat? – flowed underneath. Max waved at them with his fork as he guided her back to the deck where the hanukkiah was, so they could see it up close.
It had to be at least twelve feet tall, and felt like a movie prop. At close range, you could see the details in the “flames” of stained glass, lit up as colorful as the Chihuly glass ceiling in the Bellagio Las Vegas. She walked around the base of it, snapping pics and marveling.
“How about a photo of you and the menorah?” Max set down their plates and held out his hand for her phone. “To send to Dr. A.”
“Oh. Sure.” It felt a little weird to be sending photos to Kara’s fiancé, who at this very moment was probably sitting right next to her sister at a Hawaiian luau or somewhere equally exotic.
It’s not like you’re sending nudes, Tiz.
Great, her sister really had taken over her headspace. Talk about role immersion.
Still, she smiled to unlock the phone. Then smiled as her bodyguard aimed it at her.
He walked backwards to get the entire monster menorah in the shot.
She offered up two fingers, flashing what could be interpreted as a peace sign.
Two more nights and you’d better be back in New York lighting the last candle with me, sister.
A pop-up performance had begun on the deck, as a three-piece klezmer band assembled. Friends were grabbing friends, starting to form little dance parties of two and three to the joyful music.
“Show him what he’s missing!” Max called, peering at her from behind her phone. She reached down for the plate he had set out of the shot. Then picked up a ravioli between thumb and pinky, and took a bite with a wink. “Yeah, girl. Make that cold kugel look hawt.”
She doubled over, laughing. What was going to her head more: the champagne, or Max? All she knew was that she hadn’t laughed this much in a long time. He jogged back to her, his grin in the light of the menorah just spectacular.
“Trade ya,” he said, handing back her phone as he reached for the plate. She passed it over with a laugh, and he plucked the last ravioli from it. “Pro tip: they’re even better cold.”
“You’ve got a little…” Tzipi tapped the side of her own mouth with her pinky. “It’s a little crumb, right there.” He mirrored her movements, rubbing the opposite side of his face. “No, other side.”
Her fingertips were there before she knew it, brushing down his beard. Just as his tongue darted between the crease of his lips to capture the offending speck. It was a near miss that still got her pulse pounding.
“That’s me. Bringing sexy – and breadcrumb – back.”
His joke helped release the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
He’d do the same for me, she reasoned. After all, the guy who was supposed to trail you like toilet paper on a shoe wouldn’t actually let you walk around with a piece stuck to it, right?
Riiiiight. Just keep telling yourself that.
The music was getting louder, the crowd getting bigger, but their little spot lit by the menorah felt like an oasis. She could see its flames reflected in his glasses as he gazed down at her with that irresistible smile.
Kara hadn’t mentioned rapport, she hadn’t mentioned banter. And she certainly hadn’t mentioned chemistry. The only thing she had said…was that Max was Jewish.
And that people wouldn’t blink twice if he had to hora dance in the line of duty.
“Well, time to work off all that schmaltz.” She cast a glance over her shoulder as the serpentine of dancers got closer. Then back to Max.
“I think Talia uses olive oi – oy vey.” Her dare must’ve dawned on him. “Are you serious?”
The only way to answer that was with laughter, as she reached her hand toward the circle and was instantly pulled in by an eager octogenarian. Away from the menorah, away from Max, and into the chaos that was a hora.
Tzipi barely had time to fall into the three-steps-one-way, one-step-back routine before the circle reversed.
The girl on her other side didn’t get the memo and their grasp slipped as Tzipi was pulled, laughing, in the new direction.
But she felt a warm, much larger palm slip into hers.
Their fingers curled reflexively as Max inserted himself into the circle.
He made sure to catch the floundering girl with his broad reach and get her back in step. A solid anchor.
“Way to keep me on my toes, Koff!” His grumble was good-natured.
For such a big guy, Max was light on his feet. Tzipi couldn’t help but notice how he twisted in perfect step with her, keeping the pace, even though his paces were normally much longer than everyone else’s.
“No twenty minute rule between eating and dancing,” she called, but her voice may have been lost to the wind as they whirled closer to the railing.
It wasn’t the perfect hora swirl due to the confines of the deck, but they managed another counter-clockwise transition before pulling their arms up and in, shuffling to the center together and backing away. And again. And again.
The heat of him, the scent of aftershave as her knuckles brushed up against his cheek when they crowded to the middle, and that amused, ever-present chuckle – it all enveloped her.
The klezmer band picked up the tempo, and it was met with hooting, hollering and clapping. Then a collective gasp, and Tzipi quickly realized she wasn’t the only quote-unquote celebrity in the mix.
“Avi! Avi Wolfson!” The girl on Max’s left was trying to dance and film at the same time, her hand fumbling to hold her phone steady as the very-recognizable singer entered the nucleus, spun on his heel and pointed straight at the tallest guy in the circle.
Max gave a get the fuck outta here look if Tzipi had ever seen one, crossing his arms and scoffing. The guy did him one better; crossing his own arms and attempting a Russian kick – one, two – before popping back up, challenge in his dark eyes.
“Hold this?”
Tzipi barely had time to adjust to the welcome weight of Max’s tux jacket on her shoulders before her bodyguard joined the singer, rolling his white shirt sleeves in the process. The two men circled each other, then clasped each other’s shoulders.
And then they dropped.
The crowd went wild at the synchronized move. Avi’s squat was fluid, confident…ever the rock and roll showman. But Max’s was more impressive, crouching even lower, so they could stay aligned and kick with precision. One-two-pause-switch.
Tzipi couldn’t imagine the thigh muscles needed to sustain that move.
But now she couldn’t not imagine Max’s powerful, thick thighs beneath his tux trousers. Preferably in black boxer briefs, with golden hairs dusting –
Get your mind out of his trousers!
She gave a scolding shiver, sliding her arms into the wide sleeves of his coat in a show of nonchalance while the men continued, hands locked on shoulders like brothers-in-arms, as they went up-down and round and round to the clapping in unison of the on-lookers.
Like they had done it a thousand times before.
And maybe they had. For all she knew, Max moonlighted. His agency could certainly be used by the likes of Avi Wolfson. Or maybe he just knew him from returning to the boat, year after year. Because of her.
The girl with the phone screamed like she was at a Painted Doors concert.
Her long fingernails pincered her screen so she could zoom in on the object of her affection.
Probably pixelating the guy’s nostril hairs as she snapped pic after pic.
Cropping Max out. No doubt already curating in her mind how she would tell her friends about her epic night in the company of a rock star.
It reminded Tzipi of Kara’s “they take stories home” comment. No doubt there were already several stealthy shots taken of her. All the more reason to stay in character.
Max wasn’t making it easy.
“Dude, am I in your wet dream right now? Kara Koff!”
How Avi was kicking and talking at the same time, Jonah didn’t know. He was just trying to not fall on his ass in front of God and Kara and everyone at the moment.
“Crazy, right?” he managed to puff out.