Molly
THE FIRST THING Molly noticed about Jon’s car was the exterior. It was . . . horrible. An old Toyota hatchback that had clearly seen better days. The second thing she noticed was the insanely expensive sound system. The third? The interior. It was spotless, well taken care of. It mattered to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, misinterpreting her awe as judgment. “I’ll eventually replace it, but for now, it works. And that’s what’s important.”
“That’s what I see,” she replied. “Remember, I’m not a museum gal. And the car’s more home than your apartment.” She covered her mouth, trying to keep any other words that might sound judgmental from coming out of it. “I mean . . .”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling back at her. “It’s fine,” he said. “But I get it, though. Actually,” he grinned and settled back into the driver’s seat, putting his seat belt on, “you’ve got me pegged at this point. Apartment’s for sleeping, I spend way too much time in the car, on the road.”
“So it has to feel like home. Or at least nice enough where you can stay in it for an extended period of time without wanting to take an axe to the interior?”
He nodded, checking his mirrors. “Pretty much. This gal’s got a lot of miles on her. I need to be able to drive across the country. Which means nothing that can smell badly goes inside, and it contains a constant supply of music.”
After his heartfelt speech, she wasn’t surprised when shortly after he put the key into the ignition the car started up with a throaty roar.
“So where to?” he asked as they pulled smoothly out of the parking space, toward the parking attendants and the exit.
She wanted to jump up and snarl at the attendants as they rolled their eyes. They had no right to be judgy. If he was an idiot who treated them badly, absolutely. But Jon was a nice guy with a car they had no right to judge. No.
“Where to?”
She shook her head. “Sorry. I think there’s a Bullseye store in the Bronx.”
He nodded, his fingers tapping on the wheel. “Yep. I know that one. And do you want dinner?”
The question came out of nowhere, but she appreciated the thought and him for asking. “Yes,” she replied. “Absolutely.”
His smile reminded her of a menorah on the eighth day of Chanukah. Bright and beautiful. “Excellent,” he said. “Onward and upward.”
Jon
BEFORE PULLING OUT of the parking garage, Jon reached toward the sound system (the only part of the car he’d actually spent time upgrading). He put on some music, from a singer that mixed his favorite styles of Latin music and an old language he was trying to save from extinction.
“This is cool,” she said, making him thrilled.
“Yeah. I like. He’s my current project. Want to give him a bigger platform, but we’ll see what happens. Not sure if my bosses will go for it. But I love listening to him nonetheless. He’s got a great voice.”
Her nonresponse made him wonder if he sounded like a jackass. “Sorry . . . I . . .”
She shook her head and smiled. “No. It’s fine. You’re passionate about what you do, which now I have to assume means you work in the music industry?”
He nodded again after they pulled into the Bullseye parking lot. “Living the dream,” he said as he began searching for a parking space, and actually found one. As he pulled into it, he took a deep breath. “Miracles, they say, right?”
He could see the confusion in her bright green eyes, the slight tilt of her head and the cloudy lack of focus.
“Huh?”
“People who pay attention say that this is the season of light and miracles,” he began, feeling like a piece of city-created propaganda, “which encompasses three of the major holidays that happen now. Diwali, Christmas, and my favorite of them all . . .”
“You mean the amazing holiday that makes my heart and stomach happy at the same time?”
“Are you a Chanukah fan, too?”
She nodded, and his heart beat a little faster in his chest. “My mom had a huge menorah collection; she made some—she was a huge crafter. But she also had this thing—whenever she found a cool one in a store—whether it was a Judaica store or not, she bought it. I guess she was inspired by all her friends who collected Christmas ornaments . . . My dad stored them every year and took them out for her.”
“Mine’s known for her latkes,” he said, his mouth watering at the thought of his mother’s crispy latkes. “The entire neighborhood gathers at my mom’s house on the night she pulls out her Cuisinart. The neighborhood does an exchange; they started it years ago, actually turned it into a huge neighborhood block party after Hurricane Sandy. Someone makes eggnog, a few others make other dishes.” He shook his head as the memories began to overwhelm him. “Wow.”
“My great-aunt, now,” Molly interjected, her voice soft, “she was the best at Chanukah time. She’d bring out the family recipes that she and my grandmother had saved over the years. She . . . she tried to make the holidays, all of them, special . . . oh God.”
He wanted to hug her, just pull her into his arms as the tears started to fall. However, sitting in a car, leaning over a console and under the constraints of a seat belt, didn’t allow him to. He reached for her hand instead.
When she took his hand in hers, he brushed her upper palm with the pad of his thumb and gently caressed her fingers in the poorest substitute ever for a hug. It was all he could manage without mentioning they needed to get out of the car.
Molly
THE SIMPLE GESTURE felt good; Jon’s hand was comfortable in hers, and if Molly was being honest with herself, she would want more than just the feel of his hands on her. She’d stay with the hands for now. Besides, did she really want to leave the idyll of the car to deal with the craziness of the Bullseye store?
She looked out the window and saw the crowd of people in their winter coats on this Thursday afternoon. They filled the parking lot with their happy chatter, despite the cold.
“I think we have to go,” she said. Then she realized what she might possibly have sounded like to Jon. “I mean,” she clarified, “into the store.”
She watched the disappointment and the relief chase each other off of his face, as if she’d managed to destroy his afternoon and then remake it all at the same time. It was a simple shopping trip, she told herself. She needed his car, and the only reason he was touching her was because memories of holidays she’d spent with Aunt Linda had come back to haunt her.
“Yes,” he replied, making no move to let go of her hand. “We do. We should.” She watched as he focused on their clasped hands. “I need this,” he said softly. “You can have it back if you want, but I do need it.”
She knew that, of course. She understood that he needed his hand back if he was eventually going to get out of the car; heck, she needed to be able to move herself, to get out of the passenger seat. She didn’t want to lose the connection just yet, and that felt weird. She forced herself to let go of his hand, and he let go of hers.
Soon after, she was outside, standing in the parking lot, bracing herself against the cold.
MOLLY TOOK JON’S hand as they stepped into the store, almost forgetting they needed a shopping cart.
“So what are we . . . ?”
She looked back at him, but he was still standing at the entrance, not far from the sliding doors. He wasn’t moving, and he looked like he was focused on something else.
“Oh wow, so they did it. Niiice.”
She couldn’t mistake the awe on his face. How wide his chocolate brown eyes had gotten, and how bright. Even his mouth looked brighter for a reason she couldn’t understand. She could only guess it had something to do with his work, which meant the music. But what? She wanted to know.
“What?”
“Listen.”
Not just hear the music, he seemed to mean. She had to actually focus on it.
Okay.
The song playing on the in-store sound system was brash and loud, brilliant and wonderful. She’d heard it before, on one of the radio stations she’d been listening to; it had been the station’s way of making sure the listening public knew that the word “holiday” was a word with actual meaning, and that “twenty-four hours of holiday music” heralded the addition of songs from other winter holidays into seasonal programming.
What was it called? “Modern Day Maccabees.”
“I celebrate,” David Streit sang over the loudspeakers of the store. “I celebrate. Cha-nu-kah. Oooh oh ohhhoh.”
She also found herself remembering a recent Bullseye store campaign featuring that song (and a special edition of the album the song came from). Bull’s-eye was among the stores across the country that adopted the song in advertising campaigns that finally acknowledged the power of the Chanukah dollar.
“I never thought,” Jon continued, “that they’d agree to this one, but I guess they loved how accessible this message was. I’d actually expected them to use something not as confrontational, like ‘Newly Fallen Snow’ instead of this one.” He shook his head, lost in a daze. “Wow. Wow. Wow.”
“Living the dream?” she said, recalling his earlier words.
He nodded. There was awe and excitement in his eyes. She could deal with awe and excitement and disbelief. But she was still confused. So she asked.
“You . . . you did what?”
He blushed. “Sorry. Really. It’s like . . .” he gestured toward the cluster of shopping carts in front of them. “Here,” he said as he pulled one out.
She watched him test it, making sure the wheels weren’t all crooked.
“It’s like,” he continued as he began to push the cart, “it’s like you have this thing you love, and then it becomes important, and people start to ask you about it and take your advice? And then pay you for giving that advice, and so you’re getting a lot of money to do the thing you never dreamed was possible?”
She still didn’t understand him, but she figured he was talking about his life, and his profession. “I guess?”
They headed through the store, past the shelves of red and green, of pine needles, small trees, past the wooden candelabras that reminded her of a special gift her mother had once made for a friend. There was also the remains of a Diwali display; paraffin wax, gorgeous pots, wicks, and tea lights sat in disarray on elaborate velvet draped shelves because someone probably couldn’t bear to dismantle it after the Hindu festival had ended. Finally, they arrived at an oasis of blue and gold, a section at least twice the size it had been in years past.
There were menorahs of all sizes, packaged candles, latke mix and boxes of sufganiyot—special Israeli Chanukah doughnuts, imported from Israel. There were cookbooks and cookware, including the new “Kate Feldman for Bullseye” line. There were books by people like Rabbi Elijah Cohen talking about finding the “Mitzvah in Chanukah” and of course the brand new Bullseye edition of David Streit’s Chanukah album. All of it would have brought Aunt Linda to tears.
“We need plates, napkins, and cups,” she said, bringing the subject back to their mission. “And silverware. Maybe two different colors?”
She liked how he nodded. “You think there are going to be people who keep kosher at the party?”
“I know,” she replied. “I know for sure there are. My upstairs neighbors, at least. There are a few others. And a few Hindus who would probably appreciate the nonmeat silverware. So we’re going to try to have at least something for everybody.”
“Because we know what it’s like to be a stranger.”
She wondered whether he’d used that line before. It sounded like something Aunt Linda would have said, and maybe that’s what she needed to hear.
Jon
TWO HOURS, A horribly long line at the checkout, and an überfilled carload later, he was behind the wheel again.
“So are you kosher?”
She shrugged. “I don’t eat anything obviously unkosher, but I’m not . . . I don’t cook well enough myself to be pure about it. You?”
“I have a bacon weakness. Other than that, I’m in a situation where most of the food I have access to is kosher, so I try to keep to that. But if someone tells me that my life isn’t complete unless I try this particularly amazing traditional dish from somewhere that isn’t kosher, then I will.” He nodded, and his stomach growled in anticipation. “So let’s do this.”
He drove along the streets, glad that Seaman Avenue was not a parking lot for once. The music was influenced by Sephardi culture, another singer’s Sephardi/Latin fusion. She was dancing in her seat but trying not to be too obvious. He liked seeing her take as much pleasure in music as he did.
“It’s okay,” he said as he tried to find a parking space. “I’d be doing it, too, if I wasn’t strapped in. So much of why this music works so well is that it comes with the goal of making its listeners want to dance, you know? That’s what makes part of it good.”
“Wow,” she replied, surprise and excitement in her voice. “I wish I was as passionate . . . consistently passionate, about what I do for a living. I’m not . . . well I like it, but I don’t work hard at it. At least I haven’t.”
“What do you do?” he asked, though part of him had a feeling he knew already.
“Interior design,” she said. “I’m also considering starting a party planning business.”
He laughed, but tried not to laugh too hard. It figured, though, as he pulled into the miracle of a parking space he’d found across one of his other favorite restaurants in the area. He knew all too well how impossible finding another space in this area was.
“Okay,” he said. “We’re not far from the place.”
“Parking spaces are at a premium?”
He nodded, glad he didn’t have to explain himself. “Yep.”
When they got out, he took her gloved hand in his, not hesitating, and began to walk the short distance to the place that served the best mofongo in Washington Heights.
Molly
THE WAITERS AND the maître d’ all seemed to know Jon; they greeted him like a member of the family. Which was a good sign, considering this was the first time Molly had eaten mofongo. The restaurant smelled amazing, which made her drool even before they sat down to eat.
“We’ll have the cheese, vegetable, and the salmon mofongo.”
“To drink?”
“Just water, I think, at least for me. Molly?”
“A mango juice, please, and some water.”
As the waiter headed off to bring their order to the kitchen, Molly settled back into the comfortable leather bench.
“Wow,” she murmured. “How . . . how did I manage to live so close to this place and not try it before?”
“People live within their own experiences, I guess,” he replied. “I mean I’d never been here before I was dragged by my ears. The guy I was meeting for lunch practically demanded it when he realized I hadn’t tried it. So we came and my stomach was hooked. It was about . . . a year ago?” He grinned. “Now I come regularly because I need my fix.”
“I could understand. I can’t even imagine how good the food is, if my mouth is watering even waiting for it to arrive.” She grinned and then sat back, remembering there was something she’d wanted to ask him. “Anyway, you were talking, remotely, about what you do, and now that you know my embarrassing run into your apartment was an occupational hazard, what do you do?”
He laughed and grabbed a sip of his water. She wondered what he thought of the craziness that had come out of her mouth, then decided the shake of his head meant that he was thinking about answering her. At least she hoped so.
“Okay, so you really want to know how my craziness started?”
She nodded. “I asked, didn’t I?”
This time she could see resignation in his eyes. “Okay. So my favorite music has always been CJM—contemporary Jewish music. I remember hearing it for the first time when I was in college, and it changed my life. The music was bright and wonderful and full of faith that I couldn’t find anywhere else. I started to follow all the amazing artists that perform it, went to their guest cantorial spots, saw them in concerts. Graduated from college, you know. Then I got a paid internship with a record label, doing exactly what you’d expect to do as an intern. Of course, I listened to my music, too.”
He shook his head, and she nodded back at him, already picturing the scenario in his internship.
“You know how it goes,” he said. “People asked what I was doing whatever weekend, and I’d tell them. Going to see this show, with this guy. Going to that Shabbat service because this person was going to be the guest cantor. As I said, it’s how I . . . connected with Judaism, but to them I was the intern with the crazy music obsession.”
She nodded, watched him take a sip of his water, fascinated.
“Anyway,” he continued, tapping his fingers on the table in front of them, “all of a sudden, people started asking me really pointed questions. Like whether they should sign this guy who’s on the verge of a Music Award nomination and whether I’d seen a consistent crowd, or one that got larger around him and his musical colleagues.”
“So what did you do?”
“At first I wasn’t sure. I mean, I’d like to think I understood what they were asking, and I figured at the least, they’d see if I’d paid attention while working at this job. So I told them something. I talked to them about his series of concerts, and his sales and how he’s got this huge fandom, and how he was personally responsible for the growth of this huge Jewish music online site. It was everything they’d mentioned they were looking for when signing an artist. The very things they stressed when telling me what to look for.”
“So what happened?” she asked, but she knew already. At least, she had a feeling.
“So, they offered him a deal, not only a deal, but created a brand new label for him. Then they hired me to bring more artists to the label, and asked me how to sell the kind of music he and other artists like him were creating. It was like . . . wow. Wow.”
Then it hit her hard, like a lightning bolt. She was sitting with the guy who was famous for telling one of her favorite musicians that he needed to write the song that won him his second Music Award. “You’re . . . you’re the Jon that told David Streit he had to write ‘Day of Peace’?”
She could see the blush rise up his cheeks, and at that moment she knew she hadn’t misjudged him. It was excitement that drove him, not a sense of entitlement. He was a fan, not a glory hound.
“Well,” he finally said, after he seemed to compose himself, “I didn’t exactly say that. I told him he needed a song that would explain the Jewish concept of Shabbat to those who didn’t understand it. Otherwise the collection of songs he’d written and put together would make no sense on the mainstream level, and as those in charge of the label put it, he wouldn’t have a first single. ‘Day of Peace’ was how he responded to what I said.”
She nodded, smiled, saved from any other silly words by the arrival of their food.
Jon
A FEW HOURS, full stomachs, and a check he insisted on paying later, they’d arrived back at the building. “So,” he asked as they stood in front of the open hatchback, “where do you want these?”
The look in her eyes reminded him of expressions he’d seen on his mother’s face, the last thought he wanted to have at this point. But Molly’s expression spoke to the fact of how seldom she’d expected, asked for, and gotten help. Her eyes were wary, her mouth wide.
“What?”
He gestured to the bags and the ridiculously full trunk, the way the plates were threatening to jump off of the tailgate, and how the bags of napkins showed signs of wanting to fly through the breeze. “These. You need help carrying them.”
He said it like it was a foregone conclusion, making it clear she wasn’t going to have to worry about carrying all of the bags from his car. Then to soften the bite of his harsh tone, he shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “It comes with the chauffeur service.”
That made her laugh, and then it was okay. He let her take a bunch of the bags, then he took what was left before following her to the elevator.
“I think I have space in my apartment,” she said offhandedly as they waited for the elevator.
“We can put the bags in mine if you don’t.”
The words came out of his mouth, but he didn’t expect to say them. And once he had, he didn’t mind. “It’s okay. I have the space.”
She shook her head and smiled back at him. But the smile was . . . small, shy. “I have space. Besides. I want you to see my place.”
There were many reasons she could want to show him her apartment, some of which were okay to think about in the confines of the small elevator. Others were not as okay, and he desperately tried to think of the good ones. “So,” he managed, “you . . . I mean how did you get into interior design?”
She smiled. “I was lucky that my family gave me a sense of home. Not stuff everywhere, but the entire house felt lived in, loved. Our drawings weren’t just put on the fridge, they were everywhere. My mom, my dad.”
She paused, adjusting the bags as the elevator door opened. “It was also my great-aunt—Aunt Linda—she was . . . amazing. She taught me how to craft—to sew and knit—and enjoy it. She made the house, and her apartment, smell amazing. She taught me how to keep just enough . . . stuff around and how to place candles. I didn’t want to be anything else.”
The excitement in her eyes made him believe in her and her ability. There was a difference between liking someone, caring for someone, having chemistry with someone, and believing in them. Without believing, there was really nothing else. And he believed in her. “I can’t wait to see,” he said.
She blushed, just that little bit. That blush, and the bright color it placed on her cheeks, made him smile.
Molly
SHE HEARD HIS footsteps behind hers, and her heart sped up. She wanted him to see the inside of her apartment for many reasons, some of which she felt more comfortable with than others. But she went with it and walked him to her front door. “Here,” she said as she dropped some of the bags so she could reach her keys. Once free of the burden, she reached into the pocket of her coat and removed the key chain she’d made at Aunt Linda’s knee.
Carefully, easily, as she’d done a million times before, she unlocked the door, both locks, and shouldered it open.
“Here we are,” she said as they walked into the space. “Home sweet home.”
It actually was, if she could say so herself. The light touch of cinnamon from the air freshener struck the perfect note, the kitchen and the pillows on the couch were organized just so. “Put the bags on the floor by the couch,” she told him. “The rug can take it.”
He laughed, wiped his feet on the mat before heading into the living room and dropping the plastic bags he carried next to the couch. He was conscientious, and she loved that (and the sound of his laugh).
But then he stopped about halfway through, saw her coat on the kitchen chair she put it on without thinking, and gestured to his own coat. “May I?”
She nodded, because clearly she wanted him to stay maybe for a little while. “Sure. Do you want anything? Coffee? Water?”
“Water’s fine,” he said, grinning back at her. “I’m a bit of a coffee snob.”
She laughed and headed to the kitchen. Yes. The guy who had an array of coffee machines in his barely furnished apartment had to be a bit of a coffee snob. “A glass of cold brew water coming up.”
She pulled down two glasses and reached into her fridge and pulled out the pitcher. Yes, she sighed to herself, she drank filtered water in a city where tap water was amazing. But she was paranoid, proud, and poured two glasses of the filtered water before heading back to her living room.
“I’d give you tea,” she said as she passed him a glass, “but I suspect you’d consider it a sacrilege.”
Once again he laughed. It was comfortable, and made her insides melt just that much more. His glass looked comfortable in his hands; heck, he looked comfortable in her apartment. Maybe she wanted him to stay longer . . .
But instead he took a long drink of the water and took a breath. “Wow. That was good,” he said. “I needed that.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied. “So . . .”
He sighed, and she knew what was coming. From the reluctance and shock she saw on his face after he looked away from his watch. She didn’t want him to leave just yet.
“I have to go,” he said softly. “I really have to go. I leave early tomorrow morning for a few days. But I’ll be back next Tuesday night, so Wednesday?”
She nodded. He stood, slowly, as if he was waiting for her. Which, considering it was her apartment, he probably was. So she stood, took his outstretched hand and led him to the door.
But as they stood on her welcome mat, she couldn’t resist the look in his eyes and the open, welcoming expression on his face. She’d held herself back before, but not this time. So she leaned up, put her lips to his.
Soft, sweet, his tongue tentative in her mouth. His five o’clock stubble scratched above her mouth, but she didn’t care. It felt good. His hands cupped her cheeks, holding her close and carefully. She was in control, but all she could think of was him, and how it felt to kiss him.
But he pulled back, took a deep breath and looked at her, regret in his eyes. “I really have to go,” he said softly. “I’ll call you?”
She nodded, well aware that whatever this was could end here and now. It would be easy for him to forget her and his obligations. But as he stood there, expecting an answer, she gave him one. And nodded back.
“Sure.”
He ran his fingers down her cheekbones one more time, as if he was savoring the feel of her skin against his. She didn’t mind. In fact, she liked it. But then she opened the door and let him go like he said he’d wanted to. “Good night,” she said softly as he walked away.