I knocked on Zeydeh’s door, then opened it with my key. “Zeydeh?” I called. “It’s me.”
“In the kitchen,” he called back.
“I’ve only got a few minutes,” I said, weaving through his living room. “It’s almost four o’clock, and I’ve got to get some work done before dinner.”
Everything in Zeydeh’s house was pure vintage—but not in a cool way. In an old way. Zeydeh said couches gave him a crick in the neck, so he’d never had one. Instead, there were four chairs—none of them the same—facing a round coffee table. The furniture was all in one piece, but just barely. Kind of like Zeydeh.
He was bent over the open oven, huge yellow mitts on his hands. “How was camp?” he asked.
“Great!” I dropped into a scarred wooden chair. “I picked my topic. You’ve heard of pediatricians for kids and geriatricians for seniors? Say hello to teenatricians.”
He half turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “Nice, very nice. I like it.” Then he pulled out a pan.
I sniffed and wrinkled my nose. “Not the muffins again.”
The oven door closed with a bang. He turned toward me and waved the tray under my nose. “Pomegranate and prune,” he said. “First they pucker your lips, then they pucker your bottom.”
I groaned and waved him away. “I am not going to eat one of those. None of us will. I don’t know why you bother.”
“They’re Bubbe’s favorites.”
“I hate to state the obvious, but Bubbe’s gone.”
“So?” he retorted. “That means she lost her appreciation for a good muffin?”
I rolled my eyes. “There’s nothing good about those muffins.”
“They remind me of Bubbe. They cheer me up.”
He loosened the muffins from his signature Calphalon pan. Zeydeh ate off plates as old as dinosaurs with chipped edges and scary food stains, but he had the best cookware money could buy. He tossed the muffins into a basket and brought them to the table.
“Why do you need cheering up?” I asked. “Is it still the soup?”
“What else but the soup?” His head dipped, as if it were too heavy for his neck. “I don’t know why I bother. Mrs. Zuckerman will win again. Mrs. Zuckerman always wins.”
“Come on.” I slapped my hand on the table. “You’re not giving up. You have two weeks, right?”
“Two weeks, two years …” He shrugged. “She’s rubbing it in, Ellie. She knows.”
“What do you mean, she knows?” Zeydeh had always been a little crazy, but he was starting to sound crazy crazy.
“She was here. This morning.”
“Mrs. Zuckerman?”
“She came to the door with a letter addressed to me. Said the postman accidentally put my letter in her box. As if such a thing ever happens.”
“It happens all the time.” I reached for a muffin. It was hot on the tips of my fingers. Gray wisps of steam escaped as I broke off a piece and handed it to him. “Here, eat a little. You’ll feel better.”
He took the bit of muffin, but didn’t eat it.
“So did you talk to her?” I asked.
“She wasn’t here to talk. She was here to spy.” Disapproval rumbled low in his throat. “She wanted to have coffee.”
“Zeydeh, that’s nice.”
He lifted his eyes long enough to glare at me. “Who suggests coffee with the competition? Unless it’s poisoned.”
“Maybe she’s trying to be friendly.”
“Friendly, my tuchus, my rear end. She wants in so she can snoop around my kitchen.” He sighed. “The only way my name will get on a plaque at the shul is when I’m dead.”
“Don’t say that!”
He waved a hand at me. “Enough with the bad news. Tell me about camp. Did you talk to that boy?” He sat a little straighter. “What did he say?”
“Yes, I talked to that boy and his name is Devon.” I ate a bit of muffin, then puckered when the tartness hit my tongue. I got up for some water. “It’s because of Devon’s dad. He died when Devon was a kid.”
“What’s his father got to do with a scholarship?”
I grabbed a cup off the draining board and stuck it under the faucet. “Nothing,” I said, “except his dad was very involved in his church. The scholarship is in his memory, so religion is on the application.” I turned off the faucet and took a drink.
Zeydeh scratched his whiskers. “I still don’t like it. Religion should not be an issue.”
“I told you it was nothing bad. Besides, Devon knows I’m Jewish. And he likes me just fine.”
“What’s not to like?” As if he couldn’t help himself, his face softened into a mushy Zeydeh smile.
I reached over and hugged him, scratching my cheek on his stubbly chin. “I love you.”
He pulled back and waved me off, but his cheeks looked pinker than they had in a while.
“I should go now,” I said. “I promised Devon I’d help him come up with intro ideas. He’s probably waiting for me to call right now.” Waiting. For me.
“What’s that smile for?” Zeydeh asked.
I smiled wider. “He asked me out for Friday.”
“Devon?” His voice rose with his eyebrows. “You’re too young to date.”
“It’s a charity event. I’m going with Megan’s family, but Devon will be there and we’ll sit together.”
“You’re too young to sit with a boy.”
I laughed.
“Will his grandmother be there?”
“I think so. And probably his mother, too.”
“Good. Then you can tell them both you’re Jewish.”
I planted a hand on my hip. “Stop trying to turn this into such a big deal.”
“Hello, good to see you, I’m a Jew,” he said. “What’s the big deal?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m going home now. You’ll be over for dinner?”
“Who else will cook? Your mother?” His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the table, but when he spoke, his voice was soft. “You really like this boy, Ellie?”
I felt the answer flow through me—surprising, but as strong and as steady as my heartbeat: Yes.
“Yeah, Zeydeh,” I said, my voice a little thick. “I really like this boy.”
“I still say you’re too young to date.”
“Maybe it’s time you go on a date,” I said. “Next time she comes to spy, you should ask out Mrs. Zuckerman.”
“Me?” He waved a hand in my direction. “I’m too old to date.”