Dating Kosher (2 page)

Just as I returned to my seat, the door opened. I looked up to greet our first customer.

I may as well have been kicked in the stomach. Right there in front of me stood perfection in the form of tousled brown hair, matching brown eyes and a sexy smirk on his recently shaven face that made my knees wobble even though they were tucked neatly under my desk.

“Can I help you?” I managed.

“I’m here to fix the air conditioning?”

It wasn’t until that second I realized he was wearing the uniform of the blue collar worker: navy work pants and matching shirt, his name
Nate
embroidered in white script above the left chest pocket. I rose from my seat and saw the rest of his ensemble: utilitarian steel toed boots and he was even holding a metal tool box. How could I have missed that?       Embarrassed that I had mistaken him for someone dateable, I gave him a polite smile, cursing the blush I felt on my cheeks. “One moment, please. Stay there, don’t sit on the furniture.” He didn’t look dirty, but I couldn’t take the chance. Every chair in the waiting area was covered in three-hundred dollar a yard fabric imported from Paris. I had been reminded of that fact several weeks before when a cup of coffee I was passing to a client slipped out of my hand and spilled over two of them.

I strode into the back room where the estheticians were gathered, drinking coffee and waiting until their appointments arrived.

“Anyone know anything about an air conditioning guy?” I asked.

Rita, my boss and the owner of the spa nodded. “Yeah, I called them. Have him come through.”

“Is he hot?” Bev, my best friend, and waxer extraordinaire asked.

I frowned. “He’s
totally
blue collar.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t be nice eye candy,” Bev winked.

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Decide for yourself, I can’t believe you.” I turned and left the room. No way I was letting on that I thought he was a god in the eye candy department.

Rounding the corner, I was careful not to make too much eye contact with Mr. Blue Collar. “You can go to the back; the owner will show you where everything is.”       

“Thanks.” He winked at me.

I rolled my eyes and pretended to gag.

As he walked past my desk, I had an opportunity to check out his ass. Yow. Who knew navy, standard issue work pants could be so flattering?

* * *

By ten-thirty, I had broken a sweat. The spa, with no air conditioning, had turned into an oven.

Mr. Blue Collar kept returning to his truck for various supplies, most looking like something he’d ripped off of an airplane. Although I was anxious for the air to come back on before—God forbid—I got any sweat stains on my silk blouse, it was nice watching him coming and going. Especially going.

“Oh my God! It’s roasting in here,” one woman, a semi-famous Manhattan socialite, and client of my mother’s said as she glided through the front doors.

No shit, lady, I hadn’t noticed
. “I’m very sorry, we’re having some trouble with our air conditioning today.” I tried to smile at her as I spewed out what Rita had instructed me to say to arriving clients. “We’re still offering our services today, but if you prefer to reschedule, we’d be happy to do that and offer a five percent discount.” Five percent doesn’t sound like much, and really, most of our clients didn’t care about our exorbitant prices, having money to burn, but a deal is a deal. Most of them were rescheduling—including one who had scheduled a pore-opening wrap that was done in our actual
sauna
.

It had become an easy day for the estheticians, and an extremely tough day for me.

“That’s fine, I’ll reschedule my facial and massage,” the woman said, fanning herself with a brochure she’d taken off the counter.

As soon as I had plugged her new appointment into the computer, the phone rang. “Tranquil Seas Day Spa, this is Shoshanna speaking, how may I make your day more tranquil?” The lame greeting now rolled off my tongue with mindless ease.

As I took another appointment over the phone, two more women entered the spa. It only took a second before both were sporting scowls due to the close, sticky air within the spa.

A few minutes later, when I had rescheduled them and the lobby had cleared, Nate walked by again. “Hey,” I said. “When’s it going to be fixed?” I dabbed at my face with a Kleenex, holding the heavy drape of hair away from my neck with my other hand.

He stopped and turned to look at me. “Very soon, sweetheart. Don’t get your panties all in a bunch.”

Not possible, I’m wearing a thong
, I thought. Not that I was going to let him in on that fact. “Don’t call me sweetheart,” I said.

“Sorry,” he said, leaning in to read my nametag, “Shoshanna.” He smiled, apparently quite pleased with himself that he could read English.

“So, uh, when’s it going to be fixed?” I asked.

“Actually, I just need one more part from my truck. Then we’re all set.” One corner of his mouth turned up into that sexy smirk that had grabbed me when he first walked in the door. I placed my fingers on my keyboard and looked at my screen, pretending to do something.

His eyes were on me. I could feel them boring into my skull. Ignoring him, I started tapping on the keys, glad that the monitor was recessed and he wouldn’t see what I was typing.

I’m typing just to pretend like I’m busy. I have nothing to type about, but I hope he goes away soon before he sees that I’m not actually typing anything. Blah blah blah typing. Tappity tap tap typing.

Finally, realizing he was being ignored, he left. When he returned only a moment later with some type of electrical contraption in his hand, I glanced up only for a second. He smiled at me, but I kept cool, looking back at my computer.

He disappeared into the back without a word. Six minutes later, as promised, the air conditioning kicked in with a loud
whoosh
.

Whoops and hollers could be heard from the back room. Thank God, I thought, holding my arms up to air out my dangerously damp armpits.

A client came in, a frown creeping onto her face as she approached the counter. “A bit warm in here,” she said.

I smiled, relieved to be able to deliver good news. “We just had some service done to our air conditioner. It should be comfortable in here very shortly. And you are?”

“Francine. I’m here for my…” she looked up. Mr. Blue Collar had materialized from the back and now stood waiting patiently at my counter.

I looked at the day’s schedule on my computer monitor. Francine was booked for a Brazilian bikini wax (gross, she had to be like sixty). I saved her some embarrassment and nodded. “Bev will be right out, please take a seat. Can I offer you a beverage? I realize you probably don’t want something hot, but we have iced jasmine tea that’s very nice.”

“No, thank you, I’ll just sit.” She stepped over into the waiting area while I buzzed the back room.

“Bev, your twelve o’clock is here.”

Nate was staring at me, giving me the willies. I looked up at him. “Can I help you?”

“What kind of service can you recommend?” he asked. That smile just wouldn’t quit.

What was he talking about? “Excuse me?”

“Your boss said I could have a gift certificate for a free service. I was just wondering what you would recommend.”

“One second, please,” I said as I picked up the phone to dial Rita’s extension.

“Rita, did you want me to write up a gift certificate for the air conditioner repair man?” I wasn’t about to use his name. Who knew if it even was Nate—maybe he’d borrowed someone else’s shirt.

“Oh shit, Shosh, I forgot to buzz you. Yeah, give it to him for one service—whatever he wants—with no expiry.”

I hung up the phone. “Okay, well what would you like?”

“Besides your phone number?” Wow, a great smile
and chutzpah—
quite a combination for a grease monkey.

“Dream on,” I said, my voice as gritty as our Dead Sea scrub, a perennial favorite of fifty-something Jewish housewives. “How about a manicure?”

He bent down to put his toolbox on the floor and brought his hands up, laying them on the counter for my inspection. They weren’t exactly clean (not surprising considering his job), but they were very tidy and not bitten. He obviously took care of himself. Nice.

“I’m not sure a manicure would be something I would bother with. My hands get so dirty every day, it wouldn’t be worth it.”

I shrugged. “A lot of men get facials, it cleans out and minimizes pores.” Not that he looked like he needed the help. From where I sat, his complexion looked flawless.

“Okay, set me up.”

I looked at my screen. “How’s next Thursday at seven p.m.? I’m assuming you want an evening appointment.”

He leaned over the counter. “Why would you assume that?” His breath smelled like coffee and mints.

I pointed at his uniformed chest. “Uh, don’t you work during the day?”

“It’s my own business. I can schedule myself out anytime. But Thursday evening is okay.” He leaned down and picked up his toolbox. “Do you work Thursday evenings?”

“Yes,” I said, pasting a sour look on my face.

“Don’t be so sad,” he said. “I’m not that horrible am I?”

You absolutely are
not
, I thought. “You just might be that horrible,” I said aloud.

Then he left, giving me one more look at his tight little blue collar ass.

Chapter 3

Tuesday evening meant martinis and sushi with my mother, Tziporah Rosenblatt (as far back as I can remember, people called her Tippy). After I finished work, I walked down to the little place that my mom and I had made our regular Tuesday night rendezvous. It was a dark, badly decorated (much to mother’s horror) hole in the wall, but the sushi was fantastic and the martinis were even better. Who knew the Japanese had such a flair for the martini?

Mom kept kosher, had since the divorce. We had never kept kosher in the house when the three of us had lived together, but since the end of the marriage, she said she wanted to get back to her roots. Not her
brunette
roots, mind you; Tippy Rosenblatt would go to her grave a blonde. Anyway, apparently my grandparents had brought her up in a very strictly kosher home. So sushi worked for both of us. It wasn’t a kosher restaurant, but mom was a bit more lax when eating out. She just stayed away from anything containing meat.

Frankly, this place also had the best beef teriyaki in town, so while mom daintily ate her California rolls and inari with chopsticks, I was often mowing down shamelessly on the beef.

“So what’s new this week?” she asked, after I joined her at our regular table, my martini already waiting patiently in front of my placemat. Her drink was already half gone and might not even have been her first. I didn’t bother to ask.

“Not much,” I said, picking up the glass and taking a sip. Perfect as usual.

“And how is your father?” The fingers on Mom’s left hand involuntarily fidgeted around the empty spot where her wedding band used to be.

“Dad’s fine,” I answered the same way I did every week.

“And his whore?” Mom asked, the same way
she
did every week.

I picked up the menu, pretending to look at the pictures. “Susan is fine. Sends her love.”

“Don’t be smart with me, young lady,” Mom spat. “That woman caused the destruction of a very happy marriage.”

And I suppose
Dad
thought it was a very happy marriage up until the time Susan the whore seduced him into
shtupping
her? Dad was responsible also, but Mom wouldn’t accept it. She just wouldn’t believe her husband was at all responsible for his affair. Men are weak, she always said, and couldn’t be blamed for their ‘indiscretions.’

It was hard not to be annoyed; I had endured this conversation more times than I could count.

But sadly, giving in was the only way to stop it. “Sorry, Mom.”

“It’s okay, dear. I know that woman has poisoned you against me.”

Ugh.
It wasn’t true. Mom’s version of the truth, much like Mom’s version of life, was extremely biased and often conformed to her complaint du jour.

In fact, Susan had been nothing but nice to me since I met her a few months before the divorce became final. She had actually been an old friend of my mom’s, which I’m sure made the whole situation that much worse. They were in the synagogue’s sisterhood together after Susan’s marriage broke up and she had moved back to town, looking to connect with people she’d known when she was younger. Apparently Mom had even been the one to introduce Susan to my father at some five-hundred dollar a plate fundraiser.

Anyway, although Mom was falling apart, my dad had never been happier. Since shacking up with Susan, he exuded a new type of contentment that I had only seen snippets of when he was with Mom (and then usually only when she was on spa retreats hundreds of miles away). And although I would never admit it to my mother, I was happy for him.

Trying not to respond to my mother’s disparaging comments about the person who would become—in only a short time—my stepmother, I turned back to the menu. “I think I’ll have some salmon skin rolls with my teriyaki,” I said. “Would you like to share them?”

Unfortunately, Mom was not so easily distracted on this particular Tuesday night. “So when is the wedding again? Does that little
kurveh
have the nerve to wear white when she walks down the aisle with my husband?”

“
Ex
-husband,” I corrected automatically, before I realized it had been very unwise to do so.

Mom’s eyes threatened to pop out of her head. “Are you taking her side?”

I exhaled, trying to purge the frustration from my lungs. “Mom, have you taken your meds today?” It was cruel of me to say; she was like a jack in the box and I was turning the crank, winding the spring tighter and tighter…

“I am not on medication, nor do I need to be, Shoshanna Yolanda, and if you can’t give me the respect I deserve, perhaps we should leave.”