Dating Kosher (8 page)

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” I said. “I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with my mother.”

The light turned from yellow to red in front of us. Once the car was stopped, Susan turned, took off her sunglasses and looked at me. She looked like she was close to tears. “It does. Your father wants to invite her.”

My dad had mentioned to me on a Sunday morning a while back, before the invitations had gone out, that he wanted to invite my mother to the wedding ‘out of respect.’ I told him he was crazy and asking for trouble. I had thought that had been the end of it. Apparently not.

“I’m really sorry, Susan,” I said, feeling bad since the drama wasn’t entirely her fault. (She
had
been the other woman, knowing Dad was married when she got mixed up with him, but Dad was also responsible and didn’t need to make his new wife suffer just because he felt guilty about the old wife.)

She sighed. “It’s not your concern. I don’t mean to burden you…”

“I know, but I feel bad. Let me see if I can talk to Dad. I’ll call him at the office this afternoon when you drop me off.”

She sighed, relieved. “Thank you, I really appreciate it. But only if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” I said. I was used to playing mediator; I had been one between my parents for years leading up to the divorce. “So tell me about some of the other stuff. Do you have everything else ironed out?”

Her face brightened. “Well the flowers are all ordered and the menu is set. We did the seating plan the other night.” She turned left into the parking lot of Tulips. “You and Max are sitting with family, of course.”

Shit. “Um, Max and I broke up.” No point sugar-coating it.

Susan put the car into park and looked at me. “Oh, Shosh, that’s too bad, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

I shrugged. I was over Max before I was out of his apartment. What I was
less
over was the idea of going to the wedding without a date.

She pulled the keys out of the ignition. “C’mon let’s go inside, you can tell me about it.”

I unbuckled the seat belt. Sure, what do you want to hear about first? His atrocious attempts at sex or his bad breath? I thought as I got out of the car.

* * *

“So tell me what happened with Max,” Susan said once we were seated and the waitress had been dispatched to bring us each an iced tea (strawberry for me, green for Susan).

“It’s just over,” I said, looking around the restaurant to see if I recognized anyone. Nope, not a one. I turned back to Susan. “There was no future for us, so there was no point continuing.” Susan didn’t need to hear the whole story.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“Are you bringing someone else to the wedding?”

If it kills me.
“I’m hoping to.” I smiled, hoping the stress of not having a date with only three weeks to find one wasn’t showing on my face.

“Well if not, don’t worry, my son will be on his own also.”

If there had been even a nanosecond that I had thought going stag might just be okay, she had just completely quashed the idea. There was a major reason why her son Jacob would be attending alone: he was a huge loser. Not only did he attempt (note I say
attempt
) to hit on me every time he saw me, but he wore thick glasses, bad-fitting clothes over his pudgy body and always seemed to have this unidentifiable white goo in the corners of his mouth. He was beyond repulsive. He made Max look like Ryan Gosling.

“Oh, he’s coming home for the wedding?” Thankfully Jacob was stationed out in Portland, doing research on slugs, or something equally gross, and only came home periodically.

Susan beamed. “Yes, it will be so nice to see him. He’s been working very hard on his master’s. I’m almost sad that we’re leaving right away on our honeymoon cruise, I’d love to spend some more time with him while he’s here…” She trailed off, sounding wistful.

Inwardly I began to panic. Only three weeks to go and no prospects. Of all the messages I had left the Sunday previous, only two other than Phil had called back. Sadly, both were married and unwilling to send their wives out of town for the weekend in order to attend the wedding with me (I was knocking on desperation’s front door: I had to ask).

The thought occurred to me that maybe I should ask Susan if she knew of anyone. I opened my mouth and was about to speak when I realized Susan would suggest Jacob as my date. My jaws clamped shut as though they too objected to the thought of being stuck next to Jacob at a seven-hour event. Worse than being stuck next to him would be the horror of the other guests assuming I was
with
him. No thanks.

I would have to find someone on my own. And fast. I spent most of the rest of the meal mentally going through everyone I knew. I’d have to contact a few select people and discreetly let them know I needed a date. It was desperate but had to be done.

I hate to admit it, but I ate an obscene amount of finger sandwiches while Susan went on and on about the politics of seating people at her wedding reception. For an affair that was supposed to be small and intimate, it had turned into the can’t-miss event of the year. She had brought in Sam Stein to do the catering; Brooklyn’s kosher answer to Wolfgang Puck, a twelve piece Klezmer band for the dancing, and thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers all for three hundred of their best friends, family, and clients. No detail had been overlooked, thanks mostly to Susan’s exorbitantly priced, but worth every penny, I was assured, bridal consultant.

I was amused but took detailed notes in the back of my head. Someday, God willing, I too would be a bride.

* * *

After lunch, we went shopping. She had called ahead to Macy’s and had arranged for her shopper (some
shiksa
named Lisa who turned out to be almost as good as my own Julio) to pull several dresses out for when we arrived. I hated shopping off the rack anyway, so it worked out nicely, and we had even more time to chat. She was painfully respectful of me, never daring to ask too many personal questions about my parents pre-divorce, which was a relief. And she seemed to take a genuine interest in me as a person, not just her soon-to-be step-daughter.

“So how do you like your job at the spa? Your dad says you’ve been there a while,” she asked as we got situated in the personal shopping salon. Lisa had disappeared to get our beverages.

“I love it there,” I answered, smiling because it was true. “Bev got me the job just after I finished school. She’d already been there a while and said Rita, the lady that owns the place, was great. She was right. I like Rita a lot. And I get free services.”

Susan nodded politely. “Maybe I should try it when I’m in the city. Maybe I could meet up with Jen and we could do a mother-daughter thing.”

Right. Jen was Susan’s other child. I’d only met Jen a couple of times, but best I could tell, she was Susan’s mini-me in looks only. She wasn’t anywhere near as nice as her mother and had not emerged from her parents’ divorce unscathed. When I met her at some synagogue function that our respective parents had decided was going to be where our families should all meet, she actually referred to me (under her breath and so quietly that I’m not even totally sure I heard her right) as ‘the homewrecker’s spawn.’ Like
my
mother who had been the one to break up my parents’ marriage?

She also went on to tell me later in the evening, not very discreetly either, I might add, about how much pain and heartache
her
mother had caused her over the years and what a bitch she was. Maybe it was the years of therapy that helped me adjust better than Jen, but her whining was so boring, I faked stomach cramps just to get away from her.

I couldn’t account for what Susan may have inflicted on her daughter, but I did know I liked her much better than her spoiled brat of an offspring and was happy that she hadn’t been invited on this shopping trip.

“We have a lot of mothers and daughters coming in together. Lots of wedding parties and shower groups,” I said. “Girls’ nights, too.”

Lisa returned with our drinks and placed them on the little bistro table between Susan and I before she nodded at Susan. “I’ll just get the first dress, Ms. Rosenblatt.”

I looked over at Susan, shocked that she had been addressed by
my
last name.

Susan smiled and leaned toward me as Lisa glided into the back room again. “I just can’t stand using my ex-husband’s last name. You don’t think it matters, do you?”

I snorted. “I don’t think they care here, as long as your credit’s good.”

Susan rolled her eyes and nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”

The dresses Susan had pre-selected were all very nice. I could easily see myself wearing any of them but in the end, I selected a silver sheath with spaghetti straps and a slight flare at the hem. A description on paper doesn’t do it justice, but it was beautiful and when I tried it on, it looked great. A pair of silver strappy slingbacks (also provided by Lisa, personal shopper extraordinaire, my apologies to Julio) and I was all set.

“That looks just lovely on you, Shoshanna,” Susan beamed. I have to admit, it was nice hearing her compliment. My own mother, although having a good eye for fashion, also had a sharp tongue, picking at the tiniest of little details (the hemline is too high, the neckline is too low, not cut for you, wrong color, doesn’t match your eyes, makes you look fat—a
fat
size two).

“Thanks,” I said. “I like it a lot.” I twirled again in the mirror, liking what I saw. I was going to look great.

For no one, unless a miracle happened.

* * *

Once inside my apartment, I immediately hung up the dress in my closet, remembering the last time I had draped a new outfit over the sofa. Armani had crawled up into the garment bag and fallen asleep on the wool crepe suit, leaving about a pound of hair embedded into the fabric. It was a nightmare I was unwilling to repeat (two hours of lint-brushing and tweezing at the five hundred dollar suit was not my idea of fun).

I finally got a chance to check voicemail. Only one message.

“Hi Shosh, just wondering what you’re doing tonight.” Bev.

“Well, it’s not like I have anything planned,” I told Armani who had jumped onto the back of the sofa, looking for love, or at least a stray hand to rub up against.

Dialing Bev’s number, I pulled open the fridge door to have a peek. Nothing good: a couple of eggs, yogurt and very questionable milk.

“Hey Bev, I’m not doing anything tonight,” I said when she answered on the third ring.

“Wanna get a movie or something?” Bev’s first choice was always staying in. My first choice was always going out. Somehow we managed to compromise, though by my mental tally, tonight was my turn to win.

“Nah, let’s go get something to eat. Somewhere cool.” I didn’t feel like dancing, but maybe going to a chic restaurant and being seen would be enough to sate my desire to be with other people. And who knows, maybe I’d find a good candidate for the wedding, I thought.

“Okay. But I get to pick where. I want to go to Patio. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Perfect.”

Patio was a newer place where you could eat on the namesake patio in the open air, and beside that, there was a huge dance bar adjoining man-made beach volleyball courts (complete with sand). It was a fun place and had become
the
place to party and be seen. Bev liked it because she liked to watch all the action and I liked it because it was a great place to go trolling for men. And the food was okay too.

Shoving a few saltines in my mouth to tide me over, I hung up on Bev and dialed my dad’s direct line.

“Martin Rosenblatt.” He sounded so professional; it threw me off every time I called.

“Hi, Dad.”

His voice softened. “Hi Shosh, how’re you doing honey?”

“Uh, I’m good Dad. I had a nice time with Susan shopping today.”

“I just got off the phone with her and she said the same thing. I’m glad that you and she get along so well.”

“She’s really nice.” I said, then hesitated, a little nervous about the real reason for the phone call. “Um, Dad. I hate to say this because…well you know I love Mom, but I really don’t think you should invite her to the wedding.”

Silence.

I continued, “I mean, she probably wouldn’t come, but do you really think it’s appropriate to invite your first wife to your second wedding?”

Dad seemed to weigh his words carefully before he spoke. “I am trying to be an adult about this. I’m hoping that by inviting her, we can all get past the bad times and start to move forward.”

I shook my head, even though Dad couldn’t see me. “I don’t think that Mom is ready to be an adult about this, Dad.”

“I don’t think you’re giving your mother enough credit, Shoshanna.” He sounded very fatherly, almost lawyerly and it was a bit intimidating, but I had to stand firm, he had his head in the sand if he thought Mom could handle watching him get married to Susan.

“Dad, listen to me. For starters, you didn’t send out an invite to her with the rest of the invites. She’ll know that; she’ll know that her invitation was just an afterthought. That’s pretty insulting no matter who it is.” I paused but he didn’t say anything so I went on. “Add to that the fact that your fiancé was a friend of hers who you…anyway, it’s kind of a scandal. Mom isn’t ready. I can promise you that. And even if you think she’s most of the way there, do you really want to risk a big scene on the off chance that she’s not? Is that fair to Susan? It’s her wedding too, you know.”

Although I thrived on drama and would have loved to have seen a big scandalous scene at a grand affair, I sure wouldn’t want to see it at my own dad’s wedding. Save it for some third cousin, or better yet, an episode of
Real Housewives
, then it would be amusing. But not so close to home.

“I suppose you’re probably right,” Dad finally said. “I just wanted to do right by her.”

“Sorry Dad, but it’s too late for that.”

Ouch. But it was true. Dad had always taught that it was better to be honest and risk hurting someone’s feelings short-term rather than sugar-coat the truth and hurt them in the long run. His own advice turned against him. Ah well, he was pretty tough.