Unorthodox Love, page 1
UNORTHODOX LOVE
A Novel
HEIDI SHERTOK
To my husband Daniel whom I love with all my heart (and because he’s a firstborn so everything has to be about him).
And in loving memory of Mary Beth Bergum (March 18, 1985—October 6, 2022)
CHAPTER ONE
“People will stare. Make it worth their while.”
—Harry Winston
On the scale of catastrophic things in the world, being a twenty-nine-year-old virgin isn’t that bad. It’s not like losing a loved one or getting robbed at gunpoint or being thrown in prison for a crime I didn’t commit, or anything else that requires therapy and a good lawyer. Which is why if tonight’s date ends up being a total disaster, I’m going to be just fine. Repeat: I am going to be just fine. I will not curl into a ball on the floor and imagine dying as an old maid, then go to the kitchen and finish off a tub of ice cream. In fact, I will not even think about the cookie dough ice-cream sandwich that gazes at me with seductive eyes every time I open the freezer.
The light turns yellow, and my foot gently pushes the brake until the car comes to a stop. My fingers tap the steering wheel restlessly. I always feel a little sick to my stomach before a first date, and tonight is no exception. You’d think after ten years that I’d get used to it, that the swirling motion in my gut would eventually relax, but no such luck. At least I got a great picture of my outfit to put on Instagram with hashtags #JewishDateNight and #ModestFashion.
When I first started sharing fashion trends with a modest twist on my Instagram account, it was just something fun to do with my family and friends—to share ideas of cute outfits that also flattered our figures. Because in my opinion, modesty is sexy. But I certainly never imagined that it would grow to have the twenty-two thousand followers it currently has, including women from all over the world. And they’re not all Orthodox Jews either—there are Muslims, Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Pentecostals. It’s also become a sisterhood of sorts, a safe place to talk about our struggles (“Horseback riding with a skirt? You’ve gotta be kidding me!”) to our praises (“The dermatologist said I have virgin skin—no skin cancer here!”)
I glance at my makeup in the rearview mirror to check that nothing smudged, then remind myself in a stern, feminist tone that I am a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man to complete me or to notice how my eyeliner brings out the flecks of green in my eyes.
But it would be nice to have someone who could fix stuff around the house. And kill spiders and boxelder bugs. Oh, and carry in the heavy groceries.
Forget a husband—maybe I just need a manservant. I bet—
A loud honk interrupts my thoughts, and I realize that the light has turned green. Crap.
I steer my car into a parking spot and shut off the engine. Tonight’s date is a New Yorker named Yoav Bernbaum, and from casually stalking his Facebook profile and Instagram account, I know that he has short-cropped brown hair, a curly beard that reaches his neck, and turquoise glasses shaped like stop signs. I didn’t find any scandalous pictures, although there were a surprising number of his mother, which was sweet. Or disturbing. I keep going back and forth on that one.
But his job sounds interesting. My matchmaker, Mrs. Zelikovitch, was vague as always, but she said Yoav is the guy everyone calls when there’s been a homicide or other crime scene. Which is perfect because I recently started watching Criminal Minds on Netflix, so at least I’ll be able to talk shop with him, if nothing else.
I push the lock button on my keypad and head toward the coffee shop. I used to think there’s a soulmate for everyone, but it’s been ten loooong years of looking, and I’m starting to think that I must be the exception to the rule.
A golden retriever that’s leashed to a table outside the café perks up when she sees me. Her tail sweeps the ground in quick strokes as I bend down to scratch the fur behind her ears and then she rolls over for a tummy rub.
Maybe G-d was distracted the day He assigned soulmates, and accidentally skipped me. Or maybe I was the distracted one, backstroking through the clouds and making dead people jokes, and totally forgot to get in line.
Yeah, that must’ve been it.
With a resigned sigh, I give the dog one last scratch, then move toward the door. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans and the cafe’s famous cheese croissants greets me as I walk inside. My eyes scan the room, taking in the exposed steel beams, brick walls, and upholstered banquettes. The place is crowded with hipsters sporting neon tops, distressed jeans, and lace-up vegan combat boots, so the lone man in a business suit and black velvet yarmulke is easy to spot. I maneuver through the maze of people and furniture until I arrive at his table. Yoav picks intently at a piece of skin under his thumbnail and doesn’t seem to notice me.
“Hi.” I smile, setting my fake Prada handbag on the table. “You must be Yoav.”
The man glances up. “I’m sorry, but you have the wrong person.”
“Oh!” I’m taken aback and more than a little confused since this man looks just like Yoav’s picture; maybe he doesn’t know who I am? “I’m Penina Kalish.”
An awkward silence settles in the air as he gazes at me uncomprehendingly. I clear my throat and add, “It’s just that you look so much like the guy I’m supposed to be meeting here tonight for a date …”
“Look, you’re more than welcome to sit down and schmooze,” he says, gesturing toward the seat across from him. “But just so you know, I’m married with five kids.”
The blood drains from my face. I am such an idiot. “Oh my gosh. Definitely the wrong person—I’m sorry.” I grab my purse and turn to go.
“Gotcha!”
“What?” I wheel around, my eyebrows raised in confusion.
“It’s me—I am Yoav!” He grins and spreads his palms out. “Oh man, I can’t believe you fell for that. You should have seen your face!”
My fingers clench my purse as I mentally list all the reasons why I shouldn’t whack him over the head with it. Too many witnesses for one thing.
His grin fades as he catches my facial expression. “Hey, I’m sorry—it was just a joke.” He pauses, then says, “I forgot that not everyone has a sense of humor.”
How is that funny? And anyway, I have a great sense of humor. At the moment I’m picturing him slipping on a banana peel and banging his head as he crashes to the ground.
“I bet you’ll go home tonight and laugh about it afterward.” He grins. “I know I will.”
I glance around the room for hidden cameras, hoping this is one of those reality shows that try to freak innocent people out, but I don’t see any. I sigh. If I didn’t have to worry about my reputation in the dating world and the impression it would leave on the matchmaker, I’d have been halfway home by now. The problem is, I have enough stacked against me without people saying I bail on my dates before they even begin.
“Can we start over?” He lifts his palm. “No more pranks.”
Pranks as in plural? Dear G-d, how many had he planned? Did he plan? I force a smile that’s so wide it’s almost painful. “Sure.”
“Great, great.” He grins broadly, obviously pleased with himself. “So, what can I get you to drink?”
Since coffee is the only thing that’s kosher here, I say, “An iced coffee please. Decaf,” I add.
“Alright, I’m on it.”
I watch him weave his way to the front of the store, tripping over a chair in the process before apologizing profusely to the man in it. I shake my head and sigh. Maybe he’s nervous. My head starts to pound, so I open my purse and take out the emergency Tylenol I carry with me and dry-swallow two. I just met the guy, and he’s already given me a stress headache.
I take out my phone to text Libby, my big sister, mother of five, and number-one go-to person for all things in life.
Am two seconds away from running out on this date
After a short pause, my phone bleeps.
LOL. What’s stopping you?
Jewish guilt. My reputation.
I watch the gray dots dance on the screen as she types back.
Matchmakers r overrated. All u need is Tinder.
I laugh and start typing a response.
“Uh-oh. Cheating on me already?” Yoav places my drink on the table, then sits across from me on the teal velvet banquette and tilts his head.
“No, just texting my sister,” I say, and put my phone away. “Thanks for the coffee.” I murmur the Hebrew blessing and take a sip. “It’s delicious.”
“Can’t go wrong with Columbian dark roast.” He takes a swallow and murmurs, “Mmm, so many flavors.” He lowers his cup and gives an impish grin. “Want to try some of mine?”
Hell to the no. “No, thank you.”
He looks so disappointed that I have to remind myself not to be taken in by sad puppy-man eyes, especially when it comes to swapping spit. Since Orthodox Jews aren’t allowed to touch people of the opposite gender, sharing a drink is like getting to second base, so to speak.
“So Yoav,” I say, trying to move the conversation along, “what do you do for a living? Mrs. Zelikovitch said you’re the person everyone calls when there’s been a homicide or other crime scene.”
He takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses with his shirt. “Yeah, I’m their guy alright.”
When he doesn’t continue, I say, “So, you’re a detective?”
“Hah!” he laughs. “No, no. I’m just the cleaner upper.”
I have no idea what that means. “What does that mean?
“I clean up people’s spilled guts and stuff after they’ve been killed or committed suicide. And lemme tell you something,” he says, shaking his finger, “it’s a thankless job. The police order you around like you’re their bitch; the family is all emotional and crying—whatever. And it’s not like the corpse is grateful.” He shrugs. “Whatcha gonna do? It is what it is. So,” he says, nodding, “what do you do?”
I swallow. “I work at a jewelry store.”
“Hah!” he barks, then takes a drink. “Jewelry store, huh? I guess you didn’t go to college either.”
“I went to a community college.” A couple walks past our table, holding hands and laughing, and something in my heart pinches. It feels like envy, and I shake the thought from my head. “I majored in English.”
He smirks. “What a waste of money. Why did you even bother going?”
“The plan was to be the next Jane Austen,” I explain, hating this part of the story. “But it took me forever just to write a paragraph and when I finally finished, I realized that it wasn’t even a good one.” I tilt my head and purse my lips. “I emailed it to a friend of mine and asked her what she thought. She said I should probably take up knitting.”
Yoav slams his hand on the table, causing some of my coffee to spill. “Now that,” he declares loudly, “is funny.”
Glad one of us is having a good time.
“What do you do in your spare time?”
He gazes at me suspiciously over the rim of his cup, as though this is a trick question. “What do you mean?”
I repress the sigh that so badly wants to come out. “Like,” I say, waving my hand, “what do you do for fun?” He stares at me blankly, so I add, “Do you have any hobbies?” Besides pranking your dates.
“I smoke. I drink.” He squints his eyes like he’s concentrating really hard, then says, “Does eating count?”
I sigh. “Sure. Why not.”
“Do you have any hobbies?” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yes,” I reply immediately. “Well, maybe not hobbies per se, but I like going for walks around the lake with my friend, and I hang out with my nephews and niece.” My eyes light up and I straighten in my seat. “Oh, and I love watching old movies! You know, those black-and-white ones with stars like Gene Tierney and Humphrey Bogart and Paul Newman—”
“Honestly, I don’t have a lot of spare time,” Yoav says, cutting me off. “My work hours are pretty long. And when I’m not working, I’m volunteering at Shriners Hospital.”
“Really?” My eyes widen in surprise. Maybe this guy is my soulmate after all. He’s obviously got a good heart if he volunteers. “I do too!” I say excitedly, clutching my heart. “I also volunteer at a hospital.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, bringing his cup to his lips. “Do you like it?”
“I love it. I get to cuddle babies in the NICU. It’s the best. What do you do?”
He finishes swallowing, then clears his throat. “I’m a clown.”
“A clown?” I repeat, not sure I heard right.
“Yeah. I have to wear this ridiculous costume with a Ronald McDonald nose and act like a dork.”
My eyebrows lift. “That’s … interesting. We don’t have clowns at my hospital.” Which is only a good thing, if you ask me. I don’t know what it is about them, but clowns give me the creeps. Maybe it’s the poorly applied makeup. “Do you put on shows?”
“Yeah. But I only have a few weeks left and then I’ll be moving on.”
I use my straw to stir the coffee. “You want a different volunteer job?”
“Hah!” he laughs and blots his lips with a napkin. “Nah, I’m finished with volunteering. I just did it because it looks good on my résumé. Unless—” He slaps his forehead. “Oh, I almost forgot. Ma made us her famous brownies.” He reaches into a plastic shopping bag and pulls out a Tupperware container that has a mini notepad attached to the top that says in big scrawling print: To my future daughter-in-law, with love. He points at the note and chuckles. “She’s the best. I tell her all the time that if she weren’t already taken, I’d marry her myself.”
I laugh weakly. That’s not creepy at all. Nope.
When he removes the lid, a strange scent assaults my nose, but I can’t pinpoint what it is. It smells like cocoa mixed with death.
“Mmm,” Yoav, closes his eyes and sniffs appreciatively. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says, glancing around furtively, “but mayonnaise is the secret ingredient.”
I throw up a little in my mouth. Mayonnaise and I go way back, but not in a good way. Just thinking of its smell and texture causes me to break out into a cold sweat. There’s got to be hidden cameras in here, and I start glancing around the room for them because it seems like too much of a coincidence for him not to have known. I admit it’s weird (okay fine, I’m weird), but I detest mayonnaise as though it were its own entity with evil intentions. It’s squishy and goopy and jiggly and—I shudder. Why would anyone ruin a perfectly good brownie by adding that poison?
“Something wrong?” Yoav asks with a slight frown when he sees me cringe.
I shake my head, scooting as far away from the offensive item on the table as possible. There’s no nice way to explain that his precious mother’s famous recipe makes me want to hurl. I almost laugh, hearing my matchmaker’s voice in my ear, telling me for the millionth time that honesty is never the best policy when discussing your date’s mother.
“I’m not much of a brownie person. Thank you, though,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Have a bite or two,” he says firmly, pushing the Tupperware forward until it’s directly in front of me. “My mother made these especially for you.” He watches closely as I take a bite, then asks, “Well? What do you think?”
I think you and your mother are trying to kill me. “Ish sho good.” Don’t think about the mayonnaise, don’t think about the mayonnaise—
His phone suddenly rings, and while he checks the screen to see who’s calling, I reach for a napkin and spit the brownie out.
“My mother’s FaceTiming me.” Yoav looks up from his phone. “Do you mind if I get it? She gets worried if I don’t pick up by the third ring.”
A sigh escapes me. “Sure, go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Yoav’s finger swipes the screen, and he grins widely. “Hi, Ma.”
“Hi, baby boy.”
I choke on my drink and pound on my chest, trying not to laugh. This is too much. First the prank, then the mayonnaise brownie, now baby boy.
“Who’s coughing?” she asks. “Is it the girl? Is she there?”
“Yes. She’s here right now, actually.” He winks.
Did he just wink at me? And why is he wiggling his eyebrows like that? It’s like Morse code of the face, but I have no idea what he’s trying to tell me.
“Oh good,” she says. “Listen, I won’t keep you, but tell me quickly, did the brownies turn out good?”
“Are you kidding? They’re as amazing as the woman who made them.” He grins.
I suddenly feel like the third wheel here. Maybe I could slip away without being noticed.
“How about the girl?” Yoav’s mother asks. “Did she like them?”
Yoav motions toward his phone and mouths something to me, but I can’t make out what it is.
Without warning, he turns the phone toward me, and I suddenly find myself staring into the beady wide-set eyes of an older woman in a turquoise headscarf.
Oh dear G-d, it’s the progenitor herself.
“Um, hi.” I smile widely, feeling like a deer in headlights. I’ve been on a lot of dates in my life, but this is definitely a first. And hopefully, the last.
“Hi, sweetie. I’m Yoav’s mom.”
Then you have a lot of explaining to do. “Nice to meet you. I’m Penina.”
“You’re as pretty as your profile picture!”
I laugh nervously. What picture was that? I don’t even remember. “Thank you. And thanks for the brownies. They’re delicious.”
“Good, good, enjoy! My son loves desserts, but he’s hopeless in the kitchen. Do you bake?”
This woman moves impressively fast, but the last thing I want is her getting any ideas that I’ll be helping her son out in the kitchen. Or anywhere else. “Love that tichel!” I say, pointing to her headscarf in a desperate attempt to distract her. “Did you get that in a store or online?”
