Page 29 of The Hanukkah Hoax
Between the living room and dining room, there wasn’t a surface or ceiling that hadn’t reached its limit in terms of festive abundance.
It was absolutely cornea-singeing.
But it was also bloody lovely.
It was a different kind of festive than he’d ever experienced, and strangely enough, it reminded him of a phrase he’d been taught by a former Italian teammate he’d played with for a handful of seasons. Abbondanza. Or the Italian concept of too-muchness, as Alec understood it. The idea of a pleasant fullness that magnified one’s joy because of its excess, not despite it. Alec bit back a laugh and covered his mouth with his fist, pleasantly surprised at just how much he enjoyed this fake date.
Because it was excessive, every bit of it. But it was also joy. Excessive, unapologetic, and insanely gaudy joy.
He leaned close to Marisa’s ear, intending to tell her as much, when an elegant woman who seemed to be around Marisa’s parents’ age separated from a group surrounding the large menorah at the piano and came to greet them. “Marisa, happy birthday, my love.”
“Hi, Aunt Gail. Thanks. Nice spread you got this year.”
“Oh, thank you. The party planner worked miracles with the decorations,” she said with air kisses on each side of Marisa’s cheeks. “The caterer, not so much. I had a bit of trouble with the order, but in the end, they came around. It all worked out.”
Bea started passing out skullcaps—yarmulkes, he’d learned—to those who wanted one, then coughed into her wineglass. “Because you threatened to contact the Better Business Bureau over false advertising when you ordered off the printed catering menu you still had in your kitchen drawer, instead of the updated one on their website.”
“Oh, Beatrice,” Gail said, rolling her eyes, “It really shouldn’t have made a difference.”
“It’s not that we’re not all grateful for the spread, dear, but the caterer is allowed to change the menu. It’s not their fault you don’t know how the Internet works, nor should it be my burden to talk the poor employee off the ledge when you asked me to call to see whether they could add cinnamon raisin and walnut cream cheese to the order thirty minutes before it was supposed to be delivered. You know that’s not on the menu anymore. Hasn’t been for five years. It takes time to soak all those raisins. You can’t just add them to the cream cheese all hard and shriveled.” Then she took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips, attempting to adopt a calm-down technique Alec had seen far too many women do. He always wondered whether it really worked.
Hank leaned forward, lifted the mostly drained wineglass out of Bea’s hand, and whispered next to her, “Remember, kindness,” but Marisa’s mother just shrugged him off in favor of tossing another chocolate coin into her mouth.
Alec made a mental note that the calm-down technique might have a far higher chance of success if chocolate were involved.
Unfortunately, it did little to calm down Marisa’s aunt.
Gail’s eyes turned into icy slits, and strangely, Alec relaxed a bit more, comforted to know that Marisa’s family holidays could be just as noxious as his own. Some things were universal, he supposed.
Marisa fiddled with her fingernail. “Can we just light the candles, or sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ or do whatever it is we need to in order to get to the food? I promised Alec a good meal, not dinner and a show.”
It was under the weighted and, thanks to Marisa’s comment, spotlit stare of her entire family and loved ones that the two of them realized their huge mistake.
A big bloody albatross of their fake dating lie.
They’d yet to come up with a story of how they met.
Her Aunt Gail, who had been about to strike a match to light the first candle, instead put the matches down. “Who’s your guest, Marisa?”
“Uh, um. Alec.”
“Alec Elms,” he offered, awkwardly waving his hand, as if that would be explanation enough. It most definitely wasn’t.
“He’s my, uh, my . . .”
“Boyfriend,” he said, smiling, plunking down that word like a man betting it all on red because he had an in with the dealer.
But to his abject horror, his smile, the smile, didn’t so much as even soften the shock on her family’s features.
The matches hit the floor, their task long forgotten, as Marisa and Alec just stood there, bracing themselves against the chorus of questions fired their way.
Chapter 12
It was a damn good thing there was a mine’s worth of sterling silver between Marisa and the rest of her family. Anything less and there wouldn’t have been enough counterweight to keep the table from flipping as her family slammed their eager palms down.
“Yes!” her mother trilled. “Finally. Please, let’s do proper introductions. You know, Marisa, I was really trying to wait as patiently as possible for you to acquaint us on your own, but there’s only so much patience a woman of my age has left. Damn near used it all up raising you, as your father can attest to.”
At the mention of his name, her dad walked back the dreidel-shaped sugar cookie he’d attempted to pluck from the dessert tray and pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “That’s right,” he affirmed, clearly having no idea what he was agreeing to but habitually proclaiming it, nonetheless.
