Page 4 of The Hanukkah Hoax
“How is that my problem?” she hissed. “Why are you so backed up?”
“Like I said, just because I was overdue my official break didn’t mean I wasn’t entitled to some personal compensatory downtime of my choosing. I showed up half an hour early to this gig, and as long as Angela sees me when I need to be seen, it’s all good.”
“It’s all— Did you just say it’s all good? Seriously? After giving me shit for taking a break?”
“I’m always serious. And it’s always better to give shit than to take it. First rule of gig work.” Jerome—Geoffrey? Geoffry! That was it!—snorted again, this time against the back of his hand, and strode back toward Angela, who was staring intently at Marisa.
Oh, she needed to get the hell out of here. Her soul and soles couldn’t take it anymore.
Marisa white-knuckled the silver tray and speed walked toward the charcuterie table, all the while keeping an eye on Monica, who still stood blessedly alone, admiring the ice sculpture. If she were fast, she could offload the goods and answer the obligatory bathroom location questions in about twenty seconds. Given the thickness of the crowd and the pockets of guest clusters, add on another thirty seconds to make it across the ballroom, which would leave her with exactly?—
A towering form shifted in front of her only direct path to the display table. With lightning-fast reflexes born from years of working with molten sugar, Marisa somehow managed to rock back on her heels and shelter the stemware behind the cage of her forearm. The drinks jostled slightly, but the drops that had spilled onto the tray were barely noticeable. Likewise, the food had been spared.
Too bad her senses hadn’t.
In a ballroom where the finery often wore the guests, the same couldn’t be said for the man before her. Dressed in a deep huckleberry suit filled out by a toned thickness not often found outside MetLife Stadium, he stood a good head taller than anyone around him. Unlike those in attendance, however, the courteous expression on his face was mixed with a tinge of boredom that only those expert in observing the misery of corporate event attendees could decipher.
Nothing about this man belonged here. Not the closely cropped dark hair that ended in a widow’s peak above his wide brow, nor the charming dimples protruding above a thin beard that hadn’t quite managed to shake hands with the mustache haloing it.
Those weren’t ordinary dimples. Those were dimples born only of forced politeness and sardonic grinning. She should know because she had a near-matching set, except hers loved to show themselves after the fourth cup of wine during her parents’ seder. That was when her dad liked to play it a little too fast and loose with the pours while always making a decidedly unfunny joke about how Jews have sensitive tummies.
All this, of course, right before her Aunt Gail liked to remind everyone that Marisa’s little candies weren’t sugar free.
Marisa slowed her steps in time to the stranger’s uneasy shuffle from foot to foot. God, he didn’t want to be there any more than she did. Around him, a cadre of suits were laughing and clinking similar glasses of amber liquid while the stranger merely bobbed his wide shoulders on a single tense chuckle and let his boredom-glazed eyes drift over the shellacked heads of businessmen.
Until they landed on her and took in the not-so-subtle fact that she’d been staring at him. Like, a lot.
Marisa sucked in a breath and backed up a step.
“Ow! Watch it!”
The shrill cry was so loud, Marisa’s first instinct was to hover a hand over her tray to make sure the crystal stemware hadn’t shattered from the high-pitched resonance.
Her second instinct, upon seeing the blooming stain of honey-mint sauce that was meant to coat the lamb skewers she carried but, instead, coated a guest’s yellow chiffon dress, was to grovel. Profusely.
“I am so sorry. Oh my goodness. Here,” Marisa said, placing the tray on a nearby table already overrun with dishes, “let me help.” She grabbed a discarded cloth napkin that looked mostly free of stains, dunked it in what she hoped was club soda, dropped to her knees, and began to blot at the smear on the woman’s skirt.
“Uh! You’re only making it worse.”
“If I can just get enough of the carbonation on the stain, most of the green should lift, and it’ll blend better. Almost there.”
“I don’t want it to blend. I want it to be gone!”
Marisa’s hand stalled out mid-swipe and hovered over the quickly-fading-but-not-fading-enough blemish as her mind landed on the tone and tenor of that word.
Blend.
She’d heard it before. Kind of hard not to when the ad’s slogan and its owner had bombarded her social media feed every time she went to research recipe videos.
Blending brilliant care with botanical flair! Scan this QR code for your free estimate on our in-home plant nursery service. But don’t wait too long. Holiday season bookings are filling up fast.
Marisa shot to her feet, stain forgotten, and was met with a glare that could wilt the most carefully maintained topiary.
“Plant Nanny,” Marisa breathed.
The woman shook out her red hair and lifted the stained corner of her skirt in one hand like a ballroom princess gearing up for a waltz. On anyone else, it would have given trying too hard, but on her, it trilled distressed damsel open for takers. “Just go, all right? I’m sure there’s something you can do to make up for your clumsiness. A complimentary glass of wine with an exceptional vintage, perhaps? Be sure to have someone else bring it over, though.”
Marisa had never been simultaneously dismissed and employed, but with the woman’s back turned to her and the blatant cloud of disgust and expectation fuming around them, there was nothing left for her to do but shake her head as two thoughts held Marisa still.
