Page 51 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
I can only assume that Savta means grandma in Hebrew, given the striking resemblance between this beautiful woman and Rafe.
“Good morning, Lorelei. Do my eyes deceive me, or did you make breakfast for my granddaughter?” She seems shocked as she looks warily from me to the tray and back to me.
“I did,” I nod, feeling nervous. There’s something about this woman that is so intimidating. She just oozes charisma, self-assurance, and having-your-shit-togetherness. I can picture her employees standing at attention, shouting, “Yes, chef!” in response to her every request. Her linen dress doesn’t have a single wrinkle. Her hair is perfectly cut, and the streaks of gray are dramatically gorgeous. They don’t look like the kind of gray you get when you run out of time to get to the salon. They look curated and intentional, like war ribbon warrior grays.
She lowers herself to sit beside her grandchild, dropping with the grace and flexibility of a yogi. Her eyes crinkle with warmth as she looks at Orly. And then un-crinkle as she stares cooly back up at me.
“So tell us, chef, what have you prepared for Orly today?”
Fudgesicles. She’s an actual chef, and she’s just toying with me now, like a cat with a mouse it doesn’t intend to bother eating. It’s just having fun batting it around and torturing it. I take a deep breath. This isn’t personal. It’s not me she has the issues with. And surely, Lorelei isn’t afraid of her. Lorelei doesn’t seem to be afraid of anyone.
“Fairy pancakes,” I say, turning back to the kitchen to clean up after myself. “And unicorn coffee.”
“You made coffee for a three-year-old?” She takes the mug from Orly’s hands.
“Magical unicorn coffee with special importedcacaobeans,” I say, attempting to wink at her while Orly is not looking.
Rafe’s mother merely blinks back at me. Unimpressed. She lifts the mug and sniffs the contents before handing it back to the child.
“Interesting,” she says.
“Speaking of coffee, I was about to make some. Can I make you a cup?” I scrutinize her, before guessing. She’d take her coffee straight up. Black. Maybe a touch of raw honey. No milk. But I don’t want to presume.
I open a cabinet and pull out the French press, coffee grinder, and beans. I’m gasping for a decent cup of coffee myself at this point. I sniff the beans, closing my eyes. When I open them, Rafe’s mom is staring at me.
“I didn’t think you drank coffee, Lorelei?”
“Well,” I vamp, “lately I’ve been drinking it more. And these beans just smell so great.”
“They do, don’t they? My friends roast them in a little shop just outside the Machane Yehuda Market in Jerusalem. They are very special. I’d love a cup of French press if you are already brewing some. Make it strong.” Then she takes the utensils from Orly. “Let me cut them up for you.”
“Oooooooo! Rainbows!” Orly wiggles with delight at the colorful centers of her pancakes.
“Interesting. So colorful.”
I realize I don’t know Rafe’s mother’s name or whether Lorelei even calls her by her first name. Perhaps I can excuse myself to go to the bathroom to text Lorelei to ask?
But first, I busy myself with grinding the beans and making the coffee. I’m glad the press is oversize, big enough for two or even three cups.
Rafe lets himself in through the sliding glass door.Good Lord, he is glistening.He’s all sweaty, and he’s stripped off his shirt and his running shoes, which he’s carrying in one hand. His tank is draped over one arm, and he uses it to mop his face, which is somehow radiating a golden, bronzed glow. I, on the other hand, would be glowing like a boiled beet root if I’d gone for a run before my morning coffee.
“Abba!” Orly jumps to her feet and flings herself at Rafe. Abba must mean papa, I realize, filing away another new word.
“Ugh, Bean, I’m all sweaty,” Rafe laughs, holding her away. “Let me take a shower before I hug you.”
“Ewww gwooss!” Orly freezes in her tracks.
“What is that deliciousness I smell?” Rafe asks. “Did Savta make you a special breakfast?”
“No!” Orly points at me. “Lie Lie did! She made me fairy pancakes and corn coffee!”
“Lie Lie?” Rafe looks surprised, and wary.
I shrug and shake my head, holding up my hands, a sign of my innocence.
“Is that why the kitchen is so messy?” Rafe asks, shooting me a warning look. What is he even talking about? I’ve already washed most of the dishes. Messy? What mess?
Messy. Then I recall it’s the same word he used yesterday when talking about me possibly meeting and interacting with his daughter. He doesn’t want things to getmessy. But is it my fault that she was playing alone in here when I arrived? And that she was hungry? Wasn’t I just doing what any decent human being would do under those circumstances?
