stadium, Mom didn’t hear her phone ring.
“I was a little worried. Jeremy was doing a full-on hissy dance.”
“If you’re going to date,” Jeremy says, “you need to be more responsible.”
“You’re right,” Mom says for the tenth time.
“We should make some ground rules,” I suggest. “So we’re all on the same page.”
“Good idea,” Jeremy says, and proceeds to make the rules. “The first rule is that you tell Ally, me, or Mimi where you are going and with whom.”
“Okay,” Mom says.
“Also,” Jeremy says. “You should take your own car on dates until you’ve been out with someone a few times.”
Mom laughs. “That’s a little silly.”
“It’s not silly, Mom,” I say. “Do you know how many stories I’ve heard about psychos on the Internet?”
Mom waves her hand in the air. “These are old Jewish men.”
“How do you know?” Jeremy says. “Anyone can put up a photo and a profile. Who you think is a sixty-five-year-old retired teacher could be a twenty-three-year-old with a roll of duct tape and a fetish for older women.”
Mom stops laughing.
“We want you to be safe,” Jeremy says.
“You’re our one and only mommy,” I add, hoping to water down Jeremy’s worry.
“You’re right.” Mom nods. “I’ll follow your rules.”
“Good,” Jeremy says.
“Now go to your room,” I say.
The next morning, banging wakes me. When I stagger into the kitchen, Mom says, “Oh, good. You’re up.” She gestures to bowls and measuring cups on the kitchen counter. “I made pancakes. From scratch.”
“Are those guilt pancakes?”
“With sorry syrup,” Mom answers. As I make coffee, Mom turns the heat on under a griddle on the stove. As she ladles batter onto the griddle, she says, “I really like Sid.”
“Mom, you don’t have to tell me this.” I hope she won’t continue. She does.
“He’s very special. Smart. Cultured. Romantic.” Mom waves her spatula in the air. “He’s not gorgeous but he’s not ugly.”
I say, “He’s no Billy Crystal.”
“Sadly, no.” Mom smiles. “But we’re going out again tonight. And tomorrow night.”
“Don’t rush into anything.”
“Mimi, I’m sixty years old. I don’t rush anywhere.”
Mutiny
The next night, Aaron Schein comes into Café Louis. From the kitchen, I watch Aaron take a seat at the counter. Bette takes his order. When she walks into the kitchen, I jump her. “What’d he order?”
“The New York strip and a baked potato.”
“Give him the grilled tuna,” I tell her. “And French fries.”
She does, and when Aaron sees his dinner, he smiles. “Did Mimi think I’d like this?” he asks loudly. “How sweet of her. Isn’t she sweet?”
Dagnabit.
The next day, Aaron comes in for dinner. He orders lasagna. I have Bette serve him nachos. While Aaron eats, Bette leans over the counter and talks to him. She laughs, smooths her hair, and winks at him before moving to other customers.
“What are you doing?” I ask when she comes into the kitchen.
Bette smiles. “If you’re not going to flirt with him, I will.”
By the third day, word of Aaron’s persistent pursuit has spread through the wait staff. When he arrives for dinner, Aaron is greeted at the front door by Christopher von Hecht. This makes me incredibly nervous, because I’m not sure whose side Christopher is on.
Christopher leads Aaron to a booth, then turns his back to the kitchen door, blocking my view. They speak for quite some time. When Christopher comes into the kitchen, I grab his arm. “Chrissie, what are you doing?”
“Calm down, peanut butter cup. I’m doing my job.”
“Right.” I release his arm. “You took Aaron’s order. Because you’re his waiter.”
“That’s one of my jobs.” Christopher hangs the order on the rack in front of the San Padre brothers. Then he turns to me. “My other job is to marry you off to a nice Jewish man.”
“That is not your job,” I say, hands planted firmly on hips.
“I’m a matchmaker.” Christopher shrugs. “It’s what I was born to do.”
“Since when?”
“Since now. Whose food is this?” Christopher looks at the plates piling up in the window. “¿Hombres, que mesa?”
“Nueve,” someone answers.
I say, “Aaron is not a good match for me. He’s trying to ruin this restaurant.”
“That’s not true and you know it.” Christopher arranges the plates on a large serving tray. “Aaron’s family made your family what I assume was a perfectly good offer to buy the property. If it wasn’t a good offer, your brother—who is clearly the more levelheaded sibling—wouldn’t have considered it. This isn’t a family feud. It’s a business deal. You’re no Juliet and I’m not Richard Dawson.”
“What?”
“Think on that.” Christopher hoists the tray to his shoulder and