The Kiddush Ladies

  Life-long Jewish friends Naomi, Miriam, and Becky are approaching middle-age gracefully and are content--despite a few hot flashes and mood swings--until life tosses each woman a crisis...

  When Becky, the daughter of Holocaust survivors, learns of her only son’s engagement to a non-Jew, she rallies against the marriage and becomes obsessed with finding him a Jewish bride.

  Naomi--whose husband left her for a man, crushing her small amount of self-confidence--is stuck with a dead-end job and a big house in a neighborhood filled with couples. She hates the loneliness of weekends and the empty side of the king-size bed.

  Miriam, an only child of parents who were also only children, struggles with the fact that she has no blood relatives besides her children. She recognizes that it’s siblings who connect the past, the present, and the future, and the closest thing she has to sisters are Becky and Naomi.

  Then a dusty discovery delivers a potentially lethal blow to their friendship. While two of the women fight to save the relationship, one desires nothing more than its complete demise.

  KUDOS FOR THE KIDDUSH LADIES

  In The Kiddush Ladies by Susan Sofayov, Naomi, Miriam, and Becky are life-long friends until a dark secret, discovered as they approach middle age, tears that friendship apart and destroys two of the women’s relationship. The other one is determined to bring her two friends back together and end this silly feud, but the one who feels betrayed is adamant, and she won’t even consider any other explanation. Sofayov has crafted an intense and poignant tale of friendship, loyalty, and pride that will have you weeping and laughing, sometimes on the same page. Very well done. ~ Taylor Jones, Reviewer

  The Kiddush Ladies by Susan Sofayov is the story of three Jewish women who have been friends since childhood, but when they’re in their forties, one of them discovers what she feels is a betrayal by one of the other women. This starts a feud between the two women and tears their friendship apart, leaving the third woman caught in the middle. The story follows these women through crises in their lives, as each one struggles to cope and come to grips with her situation in her own way. Before, when something bad happened, the three women had each other to lean on, but now that solid wall of support has been shattered, and no one is quite sure what to do about it. The Kiddush Ladies gives us a glimpse into the life of Jewish women and how strong these women’s faith is. It’s a touching, thought-provoking tale that will warm your heart one minute and break it the next. A wonderful read.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to Lauri, Faith, and Jack at Black Opal Books. I’m very grateful for your time, hard work, kind words, and most of all, your patience.

  Thank you to the entire crew of the Pennwriters North Hills Critique Group. Without your feedback, THE KIDDUSH LADIES would still be stuck in my mind and in the kitchen. Hugs and thank you to Kathy Barbati, Nonna Neft, Suzanne Mattaboni, and Elizabeth Pagel-Hogan for your plot insights and punctuation prowess.

  And to my wonderful beta readers who so generously gave their time and feedback to help polish THE KIDDUSH LADIES: Toby Tabachnick, Tobie Nepo, Emily Sofayov, Janet McClintock, and my newest friend, Cantor Rena Shapiro. I owe you all a Shabbat dinner of brisket, matzah ball soup, and Israeli salad.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t include a group of very special Kiddush Ladies. To all the women who have lovingly worked to prepare the kiddush luncheon at the Chabad of South Hills, you taught me the meaning of community. Each of you holds a special place in my heart.

  To Ben and Eli, this is book two. Don’t you think it’s time to read book one? Finally, to my business partner, best friend, and husband, Pinchas, in spite of your continued lack of support for my writing hobby, I love you beyond words.

  The Kiddush Ladies

  Susan Sofayov

  A Black Opal Books Publication

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2016 by Susan Sofayov

  Cover Design by Susan Sofayov

  All cover art copyright © 2016

  All Rights Reserved

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626945-75-3

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  EXCERPT

  This feud between her two best friends was killing her. She had to find a way to bring them back together...

  Naomi picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hello.”

  Wonderful, no voicemail, Becky actually answered.

  “I’m so sorry, Becky. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  “I know, Naomi.”

  “Please, tell me what’s going on. Believe me, when I say this, Miriam has no idea why you’re angry. If she knew what was bothering you, she could either apologize or explain herself.”

  “Too late for that, and no apology will ever be enough,” Becky said.

  “This is so absurd. I don’t have words for it.”

  “Naomi, I don’t want to talk about this. Miriam and I are no longer friends, nor is there an icicle’s chance in hell, we’ll ever be friends again. If there was another orthodox shul in the neighborhood, I’d go there just to avoid seeing her face every week.”

  Stunned was the only word to describe Naomi’s reaction to the poison Becky just dropped on her. “Becky, this is horrible. You can’t mean any of it.”

  “Yes, I do, and don’t ever bring it up again. Furthermore, she’s not coming to my only son’s wedding.”

  The phone went dead, but a few moments passed before Naomi removed it from her ear and set it on the kitchen countertop. She yanked open the sliding glass door, walked across the deck, and leaned against the cold wooden railing, unable to comprehend Becky’s tirade.

  Dedicated with love to my mother, Cecelia Dobransky.

  Chapter 1

  Naomi

  If the soul of their small shul, B’nai Israel, rested in the sanctuary, its heartbeat emanated from the kitchen. Naomi always said that the service brought them to the synagogue, but the food and the lunchtime fellowship made them a community.

  As she passed through the doorway into the stainless steel mecca, the tension in her neck and shoulders eased, just a bit. A brief respite from the loneliness and stress, which began each Saturday evening and peaked every Friday afternoon when she opened her wallet, praying her bank account held enough money to pay for groceries. Inside the synagogue kitchen, surrounded by her friends, life became more bearable. She didn’t feel alone.

  Two of the four women who bore the bulk of the kitchen duties stood along the big steel worktable. In a rhythm honed over years, they chopped, diced, and sliced, preparing the kiddush luncheon for the congregation sitting inside the sanctuary.

  Naomi washed her hands in the commercial-grade stainless-steel sink. The tepid water running over her dry skin reminded her of the empty tube of hand cream sitting at the bottom of her purse, and a quick glance at her chipped finger nail polish highlighted her inability to afford a manicure. While drying her hands on a paper towel, she made a mental note to buy nail polish remover.

  She pulled her favorite knife from the drawer and moved to her post on the north side of the table. She opened a bag containing two dozen bagels, pulled out the first one, and began slicing, listening as her friends, Esther and Laurie, discussed a new type of quinoa salad.

  The morning sunshine shone through the huge windows of the eastern wall. It reflected off the stainless surfaces, giving Naomi the sense that
the kitchen was smiling. Across the room, lanky Miriam leaned against the countertop, sipping coffee and appearing bored with the subject. She joined them in the kitchen each Saturday. She didn’t help, just talked, which was completely okay with Naomi. Miriam never learned to cook anything more complicated than boiling noodles and opening a jar of tomato sauce. Her excuse, a long story told with the flourish of a stage actress, involved a traumatic childhood incident with a frying pan and a burn.

  Naomi never believed her story. Miriam’s mother was a neat freak who didn’t allow Miriam to touch anything in her kitchen. A frying pan in Miriam’s hands guaranteed a grease-splattered stove top. In fact, her mother refused to allow Miriam to put ketchup on her own sandwiches until eighth grade, claiming ketchup would stain the countertops red.

  Naomi laid the last sesame bagel into the napkin lined basket. As she turned to place it on the serving cart, she breathed in the warmth of the atmosphere.

  “Somebody has to fish it out,” Laurie, the newest member of the group, said, gesturing with her head toward a giant jar of pickled herring sitting in the center of the table. “And it’s not going to be me. I did it last week. I’ll plate the lox after I finish this salad.”

  Laurie’s voice pulled Naomi from her reverie. “I did it the week before. I think.”

  “That’s not true, Naomi.” Esther lobbed a handful of egg shells into the trash can. “I got stuck doing it two weeks in a row.”

  “Please, Esther,” Naomi said. “You know that stuff makes me gag. The smell...”

  “Hey, Miriam, why don’t you plate the herring? You’re the only person who actually eats the stuff,” Esther asked.

  “Really?” Laurie asked, plugging her nose. “How do you swallow that slime?”

  Miriam shrugged.

  At that moment, Becky strolled into the kitchen. She lifted an apron from a hook on the back of the door, pulled it over her head, and smoothed it over the front of her cream-colored Michael Kors suit. Then she placed her designer black hat on the shelf. “What’s going on in here?”

  “The weekly herring fight. We’re trying to convince Miriam to plate it, since she actually eats it,” Laurie said.

  Becky snorted. “That’ll be the day. She’d drag Joe out of the sanctuary and make him do it. I’ll plate the herring.”

  Only Becky laughed at the zing. Laurie shifted her gaze from Becky’s face to the package of lox she held. Esther turned and opened the refrigerator doors. Miriam sipped her coffee. Naomi noticed the deepened furrows above her brow, the only sign indicating she felt the sting of Becky’s cooking statement. Naomi understood why Miriam put up with it, but she still didn’t like it. Miriam remained silent, as she had the last six million times that Becky threw barbs at her. Becky exploded, Miriam imploded, and Naomi negotiated the peace treaties between her two childhood best friends.

  “Every week, it’s the same.” Laurie rolled her eyes and shook her head. “My husband does too many l’chaims with the Crown Royal and eats that disgusting fish. The minute we get home from the synagogue, he starts with the ‘Shabbat mitzvah’ talk. Ugh, I hate the car ride home because of his horrible fish breath. There’s no way in hell I’m crawling between the sheets with him.”

  Naomi listened and struggled to fight off the pang of jealousy that swept through her. Fish smell or no fish smell, she wished she had someone willing to crawl between her sheets. She hated the empty side of her king-size bed, which her ex-husband, Jake, was kind enough to leave behind the day he hauled half their furniture down the steps and into a U-Haul.

  The fish discussion ended. The women began updating each other on their plans for the upcoming week. Rosh Hashanah loomed only three days away. Esther grumbled while she doused Italian salad dressing into a bowl of romaine lettuce because none of her kids could make it home. Laurie tried to convince them to enroll in the new Pilates class at the Jewish Community Center, insisting it would burn off the extra holiday calories in no time. Naomi listened, unable to add anything to the conversation. Her life was as exciting as tying shoelaces.

  Becky cleared her throat. “Did I mention Noah is bringing home a friend, who is a girl, for Rosh Hashanah?” The work halted as all attention moved from the stainless steel table to Becky’s face.

  “You didn’t tell us he had a girlfriend! What’s she like?” Laurie asked.

  “My bubbeleh with a girlfriend!” Miriam squealed, twiddling her fingers together in front of her chest, joy lighting her face.

  “This is thrilling news,” Naomi said. “He never brought a girlfriend home before.”

  Becky’s body stiffened as her gaze moved from one woman to the next. “Don’t get excited. She’s not a real girlfriend.”

  Naomi recognized the stance--straightened spine, shoulders back and taut facial muscles combined with a lifted chin--as Becky’s I’m-really-pissed-off posture.

  “What do you mean?” Esther asked, her words tinged with a Hebrew accent.

  “Her name is Maria. She’s Catholic.” Becky harpooned a long knife into the herring jar. “I have nothing against having fun in college, but this is his third year of law school. Fun time is over. He needs to find a job and start hunting for a girl with wife qualifications. Besides, I’m not spending tens of thousands of dollars for him to be distracted by a shiksa, even if she is just a friend.”

  Awkwardness polluted the space between them as the women continued working in silence. Naomi pulled a bag of potato chips from a tall metal cabinet and emptied the contents into a napkin lined basket. While placing it on the metal serving cart, she met Becky’s gaze. The look in her friend’s eyes confirmed her fears. This girl wasn’t just a friend. Naomi ached to slice through the tension in the air, but couldn’t find the words. Instead, she moved to Becky’s side.

  She placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Noah’s smart, and he’s a mensch. He’ll do the right thing.”

  Becky reached up and patted Naomi’s hand. “You’re right.”

  ***

  The Jewish social service agency where Naomi worked relied on community donations to achieve its mission. Each year the agency did a major fundraising push during the High Holidays. Her job description didn’t require her to engage in what she referred to as professional begging, but the completed pledge forms piled up on her desk.

  She shifted her gaze from the computer screen to the five inch heap of forms. A feeling of disgust washed over her. Each moment of this job contained a handful of dirt tossed on the grave of her writing career, which died the day she accepted the position over twenty years ago. With each task she completed, the memory of her former dreams faded. Now, she could barely recall writing anything more than an email or an office memo. The journalism degree, lying at the bottom of the cedar chest that once belonged to her grandmother, was as much an antique as the chest.

  The only word to describe her job was dull--assistant to the president, a glorified beck-and-call girl. She reached for the next pledge form on the stack, exhaled, and typed the name into the first line on the screen. The next hour consisted of pulling pledges from the stack and entering the information--pull, type, file, repeat.

  The professional staff, including her boss, ditched out at noon, leaving the office empty and silent. Her boss wished her L’Shanah Tova, sweet new year, as he passed her desk on his way to the elevator. She hoped he would give her permission to leave early, but no such luck.

  But, now the clock read four o’clock. She shut down the computer and grabbed her bag. At last, the work day was over, and the holiday would begin in a few hours.

  Naomi smiled to herself, grateful it was starting on a Wednesday evening--four days off. She walked down the corridor, checking the office doors to make sure everyone remembered to lock them.

  She checked her boss’s door last. Of course, it was open. Why would he bother locking it--trivial matters were her job. Before locking the door, she stood in the threshold of the office and remembered...

  ***

  Page
s of Help-Wanted ads spread across Naomi’s tiny kitchen table and reading them frustrated the hell out of her. There were no new listings from the ones she read last week. In fact, only two new ads appeared in the last six weeks.

  She mailed resumes to every newspaper, magazine, and TV station in Pittsburgh--no reply. Journalism jobs were nonexistent, causing her to spend too much energy daydreaming about moving to a more exciting place like Los Angeles or New York.

  After she closed the paper, she stared at Jake’s bare back, watching his muscles ripple as he washed the breakfast dishes. Most of the time she complained about their postage stamp sized kitchen, but there were moments when it wasn’t so bad. She inhaled the musky scent of his cologne while running her finger down the length of his spine. Instead of the motion giving him chills, it made her shiver.

  Jake turned, wiped his hands on the towel, and opened his arms. Naomi rose from the chair and let him engulf her. No place on Earth was better than being in Jake’s arms.

  “Naomi, maybe you could take a temporary position until a reporter job opens. And if you don’t have a job in journalism when I finish medical school, we can move anywhere you want.”

  They desperately needed the money. He spent every waking hour in class or studying. She knew that keeping a roof over their heads and food on the table depended on her. Student loans only went so far, and neither of them wanted to move in with her parents.