Love You a Latke

Epilogue

The End of December

Correction: the pinnacle of happiness was not the night of the ball. It was now. To be fair, every day since the ball had been a new, shining high of happiness.

Gag me.

Still, if there was any night to be super ultra grandpa corny, it was tonight: the opening of the Hanukkah festival I’d spent the past few weeks frantically cobbling together. I took a deep breath as I scurried around my apartment with my tote bag, gathering everything I’d need tonight. Hand sanitizer? Sure. Another thing of hand sanitizer in case the first one ran out? Why not. Pepper spray? Who knew what might go on at the area’s first Hanukkah festival—couldn’t be too careful. Gum? Didn’t want to walk around with oniony latke breath all night.

“Maybe you want to throw some sunglasses in there, too,” Seth said from behind me. “You never know if for the first time ever the sun will decide to come out at night.”

I knew perfectly well that he was making fun of me, but now I thought that maybe I did need sunglasses. What if the spotlights were so bright that they made me squint and I missed something?

His hand found my upper back and rubbed in soothing circles. “Relax. It’s going to be amazing.”

“Or it’s going to be a disaster.” My heart flipped at the thought. There were so many things that could go wrong. One of the vendors driving up from the city could have blown a tire en route and not had the signal to call me and let me know, or we hadn’t gotten the word out to the right communities and nobody would show—

“It’s not going to be a disaster,” Seth said firmly. “It’s going to be amazing.”

He couldn’t know that, but I’d learned by now that there was no use in arguing with him about whether the glass was half-full or half-empty. I drew in a deep breath, setting my very heavy tote bag down with a thump. A tube of ChapStick rolled out and disappeared with a plink under the couch, but that was okay. I had two others in there just in case.

Trying to distract myself from the feeling of impending doom, I took a few deep breaths and tried to remind my brain that the odds of everything going wrong like that were actually very low, something my new therapist had recommended. I’d only started talking to her virtually a week ago, but I’d promised Seth that I’d give therapy a real go before declaring it useless. More importantly, I’d promised that to myself. So be it.

Wind howled outside. I braced myself for the chilly gust sure to come through my terrible cheap windows, but I remained warm. I blinked. That was distracting enough that all thoughts of how much of a disaster tonight might be fled. “Are my windows less drafty or is it just me?”

“Oh yeah, forgot to tell you,” Seth said. “I was so cold the other night that I resolved to fix them. It actually wasn’t that hard.”

“Who knew you were so handy?” I certainly hadn’t.

He shrugged modestly. “YouTube helped. It’s amazing how many things you can do when you just watch a video on how to do them. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“I already said you’re welcome. You ready?”

I took one last glance around the apartment, then down at myself. I’d selected jeans, one of Seth’s ugly Hanukkah sweaters we’d brought back with us just for this occasion—the one with the light-up menorah—and my warm puffy jacket to go over the ugly Hanukkah sweater so that nobody would actually have to see me wearing it. It was the spirit that counted. “I guess.”

“It’s going to be amazing,” Seth said for the third time, opening my front door before I could protest that I needed just one more—

Wait. I actually did need just one more thing. Before putting on my muddy boots, I darted over to the kitchen counter and palmed the knitted dolphin Kylie had made, tucking it away in my pocket. It wasn’t like I believed in good luck charms or anything, or like I found its presence on me comforting, or thought of it fondly. It was just a fun thing to have around.

(I’d named him Judah Maccasea.)

It was a quick drive to the site of the festival. I spent it looking out the window and taking deep breaths. Snow-topped trees flew by, perfuming the air with pine even through the closed windows of Seth’s car. He said, “Perfect weather. Enough snow on the ground to be appropriately festive, but not enough to impede travel.”

“It’s cold, though,” I said. “People might not want to come out in the cold.”

“It’s winter in Vermont. People know it’s going to be cold.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Why bother? Maybe he was even right. I mean, nobody came to Vermont in the winter expecting a tropical vacation.

My heart lifted as we drove over the bumpy gravel of the parking lot, because the field was glowing with light. I could see the giant blow-up menorah, the fake flames high and proud, even from here. Since it wasn’t actually Hanukkah, we wouldn’t need to light anything, so I’d gone with the money-saving option.

Though I wouldn’t should we do this next year, because, if the event was a success and we did it again, it was going to be held on the actual holiday. That was one thing I’d insisted upon to Lorna during our phone call. We could extend it through winter break if we chose to, but I wanted to be able to light the menorah every night with the crowd. Everybody singing the blessings together like that was important to me and, I imagined, to them.

As we got out of the car, the speakers were already playing the selection of Hanukkah music Seth and I had painstakingly gathered from all around the Internet. Live music—a band headed by the bass player from the Eighth Night Ball, who told me he and his singer and guitar- and keyboard-playing friends knew all the same songs—would begin in a bit, when hopefully the attendance would be at its peak.

“Everything looks good,” Seth said. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in for a quick hug before the madness set in. “How are you feeling?”

My immediate reaction was to say panicked, or nervous, but honestly? Everything did look good. I’d done all I could. Now I just had to hope the people would come.

Over the next hour, they did. The vendors started setting up. I greeted the cookie-decorating people, Benjamin’s friend from Boston with his homemade menorahs (I had my eye on one sculpted out of wire flowers if it didn’t go quickly), the performers who’d be telling the Hanukkah story every half hour on the hour. The smells of frying dough and potatoes perfumed the air. There were a few minor hiccups—a missing electrical cord; some spilled applesauce—but nothing that couldn’t be remedied by Seth making a quick run to the local hardware store and supermarket.

Obviously, I had to stop by my own booth first. Maggie had been delighted to help out for the festival, and had dived into the job of making the Hanukkah specials I’d dreamed up absolutely perfectly every time. Since the festival was at night, I’d made sure to have plenty of decaf options on hand, as well as some spiced-up options for anyone who wanted to slip a little rum or vodka in their chocolate gelt latte or latke-ccino (one of the perks of living in a small town is being on a first-name basis with the guy who does liquor licenses).

I spent the rest of the time running around, getting forms signed and checking on all the details, but during a rare quiet moment I found myself standing at the edge of things, my hand in the pocket of my coat, stroking the small, fuzzy head of Judah Maccasea the dolphin (not for comfort or anything; just because it was fuzzy and fun and, fine , he was my good luck charm). I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high, but traffic at my café had been up by a fair amount this morning, mostly unfamiliar faces.

Unfamiliar faces that I started to see trickling in as the gates officially opened. Locals were scattered among them, curious at the new event in town or here to help work the booths, but mostly they seemed to be real tourists? Which was great? Exactly what I’d wanted?

I wasn’t sure how to deal with getting exactly what I wanted. My first instinct was to run away, or to tell myself that I hadn’t wanted it that bad anyway.

Mark that down on a note for my next therapy session. For now, I just rubbed Judah Maccasea’s head and smiled.

“Ticket numbers for the first half hour are looking good.” Seth magically popped up beside me as I was succumbing to the delicious smells wafting over from the drinks booth and taking my first sip of a mulled apple cider. “I just checked in at the gate and they’re already above what we were hoping. It should only get better from here.”

“Don’t say that,” I said. “You never know.”

But he was right, something that I was always still grudging to admit even when it was true. Numbers grew steadily, and soon the festival was bustling: families walking around crunching on latkes and arguing over the best toppings; people waiting in a long line at the decorate-your-own-Hanukkah-cookie booth; guests applauding the guys telling the story of Hanukkah (and applauding even more when one of their fake beards fell off). A punk rock rendition of “Sivivon, Sov Sov Sov” filled the air, kids singing along as they skipped down the aisles, begging their parents for menorahs made out of porcelain dinosaurs or bags of specialized gelt showcasing world currencies.

I’d done a really, really good job. I hoped Lorna would agree. I headed toward her booth, which, I saw as I got closer, was one of the few without a line.

She looked up hopefully as I approached her stand, which was full of the same generic Vermont-themed T-shirts and candles and soaps that stocked her store. “Oh, hey, Abby,” she said, pasting on a smile. “Seems like everything is going well.”

She was being nice. I tried to hold the smugness back when I replied, “It is. Numbers are even higher so far than we’d hoped.”

Our call—which I’d nicknamed the come-to-Jesus call, despite the context (there was only so much societal Christianity I could overcome)—from the Eighth Night Ball had gone about as well as could be expected. I’d told her firmly and clearly, drawing on the spirit of the Maccabees and how they refused to submit to assimilation, that I’d ensure the standards of vendors and make sure that we didn’t run over budget, but that I was going to make this a real Hanukkah festival or we wouldn’t be doing it at all. No Christmas trees. No ornament decorations. No Santa. I was going to make this festival loudly, proudly Jewish.

She’d tried to protest, of course, but I’d shut her down each time. “If you want to run a Christmas festival, then run a Christmas festival,” I’d said, and the old man on the treadmill had punched his fist in the air as if for emphasis. “If you want me to run you a Hanukkah festival, then this is how we’re going to do it.”

And she’d listened. Had she been entirely happy about it? No. But I’d been firm enough that she didn’t bother arguing. Well, she did, but I’d shut her down and gone about running this festival my way.

To her credit, she hadn’t protested further. I made a quick scan of her goods on display and picked up a maple leaf–shaped soap to buy. I could give it as a gift to someone next time Seth and I went down to the city. Her smile was tentative, but it lit up her face. “Thanks, Abby.” New beginnings and all that. I smiled at her in return, backing away and into somebody.

“Oops, sorry,” I said, turning, only to see that it was Connor.

He gave me a lopsided smile that creased his freckled cheeks. “Hey, Abby. Congratulations. The festival is great.”

For once, I didn’t want to run away from my ex. “Thanks, Connor,” I said. “That means a lot.”

“I didn’t realize how much fun Hanukkah was,” he said. “You never celebrated it when we were together. Now I kind of wish we had. How have I gotten to be almost thirty years old without tasting a latke?”

I had to laugh. “They are pretty great, aren’t they?”

“Hell yes.” He nodded at me. “Congrats again. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was really happy for me, too.

Back to my rounds, where I put out a fire between two fighting families at the funnel cake booth (not a literal one) and put out a fire at the latke stand (this one literal). So I was sweaty and a little smoky when I was enveloped in hugs by Seth’s entire family and friend group.

“Surprise!” Bev said, pulling back. She was only wrinkling her nose at my stench a little. Benjamin stood behind her, tall and stiff in his wool pea coat. He smiled at me and gave me a nod when I smiled back.

“You came!” I said, genuinely surprised as Dan and some Mikes and Kylie started slapping me on the back and hugging me and, yes, wrinkling their noses at my stench.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” gushed Kylie. She grinned wide as I showed her Judah Maccasea in my pocket. “I’m glad he’s helping. Don’t forget to feed him latkes. He prefers sour cream.”

I gasped. “Blasphemy! We’re an applesauce family!”

Dan and the Mikes stepped aside to check out the doughnut booth (well, one of the three doughnut booths). Kylie followed, yelling something about making sure to get her a Boston cream.

Behind them, a beam of light shone down from the moon, illuminating Freya in its frosted glow. I didn’t even resent it; I was so happy to see her. “You came!” I gushed, and she was such a good friend by this point that she didn’t even try to hug me. I loved her for it.

“Of course I came!” she said brightly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“You know something else you shouldn’t miss?” I said. “A sufganiyot latte. Tell Maggie I sent you and she’ll give you extra jelly.”

“I’m not sure how appetizing that sounds in the context of a coffee, but I’ll trust you on that.” She wandered off, hands tucked into her white fake fur muff.

Bev stepped up beside me, her round face as luminous as the moon. “Seth told me about your plans for the community center up here.”

I nodded, mood brightening even further. “Yes!” It was still in the early stages, as in more thought than plan, but the goal was to get started for real once the festival was over. Our Southern Vermont Jewish Community Center, that was. I had no idea how many of us there were up here, but there had to be at least a minyan scattered around. I’d find them, assuming they wanted to be found—but probably not through an online dating app. And we’d form a community. I didn’t know what it would look like. I certainly wasn’t qualified to start a synagogue, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to belong to one right now anyway.

But I did want my community back. My family back.

Bev squeezed my shoulder. “I’m happy to refer you to any of my friends in the city for advice if you have questions. They’d be thrilled to help out.”

“Thank you so much,” I said. “I’d love that.”

The night went on, and the festival grounds continued to bustle. The tourism board members found me, one by one, to enthuse about how much business they were getting, both from tourists stopping by the stores in town and through the booths many had set up here, which I’d encouraged. I loved that the bookstore owner had special-ordered copies of The Matzah Ball and Eight Nights of Flirting and Larry’s Latkes , and that the antique store owner had brought all his candlesticks and even a few menorahs he’d dug up. They were part of my community, too, and it meant a lot to have them come out for me.

The rest of the night whirled by in klezmer music and sparkling lights and the smell of oil. Around closing time, I found myself at Seth’s side, watching the final performance of the Hanukkah story. The fake-bearded guys were feigning mostly convincing shock at the fact that the oil had lasted for eight days. “It’s a miracle!” one cried. “A miracle of the oil!”

Seth pulled me tightly to him, his lips pressing against my forehead. Tingles ran through my hair. “This is amazing,” he said, then moved in for a real kiss on the lips. “ You’re amazing.”

The miracle of the oil was great and everything, sure. But me falling in love? With Seth? That was a miracle, too. And, if you asked me, it was even better than doughnuts.