Endless Love Page 3

  The synagogue was packed. Every seat taken. Luckily, Pop and I arrived early and found three together. On the walk over, I told him that Ryan Madewell was joining us. “I didn’t know he was Jewish,” my father commented. I told him he wasn’t…that he was just interested in seeing what the service was like…maybe doing research for a new book. In my peripheral vision, I saw my father raise a skeptical brow. “Maybe he’s checking something else out.” Not responding, I left it at that.

  Once we sat down, I kept looking out for Ryan and staving off congregants who were not too pleased that I was saving the seat next to mine. Just as the service was about to begin, Ryan came dashing through the entrance doors to the sanctuary. He was wearing a beautifully cut gray suit and an elegant blue tie that matched the color of his eyes. And looked dazzling. Scanning the sanctuary, he found us seated toward the back and quickly headed to the vacant seat. He breathed a quick hi to my father and me before sitting down. His warm breath heated my cheeks.

  “Put this on,” I whispered to him. I handed him a white satin yarmulke, thinking that he probably wouldn’t have thought of putting on this mandatory skullcap. He adjusted it atop of his silky hair and I quirked a smile; God, he looked adorable. “Now wrap this around you.” I handed him a tallis, a fringed silk shawl. As he adjusted it around his broad shoulders, I couldn’t help thinking how handsome my guest looked. He gazed into my eyes, with an expression that asked: is this okay? The little nod I shot back at him was his answer. Beneath my solemn black A-line dress, my heart was hammering.

  Reaching into the pocket of the seat in front of his, I handed him a prayer book. “You can follow along; there’s an English translation as well as a transliteration, and the rabbi is pretty good about telling us what page to turn to.”

  “Thanks,” he said softly with an adorable dimpled smile as the service began with the traditional Kol Nidre cello solo. Silence fell over the sanctuary.

  I loved this opening cello piece. One day I hoped to choreograph it. The melody was so, so beautiful. And haunting. It never failed to send chills down my spine and tug at my heartstrings. Sadness surged inside me as I thought about the indignities suffered by the Jews over the centuries. And then my mind jettéd to my mom. Later in the service, I would say Kaddish, a mourning prayer for the dead.

  The service was long, but I enjoyed it. I didn’t go to temple often nor did I consider myself a very religious or spiritual person. But when I did go, it was an emotional, otherworldly experience that got me both out of myself and in touch with myself. The beauty of the sanctuary with its stained glass windows and high Romanesque ceilings also awed me. It was one of the oldest in the city. Generation after generation had worshipped here, including my grandparents on both sides. My Nana, my only remaining grandparent on my mom’s side, unfortunately wasn’t here tonight as she didn’t live in the city. Or socialize with my father.

  In the middle of the service, the rabbi gave a moving sermon on forgiving and forgetting, fitting for this Day of Atonement. His profound words sank into me. Would I ever be able to forgive the man who had brought me to my knees? Brought me deep into an inferno of lust and despair. And would I ever be able to forget? A shiver shimmied through me.

  The Mourner’s Kaddish came near the end of the service. Everyone in the congregation rose. I mumbled the words in Hebrew. Ryan followed along with the transliteration. He, too, had someone to mourn. As tears poured down my face in memory of my mother, I gripped my father’s thick calloused hand. He gave mine a squeeze. There wasn’t a day that my father didn’t miss or mourn my mom. I jolted when my other hand was suddenly also occupied. Without looking my way, Ryan had taken it in his. His hand was soft and warm, the grip steady and firm. Maybe he didn’t want to grieve alone.

  “Oh seh shalom,” concluded the rabbi. The cantor, with his rich, operatic voice, began to sing, repeating the word “shalom” over and over. Tears continued to spill down my face. Oh, mom! How I missed her and wished I could right the wrongs.

  The choir and congregants joined in, including both my dad and myself.

  Shalom. Yes, peace is what I was seeking. In the world. And in myself in the year to come. As the hymn ended with an “Amen,” Ryan squeezed my hand. I held back a sniffle, but heard my companion inhale deeply through his nose. Unbeknownst to him, I turned to look at him, and saw a tear running down his magnificent profile. He was in mourning, profoundly affected by this service. I squeezed his hand back and then felt his thumb rub the side of my wrist. The magical connection between us at this moment couldn’t be put into words.

  At the conclusion of the service, everyone filed out the back doors of the sanctuary. Since we were sitting in the back, we were amongst the first to exit. Pop and I said hello to many congregants we’d gotten to know over the years, some of whom frequented his deli. Ryan stood awkwardly by my side; he must have felt like such an outsider. Women of all ages stared at him, many shooting him seductive smiles. I’m sure some even recognized him from his fame and fortune. His Waspy gorgeousness was definitely a head turner and a force to be reckoned with. Even men, gay and straight, held him in their gaze. I inwardly laughed as congregants sauntered up to us to wish us a Shana Tova. A Happy New Year. Something I so needed after the past six turbulent months.

  Before leaving, my father told me had to use the “little boys’ room,” and left me alone with Ryan in the synagogue lobby.

  We stood awkwardly facing each other. I was a petite five foot four, and even in my three-inch heels, I was a lot shorter than he was.

  “Did you enjoy the service?” I asked nervously.

  “It was beautiful. Thank you for letting me come.” He neatly hung up the tallis on a stand and set the yarmulke into a nearby basket.

  “My pleasure.” Sheesh. Couldn’t I come up with something less mundane? Worse, the word “come” was whirling around in my head, playing crude mind games.

  His cornflower-blue eyes gazed into my pickle-green ones—my “deli eyes” as Pop called them. I didn’t know what next to say. Thankfully, Ryan spared me from coming up with something.

  “Would you like to go out for a drink? There’s a really great wine bar that’s not far from here.”

  Dammit, that sounded good…so good…exactly what I craved after the emotionally draining service. But I couldn’t.

  “I can’t. I’m fasting.”

  “Oh.” The infamous little word when you didn’t know what else to say. His voice and face registered disappointment.

  Before my heart sank, I had an idea. “Why don’t you come tomorrow night to my dad’s deli. He hosts an open house break-fast for the neighborhood—and any one who doesn’t have one to go to.”

  Ryan’s face brightened. “I’d love to.”

  The word “love” danced around in my head.

  “Do I need to dress up?”

  “No, it’s totally casual.”

  “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  As he loped out the front doors of the synagogue, my heart was racing.

  He could show up in his birthday suit and I wouldn’t care.

  FIVE

  Willow

  At sundown on Saturday, the deli was packed with people young and old. There were families with children and babies, grandparents, young professionals as well as college kids and some local street people. Every table and seat was taken and the noise level was high. My father was in his element, hopping from table to table, to see if everyone had enough to eat. Trust me, they did. There was nothing my father loved more than to feed people. And watch them enjoy eating his food. There was a word in Yiddish for my big-hearted father: a mensch.

  Dressed comfortably in black leggings, an oversized sweater, and ballet flats, I was helping the staff lug platters of lox and bagels to the hungry patrons. One eye stayed on the front door—anxiously awaiting Ryan. It was going on eight o’clock. Maybe he had changed his mind and wouldn’t show up.

  Then, as I lowered a platter onto one of the tables, a
warm breath dusted the nape of my neck. I whirled around. My heart did a grand jeté at the sight of the man facing me. Ryan! A Cheshire grin lit up his beautiful face.

  “Hi.”

  I don’t know how long my mouth stayed open in shock before I said “hi” back. My heart thudded as goosebumps popped along my arms. God, he was gorgeous. He was wearing faded black jeans that molded to his thighs like a second skin and an open charcoal blazer. Beneath his jacket, his chiseled chest peeked out from the V of his pale blue T-shirt. He looked so damn sexy!

  “Would you like a bagel and lox?” I asked, not yet having eaten a thing myself.

  “Sure.” He grabbed one and bit into it. I watched as he swallowed. He licked a smidgeon of cream cheese off his sensuous lips.

  “Wow! This is good.”

  “Thanks. Mel’s has the best Nova in the city.”

  “Nova?”

  “As in Nova Scotia Lox…smoked salmon.” I smiled, charmed by his naiveté.

  “Right.” He grinned back with embarrassment.

  My eyes stayed on him while he finished the sandwich. His fine upbringing was evident by the way he gracefully held the bagel in his elegant, long-fingered hands and chewed his food quietly.

  When he was done, there was still a drop of cream cheese on his upper lip. With my thumb, I wiped it away, relishing the softness of his velvety lips. Hot tingles bombarded me as he shot me a grateful smile. There must have been over one hundred diners in the restaurant, but I only had eyes for one.

  “Good to see you here, Mr. Madewell. Have yourself another bagel.”

  I spun around. Coming our way was my father with a wide smile broadcast across his face. He, too, was carrying a large tray of bagels and lox.

  “Thanks.” Ryan helped himself to another bagel and bit into it.

  “How’s my daughter treating you?” asked Pop.

  With the chunk of the bagel and lox masticating in his mouth, he couldn’t say a word. Nodding, he gave Pop a thumbs-up.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Just like her mother, may she rest in peace.”

  Ryan’s twinkling blue eyes met mine as he swallowed. He nodded again. “Totally.”

  I felt my cheeks flush. Did this gorgeous, talented Adonis really think I was beautiful? Or was he just placating my father?

  Then suddenly, I felt lightheaded. Everything around me became a messy blur, and the noise around me reduced to a din. Beads of sweat clustered all over my body as all the blood in my head rushed to my feet. It got worse. Like a swarm of bugs, little black dots clouded my vision.

  “Pumpkin, what’s wrong?” I heard my alarmed father say, but words stayed trapped in my throat as the black dots multiplied and I grew dizzier.

  The noise drowned out as everything turned to darkness. And then my knees buckled. I was going down! Spiraling to the floor like a limp strand of spaghetti. Just before I crashed onto the hard wood, two strong hands caught me. I blinked my eyes open and the next thing I knew I was in Ryan Madewell’s arms, blanketed against his buttery cashmere jacket.

  My father brushed a few stray strands of hair off my forehead. “Pumpkin, you just fainted. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I managed, finding my voice. But truthfully, I felt weak and queasy.

  Ryan’s eyes stayed fixed on mine. “Sir, I think she should lie down.”

  “I need to get back to work and help my father,” I protested, feeling a tad stronger.

  My father gazed at me lovingly. “No, Ryan’s right. You need to get some rest.” He looked at Ryan. “Would you mind bringing her up to her room?”

  “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

  I loved the way he called my father “sir.” It gave the always disheveled deli man dignity. Without making a fuss, I let Ryan carry me up to my room. He knew where the stairs were, having seen me bound up them last week to retrieve his book.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck as he effortlessly mounted the flight of stairs to my room. His silky hair brushed against the back of my hand. I stifled the urge to run my fingers through the tousled locks. As I leaned into him, I could feel the hard muscles of his chest against me as well as those of his sculpted biceps. He definitely was in great shape. And I could hear his heart beat. It felt good to be so close to someone’s heart…again.

  The stairs led to a small, dimly lit foyer. A portrait of my mother graced the walls, and on the entryway table, there was a large vase of fragrant Asian lilies, my mother’s favorite flowers. Not only did they remind me always of her, but they also deflected the pungent scent of the deli below.

  “Which way?” asked Ryan.

  “Down the hall to the right.”

  “You okay?” he asked as he strode to my bedroom.

  “I’m fine.” And I meant it. Being in his arms had restored my strength, but I felt like I was in some kind of dream.

  The door to my bedroom was open. Stepping inside, he delivered me to my bed. He set me down gently, propping me against my pillows and covering me with the fuzzy blanket that was folded along the edge. After making me drink some water, he brushed vagrant strands of my unruly hair out of my face. The tenderness of his gesture sent a tingling ray of warmth all the way to my toes.

  “Is it okay if I sit down on the bed?”

  “Sure,” I said breathlessly. A sudden wave of embarrassment and insecurity washed over me as he lowered himself next to me. Here I was in bed with Ryan Madewell IV, the drop-dead, gorgeous bestselling author of Undying Love. Holy shit!

  His eyes swept around the room, taking in every detail.

  “Is this where you slept as a child?”

  “Yes,” I said diffidently. The room hadn’t been redecorated for years. It still bore my white wrought iron canopy bed and the painted cottage furniture my mom had found at the 26th Street flea market. The pink floral wallpaper matched my bedspread and the curtains that hung on the window. It was so embarrassingly princessy. And next to me on one of my pillows was my favorite stuffed animal—a dilapidated little monkey.

  “Who’s that?” asked Ryan upon eyeing it.

  “Baboo. I’ve had him since I was a baby.”

  Ryan’s gaze stayed on him. “I had one of those. His name was Monk. But my mother threw him out when I was five. I think that was the beginning of all my fuckedupness.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said with compassion, remembering what I’d read about his mother in his book. Eleanor Madewell. She was an icy alcoholic with narcissistic tendencies. So unlike my warm, loving mother.

  His gaze moved to my nightstand. He studied what was on it.

  “Is that your mom?” he asked, pointing his long index finger at a framed photo. It was a portrait of a woman in her early twenties with flaming red hair similar to mine. She held a little curly-haired redheaded girl in her arms. Me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Your father is right. She was beautiful…like you.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured, heating from the compliment.

  Before I could say another word, his face brightened. “And you still keep a copy of my book on your nightstand?”

  I felt my face flush and smiled shyly. “I like to re-read chapters before I go to sleep.” I paused. “Thanks again for signing it.”

  “No, thank you for asking me.” His eyes burnt into mine. I was having a hard time breathing and I didn’t know what to say next. The heavenly scent of his light cologne drifted up my nose, making me feel heady.

  His eyes surveyed the rest of the room. I’d read once that writers are observers.

  His gaze fixed on the framed photos on my dresser—most of them of me, taken at various stages in my life, in leotards and tutus, some at recitals, others at classes. Then, he shifted his vision to the worn, pink satin pointe shoes that dangled from my headboard. They were my very first pair—I was only ten when I got them.

  “Are you a dancer?” he asked.

  My muscles tensed. “Yes.” Or should I say was?

  “Do you perform?”

 
I hesitated before responding. “No.”

  A half-truth. I hadn’t performed for over six months and I wasn’t sure if I ever would again. I didn’t want to get into details about my recent past. Or think about Gustave …at least right now.

  His eyes stayed riveted on the little pink slippers as he gave them a light tap. Tied to the bed by their frayed ribbons, they swung back and forth like a pendulum.

  “Do you want me to go downstairs and get you something to eat?”

  “Maybe in a little bit.” The truth was I hungered only for him; I didn’t want him to leave me. Not yet. As I soaked in his gorgeous profile, my heart thudded and a buzz of lust flooded my body. I longed to touch him. Run my fingers through his hair. For him to touch me. Trace my lips with his fingers. An awkward stretch of silence followed as he continued to play with my pointe shoes. Then, he turned to face me again, the expression on his face a mixture of hesitance and longing.

  “Willow, I want to ask you something.” He paused, holding me in his gaze. “Can I kiss you?”

  My lips parted in shock, and my heart practically stopped. “Yes, please,” I murmured. Now! I couldn’t wait a moment more.

  On my next rapid heartbeat, he cupped my cheeks in his hands, leaned down, and crushed his soft, warm lips against mine. He nibbled my upper lip, then deepened the kiss, gnawing and sucking. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I’d never been kissed like this before. A heat wave spread through my body, setting every cell on fire. As a moan escaped my throat, his tongue parted my lips and found mine. They danced together, swirling and twirling, two strangers in the night discovering each other. The salty taste of the salmon lingered in his mouth and mixed with his sweet saliva, making him even more delicious. My fingers gripped his hair as our lips, tongues, and moans mingled. I had read about his kisses, but nothing had prepared me for the sensation of one. I thought I was leaving this planet.

  Suddenly, heavy footsteps thudded in the near distance. For sure my father. Reality hit us fast and hard. I hastily pulled away from Ryan and caught my breath. While I tidied my mane of hair, he, in turn, jumped to his feet. Before standing up, he cursed under his breath and wiped my wet lips with the back of his hand. I could still taste him. Oh God, how I wanted more of him. To make matters worse, there was a sizable bulge between his thighs.