CHAPTER 5

      The first thing I did when I woke up Friday morning was to reach over to Crusher’s side of the bed. When I found it empty, I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. Darn! Tonight was Shabbat and I had the whole family coming over for dinner. I had every intention of getting an early start on my long to-do list, but the clock didn’t lie. It was already nine.

      I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Every movement of my muscles burned with the pain of fibromyalgia. My back was so stiff I couldn’t stand straight. I shuffled to the bathroom and even the bottoms of my feet hurt. How was I going to get everything done feeling this way?

      I swallowed a Soma and an over-the-counter pain reliever. Then I dragged myself into the kitchen and poured a cup of tepid coffee from the carafe Crusher had brewed three hours earlier. A minute in the microwave and the coffee steamed again. I added some cream and sat at the kitchen table, sipped French roast, and waited for the meds to kick in. I’d been living with fibro for so long, I no longer remembered what it felt like to be pain free for a whole day.

      By nine thirty, I could stand straight again and begin my day. I rinsed out the empty coffee cup and placed it in the dishwasher. As I turned to go back to the bedroom, I spotted a note from Crusher on the kitchen counter that I’d missed. A few brief words were penned on a yellow sticky note.

      Babe.

      Surprise guest for dinner tonight. Set an extra place.

      Love you. Yossi.

      I stopped and counted. Nine people would be coming for Shabbat dinner. Giselle and her fiancé, Harold Zimmerman, were bringing Uncle Isaac. My daughter, Quincy, and Noah were bringing the baby, and Crusher was bringing a surprise guest. That was eight adults altogether. Not a problem. I’d made holiday dinners for at least twice that many in the past. I just needed to hustle if I was going to cook and clean in preparation for tonight.

      If only I hadn’t postponed the food shopping from yesterday to today. And who is this mystery guest, anyway?

      I ran to Ventura Kosher Meats and bought a large brisket already soaked and salted. Kosher meat not only had to come from a clean animal that had been ritually slaughtered, it also had to be brined to remove the blood, according to the Jewish laws of kashrut.

      Thank goodness the butcher was only a short distance across the shopping center from Bea’s Bakery, my next stop. As usual, the bakery was crowded with shoppers. I took a number and waited in the crowded space. Loaves of freshly baked challah, rye, and pumpernickel bread sat in overhead wooden bins, while pastries and desserts were displayed inside the glass cases. Time seemed to drag by as I tapped my impatience with my fingertips and shuffled from foot to foot.

      Darn. Why do I always wait until the last minute?

      Finally my number was called, and I had to elbow my way through the crowd. I bought two raisin challahs, the last large slab of apple strudel in the glass case, a cinnamon babka, and two dozen mandel broit (almond cookies) for dessert. The bread and dessert were pareve, or dairy free, because, according to Jewish law, meat and dairy may not be eaten at the same meal. Another stop at the supermarket and I was ready to begin preparations for the evening ahead.

      I got home at eleven, unloaded the groceries. The next three hours were spent cleaning house and doing laundry. By two, I began to prepare dinner. I added plenty of onions, potatoes, and carrots to the brisket in the roasting pan. Crusher was definitely a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I peeled and trimmed two bunches of fresh, tender asparagus spears, and grilled two large eggplants for baba ganouj, a chilled puree of eggplant, garlic, lemon, parsley, and salt.

      While the brisket and potatoes were roasting, I set the table with the white cloth my grandmother crocheted when she was a new bride. I also arranged my good silver and the good white plates with the blue rims. I was the fourth generation of women in my family to own the antique china. My great-grandmother brought them to this country on the ship from Poland packed in wooden barrels and nestled in excelsior to prevent breakage. What began as a service for thirty-six had been reduced over the decades. Only eight coffee cups remained now, but twenty dinner plates still survived.

      At four, the house was filled with the warm smells of Shabbat dinner. I folded the last load of towels from the dryer and headed toward the bedroom to get ready for company at six. The shower soothed my muscles, and I soaked in the heated downpour for ten minutes. As I toweled off, my legs felt rubbery and weak. I hadn’t stopped moving since nine thirty that morning. I wrapped up in my fuzzy blue bathrobe and lay down on the bed for ten minutes with my feet propped up on a pillow.

      The next thing I knew, Crusher was gently shaking my shoulder. “Wake up, babe. It’s five thirty.”

      “Oh my gosh, the brisket is still in the oven.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to head for the kitchen.

      Crusher put a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Relax. I’ll take it out. Our mystery guest is also here.”

      “Who?”

      He grinned and headed for the kitchen. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

      I burned with curiosity as I quickly dressed in a long, black skirt, a pink blouse, and my grandmother’s pearls. I fluffed out my shoulder-length gray curls, slipped on my expensive black heels, and headed down the hallway. I stopped in my tracks when I saw the mysterious guest. Wearing a dark pin-striped suit and wire-rimmed glasses, he was the last person I ever expected to say yes to a dinner invitation—let alone one on the Sabbath.

      John Smith was the only name he acknowledged, although I was sure it was an alias. We met a few months ago when he investigated the attempted murder of my neighbor and her foster daughter. He was high enough in the FBI counterterrorism branch that Crusher addressed him as “Sir.”

      He