She wasn’t a big maven or anything, but the food looked impressive. Neat and beautiful plating, unique ideas. And Yochi was desperate

Something — some thing — was tickling Pessie’s brain, an elusive itch she was trying to put her finger on that remained stubbornly out of reach.

Not that she had time to focus on elusive itches. “I feel like I’m running on a treadmill since Suri’s wedding,” she told Yochi late one night, as she sat down to tackle a pile of mending. “One foot in front of the other, no option to power off.”

Yochi offered a distracted grunt in response.

Pessie’s heart pinched. True, she was frenzied; between the kids’ school orientations, sheva brachos, Yom Tov shopping, and Rosh Hashanah cooking, there was no time to breathe. But Yochi’s frenzy was different. He barely ate or slept. Three and a half weeks. As much as she wasn’t excited about spending Succos in Italy — and if the tour didn’t find a caterer, there wouldn’t be a tour in Italy — she couldn’t watch it happen. She didn’t want Yochi to fail.

She went back to pinning the hem on Zissi’s dress. It was ridiculously late and the mending pile was ridiculously large. There was no choice but to get on it — there would be no time tomorrow. On top of everything she had to take care of, she was putting in several hours of work each day. All her clients wanted to squeeze in a last workout before Yom Tov. She hadn’t realized how hectic it would be when she’d made appointments for the week.

Still, throughout the constant racing-racing-racing, that thing niggled her mind, like a pesky fly. What was it? Something she’d forgotten, an important something, but she didn’t even know where in her brain to search.

It wasn’t until Thursday morning, when Rivkie Berkowitz showed up for her workout session —out of breath before Pessie had even turned on the music — that the thing flowered in her brain, sharp and clear and stunning.

“So sorry I’m late,” Rivkie said, huffing. “It’s just such a crazy week. My mother insisted that I—”

Pessie raised her palm to cut her off. “Your husband is a caterer.”

Rivkie nodded. “Uh, yeah. Sort of.”

Sort of? “Didn’t you once tell me that he started a catering business?”

Her face colored. “He did,” she mumbled, rubbing her foot on a yoga mat. “He worked for Reuven Polner for many years, and then he started going out on his own a bit.” She glanced up hesitantly. “He’s really good, actually. His food is delicious and he has insanely creative ideas. It just… takes time to break into the industry. Competition and everything, you know.”

Not a resounding success, Pessie thought grimly.

But Polner was an industry leader. Yochi had tried him immediately after Eli T. had canceled, but of course he hadn’t been available. Brand-name caterers got booked months in advance.

But if Mr. Berkowitz had worked with Polner, he’d surely been out there and acquired some level of experience. Right?

Pessie kept her tone even. “Do you have pictures of his work?”

“Uh, I should have some on my phone.”

She scrolled through her photos and handed her phone to Pessie.

“Wow!” Pessie said. “Gorgeous! He’s really talented.”

She wasn’t a big maven or anything, but the food looked impressive. Neat and beautiful plating, unique ideas. And Yochi was desperate. All the big boys were long booked.

“He doesn’t have any bookings for Succos, does he?” she asked.

“No, not really.” She blushed.

Pessie’s heart went out to her. It would be so amazing if this worked out. The tour would be rescued, the Berkowitzes’ luck would strike…

I hope this isn’t a mistake.