"No matter how you do it — no matter where your culinary skills are at — we know it’s never about the food, it’s about the people behind it”

Ruthie left. Deena dried her face, threw her tissues into the garbage. Then she braced herself and pulled the door open.

She was walking down the hallway toward the elevator when a figure approached. Her first instinct was to shrink back, duck into the restrooms, and hide her tear-streaked face.

But it was too late, the person was too close.

Moe Mossberg.

They stopped walking at the same moment. Deena felt heat rise to her cheeks. She moved over to the left to let him pass — at the same moment that he moved to let her pass.

Quickly, she shifted to the right. Quickly, just as quickly as she did, he did, too.

Okay, she was not doing this. They were not going to do a sidewalk shuffle.

She stopped walking and let him take the next step.

And he stood there, waiting for her to take the next step.

Mossberg’s mouth twitched. Deena smiled awkwardly, conscious of the mascara streaked over her cheeks. “Sorry,” he muttered. He gestured to the left. “Go ahead.”

Deena made her way around him and hurried off to catch the elevator. As the doors slid apart and she stepped inside, she heard a voice that sounded like Yochi Hersko ask, “Ah, so you met her?”

Thankfully, nobody was in the elevator to see her black-streaked face turn red.

Ten minutes later, she stood in front of the ballroom doors and whispered a prayer.