The foyer was pleasantly cool and calm after the humidity of New Jersey’s noon. Vanessa was mopping the floors, everything smelled fresh and lemony.

He loved his home, loved coming into it from a world that more often than not made him feel like he was choking.

Libby was curled up on the giant chaise longue, shopping bags surrounding her in a sea of bright tissue paper and logos.

“Your mother sent over the summer clothing,” she said.

Akiva grinned. He liked to see his wife happy.

“Nice. Meira told me. Menashe and Dassi have joined the American grandkids’ wardrobe experience?”

Libby rolled her eyes. “Obviously. We’re deciding on the outfits for the hospital groundbreaking.”

Yehuda Frankel had worked long and hard on a new maternity wing for New Jersey General after Meira had been horrified at the poor standard of care at her last birth, three years earlier.

His project was finally reaching fruition, and Frankel Construction was breaking ground Wednesday afternoon, followed by a gala dinner at the Luxor Wedding Hall.

Akiva plopped onto a neutral suede wingback chair with gold feet. It was just as comfortable as it was pretty.

“Great chair,” he said.

The living room was Libby’s territory; he preferred his study or the den. Libby laughed.

He yawned. “So, anything for them to wear to a barbecue at Chateau Abrams?”

Libby pulled out a linen pinstriped dress, so understated that it was obviously European.

“That is so Ma,” he said lazily. “And so not something you wear to a barbecue.”

Libby dropped the dress back into the bag. “I know. They’ll be wearing T-shirts and sneakers like normal people, thank you very much.”

“Yes. Like normal people. Why do we have certain times when we’re ‘normal’ and otherwise we’re not? Like those paper dolls Mali’s always leaving everywhere.

“Why do we have to go to a barbecue at the Abrams to wear ‘normal’ clothing? Don’t you just want to be normal all the time?”

“I was making a joke,” Libby said quietly.

Akiva felt bad, he hadn’t meant to jump down her throat. He’d been making a lot of comments like that lately, and he could tell she didn’t appreciate them.

Libby was a genuinely happy person; she lacked the negativity he seemed to carry around like a leather attaché case — always in his hand and pointless.

Sometimes he felt bad that he saddled her with his moods; other times he remembered that he’d handed her a lot more than moods. Millions more.

Not that it mattered. She was his home now; it wasn’t about give and take. It was about the life they created together.

And what mattered at this particular moment was whatever awaited him at the Abrams family barbecue.

The kids dispersed the second they hit the Abrams’ backyard, fanning out to the swing set, the basketball hoops, and tricycles for the littles. Chaykie greeted Libby with a warm hug, exclaiming over the S’mores pie while Libby complimented the aromas emanating from the standing grill.

Baruch came forward wearing an oversized “Clap for the Cook” apron. He looked like a child in it; it made Akiva nervous. They did an uncomfortable clap/hug and stepped back.

Baruch busied himself with flipping burgers that didn’t need to be flipped; Akiva reached for a beer and focused on knocking the cover off without a bottle opener.

Baruch’s Chezky clapped enthusiastically as the bottle lid went whizzing by and landed in the potato salad.

He took a sheepish bow.

“So sorry,” he said to Chaykie, fishing it out with a spoon.

“And yet here we are,” she said lightly as she put out bowls of condiments.

Akiva froze. It no longer sounded like they were discussing bottle tops in potato salads. Libby would say he was being paranoid….

He smiled and turned back to Baruch.

“How’s Daniel? Haven’t heard about him in a while.”

Baruch’s younger brother was their faithful sidekick all through high school. He followed Akiva obsessively; he had a rather nerdy awe of the Frankel fame, but aside from that, he was a great kid.

“Doing okay. His wife needed back surgery for a slipped disc, and they had to go private. I thought I would help him—”

When I got my new position….

The words were left unsaid, yet they reverberated around the backyard on repeat.

Later, the kids were eating large, sticky slices of watermelon, juice dripping down their chins. Deena was lounging on a plastic chaise, ponytail over her eyes, lemonade in hand. She looked cute and young, like a caricature of a teenager on vacation.

The women were in a corner of the yard, curled up on a swing, heads together.

Akiva wondered how women did that, bridging chasms with just words.

“I’m opening my own architectural firm,” Baruch said suddenly.

Akiva recoiled like he’d been punched in the gut.

“What?”

“My own firm,” said Baruch. He clenched his hand. The can of Dr. Brown he was holding bent in half. “I should have done it years ago, but I was comfortable. Lazy, even. I relied on others instead of being my own man. It’s time for me to step out, to step up.”

Akiva looked at his best friend, looked at the way his eyes seemed to be filled with something he’d never seen in them before.

What was it?

Only later on the way home, when his phone pinged and he read the message Baruch had just sent him, did he have a name for it.

The look in Baruch’s eyes?

It was passion. Excitement.

You know, Akiva, you can join me at my company. It’s never too late to be a man… even for a Frankel.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 972)