Trust Fund: Chapter 6
For the past few days, he’d been waiting for a sign, an omen, a smoke signal — anything at all — to show him what his next step should be
T
he weekend in Aruba had been rejuvenating.
Libby and the kids had the time of their lives. At least Akiva assumed they did — he hadn’t really seen much of them.
Daddy’s idea of vacation was to work in the hotel conference room, air conditioner blasting, laptops and tablets balanced on laps, out of harm’s way from the steady supply of food and drink Vanessa kept placing on the oversized mahogany table.
Monday brought school and routine, cranky children and sunburns. It also brought an ache to Akiva’s side. It was like that horrible feeling he’d gotten after eating a plateful of veal at the Beth Israel dinner last year.
But what was hurting him now had nothing to do with fine cuisine; it was the whole Abrams Architecture thing. Daddy had been harassing him about it the entire weekend.
“Ungrateful pipsqueak thinks he can start his own company?” he’d grumbled, hitting mute on Mr. Wong and Mr. McLaughlin’s presentation.
Akiva had just shrugged. He refused to get pulled into this. Not by Baruch and not by his father.
Libby, though, was fast losing patience with the saga.
“Baruch had to go so Menashe could join. It’s annoying and unfair, but that’s what happened. What did everyone expect him to do with all his expertise and experience? Sell used cars?”
The woman was right, but try telling that to Daddy.
Now, Akiva should be on his way to the office. Daddy had already texted twice and voice noted once that Akiva was late and they needed him. Yet somehow, his feet were still firmly clad in the Manolo suede mules Libby had bought him for Chanukah.
He didn’t really feel like doing anything, honestly. Libby was at the gym with Dassi, the kids were at school, and everyone else he knew was either at work or kollel.
Baruch would laugh, would say he’s feeling lonely because he’s the only guy in the world who won’t get fired for not showing up to work. At least the old Baruch would.
The new Baruch would offer an inspirational quote about motivation and creativity. A line that sounded like it was coming straight off a watercolored poster. Or, more accurately, the mouth of one blond, snide marketing strategist.
Akiva really hated that guy.
Tying the belt of his robe tighter, he meandered downstairs. Vanessa had left the mail on the cart in the foyer before leaving for her morning off. He flipped through it absently.
Ouch. Paper cut.
Rubbing his thumb, he fingered the offending flier.
NEW!
All YOU CAN EAT burger buffet
Build your own burger at BurgerTown
Only $6.99!
He smiled, bemused.
His burger at Cookout had cost $100, and he only knew that because they had called it “the hundred dollar burger,” as opposed to an oversized lamb patty smothered in truffle shavings.
He felt a sudden compunction to head over to BurgerTown and check it out. See how the other half lives, and all that jazz. And maybe he’d bring Libby along for the ride.
Libby looked slightly horrified. “You want to go here? Because Sauce has reservations; we can just—”
“No,” Akiva said firmly, waving the flyer. “Here.”
She looked at him. There was a glimmer in her eyes, but she said nothing.
His phone pinged. Voice note from Daddy. He clicked.
Akiva, Libby tells me you’re unwell. Feel better, son. And while you’re in bed, review the sketches on the Jewel condominiums. Your mother is sending soup.
Akiva turned to look at his wife, eyebrows raised.
“I just… he called, looking for you.”
“BurgerTown,” Akiva said tightly. “Tomorrow night. Tonight, apparently, we’re having soup.”
Akiva was helping Libby replace the water in the giant clay vase that was too heavy for her to carry alone.
Both their phones pinged simultaneously.
He reached into his pocket absently, glanced at it, and looked up at Libby so sharply, he got a crick in his neck.
“Ouch. Libby, what on earth is this? How does she even know?”
Libby gave him a cold stare. “This, Akiva Frankel, is your mother’s way of saying she doesn’t want us building our food in public. And she asked me about our supper plans, that’s how.”
Akiva closed his eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath. And that’s when the clarity hit.
For the past few days, he’d been waiting for a sign, an omen, a smoke signal — anything at all — to show him what his next step should be.
Torn between his father and his best friend.
Unhappy, aimless, hungry for something, tired of everything.
And right here, in the small black letters of the reservation for two at Trufflei, he found what he was looking for.
“I can’t believe we’ve never been there before,” Libby murmured.
Akiva laughed, feeling wildly unlike himself. “First time for everything right?”
“Right…” Libby murmured, reaching for her phone. Texting Meira, no doubt.
Akiva looked at the text again. Trufflei reservation for eight o’clock: Hindy Frankel.
Thanks, Ma, he thought. I now know exactly what I want to say to Libby. Why not do it in style?
Trufflei was so elegant that even Akiva noticed.
“Nice,” he said. He immediately wished he could take the word back, but it was fine.
It really was nice. It wasn’t dark, like most higher-tier restaurants.
Soft yellow lighting highlighted gold boucle booths that offered privacy to all parties.
They sat down, murmuring thanks to the host, and looked at each other.
“Hungry?” Libby said.
Akiva laughed, feeling like a stranger in his own skin. He wasn’t hungry at all.
But he wanted Libby to enjoy.
She deserved to enjoy.
After all, who knew if they’d ever be back.
“Sure,” he said.
He turned to the waitress hovering nearby. “I’ll have the Delmonico, and she’ll have the crusted ribeye,” he said. “plus a grilled skillet pastrami. And the spatchcock Cornish hen. Thank you.”
She didn’t blink. “Wonderful. And to drink?”
He looked at Libby. She was staring at him, unreadable.
“Your best champagne.” The waitress nodded and left.
Libby picked up a cloth napkin, ran it through her fingers.
“What are we celebrating?” she asked finally.
Akiva looked around the room, at the other golden couples in their golden boucle cages.
“Freedom,” he said. “We’re celebrating freedom.”
Libby shook her head. “Akiva.”
He felt like a thief.
He was taking something away from her. Something huge.
But he needed this. He was certain now, had such clarity.
“Libby… I want out. I’m done with being a Frankel.”
Libby gave a twisted smile. “You are a Frankel, Akiva. You can’t escape that.”
Akiva rubbed his forehead. “Maybe not. But I can redefine it.
“What if being a Frankel meant being a man? Making choices for us and our family. Choosing which schools we want to send our children to, where we want to go.
“What if being a Frankel meant being a good father and husband instead of the man who can buy Trufflei?”
The waitress returned, a tray of goblets and an ice bucket balanced expertly. She handed them each a stemmed glass and poured the champagne, a light bubbly gold. That color was everywhere tonight.
Akiva lifted his glass. “To freedom, Libby.”
He lifted his glass.
She didn’t lift hers.
He made a brachah and took a sip.
Libby waited until the waitress was out of earshot.
“But Akiva…” she said, “what if I like being the wife of the guy who can buy Trufflei?”
Akiva looked down, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Libby… what if it’s time to find out if you like being my wife for…” His voice dropped. “Just for me?”
To be continued…
(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 974)
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