She gave me a snooty smile. “Yup. You and me. I want to do something totally different. We’re going to launch a serious marketing campaign. We renovated this showroom, we brought in a line of designer headpieces. Our ads need to reflect these upgrades.

“I spoke to Avi Brachfeld, he was telling me all about market research, buyer persona, branding, he says there’s a whole science to advertising. He’s going to explain everything at the meeting. And I want you to come along and be involved in the process so that I never hear another word about my ridiculous ads.”

I gaped. “Remind me why I work for you again?”

She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. I pressed my lips together and stood up, twisting my tape measure around my finger. Yocheved started flipping through a catalog. I tossed my coffee cup in the garbage and stalked off to the sewing room.

A cloud of vapor hit me as I opened the door. Olga was wielding a steamer like a weapon, attacking a square of satin. “Aren’t you hot in here?” I asked.

She shrugged, expressionless, and released another round of mist. I wriggled past her and pried a window open.

I looked down at my notepad. Neumann. Who should I assign this gown to? This kallah had a high waist and very narrow shoulders. She’d looked shapeless in every gown she’d tried on, but I knew that a good fit could make her look glamorous.

I scanned the room. Not Olga. She was an awful sourpuss lately, I couldn’t put up with her. Freya? I hesitated. The girl seemed to have talent, but she was so young and amateur. Kate or Maria could probably do it. They’d request more fittings, but they’d pull it off.

But… this gown needed Yelena. I felt bad because I knew the woman was swamped, but what could I do? Yelena was a wizard when it came to fitting. She was hands down the most talented seamstress on Yocheved’s staff.

Which reminded me, what was up with that woman being in the boutique Wednesday night? I’d meant to ask Yocheved about it, but no way was I going to talk to her now. She wanted me to be involved in marketing. Gag.

I smoothed my notepad and walked past the tables toward the back where Yelena was stationed. Sometimes I preferred spending time in this stuffy sewing room. There was something pleasant about it: Russian broadcasting drowned out by the thrum of machines, the constant thwum-thwum-thwum of racing needles. It was such a contrast from the strong spotlights and the clicking heels on the showroom’s white-tiled floor.

I reached the back of the room and lifted a roll of lace from the floor, propping it against the wall. I squinted at the fabric, trying to determine which gown it was for, but I couldn’t place it. Not a good sign. Was I so disconnected?

I sighed and turned to the table. “Hey, Yelena, are you available?”

There was no response. I tilted my head to peek behind her sewing machine.

She was fast asleep.

***

“Kupfer and Zweig.”

Chesky, sitting at the head of his Shabbos table, was stabbing his finger through the air, wagging it in the direction of his daughter Pessi. “You’ll remember?” he asked.

Pessi nodded. “Schwartz and Meyerson, Kupfer and Zweig.”

I burst out laughing. “Is this how you run your shadchanus business?”

My brother shrugged. “My best ideas are born on Shabbos, and without my staff here,” he waved his hand around the table, “I’d forget everything by Havdalah.”

When Chesky had called to invite me for the Shabbos meals, I’d suspected Shlomo was behind it. Honestly, I preferred to stay home, but I’d be a brat if I declined the invitation. With Shlomo determined to feel guilty about leaving us for Shabbos, the least I could do was give him the pleasure of making sure his wife was taken care of.

“But only if Chaya and I divide the cooking,” I’d insisted.

When the meal was over, the kids ran outside to play and Chesky pulled me aside. “Nu, tachlis. It was a good date Thursday night, right?”

“Hey, now you’re being pushy.”

“Oh, please. Is Shevy excited?”

I hesitated. Shevy had come home glowing, and the boy had said yes to a fourth date. But it was premature to sound enthusiastic and get Chesky excited. “It was a good date. She enjoyed it.”

Chesky broke into a smile.

“It doesn’t mean anything yet,” I added quickly. “Let’s take it easy, yeah?”

I sat down in an armchair and kicked my shoes off. “What happened with that shidduch you told me about last week?” I asked. “Are they getting engaged?”

My brother frowned. “It’s on hold.”

“No way. Why? It sounded like it was a done deal.”

He sighed. “I know, it’s crazy. It’s such a perfect shidduch, they’re making a huge mistake.”

“What’s the problem?”

“So this machateineste — I mean mother, whatever  —is afraid the girl is too simple. ‘We’re more Yocheved Lewin type of people,’ she tells me. Is that nuts or what? I mean, did she say it because she knows I’m her brother or because she doesn’t — which is a lot worse, obviously.”

My first thought was, Whoa, Yocheved would love this. Great marketing — Yocheved Lewin type of people.

“What am I supposed to tell them?” Chesky asked. “I feel like I need to give it a push.”

“What could you do? Offer a discount on a gown?”

“The gown, the hall, the photographer, the flowers. We’re talking about fundamental lifestyle differences. Balabatish, the woman calls it.”

I stood up suddenly. “Chesky, the Engels — they know we’re doing the takanos plan. Right?”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 648)