Wedding Girl by Stacey Ballis Page A

people who respect places like this.”
    Herman rolls his eyes and holds the phone away from his ear, the ancient receiver emitting the noise of a thousand angry bees.
    â€œPlease, Junior, I understand that you want to help, but I know what I know. This is my home; this is my job; this is where I belong and what I belong doing. If the new place makes things slower, so be it. But I’m not a coward. I don’t run away. I stay. The business stays. That is the end of the discussion.”
    I hear a noise that sounds very much like “
aaarrrghhhhhh
” through the phone and then, unmistakably, a dial tone. Herman puts on a brave smile.
    â€œSweet Sophie. You are early! But it is good, because there are still many challahs to get ready. Can you continue for me? I need to go upstairs for something. I will return quick as a rabbit.”
    â€œOf course, Herman. Take your time; I’ll get the challahs done.”
    He pinches my cheek on his way to the door and disappears upstairs. That must have been the son. Herman has shared very little about his son. All I know is that he is some sort of big-time businessman who splits his time fairly evenly between Chicago and the West Coast. The two of them seem to have a strained, respectful relationship. I know that they spend key holidays together and that the son does try and stop in to see Herman when he is in town and has time, but apparently those visitshave been fewer and fewer ever since his mother died. I know that Herman is proud of his son but doesn’t really understand him, and on the rare occasion he mentions him, I make sure not to pry or ask for more info. And it always makes me grateful that my folks, who also don’t necessarily understand me, don’t let it distance us from each other.
    Herman returns, looking like nothing in the world is wrong.
    â€œSophie, you are very early.”
    â€œI saw the paper, thought I should come in.”
    He pats my hand. “Very sweet of you, my dear, but nothing to panic about. I’m very delighted to see that our neighborhood is attracting new and exciting businesses.”
    â€œBut, Herman . . .”
    He shakes his head. “There is a big building that needs to be torn down, rebuilt from the ground up. Who knows what happens between now and then? For all we know, having the new business nearby brings many more people to the neighborhood, people who love baked goods. I’ve seen photos of this Baking Queen woman. This is not a Jewish face. I’m sure she makes an excellent cookie, but I would bet she wouldn’t know a babka from a bobcat,
nu
?”
    Herman puts on his thickest shtetl accent and mugs for me, making me giggle despite myself.
    â€œThere’s my girl. Bad enough I’ve got my son phoning in from California all gloomy and doomy. You and I know better. Don’t we both still love to get that perfect French baguette at La Boulangerie? Those amazing English muffins at Summer House? The carrot cake muffins at Blue Door Farm Stand?” Herman rattles off some of the outstanding work of other local Chicago establishments.
    â€œOf course we do.”
    â€œOf course we do. Because no one place can be all things to all people. We do what we do. She will do what she does. There is room for everyone. The tide raises all boats.”
    It does indeed. Even the
Titanic
.
    â€œOkay, Herman, I’m here for you. So, since I’m here, shall we bake some challah?”
    â€œYes, we shall. You think that woman knows from
challah
?” He chuckles at the very idea, and his confidence puts me at ease. He’s right, of course; what we do and what she does are so different. Why would her store affect ours negatively? Why can’t the burgeoning community sustain both places? I think about other clusters of businesses: that stretch on Western Avenue with all the Thai restaurants; Armitage Ave. with a Kiehl’s, L’Occitane, and Lush in a two-block