Page 12 of The Dreidl Disaster

And the warmth of his fingers.

“Come on,” she said. Because she had to say it anyway.

“Hold on,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow, and as she watched him grip the sides of his jacket, she shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“Cold’s never been my problem,” he said.

“Still don’t need your jacket, though I appreciate the offer.”

He nodded, and she desperately wanted to take the jacket, but she wasn’t going to wear his jacket on a walk through town. So, she tried to ignore how warm he was, how warm his fingers were when he held her hand again. Because otherwise her resolve would fold like a piece of origami paper wielded by an expert.

Finally, they made it through to the center of the square. “Here,” she said, “for anybody who wants to see it.”

He nodded, looked in the direction she’d been pointing, then let her hand go.

Immediately, without pausing, she shoved her hands in the pockets of her sweater, knowing it wouldn’t compensate for the loss of the warmth in his hands.

Focus on something else, she scolded herself.

Of course, her traitorous eyes followed Artur himself, as he walked determinedly around the place where she’d envisioned the sculpture being.

When he returned, he met her eyes and she was absolutely not surprised when he offered her his jacket again, holding it out on long fingers. “Not cold,” he said. “You look like an icicle, and it’s not professional of me to permit that.”

This time, she was powerless to resist. “I’m taking it for professional reasons,” she said. “And I accept your offer with a provision to provide you with some kind of warm drink when it’s professionally convenient.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” he said, those eyes twinkling.

She was going to delve into fool territory if she didn’t watch herself.

“Speaking of warm drinks,” he continued, taking her hand back as if it was nothing, her fingers seeking the warmth of his. “Does the town have an outdoor café during the summer?”

That was a memory. And that was a question she could answer. “We do. Last summer, we got all the businesses together and did an outdoor event in the middle of the square. It’s not something we do regularly because the town isn’t built for that, but we’ve been known to do it on special occasions, three-day weekends, holidays.”

“I haven’t heard anything,” he said, “so I don’t know the temperature of the village residents, but what about some kind of outdoor gathering space around the dreidl?”

“I like that,” she said, walking toward the perimeter of the square. “We’d keep about five chess tables but make the dreidl and the square the center of everything.”

“This way you can move the festivities away from the synagogue.”

“An added benefit I hadn’t thought of,” she said, grinning. The wheels were turning in her head, and she couldn’t wait to put everything into fruition. “We can also set up a temporary stage and a covering.”

“Community space down below,” he said. “For community members, community businesses. No outside, not yet. But community businesses and maybe some hot chocolate and…”

“Yes,” she said, running along with the visions, whether it was his, hers, or both of theirs. “This is where you sell the hot chocolate; this is where someone brings latkes and handmade gelt. This is where the sweet bimuelos, soofganiyot by the dozen, and the rest of the traditional foods show up. Getting goose bumps.”

He smiled. “To get to this stage, what do we have to do?”

“Survive Thursday’s meeting.”

“And hope nobody brings a guillotine.”

She snickered. “No. I don’t think it’s going to be that bad. Maybe a Hebrew dictionary.”

“I could absolutely see that happening. But don’t worry,” he said, displaying his free hand and putting one finger over the other as if he’d braided them. “Hebrew and I are like that.”

“Glad to hear,” she said. “But yeah. Thursday.”

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