Cool for the Summer, Dahlia Adler [classic literature list .txt] 📗

but what do I even say? I’ll miss you feels silly; I can say that on the group text like everyone else. I didn’t know you were going away for the weekend is way too clingy.

While I’m thinking it over, a message pops up. For a second I panic that I’d written something without even realizing it, but no, this message from Jasmine is completely unprompted.

Jasmine: Hey, I know this is really random, but if you’re up for it, I could use a friend when I go see my mom this weekend.

A follow-up: no pressure, followed by a nonsensical string of emojis.

The rush of certainty that yes, I do want to go with Jasmine to see her mom, hits like frappuccino-induced brain freeze. Sure, sounds fun, I write back.

Jasmine: Just a warning

Jasmine: She’s very into Shabbat dinner.

Jasmine: Hope you like lentil soup and tamarind in everything.

Lara: I have no idea what tamarind is, but if it’s anything like crawfish, I can handle it. I tack on a strong-arm emoji.

She sends back a laugh-cry one. It’s not. But you can handle it.

I probably can handle tamarind, but meeting Sylvia Halabi is … a lot. In the very best way.

“Come in, come in,” she ushers us, her voice as low and melodious as Jasmine’s imitation of it. She gives Jasmine a big, dramatic kiss on each cheek, turns and does the same to me. “It’s so nice to meet the famous Larissa!”

Famous, huh? The idea that Jasmine’s mentioned me to her mom—more than once—makes me a little light-headed, even though obviously she had to in order to bring me. But maybe that feeling is from the Chanel that envelops Ms. Halabi like a summer breeze, softened only by my face being mashed into her silk blouse too tightly to smell much. “It’s nice to meet the famous Jasmine’s Mom,” I manage, and she laughs, deep and throaty like her daughter.

“Such a pretty girl,” she says affectionately, tugging one of my curls.

She’s one to talk. Jasmine’s mom is stunning, with the same thick, glossy black hair and liquid gold eyes as her daughter, which are even more striking against her deeper bronze skin. She’s meticulously made up, and I worry we’ve interrupted her on her way out to something.

“No,” Jasmine says, reading my mind. “She looks like that all the time.” Sylvia looks puzzled, and Jasmine says, “She’s not used to someone wearing a full face of makeup to have dinner with her daughter.”

Embarrassed, I mumble, “You look great,” and she laughs. She’s much easier to make laugh than her daughter, but it’s still hard not to be anxious against the backdrop of her neat, expensive perfection. The house is all marble and gold and glass, stunning and lavish in a very different way from Declan’s. I could see how they’d been confused into thinking they were a match before realizing they were actually polar opposites.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” she says, an arm around each of us, and we enter a white marble palace that smells so good I have to wipe my mouth to keep the drool at bay. There’s a woman standing at the stove, stirring a pot, a long dyed-red braid skimming her waist. “This is Camella. I need a helper while my daughter’s too busy swimming and tanning to help me stuff eggplant.” Her voice is teasing, and she gives Jasmine a peck on the cheek.

Jasmine says hi and I introduce myself, and Camella gives us a quick smile and goes back to stirring.

Sylvia steers us back out. “Jasmine, why don’t we give Larissa a tour of the house?” She doesn’t even wait before leading me through each room, explaining every photograph, telling me the story behind each piece of artwork, and describing the purpose of every piece of Judaica. I’m proud to come in knowing a few, like mezuzahs and menorahs—my mom and I are technically Jewish too, though we’re not remotely affiliated—and Sylvia seems similarly pleased about it.

We end with Jasmine’s room, and Sylvia declares she’s going to check on the food, leaving us standing in Jasmine’s doorway. There are definitely some personal items in Jasmine’s room at the beach house, but it’s clear that this is where she lives. I sweep into the room to examine every inch of it.

“This vanity is amazing,” I declare, walking over to the glass-and-mirror table immediately. It’s covered in makeup and gorgeous perfume bottles, none of which I’ve ever known Jasmine to wear. In the Outer Banks, she smells like sunscreen and peach lotion and honeysuckle shampoo and chlorine and salt water. In Asheville, apparently, she smells like Dolce & Gabbana. “Since when do you wear perfume?”

“Since never.” She cracks a smile as she collapses onto her huge, fluffy bed. “My mom doesn’t think an outfit is complete without Chanel, so she keeps buying me fragrances in hopes I’ll find my equivalent, but eh. It makes me feel old.”

“Your mom looks like she’s thirty.”

“No wonder she likes you.”

I continue snooping around, looking at pictures of Jasmine and her friends—Laila is easy to pick out—and family, brushing my fingers over her enormous collection of graphic novels, and riffling through her closet. “I cannot believe you have this much here given how much clothing you brought to the beach.”

“What can I say? Halabi women like to shop! But we also give a lot to charity,” she says, crossing her arms a little defensively.

“I don’t doubt it.” If there’s one thing both Sylvia and Jasmine radiate, it’s having a warm heart. “But wow, this is … impressive.”

“SYs don’t mess around. Wait until you see dinner.”

She is not kidding. Sylvia calls us in a few minutes later, and my eyes widen when I realize how much there is. “Did your mom think all of your friends were coming?” I whisper to Jasmine.

“Oh, no. She went light for just the three of us.”

Jasmine has got to be kidding. After we have wine and round, golden challah studded with seeds, enough food emerges from the kitchen