“That’s okay,” Estee interrupted him. “I’m not going to schmooze in the den. I’m going to head back upstairs, rest, and daven in the room.” Yonah raised his eyebrows. “Oh. You sure?”
AT their second sheva brachos, the one that Estee’s mother’s best friends had made in the party room at a fancy restaurant, Estee’s uncle Elisha had emceed. His little snippets between each speech — and there had been a lot of them — were more memorable than the speeches themselves.
One, in particular, was playing through Yonah Rosen’s mind as he drove like an insane person down the highway, his wife sitting in huffy silence next to him.
“If you’re good at life,” Elisha had said, raising a half-full glass, “then you’ll be good at marriage. That’s it. So Yonah and Estee, we’re not that worried about you. At least, I’m not. My sister, on the other hand…”
And everyone had laughed as Estee’s mother made an “oh, stop,” gesture at her little brother. Apparently, it was no secret that the kallah’s mother had suffered worse pre-wedding jitters than the kallah herself.
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