I urgently tried telepathizing a warning to Shlomo, don’t get worked up. We wanted Shevy to marry their son, this was mortifying. Chesky was going to kill us
It was my turn to straighten tassels.
The Engels’ tassels were decidedly different from ours; no threads fraying along the edges. They evidently weren’t subject to the tugs of war popular in the Genuth household.
Everything was different in this house. There was a sense of refinement here, a stillness that blanketed the room, reassuring, but at the same time formal, a tad stifling. It was a study in contrasts to our home, where the dining room table sagged under school projects, and noise and energy and endless chatter prevailed.
Moishe Engel was tapping his fingers on the table. “So you want to make this wedding affordable.”
“Weddings,” Shlomo corrected him. “For everyone. The wedding standards have gotten so out of hand, we realized — the board, I mean — that the only way to tone things down would be by introducing guidelines. An incentivized plan, you know.”
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