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any worse or better
since the last time he’d seen her, but he’d learned long ago to put a positive
spin on everything. She was perfectly coiffed, from her chin-length bob to her
pale-green brocade suit and white loafers.
    “Nonsense. This heat is giving me hives.” Tamara waved her
hand, dismissing Sammi’s attempt at derailing her imaginary ailments. Their
family had had a doctor on speed dial since he was a kid, and it hadn’t always
been for Sammi’s benefit. Someone was always “coming down with something”
around the Zimmerman house.
    “I can’t even tell. What’s for lunch today?” He grasped the
metal cloche covering the meal and whisked it aside.
    “Fish. The chef is out sick this week. I told her to be
careful about shopping at those bargain stores.” Tamara wrinkled her nose,
disgusted by the idea of anything that wasn’t from a kosher store.
    Sammi didn’t have the heart or desire to tell her even
kosher grocery stores carried only specialty items. She’d come down with five
different illnesses if she knew that her kosher food might share shelf space
with potato chips.
    Tamara continued to speak, unaware of Sammi’s mental aside.
“I’m making do with a temporary replacement. The woman seems to only be capable
of cooking simple things.” She removed the cloche from her meal and one of the
hired help appeared to spirit both away.
    Sammi shrugged and grinned. “I like fish. It’s hard to get
wrong. Even I can cook it.” The small filets appeared to have been rubbed with
seasoning and baked. He bit into the first one and an unexpected medley of
flavors burst on his tongue. There were spices present the regular chef
wouldn’t have used and maybe shavings of some kind of nut. Whatever the
variation, it was delicious and perfect.
    “Disgusting.” His mother dropped her fork back on her plate
and turned her attention to the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave an excellent
view of the well-manicured backyard through the sheers.
    “It’s not too bad.” There were some battles he would never
win with her. He cut the filet into bite-sized chunks and popped another in his
mouth.
    “I spoke with Dalya’s parents yesterday.”
    Sammi reached for his teacup, wishing it were cold water, or
better yet a beer. Instead he tossed back the bitter brew, coughing only a
little. How he hated her tea. But she always insisted it helped cure any
ailments and so everyone who stepped foot under this roof drank some. Even the
help. “Yeah?”
    Tamara turned to glance at him from the corner of her eye.
“She’s willing to have you back—”
    “I’m sure she is,” he muttered.
    “If you apologized.”
    “What? Oh hell no.” He shook his head and wiped his mouth.
    Sammi had no interest in reconnecting with Dalya, a Jewish
heiress with no sense of humor. It didn’t matter how fat her bank accounts
were, he wouldn’t spend the last months of his life with someone he couldn’t
stand. No, Autumn would be his companion.
    “Samuel, language.”
    He bit the inside of his cheek. There was no way he could
tell his mother about his illness returning. She was supposed to be recovering
from a psychological condition and his sickness would only compound her
problem. Then there was Autumn, whom he most certainly couldn’t tell her about.
No, it was better to keep things separate. By the time it all came to a head he
would be gone.
    “Sorry, Mom. I broke up with Dalya. It’s over.” He braced
for her rebuttal. As far as marriage went, he’d gotten off lucky compared to
most Jewish men his age. Typically it was pressed upon them to marry and carry
on the family legacy, but his parents had lived with the uncertainty of his
survival for so long that marriage had never been a reality.
    She shrugged. “Fine.”
    Wait—what?
    Sammi took a bite of fish, surreptitiously watching his
mother.
    Mother dropped her napkin on the table and sighed
dramatically. “Tomorrow we will have to go out to lunch. This is