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Had he voiced that out loud?
“A bridge to cross,” She sighed against his mouth. “Or a tunnel –”
“Nora. I have a hotel room.”
* * *
The boat began to slow and turn. Nora glimpsed the hulking mass of the USS Intrepid, the floating Sea, Air & Space Museum, docked a few piers up from where the Baller would finish its journey. Pretty soon, Jay’s voice would come floating over the boat’s intercom, thanking everyone for coming.
Passengers would pass back through the ballroom, providing one last chance to givetzedakah,bid goodbye to friends, and witness the final performance of the night – which was usually big and unannounced.
Avi’s voice began to flow through the speakers. Even through a metal box, you could hear his star shine.
Nora took Beck’s hand as they threaded through throngs of people still trying to get one last drink on, one last selfie as the boat rapidly approached the lights of Manhattan’s west side. She knew this boat like the back of her hand after six years, and she knew they could pass through the kitchen to get to the ballroom quickly and, from there, she knew the way to a much less-utilized service ramp off the boat.
Talia’s kitchen station was empty, lit only by utility lights and clean as a whistle. No one would’ve suspected the miracles she and her workers had performed out of the small galley space that night.
In the ballroom, passengers fell into two groups: those getting a second wind and making plans to hit a club or bar to prolong the magic until at least four a.m., and those on their last legs, relieved to sit for a few minutes and be entertained by Avi and the talented skeleton crew of musicians he had rounded up to perform the final song of the night.
“Wow.” Beck drew a breath as they stopped to watch. “I’ve never caught a Painted Doors show live, but have heard great things. He’s really talented.”
Avi was mesmerizing, actually. His voice never failed to stop Nora in her tracks. She could be in the middle of Whole Foods, bag of Pirate Booty in her hands and grinning like a fool. Or reduced to tears in her hair salon. His originals were what put him on the map for mainstream consumption.
But when he did a cover song it was like a love letter in a bottle, from a time back when they all lived together in their own little desert oasis – full of mirages and miracles.
The Gen Z friend group all knew radio hits from the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s, thanks to the dad of one of the host families from theirmoshav. Modi had been a DJ and claimed he taught his kids English from all the bands dominating the ’80s airwaves. Especially those British and American rock bands that Avi seemed to easily chameleon into for his closest friends’ amusement.
He used to do it to make them laugh through their farm chores; tie a bandana around his sweaty brow and be Axl Rose for an afternoon. He disrupted many anUlpanclass meant to improve their Hebrew with his renditions of Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall,” claiming they needed no education. And he could play just about any of their requests on the battered acoustic guitar he brought with him while visiting them on thekibbutzimafter some of their group was sent north.
And now he was singing a Bad Co. ballad based on three little colors: “Silver, Blue and Gold.”Seemingly perfect for the Hanukkah holiday, but really a love and loss song, equally haunting and hopeful.
Avi gripped the mic with both hands. Somewhere along the cruise route he had shed his tux jacket. Lost his bow tie. With sleeves messily rolled above his tattoos and one shirt tail untucked, the singer looked like he’d either had a rough night at sea, or a roll in the hull with an adoring fan.
His curls were a disheveled cascade over one eye as he crooned, until he pushed through them with ringed fingers, smoothing them back. Cradling his head as if it were too heavy to bear while aiming lyrics like an arrow to the bullseye in the crowd.
He didn’t even have to look to hit his target.
Sylvie’s face was hidden behind her camera lens, giving nothing away. Her golden tresses like a curtain on either side. For someone who practically floated through life, she channeled intense focus as she leaned back, then forward. Snapping shot after shot of her subject.
Nora scanned the room for the others. Jay was in what looked like intense talks with some of the uniformed crew, but his easy grin broke out here and there, confirming the success of the night.
Talia, surprisingly, was nowhere in sight. Nora felt a pang of regret that she had missed a rare moment to spend with her friend once the food service had wrapped up.
The Hanukkah-themed cocktail bar near the pillar where she and Beck had shared a kiss was roped off, looking like it had been sold out for hours. Jonah leaned back with large elbows against it, watching the crowd. Nora waited until he caught sight of her.
“Give me a minute?” Her request delivered to Beck’s ear on her tiptoes, so she could be heard over the swelling song, but also an excuse for her lips to brush that scruff on his cheek as he nodded.
Jonah unclipped the velvet rope for her to join him at the empty bar. She scooted in and gave him a hug. “Don’t hate me, but I’m doing the Irish goodbye thing.”
He belly-laughed. For someone who actually had a quarter-Irish in him, Jonah was never the first to leave a party, and always made sure he said goodbye to everyone at least twice.
“You good, though? Of sound mind and bod to leave with…nice suit guy?”
“Yeah, it’s good. I’m good.” She didn’t feel she needed his consent or approval, but she was glad to check in with at least one of her crew before leaving the boat.
“I’m just surprised, Nor…you hooking up with a co-worker. Especially since work has been such a Jocko on your back lately.” He quickly traced a triangle across the front of his black velvet jacket, followed by an upside down one to make a hexagram – like crossing himself, only with a Star of David. “Jocko of Blessed Memory,” he added, as always, before palming something from his big bear paw into her hand.
“Just in case, times two.”
