Magical meet cute, p.1
Magical Meet Cute, page 1
Praise for Magical Meet Cute
“A poignant, timely story about learning when to be brave, when to be soft, and the people you can trust in a storm.”
—Felicia Grossman, author of Marry Me by Midnight
“One of the best novels of 2024. Read it for the wit, humor, camaraderie and romance and then prepare to spend the next few days in awe.”
—M.J. Rose, New York Times bestselling author of Forgetting to Remember
“Smart, timely, and deeply powerful, Magical Meet Cute presents a portrait of modern anti-Semitism, while reinforcing the need to thrive and find joy.”
—Sara Goodman Confino, bestselling author of Don’t Forget to Write
“This book and its message is an antidote that’s sorely needed in today’s world, and a powerful reminder of the magic behind our words.”
—Heidi Shertok, author of Unorthodox Love
“Jean Meltzer continues her trend of fearlessly tackling sensitive, mostly uncharted issues with finesse and humor. Magical Meet Cute is her boldest novel yet.”
—Meredith Schorr, author of As Seen on TV
“Meltzer’s pen weaves charm with flaws in remarkable harmony that will leave readers enchanted.”
—J’nell Ciesielski, bestselling author of The Socialite
“Magical Meet Cute is the Jewish joy we all need in our lives right now. It’s a funny and playful page-turner, but with so much heart you’ll be bursting by the end.”
—Ali Rosen, bestselling author of Recipe for Second Chances
“This book is a masterclass in how to blend heart, humor, and a touch of the mystical, proving Meltzer isn’t just spinning clay—she’s spinning gold.”
—Arden Joy, author of Keep This Off the Record
“This book is magic—in every sense. It is raw, it is real and very timely.”
—Maan Gabriel, author of Twelve Hours in Manhattan
“A five-star tale that’s far from ordinary. Meltzer manages to teach and dazzle in one single sitting.”
—Rochelle Weinstein, bestselling author of What You Do to Me
“An unforgettable story that explores the universal desire to be protected, while reminding readers that love is the most powerful force of all.”
—Lindsay Hameroff, author of Till There Was You
“With tender compassion, Jean delicately navigates challenging topics, such as anti-Semitism and generational trauma, with laugh-out-loud humor and steamy heat.”
—Jessica Lepe, author of Flirty Little Secret
“An infusion of Jewish Magic brings Jean Meltzer’s latest to another level. Brava.”
—Stacey Agdern, award-winning author of B’Nai Mitzvah Mistake
“Love, magic, and all the sparks fly in this bewitching romance.”
—Rachel Barenbaum, author of Atomic Anna
“Jean Meltzer conjures up another winner, blending humor, heart, and a dash of the supernatural in her latest delightful romantic comedy.”
—Devon Daniels, author of The Rom Con
Jean Meltzer studied dramatic writing at NYU Tisch and has earned numerous awards for her work in television, including a Daytime Emmy®. She spent five years in rabbinical school before her chronic illness forced her to withdraw, and her father told her she should write a book—just not a Jewish one because no one reads those. Magical Meet Cute is her fourth novel.
JeanMeltzer.com
Magical Meet Cute
Jean Meltzer
Also by Jean Meltzer
The Matzah Ball
Mr. Perfect on Paper
Kissing Kosher
For My Sisters,
Evelyn Meltzer and Danielle Meltzer Chesney
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
BOOK EXCERPT
CHAPTER EIGHT
BOOK EXCERPT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
BOOK EXCERPT
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
BOOK EXCERPT
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BOOK EXCERPT
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BOOK EXCERPT
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BOOK EXCERPT
CHAPTER TWENTY
BOOK EXCERPT
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BOOK EXCERPT
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ONE YEAR LATER
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
READER’S GUIDE
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
It was hard and magnificent.
Faiga Kaplan, otherwise known as Faye to her friends, ran her hands down the long shaft of her latest clay creation. An earthenware vase—at least three feet in length and bearing a perfectly crafted slit for sunflowers at the top—lay on her studio table. Having been painted twice and forged through fire in her kiln, it was now ready for placement in her storefront window. All she had to do was get the heavy, hulking piece of pottery through the first floor of Magic Mud Pottery without breaking it.
Cautiously, she lifted the vase from the table. Peeking out from the sides, carefully managing her balance with each step, she creeped slowly past the tables and chairs of her studio, bumping over the threshold into the hallway, heading through the first floor. She was halfway through the old wooden building, by the center staircase, when she felt something mushy and wet beneath her left foot.
Faye didn’t need to look down.
She knew exactly what she had stepped in.
“Hillel,” Faye groaned, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.
Carefully, she put the vase down beside the staircase, turning her attention to inspect the damage now seeping through her pink sock.
“Hillel,” Faye called out again. “I’m serious. Get in here!”
Hillel, a hairless and toothless Chinese crested, peeked around the corner. Faye had adopted the pathetic-looking creature when he was ten years old. At the time, she had considered it a mitzvah, a good deed, in the wake of a dreadful breakup. She thought she could funnel all her love into this poor creature—a dog riddled with back acne and without a home—and he would adore her forever.
“I know you did this on purpose,” Faye said, lifting one foot up to display the mess.
Hillel twisted away from her, tail up, his tiny butthole pointed straight in her line of vision. She swore that dog could speak English.
She also knew that his constant accidents had nothing to do with tummy troubles. After all, Faye was a responsible pet owner. She had taken Hillel to the vet a dozen times, run every expensive test to see if there was something physically wrong with him, only to be told that the tiny monster was in perfectly good health. Indeed, the vet had promised her that Hillel would likely live another decade. No, he defecated all over her apartment for the same reason Stuart had called off their engagement. She was too much.
“Keep acting this way,” Faye warned, narrowing her eyes in his direction, “and I’ll send you to go live with Nelly. You can wear frilly doll dresses and be the guest of honor at her Second Glance dog tea parties for the rest of your natural existence.”
Hillel strolled past her, unconcerned, before landing on a mess of blankets and pillow squares waiting for him by the storefront window.
Faye had made the tiny bed for Hillel there so he would be comfortable. She figured he could watch the people walking down Main Street, see the customers before they entered her store. It was also the sunniest, and therefore warmest, spot in her building, an absolute necessity for a dog without any fur. She did everything for Hillel. She gave him her best. Devoted her love, time, and energy to his well-being. And what did Hillel do in response?
Crap all over her.
The thought had crossed her mind more than once to return him to the shelter.
Faye never did, of course. No, as it turned out...no amount of snarling, or defecating in high-traffic areas, or trying to bite her with his gummy, toothless mouth, would ever steer her heart away from the four-legged fur demon.
The reason being simple enough. She had made a promise to Hillel. She had stood outside Woodstock Animal Shelter, placed him safely in the front basket of her bike, and told him she would care for him, and protect him—and never betray his love on a snowmobile in Lapland—until the bitter end.
Perhaps loving someone to the bitter end had always been her downfall.
Her mind wande red to her ex-fiancé, Stuart, when most applicably her nose wrinkled. The scent of dog feces was beginning to take up residence.
Faye hobbled on one foot up the stairs to the second floor. Finding her way to the bathtub, she set about cleaning up her foot.
For the last three years, Faye had been the sole proprietor of Magic Mud Pottery. She lived above her store and studio in a quaint one-bedroom apartment.
Magic Mud Pottery was one of a handful of old buildings made of wood and painted in bright colors that dotted the bucolic downtown of Woodstock, New York. Set between large trees, and decorated with Pride flags and double-hung windows, it was the type of town that, no matter the season, smelled like burning wood and cinnamon.
Her apartment was small, but as a single woman, she didn’t need much space. Plus, she had gotten an amazing price. On the second floor, a cozy bedroom sat towards the back of the building, overlooking a fenced-in yard and garden. In the front, a tiny living room was divided from a half kitchen by a counter. A bathroom rested in between.
As an old building, the layout—but especially the kitchen—was all types of weird. While the oven, stove, and sink were on the second floor, the refrigerator was too tall for the upstairs kitchen alcove. And so it sat downstairs, right behind the front counter, where Faye often rang up customers.
At first, it was a problem. Especially at night, as Faye often liked to sneak downstairs in nothing but her skivvies and have a late-night snack. But Faye quickly realized that most everyone who owned a business in downtown Woodstock lived elsewhere, and so, even though she had invested in curtains, she never bothered to use them.
Beyond all these things, she liked the quirkiness of the building. The fact it was strange and unusual. It reminded her of an apartment she had lived in on the Lower East Side while a young lawyer in Manhattan, with a shower in the kitchen and a bathroom outside the apartment, just down the hall.
Faye was finishing cleaning up when the bell above the front door to Magic Mud Pottery rang out.
“Faiga,” a voice called out moments later.
She recognized the voice as belonging to Nelly, who owned the building next door, where she ran the business Second Glance Treasures.
It was a gentle, lovely name for a store that was essentially extra storage space for a woman who had taken the hobby of hoarding to a professional capacity. Perhaps Faye was being too hard on the eccentric octogenarian. But No-Filter Nelly—as Faye sometimes called her behind her back—was a frequent, though not always welcome, visitor.
“One moment,” Faye called out.
Quickly, she finished drying off her foot. Spraying down her bathtub and the floor, she popped downstairs. Nelly was standing by the storefront window, arms crossed, her entire forehead wrinkling in displeasure.
“It smells like a porta-potty in here.” Nelly grimaced.
Faye huffed. “Hillel had an accident again.”
“Again?” Nelly looked towards the dog. “Maybe you should take him to the vet.”
“I’ve taken him to the vet,” Faye reminded her for the ten thousandth time. Grabbing a towel and some pet odor remover, she bent down to the floor and began cleaning up his mess. “Can I help you with something, Nelly?”
“I was wondering if you’re going to Single in the Sukkah tonight?” she asked.
“I’m not planning on it.”
“Why not?” Nelly said, following her. She always followed her. “Only twenty-four dollars a participant. For a good cause. Plus, you might meet someone.”
Faye tossed the turd in the trash. “I’m not interested in meeting anyone right now.”
“Why not?”
Faye slammed the lid shut. “You know the reason.”
“Because you were dumped by your fiancé of seven years after a snowmobile accident in Lapland?”
Busted.
Faye had first met Stuart Wutz during law school. After a seven-year engagement, the two-week escapade she had painstakingly planned to Lapland was supposed to be a pre-wedding getaway, a chance for them to have some fun before planning for their wedding, three months away, moved into hyperdrive.
Instead, everything about the trip had been a disaster.
Stuart complained constantly. About the cold. About the food. About his hemorrhoids. He nearly caused an international incident when he found out the hamburger he was eating was made of reindeer meat. But it wasn’t until that fateful snowmobile ride—when Stuart skidded out on a slick of ice, crashing into a snowy embankment—that their decade-long relationship came to an official end. Bringing her vehicle safely to a stop beside him, racing to check that he was okay, she was shocked when Stuart had stood up and lobbed his own attack.
You’re too much, Faye. Everything you do, everything you are...it’s just too much. No wonder your own mother couldn’t stand you.
The wedding was off. Faye was thirty-one years old, and having given Stuart the best years of her life—the best of her reproductive years, too—back to being single. It was more than betrayal. It was more than a hurt. It was an avalanche of pain that she had barely escaped from. And yet, she couldn’t completely blame Stuart for what had happened. He was simply a trigger point in a snowslip that had been building since her youth.
“So, you had one bad experience,” Nelly said.
“Not just one,” Faye grumbled.
“So, you had multiple bad experiences,” Nelly said, unfazed. “Lots of people hurt and disappointed you. Because of this, you give up on love forever?”
Faye spun around. “I don’t need a mother, Nelly!”
Her words pierced the air and turned into ice.
“Everyone needs a mother,” Nelly said, simply.
Faye scoffed, hardening herself against the admission. Against the confession. She had already had a mother in her life, and she sucked. Some nights, she could still feel the pain in her wrist—in her fingers—from where her mom had permanently disabled her.
Faye twisted away from Nelly. “If you’re done pestering me about—”
Nelly cut her off. “So come for the synagogue. They always need money.”
“How about I just write them a check and spend the night reading a book and eating hard kosher salami by myself?”
Nelly grimaced. “This is fun for you?”
“Yes, Nelly.” Faye threw her hands up, exasperated. “This is fun for me. Because I like being alone. More important, I’m better alone. I have no interest in meeting a man, starting a romantic relationship, or getting married. Going to a Single in the Sukkah event would be the equivalent of false advertising.”
Faye made her way back through her pottery studio. Picking up her vase, she turned to place it in her storefront window. And that was when she saw it. The vase she had thought was perfect...had a tiny bubble at the bottom.
“Haman’s hat,” Faye huffed. She tried not to use curse words.
“What’s wrong?” Nelly asked.
Faye shook her head. “I must have missed an air bubble before drying.”
Clay held memory. If you did something wrong at any part of the process, it would be reflected in the final work. A fingerprint at the edge. A lip all misshapen and wonky. A warp or scratch in the otherwise smooth facade, or worse...the entire thing exploding, shattering completely, when placed into the kiln for firing. Clay, contrary to popular belief, was not an easy material to work with.
“I’m just gonna throw it out,” Faye said, attempting to move it out of her window.
“Wha!” Nelly stopped her with both hands. “Why would you throw this out? You’ve already spent time to make it.”
“Because it’s awful,” Faye snapped back. “No one is going to want a vase with a bubble sticking out of it!” And because looking at that bubble was a constant reminder of all the things her mother had stolen from her.
Faye was only seventeen years old when it happened. When her mother—in another one of her random and totally unjustified rages—woke her up from a sound sleep because she had accidentally left clay out on the kitchen table. Grabbing Faye by the wrist and pulling her out of bed, she dragged her down the hall to clean up the supposed mess. Faye could still recall the sensation of her hand being twisted the wrong way, the sound of it snapping as the bone broke. But most of all, she remembered screaming for her father to help her.
