“Let’s go to the kitchen,” she says, an arm around each of us, and we enter a white marble palace that smells so good I have to wipe my mouth to keep the drool at bay. There’s a woman standing at the stove, stirring a pot, a long dyed-red braid skimming her waist. “This is Camella. I need a helper while my daughter’s too busy swimming and tanning to help me stuff eggplant.” Her voice is teasing, and she gives Jasmine a peck on the cheek.

Jasmine says hi and I introduce myself, and Camella gives us a quick smile and goes back to stirring.

Sylvia steers us back out. “Jasmine, why don’t we give Larissa a tour of the house?” She doesn’t even wait before leading me through each room, explaining every photograph, telling me the story behind each piece of artwork, and describing the purpose of every piece of Judaica. I’m proud to come in knowing a few, like mezuzahs and menorahs—my mom and I are technically Jewish too, though we’re not remotely affiliated—and Sylvia seems similarly pleased about it.

We end with Jasmine’s room, and Sylvia declares she’s going to check on the food, leaving us standing in Jasmine’s doorway. There are definitely some personal items in Jasmine’s room at the beach house, but it’s clear that this is where she lives. I sweep into the room to examine every inch of it.

“This vanity is amazing,” I declare, walking over to the glass-and-mirror table immediately. It’s covered in makeup and gorgeous perfume bottles, none of which I’ve ever known Jasmine to wear. In the Outer Banks, she smells like sunscreen and peach lotion and honeysuckle shampoo and chlorine and salt water. In Asheville, apparently, she smells like Dolce & Gabbana. “Since when do you wear perfume?”

“Since never.” She cracks a smile as she collapses onto her huge, fluffy bed. “My mom doesn’t think an outfit is complete without Chanel, so she keeps buying me fragrances in hopes I’ll find my equivalent, but eh. It makes me feel old.”

“Your mom looks like she’s thirty.”

“No wonder she likes you.”

I continue snooping around, looking at pictures of Jasmine and her friends—Laila is easy to pick out—and family, brushing my fingers over her enormous collection of graphic novels, and riffling through her closet. “I cannot believe you have this much here given how much clothing you brought to the beach.”

“What can I say? Halabi women like to shop! But we also give a lot to charity,” she says, crossing her arms a little defensively.

“I don’t doubt it.” If there’s one thing both Sylvia and Jasmine radiate, it’s having a warm heart. “But wow, this is … impressive.”

“SYs don’t mess around. Wait until you see dinner.”