by Roger Herst
BOOK II:
A KISS FOR RABBI GABRIELLE
Roger E. Herst
The Rabbi Gabrielle Series
Book I: Rabbi Gabrielle’s Scandal
Book II: A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle
Book III: Rabbi Gabrielle’s Defiance
Book IV: Rabbi Gabrielle Commits a Felony
Book V: Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest
See the end of this book for teasers!
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
80 Fifth Avenue, Suite 1101
New York, New York 10011
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2011 by Roger Herst
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For more information, email [email protected].
First Diversion Books edition June 2011.
ISBN: 978-0-09833371-3-3 (ebook)
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
CHAPTER ONE
THE ISLAND OF MARTINIQUE
Christmas Week
Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn’s congregants had strong feelings about how their rabbi should behave. They expected her to be a model of deportment – always disciplined, controlled, reasonable, patient, humble, and self-sacrificing. This left little room for the devil in her to play. It had to wait until she took her first winter holiday since becoming senior rabbi at Washington's congregation, Ohav Shalom. Then, on a Christmas week getaway to Martinique, when the business of a synagogue routinely goes into hibernation, she decided to visit a nude beach and emulate her distant cousin Eve in the Garden of Eden.
She had never thought of herself as possessing anything close to movie star beauty though, by reasonably strict adherence to a low fat diet and daily exercise, she maintained a slender, athletic figure. When she smiled, her nose, given a gentle curve downward at the tip when she was fifteen, accentuated the dimples that invariably elicited admiration. Thanks to a skilled orthodontist in Los Angeles, where she had grown up, her teeth were almost perfect. Combined with the dimples, they drew others into the intimate space that surrounded her.
On the beach, she found it easier to remove the top of her bikini than the bottom. If revealing organs of reproduction did not embarrass fellow mammals in God’s Kingdom, why, she asked herself, should it embarrass her? The answer came almost immediately. The prospect, however remote, of meeting someone who knew her in Washington horrified her. She prepared herself for that eventuality by marshalling the argument that nude bathing was the norm in the French Indies and she certainly did not want to offend the natives.
How this argument might have worked, she was never to know; before she encountered anybody who might know her, she discovered a major flaw in her plan. Even with powerful sun blocking creams, exposing tender flesh to the tropical sun was a dangerous business. Before her breasts and derriere could turn tomato red, she donned an oversized T-shirt and took shelter under a nearby coconut palm, reminding herself how little she actually enjoyed sunbathing, clothed or not.
These days she preferred to spend her time on tennis courts drilling ground strokes and punching volleys. The sport had rescued her from the fatigue and depression brought on by the increasing demands of her synagogue. She’d hired the sister of her secretary, Chuck Browner, as her coach. Lydia Browner, ranked among the hundred best women players in the nation, trained most of Washington’s women enthusiasts. Lessons and drill with Lydia started each Tuesday and Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. Gabby’s new rabbinical associate, Dov Shellenberg, whom she had handpicked after her promotion to senior rabbi, shared clerical responsibilities and occasionally freed her to compete as Lydia’s partner in weekend tournaments on the women’s pro-amateur doubles circuit.
Triumphing over opponents had never been part of Gabby’s make-up but, after a few months of being unmercifully driven and prodded by Lydia, she began to notice a shift in her personality. Off the court, she found herself fighting for what she wanted, no longer willing to concede in a disagreement meep’nay darqay shalom, as the Talmudic rabbis said: for the sake of making and maintaining peace. Once thought of as a pushover on the courts, she acquired a reputation as a serious adversary who, short of cheating, would do just about anything to win—including psychological warfare and an infuriating drop shot.
She was in the Caribbean because Zoe Mountolive, the attorney she had met during the celebrated rape trial of Noah Zentner, had insisted that Gabby accompany her and her latest boyfriend, Clive Gordonshield, on their trip to Martinique. Initially, Gabby had been inclined to refuse, thinking that the last thing Zoe needed on a romantic island was a tagalong single girlfriend. Now though, under the tropical sun, she was glad she’d reconsidered. Zoe and Clive wanted to spend their time alone, snorkeling or sailing a catamaran. This left Gabby free to spend her days on the tennis court. The pro there tried to match her with suitable partners, but none of the women were in her league. He found her slots in mixed doubles where, as it turned out, the teams were satisfied to lob moon balls at each other. Her partners were weekend duffers who pushed rather than hit, refused to run more than a few steps, and rested between shots rather than between points.
She was spared boredom by the presence of two Italian players who dominated the center court, practicing ground strokes, 110-mile-per-hour serves, and overhead smashes. After several unchallenging doubles matches, she was content to sit on the courtside deck and watch their graceful movements. Their lyrical Italian phrases, punctuated by the pop of balls making contact with their racquets, sounded to her like a choral ensemble accompanied by percussion instruments.
On Christmas Eve, after dinner in the Le Cirque restaurant, Zoe and Clive politely excused themselves and strolled off arm-in-arm toward their cottage hidden behind a hedge of flowering frangipani and oleander. Gabby entertained herself with a barefoot stroll along the beach, watching as the outgoing tide rushed over her feet and dissolved her footprints. She looked up just in time to see one of the Italian tennis players approach from the opposite direction. She couldn’t tell if he recognized her from the courts, but he stopped to ask if she had just seen a shooting star cut across the northern sky. “Perhaps a cousin of the Christmas star?” he said with a charming smile.
“No, I’m afraid I was looking at my feet making funny holes in the sand,” she answered, with a touch of embarrassment.
“It is the season for shooting stars, yes, Senorina? If you look now, you’re gonna see more,” he said, pointing into the air. She noticed the long, firm, bronzed muscles of his arm. He stepped toward her, so she could site stars along his fingertips. “Si, Senorina,” he said. “Look at Cassiopeia’s belt. Shooting stars come from there, yes?” He held the pose for a few moments, looking, she thought with a smile, like a modern Caesar commanding a star to appear.
Apparently, though, the sky was not taking requests, so they sauntered along the beach together, talking about the island’s beauty. They ended up in the hotel bar and she told him how much she enjoyed watching him play. He introduced himself as Titus Cecera and explained that he and his partner were members of the Italian Davis Cup team. They were preparing, he admitted ruefully, to be slaughtered the following month
by the more powerful Australians on their home turf, Down Under.
On Christmas Day, Titus abandoned his teammate to play with Gabby. His strong topspin forehand, deep to the baseline, elevated her game and allowed her to use his power. She wanted to see if she was quick enough to return a blistering 100-mile-per-hour service. Titus, whose serves had been clocked as high as 126 miles-per-hour, indulged her curiosity and placed a half dozen into the forehand court. She failed to return them.
He vaulted over the net to take her arm and demonstrate the proper blocking stroke.
“Try to receive on the backhand, yes?” he said. “Short back swing, wrist locked. Let the ball bounce off your strings, yes? It already has plenty of speed.”
When she took a trial jab, a dozen inches in front of her, with a locked wrist, he was demonstrative with enthusiasm. Both hands flew into the air. “Si, Gabriella, si! You have it, yes?”
“Well maybe,” she said skeptically, considering herself lucky.
He retreated to the opposite side and blasted more serves into her backhand court. Two she returned down the middle, but placed so that an opponent could easily angle his return to either corner.
After sunset, Titus took her to a restaurant on the island’s north shore where they dined on sautéed grouper and a bottle of white Chianti. They played again the next day, both in the early morning and late afternoon. In trial games, he eased up so the score was not so lopsided. In the evening they dined with Zoe and Clive, who politely allowed them to banter about sports. During dinner, Zoe scrutinized Titus as though he were her daughter’s first date. When he wasn’t looking, she would nod affirmatively at Gabby. The moment dessert ended, she seized Clive’s arm to lead him away from the table.
The starlit night and warm tropical breeze that rustled the palm branches provided a fairytale setting. Titus epitomized for Gabby all of the golden-haired Hectors she knew at various tennis centers. Browned by hours under the sun, they were social, flirtatious, and oozing with sensuality. In Washington, where other players invariably called her Rabbi Gabby or just plain Rabbi, her clerical status confused these athletic demigods. They would hardly give her the time of day, let alone invite her for a date. Titus had no idea what she did and didn’t seem to care. No one knew better than she the dangers of fantasy, yet this island, with its mélange of exotic fragrances, steel band rhythms, and gentle waves lapping the beaches, made forbidden fruit tempting.
At twenty-five she wouldn’t have considered a relationship with Titus, but at thirty-four, with a more nuanced view of herself and the moral responsibilities of her profession, she viewed things a little differently. She’d had a number of relationships that might be judged dead end if the goal were simply to stand with Mr. Wonderful under the chupah. But perhaps companionship and shared tenderness, even if not permanent, were worthy in themselves. If God hadn’t wanted her to be sexual why instill in her the desire for intimacy? An omnipotent deity could easily have designed males and females to mate only for reproduction, denying them the pleasures of sex. Short of that, the Great Architect could have molded her into a Victorian prude, which He obviously hadn’t. A gorgeous Mediterranean Apollo, with a graceful topspin backhand and a blistering serve, seemed like a gift, a man who embodied most of her fantasies. He was on his way to competition in Australia; she would be going home in a few days to resume her clerical responsibilities. The chance of any long term relationship was remote, but that might make the few days they did share all the sweeter.
That evening he accompanied her to her cottage and they paused before the door. The moon was almost full and shone down upon them with a silvery golden light, as if she’d stolen some of the sun’s warmth and reserved it for them. The air was fragrant with night-blooming jasmine. Titus’ arm was around her shoulder and she found it easy to relax into his strength. She leaned her head against his shoulder and felt his sharp intake of breath in her own body.
He turned to her and began to trace the contours of her face with a light touch that excited her skin. As he reached her lips, she felt them part to kiss his fingertips as they lingered there. At that, he pulled her towards him and kissed her; softly touching her eyelids before his lips met hers. His fingers moved to trace the line of her neck, lingering in hollow of her throat. He cupped her breast gently.
But she became cautious and pulled away. “Good night,” she said softly, holding his face in her hands and gently kissing his forehead. “Good night.”
He sighed but made no other protest. Perhaps he reminded himself that they still had several more days for romance.
As she fell asleep, Gabby regretted her decision. Other women could pop in and out of bed with men. Why couldn’t she? The thought of Titus unleashed in her a yearning that would not be satisfied. She knew it for loneliness and promised herself that, when they met on the courts in the morning, she would offer more encouragement. And, if the situation arose, why wait until after sundown?
She slept well, aided by the steady roll of waves on the beach, only to be awakened by the phone at seven o’clock sharp — as though the caller had been waiting for an appropriate hour. To respond, she had to clear her dream-filled brain and concentrate on the tenor voice. It was Chuck Browner in Washington.
“Sorry to interrupt your vacation, Rabbi Gabby. We’ve had a tragedy here. I hate being the bearer of bad news.”
“You can always call me, Chuck,” she said, knowing that he would never elevate something into a tragedy that wasn’t. Even during their irreverent bantering, he never crossed the bounds of good taste. “I’m ready, friend. Let’s have it.”
It was clear that he had rehearsed his exact words before placing the call and he spoke slowly to eliminate any chance of misunderstanding. “Bart Skulkin was shot in Fort Dupont Park. He was dead when the police arrived. They’re saying it was probably a robbery.”
“Oh God, no,” she choked, listening to the strange noise that seemed to erupt from deep in her throat, “not Bart! Tell me it isn’t so, Chuck.”
“Sorry, Rabbi. I know how much you love him.”
“His parents must be devastated.”
“They’re in shock but coping, if that’s the right word for what you do when the earth crumbles around you. They're asking for you to officiate at the funeral on Thursday morning.”
For a fleeting moment, she thought of Titus with regret. It was unlikely that they would meet again. She sighed and turned her thoughts back to Bart and their friendship—a more deeply personal friendship, perhaps, than was proper between a rabbi and her congregant. There was no one with whom she felt a closer meeting of mind and heart. To miss the funeral, especially after his murder, was unthinkable. “Of course,” she said to Chuck and then hesitated. “But it’s the height of the season here; sometimes it’s impossible to book airline flights. I’ll pull strings to get back in time, but in case I’m not successful, I presume Dov is available?”
On the other end of the phone, Chuck cleared his throat once before saying, “The Skulkins nixed him. Florence said her son thought Dov was a windbag. Bart once told her that having a conversation with Rabbi Shellenberg was like having an audience with the Pope.”
“I’ll leave as soon as possible, this afternoon if I can. That will put me in Washington sometime late tonight or early tomorrow morning. If I make it, I’d like to meet with Harvey and Florence as soon as possible. Have the police caught Bart’s killer?”
“Not yet. They’re asking for help. That’s a bad sign, Rabbi Gabby. Sounds like this one may end up in the unsolved file, like most of the homicides the DCPD investigates.”
“God, I hope not. Keep the newspaper articles. They’ll spare me having to ask the Skulkins painful questions.” As she spoke, the enormity of the tragedy seized her. Bart, a big, lumbering teddy bear of a kid, had brought tears to her eyes on his Bar Mitzvah. He’d lifted the etz-chaim, the wooden Torah posts that most people found awkward to handle, as though they were matchsticks, encompassing the Hebrew scroll in his arms. He
’d prepared a Bar Mitzvah speech, a decent one by Gabby’s standards, but, at the last moment, had abandoned it to speak extemporaneously. Never in her career had she heard a young man speak with such poise and conviction. Until that moment, she had overlooked the gentle, nurturing soul trapped inside his imposing body.
During succeeding years, at religious school retreats at Camp Berylson in Maryland’s Catoctin Mountains, she and Bart would play tennis, rallying but never keeping score. They enjoyed hiking together and talking about whatever came to mind. After sunset, they would stroll over flowered meadows and gaze upward into the stars. On cloudless nights, under a celestial dome sprinkled with distant galaxies, Gabby would recognize in him the same instincts that stirred her own sensibilities; they both viewed themselves as minute particles spinning in infinite space. For this reason, nothing seemed to threaten him— not the rejection of his peers or, for that matter, the harsh judgments of his parents.
Years later, when he became a high school teacher to disadvantaged youths, she watched her Bar Mitzvah bocher develop into a better Samaritan than she. In the hierarchy of service to others, his underprivileged pupils needed far more than her well-educated, well-to-do congregants. She liked to think of him as a disciple, but knew that was false. Bart’s nurturing resulted from an internal mandate that had nothing at all to do with her.
Most of the kids from Ohav Shalom forgot their childhood rabbi the moment they entered college, but Bart hadn’t. While a student at the University of Delaware and later, as an apprentice high school teacher, he kept in touch. Contact between them increased when he returned to the District of Columbia to assume his first teaching position.
In danger of sinking into her grief, Gabby roused herself to ask about Chuck’s longtime companion. “Sorry, Chuck, I forgot to ask you about Thomas. How’s he doing?”
