by Yael Levy
Brooklyn Love
Yael Levy
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Yael Levy
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5655-5
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5655-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5656-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5656-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com, istockphoto.com
To Dad: Inspired by your creativity, wit and integrity — I learned how to tell stories from the best raconteur in Brooklyn. Thanks for all the entertaining Shabbat meals.
To Mom: Muse, inspiration, best friend. This book is due to your wisdom, guidance and tireless support. Woman of Valor — you put King Solomon’s Ode to shame.
Contents
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EPIGRAPH
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 SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
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
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
MORE FROM THIS AUTHOR
ALSO AVAILABLE
Acknowledgments
This book was born through the efforts of many:
Anna Olswanger: agent, friend, mentsch. I appreciate all that you do.
Sangeeta Mehta: your wisdom and insights continue to astound me.
Anna Levine: through revisions and your friendship, I have grown.
Rabbi Michael & Channah Broyde: thank you for your encouragement.
Jennifer Lawler and the staff at Crimson Romance: Thank you!
I greatly appreciate the advice and insights of so many generous people — each one in their own way helped bring this novel to fruition. Please forgive any omissions:
David Fulmer, Ruchama King, Carol Gaskin, Rabbi Moshe Sokol, Brenda Novak, Allison Brennan, Candice Hern, Jami Alden, Monica McCarty, Kate Moore, Karin Tabke, Carol Grace Culver, Barbara Freethy, Bella Andre, Dr. Sara Levy, Nechama Tovey, Karina Mikhli, Faygie Levy, Rina Leah Davidson, Tom Spaine, A. Sivorinov, Marcela Landres, Pearl Saban, Uwe Stender, Alex Steele, Pam Laskin, Gotham Writer’s Workshop, Jim Lally & Time Out NY, Dr. Michael Berger, Dr. Leah Scheier, Gilan Gertz, Michael Gelb, Dina Neirenberg, Jenny Weisberg, Yael Mermelstein, Marc & Carlyn Goldin, Harriet Levin, Talia Rosenblatt Cohen, Tova Mirvis, Joshua Halberstam, Naomi Ragen, Robert Avrech, Patricia Sprinkle, Beth Cohn, Sue Lederman LaNeve, Vicky Alvear Shecter, Dorothy, Bev, Naomi and Marilyn, RWA, SCBWI, SSCBWI.
“Man plans, and God laughs.”
— Yiddish proverb
CHAPTER ONE
“Rachel, you’re dawdling. Walk any slower and you’ll get to the wedding in time for the bris of their first son, maybe.”
Rachel teetered after her parents in the very pointy, very high black Enzo heels Ma had bought her for the occasion. Her mother eyed the improvement in her progress, twisted back on her father’s arm, and then picked up their pace.
It had been a nice store, Rachel thought, full of shoes that cost a small fortune, the kind that on any other day would make her sigh for their sheer beauty. She’d preferred a Bohemian golden moccasin, but she knew better than to suggest that to her mother. She was going to a wedding, where she would be seen. A shoe purchase was not about personal taste; it was about marketing. Who knew which person at that wedding might have a friend or relative — any qualified male, really — who could be a potential suitor for Rachel Shine? At nineteen, Rachel knew her mission at the wedding was not to have a good time, nor even to wish the bride well. It was to show a ballroom full of guests her availability for marriage. This required perfect shoes.
The bride’s shrieking could be heard from a three-block radius around the wedding hall. Rachel walked slowly to the reception, lagging behind her parents and pretending to ignore the bride’s crescendo of wails, which nearly washed out the sounds of beeping traffic that looped around the hall at a snail’s pace.
During the ceremony, the bride would encircle her new husband seven times to build a protective fence around him … to keep him from sin … to enclose their new home in intimacy and holiness. This was the custom, handed down from the time of Moses. The cars seemed to circumnavigate the hall seven times as well, though this was not custom but merely the horrendous Brooklyn traffic. In the background, she heard someone blasting Adele’s “We Could Have Had It All” and couldn’t help but notice the irony. If it weren’t so pathetic, she thought, it might be funny.
Ma held open the heavy wooden door to the wedding hall, and Rachel tripped on a spiky heel as she entered.
“Ow. Ma, my ankle kills,” she whispered, getting her bearings straight.
“Nu, so get up and be a man about it. I mean a woman. Nobody wants to see a girl limping around. They’ll think you’re a cripple, God forbid.”
Her father helped her up. “Relax, Debby, she’s fine.” He dusted off his black suit as they entered the marble-tiled foyer, the dim lights casting faint shadows of the guests on the pale walls. Rachel took off her deep red shearling coat and handed it to her father, who, taking her mother’s mink as well, dutifully stood on line at the coat check.
A rail-thin woman in a tight sequined gown strutted into the foyer from the main hall, tossing the long blond tendrils that cascaded down her back. Suri Kaufman blew Rachel a kiss and then sashayed toward the Shines.
“Darlings,” Suri said to Rachel and her mother, “You’ve got to see their smorgasbord. It’s fabulous!”
“Suri, you look stunning!” Rachel greeted her with a kiss. Suri Kauffman was like family in so many ways: She was her parents’ friend, her neighbor, and her best friend Leah’s aunt.
“That’s why I love you so much, Rachel; you always know what I want to hear!” Suri laughed, popping a weenie-in-a-blanket into Rachel’s mouth. Then she stood with her arms crossed, appraising Rachel from head to toe.
“You don’t look bad yourself, Rachel.” She turned to Debby. “This is the dress you just got her from Loehmann’s?”
Debby smiled. “Fifty percent off. A designer original.”
Suri nodded. “Nice. Every boy here from Kaplinsky’s yeshiva will give her one look and want to marry our little Rachel. Right, Debby?”
Debby giggled like a teenager. “For sure. Between your Leah and my Rachel, we’ll be busy with weddings this year.”
Suri huffed. “Who knows with Leah. She’s so picky … ”
Debby grabbed Suri’s hand. “Rachel, too.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Ma, Leah and I will get married when we meet the guys who are right for us,” she said, protecting herself and her best friend.
Debby shook her head. “Yeah, they’ll be right if they smile at you nice.”
Rachel sighed and scanned the room for Leah. “Might take a little more than a smile.”
“Leah just turned down an amazing boy,” Suri said as she stared at Rachel. “She said he wasn’t for her. No chemistry.”
Debby nodded. “Can’t make babies without chemistry.”
Suri shook her head. “She’s twenty years old and has barely dated. How does she know what chemistry is?”
Rachel shrugged. “Leah knows what she wants.”
Suri paused. “You’ll make sure Leah doesn’t get too picky, right sweetie?”
Rachel caught her mother’s eye. She wanted to ask: What’s too picky? Should we marry guys that make us nauseous? Instead, Rachel swallowed and faced Suri. “I always look out for Leah.”
Debby snorted. “After that stunt in high school, Leah doesn’t need your help.”
Rachel shook her head. “I didn’t tell her to date Wolfy, she — ”
Suri interrupted. “It’s still hard for me to get her dates because of that silliness, and my poor sister has all but given up. She couldn’t even show her face here. The first thing everyone asks is about those rumors — ”
The cheerful rhythms of klezmer music resounded throughout the hall as the band warmed up for the imminent nuptials. The only sound louder than the trumpets was the continuous wailing of the bride, whose name was Malky. Everybody pretended not to notice.
“Rachel!” Leah shouted as she danced toward her friend. She was a petite girl, with curly red hair. She was wearing her contact lenses today, so her green eyes looked brighter than usual. There was something intense about them — fiery, Rachel’s mother had once called them. To Rachel, Leah was a bundle of contradictions: She was determined yet fun-loving, practical yet prone to spontaneity, and often sarcastic — which belied the fact that Leah was the sweetest person she knew. Although she was usually graceful, sometimes her temper got the better of her. Leah’s parents were much harder on Leah than Rachel’s own, but Leah rarely talked about that. “You’re late. We need you, now!”
Women dressed in luxurious evening gowns and men in black suits turned their heads to see what the commotion was about. Rachel blushed, gliding over to Leah.
“Do you have to make a scene out of everything?” Rachel whispered.
“I’ve been waiting for you an hour already. Figures — you live in your own time zone. Anyway, Malky asked me to give out her jewelry for us to wear during the service. She wants her luck to rub off on us so we can find guys to marry and get out of this misery. Here — Malky wants you to have her bracelet.”
Rachel held her hand out to Leah, who zestfully snapped the golden cuff on Rachel’s delicate wrist.
“There,” pronounced her friend. “It sets off the sheen in that copper satin dress. Perfect with your hair.”
“Beautiful design.” Rachel fingered the bride’s bracelet.
“Mucho money-o,” Leah replied. “How much you think he spent on this?”
“Who cares? It’s a nice piece.”
“She wanted me to wear her engagement ring during the chuppa service. Did you ever see a diamond like this?” Leah thrust out her ring finger so Rachel could get a good look. Dressed in an emerald-colored Tahari gown that offset her complexion, Leah sparkled like the borrowed diamond. “Some rock, no?”
“I guess so. How’s the bride?”
“Crying like a baby. Her mother is practically pulling her hair out,” Leah said. “I hear she’s enlisted Hindy to help her out,” Leah added about their mutual friend. She then grabbed Rachel’s wrist and dragged her to the ballroom filled with guests sampling delicacies at the buffets.
“It is a big step.”
“I’ve been with Malky an hour already. She’s driving me crazy. You’d think that she’d be the logical one about this — she’s studying to be an accountant, after all.”
“I hope Hindy can help her,” Rachel said.
“She barely knows the guy,” Leah interjected. “I’d cry, too.” She threw her head back and her curls bobbed like a wave. “They’ve only met six times!”
“And she’s going to have to sleep with him tonight,” Rachel noted.
Leah shrugged. “Well, if the gentiles on TV do it after meeting once, it can’t be such a big deal.”
The sound of the bride’s sobs continued to permeate the wedding hall as Rachel and Leah made their way to the smorgasbord of meats, salads, and delicacies. They split up at the tables, each choosing a different path to complete their mission of showing the guests that they too were available for marriage.
Balancing a plate of beef spareribs and broccoli, Rachel headed for a small table to join Leah. She resisted the temptation to kick off her torturous shoes as she sat.
Rachel picked at her food, careful not to smudge her lipstick. “Listening to that hysterical bride is beyond draining.” She wished it didn’t have to be this way — all this pressure. But she also knew that the Holocaust had decimated her community, and that she and every Jewish woman she knew was expected to make up for it in one way: by marrying early and becoming baby making machines.
“Traditions and obligations — ” Rachel looked at her friend. “What about love?”
Leah shrugged again. “Love is for gentiles.”
“Why can’t we have both — the traditions and love?”
“Some girls can dream, Rachel. Others have to work. I got a B on my last computer exam. And I have chemistry and biology midterms coming up. Have to bone up big time or I’ll kill my chances of getting into med school. Ready for dessert?”
Rachel pushed back up to her aching feet and followed her friend to the buffet.
Leah lightly felt her nose and frowned. “I think my pimple is puffing up again. I need to find the ladies’ room.” She left Rachel standing near a mountain of temptations.
Rachel took a dish of chocolate-covered strawberries from the buffet and slapped on a glob of non-dairy cream. As she enjoyed her treat, she scanned the crowd to see who else she might know. The men would be seated apart from the women at the ceremony and dinner, but the smorgasbord before the service was family-style, open to men and women.
And then she saw him.
He looked to be about her height, with an athletic build, as if he played sports. He clearly wasn’t hunched and pale from poring over the Talmud in a yeshiva full-time. Thick, wavy jet-black hair, dark skin, dark eyes, noble nose, defined chin. A bit overdressed, in a tux; most men simply wore black suits and hats. Small hands, maybe her size, though they looked capable. Sculpted yet solid, as if he could build with those hands. Or write poetry. What Rachel liked most, though, was the way he moved. Gently, calmly, with dignity. Who was he? What did he do? Rachel wondered if he was somehow related to the bride — or maybe he was one of the groom’s friends.
He looked up and caught her gaze. Her face flushed a deep red, but she didn’t turn away. She thought she would sink through the floor and be gobbled up by the fires of hell, or maybe turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife, but still she didn’t — she couldn’t — turn her head. He held her gaze without a hint of condescension, without humiliating her for looking, like so many other boys might have done. Instead, he smiled.
“Can I take your plate, eh?” he said. Clear voice and enunciation. Certainly not a hoodlum. But not from Brooklyn. What was that “eh”? Canadian?
“My plate?” Rachel had been hoping for a suave romantic opening line.
“Right. Could I have your plate, please? If you’re done, that is.”
“Why do you want my plate?”
“I collect dirty plates. That’s what waiters do, you know.”
“You’re a waiter?”
“Right. I could come back later, though, if you want to hold on to it. No pressure.” He smiled.
Now she really wanted to sink into the ground.
“Thanks,” she said. She intended to hand him the empty dish with as much grace as she could muster, but instead she stumbled on her Enzo heel, and the leftover pool of non-dairy cream splattered his tuxedo like modern art.
“Oh! I am so sorry!” She twisted to get a napkin to wipe it off. “Here!” She wanted to wipe his suit for him but didn’t dare. She knew the prohibition against Orthodox Jewish men and women touching. Dabbing at his suit would be a terribly brazen offense. She thrust the stiff white fabric toward him and, feeling guilty, looked around for her parents or other witness.
He good-naturedly took what she’d offered. “It’s all right, happens all the time. Really.”
“Can I pay for the dry cleaning?”
“No, really, it’s fine.” He blotted the stains clean with the napkin.
“I just feel so bad about it. How could I do that to a tux!”
He smiled. “So you like tuxes, eh?”
“Well, they are very handsome.” Rachel blushed. “I mean, not that you aren’t handsome — no, I didn’t say that. Well, I guess I did. I mean, suits are nice. Yes.” Just shut up, she told herself, wishing she could just disappear.
