The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (popular books of all time .txt) 📗

a little more than our competitors were asking, so what? We’re good businessmen. Deliver on time. Provide reliable service. Nothing wrong with paying a little extra for that.”

Moe tied one on that night and came in hung over the next morning. A dumb thing to do, but that was Moe. Always ready to go out with his friends. Who knew how we survived with him drinking and shooting off his mouth? We were lucky. After one day of testimony, the committee left Moe alone.

Shaken by the memory, I rise from the couch and return to the kitchen, where I scour the pot and set it on the counter. If only I could make Becks understand how things were back then. When men were expected to have affairs. And when you had to be tough to support a family. I worked damn hard. And if I had a woman on the side, so what? I deserved it. I didn’t have the advantages Becks and Esther had—a house in the suburbs and a father who could send me to college. Surviving in the business world meant compromising and dealing with whoever had the power to make or break you. Legitimate or not. She’s never known the tough demands life can make, never had to face the darker side of human nature.

After all I’ve done for my family, she should have the decency to back off when I ask her. I’ve worked hard, and done a few things I regret, to give her and her sister a good life. But convincing her of that is going to be tough.

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8

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I love grocery shopping in the early morning, when the tomatoes are piled in glossy red pyramids and the kale, romaine, and red leaf lettuce sparkle like dewy spider webs from their first-of-the-day showers. Other than the roll of trolleys and the rip of cardboard boxes by clerks stocking shelves, the store is silent. I can be in and out in a few minutes and don’t have to maneuver around pokey shoppers or make small talk with acquaintances.

This particular Monday morning is different. I haven’t had a chance to shop all weekend and Josh and Gabe are due in at noon. As I’m racing around the produce section to pick up ingredients for a Niçoise salad, a familiar cough whips me around.

I do a double take. It’s Daniel. He’s picking through the organic broccoli, looking sheepish and grasping a bag of apples. They’re sour apples, the kind he hates, but I don’t tell him that. I suspect he’s here because he knows it’s where I shop. After weeks of dodging his calls, I have to face him.

I search for an escape route but a produce clerk arranging eggplant blocks my exit. I’d feel silly pushing her aside, then bolting like an Olympic sprinter. I try to control my breathing and smile.

It’s the first time we’ve come face-to-face since Daniel left. I’m wearing torn jogging shorts and haven’t washed my hair in three days. He looks crisp and professional in khakis and a blue button-down shirt. Both are neatly ironed. If he’s moved in with Dawn, she’s taking good care of his wardrobe.

“Becks. What a surprise!” he says in what sounds like a well-rehearsed line. “I needed some fruit for the office so stopped by. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say, looking around for his basket or cart. There isn’t one. “Are you cooking now?”

He laughs. “Yeah. Frozen dinners. I’ve moved into the Carlisle Apartments and have a kitchen you’d love. But mostly I eat out.”

The Carlisle is a haven for over fifty singles and it’s hard to picture Daniel in its world of hot tubs and cocktail parties. Even so, I feel a stab of jealousy at the thought of attractive single women bringing him casseroles. Then, as though to prevent me from feeling sorry for him, he adds “There are terrific diners in East Boca and I’ve become an expert on the local pizza joints.”

Daniel’s pants hang loosely around his waist and his shirt bunches over his belt. He’s lost a few pounds. Dawn may be gorgeous, but she’s a lousy cook. Or he’s telling the truth about living alone. His apartment is a mile from our home, close to his office, and I wonder if he’s been driving by the house, keeping tabs on me. He knows I don’t shop every day, so that would explain how he “ran into” me here this morning.

I pick up two ears of corn and put them back. He turns toward the broccoli, takes a bunch, and stuffs them in his bag of apples.

The clerk must sense our unease because she eyes us, then abandons her eggplant for the tomatoes on the far side of the produce section.

“The apartment’s nice,” Daniel says, breaking the silence. “I rented some black leather couches and a wood kitchen table, just like at home.”

I picture Daniel at a furniture store, struggling to pull together a bachelor pad. It sounds like he’s trying to re-create the decor of our home and I feel sad, realizing how homesick he must be.

“Becks. I came here to talk to you.”

I refuse to meet his gaze. “About what?”

“Getting together. I’ve been patient and a good sport. Whatever you needed was fine with me.”

I know he’s talking about money. He has been generous. But that doesn’t make up for his betrayal.

“What about Dawn?” I say. “What’s she supposed to do?”

“There is no Dawn. I told you it was over.”

“She must have been devastated.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “You need to let it go. I did something awful and I’m sorry. But we can get on with our life. I love you and I think you love me. We have too much history to walk away from. And we have the kids. They’re upset.”

“Of course they are.” I let my voice rise. “Their father had an affair with a girl their age. Their mother is alone for the first time in her life. But they’ll