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

On the ride to my father’s apartment, he talks about the trip. He’s excited about visiting Israel for the first time. I drop Tootsie off at his apartment and head home, uneasy. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Nudelman although he seemed pleasant enough. If my Google search is to be believed, he’s a successful and generous man who supports Jewish causes all over town. Maybe I’m jealous that my father has a better relationship with a strange family than with his own and concerned about his traveling so far. But I can’t shake my skepticism over Nudelman’s willingness to include Tootsie—and Tootsie’s eagerness to attend—such an intimate and far-flung family event. Traveling to Israel for the bar mitzvah of a child he’s just met seems odd, even for my father.

That night, it takes me awhile to doze off. When I do, I dream of my father riding a camel—alone and far from civilization—along red desert sand dunes.

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35

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The Saturday night after Tootsie leaves for Israel, Daniel calls. It’s almost ten when the phone rings, interrupting work on an essay I’m writing about my mother’s potato kugel. I’m miffed at his interruption and assumption I’ll be home alone on a Saturday night. But his voice holds the soft timbre that means he’s lonely. I haven’t heard that since early in our marriage, when we were apart for weeks at a time while he did clinical rotations in Tennessee. And his good news trumps my resentment. Milt, he tells me, is leaving the hospital Monday. He’ll spend a week or two at his sister’s apartment while Aunt Vivian nurses him back to health. It looks like my father-in-law will be around a few more years.

The last time Daniel phoned, he insisted we take the boys out to dinner together when they’re home for spring break. I told him I wasn’t ready for that. I do miss Daniel. But sometimes, when I hear his voice, my resentment and bitterness flare. The most innocuous question—about whether I paid a bill or hired a new lawn man—sets me on edge. It’s as if he doesn’t trust me to take care of matters I’ve handled for years. I wonder if I’ll get past this. Tonight, he asks if I’ve paid our mortgage this month.

About five minutes into our conversation, Daniel coughs and grows silent.

“Are you there?” I ask.

“Hold on a sec?”

I hear water running. Daniel’s first impulse is to reach for a drink—water or coffee—when he’s angry or nervous. I wonder what I said to upset him.

The sound of running water stops and I wait as he takes a sip and clears his throat. “Any chance of meeting for breakfast tomorrow?” The words come quickly. “We could go to Lester’s? Share an order of blintzes.”

I hesitate. Lester’s has the best blintzes in South Florida.

“I promise not to pester you. Tootsie called before he left for Israel so I figured you’d be free.”

Mulligan jumps onto the desk and rubs against the receiver, no doubt recognizing Daniel’s voice. My dad won’t be back for a week and I don’t relish the prospect of a Sunday alone. Most of my friends spend the day with family or have standing tennis games. It would be nice to have something to do, something to which I can look forward. The thought startles me. I do look forward to seeing Daniel. But I don’t want to be trapped in a restaurant where I’ll be embarrassed to leave if he angers me.

“How about a walk in Delray Beach?” I say. “We could meet in the tiki hut across from Atlantic Avenue?” That’s where we used to stop to rest on our Sunday morning walks along the beach. “Ten thirty,” I add before I can change my mind.

“I’ll pick you up?”

“No. I’ll meet you there.”

I get to the beach fifteen minutes early and park along A1A, managing to snag a spot near the water a quarter of a mile south of the tiki hut. The wind blowing in from the ocean sends sprays of sand across the grassy dunes, slicing my face with sharp-edged grains. I didn’t check the weather before leaving my house and the sky hangs low and forbidding over the slate ocean. Large rollers strike the beach, which is lined with rows of dark sargassum that last night’s storm threw on shore. Even so, the usual crazies are in the ocean—surfboarders in their black wet suit shorties and kite surfers in colorful bathing trunks. When I stop to watch a kite surfer flip his board in the air and execute a tight turn, I’m almost struck by an inline skater.

Daniel’s waiting on a bench inside the tiki hut when I arrive. His black nylon running shirt shows his graying temples and high cheekbones to advantage and I’m struck by how distinguished he looks. He rises and there’s an awkward “should we kiss” moment before I seat myself and he drops onto the wooden planks beside me. We’re the only ones inside the hut. The cooler weather and gray day have apparently discouraged other walkers.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he says.

I smile and shrug. The two of us stare out to sea at a surfer struggling to catch a wave. He’s young, about Gabriel’s age, and lies flat on his stomach as he paddles fifty yards over breaking surf. Then he orients the board toward shore and watches the waves over his shoulder. A few of the waves he catches die beneath him but he turns the board, paddles out, and tries yet again. I admire his persistence.

“You want to grab a bite? Go for a walk?” Daniel asks once the surfer skims to shore on the crest of a breaking whitecap.

“Let’s walk.”

We head north along the sidewalk. Our pace adjusts, as it always has, with him slowing down to compensate for my shorter stride. In less than a minute, we’re back in sync. We make good time, which means I’m breathing hard from the