The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (best authors to read .TXT) 📕

As we walk, we chat about nothing in particular. Tootsie’s relationship with the Nudelmans. Josh’s decision to remain in Atlanta for the summer term. He tells me Gabe decided to double major in engineering and computer science and may remain in Miami over the summer. I realize I haven’t talked to the boys in a week and experience a moment of guilt. My last conversation with Gabe ended in an argument. As usual, he contended it was time for me to let go of my anger and take his father back. I snapped that it was none of his business. I tried to explain that it was up to his father and me to work things out but he sounded hurt. We haven’t spoken since. I hope Daniel’s and my separation isn’t behind the kids’ decision to spend their summer away.

“About the boys . . .” He interrupts my thoughts.

“What about them?”

“They’ve called me a few times in the last week.”

I feel a stab of jealousy. They don’t call me that often.

“They asked me to talk to you. They . . . ” We jump back as a bicyclist in sleek black jerseys zips within inches of us. “They want me to convince you we should be a family again. That we should reconcile.” He hesitates. “We’d all like things to go back to the way they were.”

My cheeks grow warm but I’m too dumbfounded to speak. I’m being blamed for our separation. Yes, I threw Daniel out. But I had a good reason. Why am I the bad guy in this? He’s the one who chose to cheat and break up our family. I break into a jog but Daniel trails close. When I stop and turn around, he almost runs into me.

“I can’t believe you’re having this conversation with the boys. This is between us. I don’t need the three of you ganging up on me. Or you manipulating the kids. You saw what happened to my family.”

Daniel rolls his eyes.

“Don’t start,” I warn. “You know perfectly well how my mother forced Esther and me to interfere. Don’t do that to our kids.”

I turn my back to him and retrace my steps toward the tiki hut.

“Becks.”

I keep walking.

“Becks.”

His voice is closer. Daniel grabs my arm and spins me around. “Don’t do this. I love you and hate myself for what I did to you. I can barely sleep at night because of my guilt. The boys know that and want us to be a family. I’ll do anything you want. But you’ve punished me enough. You can’t believe I’d cheat on you again.”

I pull my arm away. “Why not? I didn’t think you’d cheat in the first place. Why’d you do it?”

The question has plagued me for months, draping me in a cloud of anger and despair each time I think about it. I’ve been afraid to hear the answer. That sex was no longer good? That I’ve let myself go? That I’ve become boring. I’ve been beating myself up searching for reasons. But frustration and Daniel’s determination to reunite have given me the nerve to ask.

Daniel winces, then studies his hands. “I don’t know. I’ve been struggling with it myself. After my mother died, I felt lost. We were pretty close. You remember?”

I nod. Daniel and Sylvia spoke two or three times a week, more often after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. They didn’t talk long, but it was enough to feel connected. I hope my sons will be as devoted when I’m older.

“Then Dawn showed up and I was flattered by her attention. I couldn’t believe a girl like that was interested in me. She was young. She made me feel desirable and young. I think she helped me block the depression I felt after my mother died. Around her, everything was easy and mindless. I guess I needed that.”

Easy and mindless? Was I difficult and depressing to be around?

He continues. “But after a few weeks, it wasn’t fun. I knew I was deluding myself, pretending to be someone I wasn’t. And I missed us. I’d come home at night and feel sick with remorse but couldn’t say anything. I felt isolated from everyone, even you. I hated that and wanted so much to get closer to you. We were starting to get closer when Eva called. By then Dawn and I were long over. All I wanted then and now is to be with you.”

I search his face, seeking evidence of truth. Yellow flecks dot his irises and his crow’s-feet crinkle with concern. We’re silent for a moment and, with a jolt, I realize he means what he says. His skin is pale and he chews his lower lip. I want to forgive him. But something holds me back.

A light flickers behind his pupils. “It’s your father, isn’t it?”

I glance toward the beach to escape his gaze. Row upon row of sailboat masts dot the shore, emerging from behind the dunes like popsicle sticks in tufts of grass.

“I’m not Tootsie. Do you understand that?” He speaks slowly and his voice embraces me like a warm breeze. “I’d never treat you the way he treated your mother.” He stands closer to me and I take in the familiar scent of car leather and shaving cream. “I love you and always will. When you’re ready to come back, I’ll be here.”

I nod and step back, torn between the urge to hug him and the compulsion to run. A lump fills my throat, choking off any possibility of speech. I wave a hand ambiguously and shake my head. He squeezes my arm.

I turn away and walk to my car. When I’ve gone a hundred yards, I glance over my shoulder. He stands on the sidewalk, arms hanging at his sides, smiling. Driving home along the ocean, I feel a lightness I haven’t known in months.

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36

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My father’s back from Israel for two days before he calls. We argued before he left, but