Rabbi Gabrielle's Scandal: The Rabbi Gabrielle Series - Book 1
BOOK I:
RABBI GABRIELLE'S SCANDAL
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
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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 info@diversionbooks.com.
First Diversion Books edition June 2011.
ISBN: 978-0-9833371-2-6 (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 ONE
Just before eight on Monday morning, Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn snatched an envelope from under the door of her study and moved to her desk, depositing an attaché case on a thick stack of call-back memos. The squared printing CONFIDENTIAL belonged to her senior colleague, Rabbi Dr. Seth Greer. On a normal day she and Rabbi Greer would talk many times, and to receive a note from him was unusual. As her eyes scanned the message, she asked herself if this was a product of the humor that kept his congregants in a constant fit of stitches -- sometimes during inappropriate moments of solemn worship! But what she was reading wasn’t the least bit funny. The need for an explanation sent her dashing along the corridor past the synagogue’s administrative offices toward his study.
Once there, she rapped forcefully on his door, then wrenched impatiently at the latch that provided no resistance. Bright morning sunlight poured through the open mini-blinds splashed zebra stripes across the surface of Seth’s desk -- cluttered with pamphlets, books, monographs, newsletters, sermons, notes and newspaper clippings, all bundled high into teetering piles and weighed down with coffee mugs, several partially filled with stale brown tea. A dozen yellow Number-2 pencils were strewn about his blotter like a forest of downed pine trees. In this familiar disarray she felt his presence -- or was it his absence that embraced her so acutely? In the light from the window she reread his message.
Dear Gabby,
By the time you read this, Noel Greenberg will have received my resignation from Ohav Shalom and I will be history. A nasty scandal is about to surface, and the trust our congregants once placed in me will evaporate. To spare everyone additional pain, particularly Emma, my kids, and you, I must remove myself from your lives. I have considered remaining in Washington to defend myself, but explanations will not undo my mistakes.
The bulk of my responsibilities at the synagogue will now fall upon your capable shoulders. For the trouble I have caused, my friend and dear colleague, I am sincerely sorry. Gabby, whatever you may think of me now, it’s been a privilege to have worked with you during these past seven years.
Seth
8:45 p.m. Sunday Evening
P. S. I left my Kittel Bible for you in my study.
No longer able to deny Seth’s departure, Gabrielle found herself shaking. To regain control, she balled her fingers into fists then opened them broadly as if welcoming the sunlight, determined to figure out what had happened. Several reasons for Seth’s resignation came to mind, but none explained how a rabbinical colleague of his high standing could possibly lose the trust he had earned during two decades of devoted service to the Jewish community in Washington D.C.. She moved from light by the window to a shadowy corner where bookshelves, stuffed with hard and soft cover volumes of every size and thickness, bordered a leather sofa where she had spent so many happy and productive hours discussing with Seth how to craft a sermon or to handle the daily politics of synagogue life.
During the early years of her apprenticeship, he had proven to be a patient mentor who expected her to learn by practicing what she knew and experimenting with what she didn’t. No high-school teacher, professor at the University of Michigan or her rabbinical seminary, no colleague, or insightful author had played a greater role in her career. That kind of tutor felt irreplaceable. She had always regarded Seth as intellectually brilliant and enviably creative, though at times a bit unworldly – connected, as she had once roasted him on the occasion of his 15th year at Ohav Shalom, to the earth by little more than gravity and his Italian shoes. She knew him to be a genuine Luftmench, whose spirit soared like an albatross above the clouds, never needing to roost on the earth’s crust. No doubt this lack of worldliness contributed to his current trouble.
Her initial speculation focused on the obvious; Seth must have fallen into difficulty either with money or women. But after reflecting on how indifferent he was to wealth, she rejected the first possibility. During their years of collaboration, he never questioned why others made more money than he or, for that matter, bothered to ask the Board of Directors for a salary increase to compensate for the rising cost-of-living. And in fiduciary matters concerning the synagogue funds, his deportment was impeccable. Not a penny from the Rabbi’s Discretionary Fund was ever dispersed until the congregation’s treasurer had countersigned the check.
The likelihood of an illicit tryst was far higher. Acutely aware of how incessantly Emma Greer nagged and belittled her husband, Gabby would not have been surprised to discover him in a discreet affair, most probably with a mature woman who had as much to lose by the relationship as he.
“You foolish shmuck,” she muttered to his ghost, feeling certain that whomever he slept with, he hadn’t coerced her. Seth never forced himself on others, either intellectually or emotionally, so in any sexual relationship there must have been an element of mutual consent. Given the way ladies fawned over him, that was not far-fetched. Gabby suspected the wife of Noah Zentner, Morgan, who often traveled with Seth promoting the book they coauthored, Divine Synapse, Where Man Meets God.
A comparison of her own physical attributes with Morgan was irresistible. Gabby had never thought of herself as possessing anything approaching movie star beauty, though by strict adherence to a low-fat diet and daily exercise she maintained a slender, athletic figure. When she smiled, her nose, which had been altered at age fifteen with a gentle curve downward at the tip rather than the customary plastic surgeon’s ski-jump moored between flaring nostrils, snuggled between deep dimples that invariably elicited admiring comments from her boyfriends. Thanks to a skilled orthodontist in Los Angeles where she had grown up, her teeth were almost perfect. Had Seth ever noticed?
She had attended many out-of-town conferences with him. At home in the District of Columbia, they often enjoyed each other’s company at lunches and dinners, usually in Italian restaurants. Together they played intellectual games, from crossword puzzles to whodunit mysteries. Over Chianti they would alternately joke and then commiserate about their profession without fear that their thoughts would lead to gossip or misunderstanding. He often confided intimate details about the disintegration of his marriage and his fears abo
ut the effects of a divorce upon his son and daughter, while she shared with him her anxiety over a secret romance that was destined never to result in marriage. Yet despite the potential for physical intimacy, Seth never once crossed the line to suggest that he might become her lover—either for a casual after-lunch shtup or for a more permanent alliance.
Now that he was gone, she felt free to think the unthinkable and ask if there were conditions under which she might have consented having sex with a married man and slept with her boss. He was not overweight or nerdish as so many of her over-dined and under-exercised rabbinic colleagues, but trim and muscular. When he smiled his dark, Semitic eyes seemed to dance with mirth, and when he belly-laughed at his own jokes his humor was contagious. Had he attempted to seduce her, it would have presented a temptation. But would she have accepted? She avoided answering by posing a follow-up question. “How many single girls would turn down a man as appealing as Seth Greer? …Get real, Lady!”
An unexpected rumble from the administrative offices alarmed her. She didn’t want to be seen in Seth’s study, at least not at this precarious moment. If synagogue personnel had arrived early, there should be additional noises. She paused to listen and, hearing nothing further, concluded that the sounds must have originated from the traffic on the boulevard outside. Her attention was distracted when she noticed on her customary seat at the end of the sofa, Seth’s parting gift, the Biblia Hebraica, edited by Rudolph Kittel, a scholarly reproduction of the Old Testament, with editorial marks and endless footnotes—the most authoritative Hebrew rendition of the ninth-century Masoretic text. What he had chosen to leave behind stirred her curiosity. Was he throwing away his faith along with his career?
Her fingers brushed over the textured sand-colored binding before opening the cover. The prolegomena was in German, the scholarly notes in Latin, and the text in Hebrew. Her eyes fell on the yellow tail of a square Post-it stuck to the frontispiece.
For my colleague, Gabby Lewyn
Who is seldom stumped by a puzzle
Seth
She shook her head in disbelief, asking why had he chosen to communicate in such an oblique manner? She took the Bible to examine it under light from the window and dropped into Seth’s chair, imagining the transfer of warmth from his body to hers. The scent of leather seemed to carry a trace of his presence. The thought that thrones, law court benches, and corporate CEO chairs seldom remained unfilled coursed through her mind. In the scheme of things, new leaders always replace old leaders and the world’s business goes on. Joshua succeeded Moses; Lyndon Johnson, John Kennedy; and Shimon Peres, Yitzhak Rabin. A new senior rabbi at Ohav Shalom would soon sit in this very chair. “Why not me?” she asked, acutely conscious that no American Jewish congregation with more than fifteen hundred families had ever appointed a woman to its senior post. But Ohav Shalom was different because the congregation steadfastly encouraged professional women. The majority of its female members enjoyed careers outside the home and sent their daughters to graduate schools in preparation to enter the professions.
Her speculations were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Of course, she could claim she was there to fetch the Kittel Bible. But she knew she wasn’t good at fibbing. It was impossible to know the exact location of the arriving staff and dashing down the hallway was bound to attract the very attention she hoped to avoid. In the end there was nothing to do but act as natural as possible—leave Seth’s study and head toward the ladies’ room.
The synagogue executive director, Harold Farb, a short, heavyset man wrapped in a trench coat spotted with morning rain, was marching toward her at the far end of the corridor. She knew how he envied the affections Ohav Shalom congregants bestowed upon their rabbis and whenever possible struggled to limit the rabbinical turf, clashing almost daily with Seth Greer. As he neared, he eased a troubled scowl from his face and cleared his throat. “Morning, Gabby, I was just on my way to talk with you. Noel Greenberg called my home at seven this morning. Have you heard the news about Seth?”
“Yes, he left a note under my door,” she said, placing a hand on his arm to turn him in the direction toward the ladies’ room. “I’m in shock. He wasn’t specific. I can only guess what terrible thing happened. Do you know?”
“Only what Noel told me. Our attorney, Paul Adler, got a call from a lawyer representing a woman who accused Seth of having sex with her here in the synagogue. The attorney threatened to sue Seth and Ohav Shalom for professional misconduct and flagrant omission of responsibility. When Noel confronted Seth, he didn’t deny it.”
Gabby swallowed, her mouth and throat dry. Her thoughts migrated immediately to Emma Greer. Had Seth left his wife? After all these years?
“It’s a nasty business. I’ve always believed Seth to be a riverboat gambler,” Harold almost snorted his contempt. “I think he enjoyed living on the edge. That’s why he fornicated under our very noses. Can you imagine such chutzpa? To do it with a member of the congregation...and, just to rub it in our faces, on these premises! At the very least, he could have satisfied his bloody lust elsewhere. I’m sure rabbis do things like that. But no, not Seth. No, he had to tempt the Devil in his own backyard…” Harold paused momentarily to acknowledge that perhaps his anger had taken him too far, “if that isn’t an offensive metaphor to you, Gabby.”
She usually avoided conflict with him by keeping their conversations on the light side. Under the circumstances that strategy was unlikely to work much longer, though she elected to extract a bit more mileage from it. “Now, Harold, you know my Office of Offense doesn’t open until nine in the morning. I make a point never to be offended until after my first cup of coffee. I have a funeral to perform in mid-morning, then I must visit Emma…if she’ll let me. Poor, poor Emma.”
His eyebrows rose above the rims of the thick glasses he needed to correct his astigmatism. “Easy now, Gabby. I’d reconsider that. There were rumors floating around about you and Seth being…well, you know…sort of a unit. To many of our congregants, you guys looked like the Bobsy Twins. You must know that.”
“Of course. And Emma does, too. Such talk is nothing more than lashon ha-ra, evil gossip. We seem to have plenty of that around this place.”
“Expect angry, disappointed folks. This kind of betrayal can be ugly. It brings out the worst in people. There will be a lot said, but in the end it’s you and me who are going to do the heavy lifting. The Board will want us to pick up the pieces.” He sighed as if they alone would carry the entire burden of Seth’s crime.
The moment they arrived outside the ladies room, Gabby pressed against the spring-operated door and held it open a crack. Out wafted the scent of bathroom disinfectant. “Excuse me, Harold. I could tell you I’m ready for today, but I’m not.”
“You don’t look well, Gabby. Are you all right?”
For the first time in her recollection, he sounded sympathetic. She worked a grateful but unconvincing smile to her lips and nodded, then escaped through the door and headed immediately for a toilet stall. Fully clothed, she dropped down upon the commode and buried her head below her knees, fighting off a spell of dizziness. “Damn you, damn you, Seth! How could you have done this?” she cried out. “How? How?”
She barely heard her own sobbing, amplified by the surrounding stainless steel partitions.
Gabby liked to think of her secretary, Charles (Chuck) Maximillian Browner, as a rainforest lemur, better suited for the dark hours of night than the bright sunshine of morning. His workday seldom began before 10 a.m. and would take on steam after lunch. Remaining late at the office to finish his work or help in an emergency was never a problem. Because his after-hours performance more than compensated for his morning tardiness, she chose not to chastise him. When congregants occasionally made disparaging remarks about him she would remind them that reputable medical authorities regarded homosexuality as a genetic trait, not a volitional choice. Those who felt uncomfortable with Chuck’s sexual life should direct their complaints
to God, not the child of His creation.
“I heard the news,” he reported fifty-five minutes later as he marched into her office without knocking.
“Were you surprised?” she asked, standing beside her mahogany desk and tossing a teasing look over the rims of her thin reading glasses. “You’re usually more perceptive in these matters than I.”
He shook his head. “Not really. You know that Rabbi Greer and I were never on the same wavelength. He didn’t like me getting into his space. I think he drew a defensive circle around himself, keeping us all at bay by cracking jokes. Now that he’s gone, it will put extra pressure upon you, Rabbi Gabby. Let me know how I can help.”
“For the time being, just screen my calls. I’ve got to make changes to my eulogy for Katherine Klein’s funeral.”
“Katherine served on several community boards with Emma Greer. Do you expect her to attend?”
Gabby sat with deliberate slowness, glancing at her computer notes, then back up to Chuck. “You don’t miss a thing, do you? I forgot about those boards. Emma has her own grief; I wouldn’t expect her to come. Please put a call into her. Schedule a time when the two of us can talk. Wherever and whenever she wants.”
Once alone again, Gabby returned to the eulogy. Katherine Klein, who had come to Washington from Portland, Oregon, as a Republican appointee in the Department of Commerce and caught Potomac fever, made her career in public service when the Republicans were in power. When it became clear she was losing a battle against ovarian cancer, her daughter appealed to Gabby for miraculous intervention from the Almighty. That neither Katherine nor her husband, Joseph, expected such a miracle eased Gabby’s role as spiritual counselor. During her years in Washington, she had collected hundreds of personal and professional friends, most of whom wanted to pay their last respects. Her family reserved Ohav Shalom’s 1,200-seat sanctuary for the funeral. Far fewer were expected to attend the actual burial at the cemetery.