Rabbi Gabrielle's Scandal: The Rabbi Gabrielle Series - Book 1 Page 4

  “Straight. Unadulterated. You’re on a roll and might as well pile it on thick.”

  “This will hurt, Gabby.”

  “Give me a second to adjust my armor, then pull the trigger.”

  “The truth is, the gender question arises only indirectly. In the majority of our families women hold full-time jobs. I don’t know of anybody on the board who doesn’t want professional women to succeed. We have two female trustees and five more women on the current Board of Directors. Our past president was a woman. True, no large congregation in this country has yet to appoint a female to its senior post, but if there’s any prepared to pioneer, it’s Ohav Shalom. Washington women are expected to work, to succeed and, most of all, to lead. There’s absolutely no reason why a woman cannot be appointed to Seth’s job.” He paused to emphasize the congregation’s commitment to gender equality. “The issue is not that you’re a woman, Gabby.”

  “If it isn’t gender, what is it?” She sounded like a prosecutor trying to capture the truth by smothering it.

  “Our reservation is that you’re single and without children.”

  “Being single doesn’t make me barren!”

  “But you’re thirty-three years old, if our reckoning isn’t wrong. If you have a significant other in your life it’s a secret to us. If you do, it would be helpful to let us know. But to our knowledge, you don’t have such a relationship. Even if the right man should pop into your life tomorrow, it takes time to court. Time to get married. And time to conceive a child.”

  “So Ohav Shalom won’t appoint a childless woman as Senior Rabbi?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he replied rather abruptly. “When push comes to shove, the search committee may not be concerned with this. Of course, the appointment of a senior rabbi takes a vote from the full membership. That’s how Seth was appointed. It’s spelled out in the congregation’s bylaws.”

  “I don’t understand this thinking. Or…”she tapped her third finger on an unused fork, “maybe I understand it too well.”

  “We’re a family-oriented organization, with over twelve families for each single congregant. The vast majority of members are young families with children in our religious school and Bar/Bat Mitzvah program. Half of these have young girls. These families expect their daughters to enter the work force as professionals, but they also expect them to become mothers of their grandchildren. And that’s important. A single woman as Senior Rabbi is a superb role model in one respect, and yet a bad one in another.”

  Gabby curled her lips. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. These people you talk about, who are they? On what planet do they live? And in what century? How can they expect me to go through college and rabbinical school, then work my fanny off Monday through Sunday and still have anything that resembles a normal family life? Who else works seven days a week? And is on call twenty-four hours a day, both in the synagogue and at home? How can they be so rigid?”

  He sighed, started to respond, then paused to vent his exasperation before resuming. “I’m sorry, Gabby. I knew this would hurt. You, of all people, deserve better treatment. But the congregation is bigger than those on today’s board. Ohav Shalom is ninety-six years old and will be in operation long after all of us are six feet under. It must live both for today and tomorrow. And to do this it must constantly recruit new families. If all its members were single, it would immediately atrophy. Without families, without children in our various schools and programs, we wouldn’t have a future.”

  She blinked back tears. A napkin would remove them, but she didn’t want to give Eph the satisfaction. “People don’t understand the tradeoffs for being in this line of work. Meeting eligible men isn’t easy. Dating is a nightmare.”

  “Our members expect you to enjoy a normal social life.”

  “Pardon me if I take issue. They have no idea how abnormal my social life really is.”

  “You’re an absolutely sterling model for our youth in every respect but one. There isn’t a family in town that wouldn’t be delighted to have a daughter as well-educated, as dedicated, and as competent as you.”

  Gabby tried to keep the message and the messenger separate but at the moment she didn’t like either one.

  Lunch ended on a sour note. Food was left uneaten. She offered to pay her portion of the bill but he absolutely refused. The friendship she felt for Ephraim chilled.

  During the next week, Gabby hoped he would call to apologize, perhaps change his view or say that

  the board had reconsidered -- at least to become her sponsor as a candidate for Seth’s job. He didn’t. That made her suspicious. Perhaps he wasn’t the friend she had longed thought him to be. Or worse than that, perhaps he was holding back a congregational agenda she didn’t appreciate, some unknown issue to hurt her even more.

  Because Ohav Shalom in the Nation’s Capital served many in Washington’s political and diplomatic community, its pulpit possessed an aura of national importance. The moment the search committee contacted the Rabbinical Placement Commission in New York, Gabby’s telephone began ringing with inquiries from rabbinical colleagues. It was obvious that she was being passed over. Four females made inquiries and all four avoided asking if she were herself a candidate. Franklin Gelman, from Columbus, Ohio, who had graduated from Gabby’s seminary three years before her and served a congregation of 260 families, initiated several discussions. His children were growing up and, with education costs well above his ability to pay from his current salary, he was looking for a larger congregation to provide more income. His wife had grown up in Alexandria, Virginia, just across the Potomac from the District of Columbia. Ohav Shalom might be a perfect fit. When a conversation led to Seth, he reported a rumor that he had been seen at Tel Aviv café. Gabby knew him to be an ohav-tzion, lover of Zion, but doubted he would travel that far from his children. She ended the discussion by promising to provide additional information, then sat back, gazing at the opposite wall to absorb the anguish of rejection. That afternoon, she fielded calls from more rabbinical colleagues serving congregations in New York, Rhode Island, South Carolina, and Texas.

  With Chuck Browner’s help, Gabby sequestered herself in her office on Friday morning to polish two sermons, a short message for the Shabbat evening and a fuller address for Shabbat morning during the Bar Mitzvah of Jeremy Sylvan Meir, the third and last bar mitzvah of his generation from a family of lawyers and judges.

  Chuck kept callers away until 10:35 a.m. when he poked his head through the door to her study and half-whispered. “Noah Zentner’s on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”

  Gabby had been expecting a call from his father and was relieved Noah took the initiative himself. The moment was inconvenient, but then she was not sure of a better time until late Saturday afternoon.

  “Rabbi Lewyn, this is Noah Zentner. I guess you’ve read about me.”

  “I have. I know your father’s been looking for Seth, but I’m afraid I can’t help. He hasn’t stayed in touch with me.”

  Silence intervened while Noah Zentner processed that disclosure. “I understand,” he replied in a tone of resignation. “I kinda thought Seth would communicate with me, too. I was sure he’d call when this nasty business hit the papers. Wrong. Not a peep. I guess you and I are in the same boat.”

  “Rumor says he’s in Israel and he may not know what’s happened.”

  “One or both of his kids would tell him.”

  “Seth and I talked a lot, sometimes very personally. What happened was a great shock.”

  “There’s a part to Seth nobody knows,” Noah responded.

  “I didn’t appreciate that until recently. I feel like a tortoise who didn’t see the tractor-trailer barreling down the road. On another subject, what you probably don’t know is that Seth had the flu at the time of your wedding and was a pretty sick puppy. For a while, it looked as though he might not be able to officiate. I was standing by to fill in. You could say I’m the rabbi that almost married you.”

  “I knew that. But I suppose it doesn’t make much difference now. Morgan and I have been separated for three months now. Troubles seem to multiply. Get in one pickle and before long you’re embroiled in several more.”

  “I’m sorry, Noah. If there’s anything the congregation can do, it will.”

  “I have a personal favor to ask. If the DA indicts me I’ll need character witnesses. My attorneys say it’s helpful to have someone from the clergy. I guess you’re my rabbi now.”

  “I don’t know you that well.”

  “There won’t be a trial for months. We have time to get acquainted.”

  “I won’t rule that out.”

  “The immediate favor I need to ask is this. I’m meeting with my lawyers in New York on Monday morning. Is it possible for you to fly up and meet with us? I’ll take care of your expenses and put you up in a hotel on Sunday night.”

  She flipped open her electronic scheduler and tapped the screen for Monday’s appointments. Two community meetings in the morning. Lunch with the Washington Board of Rabbis at which she promised to provide a drash, a rabbinical interpretation of the weekly Torah portion. A wedding consultation in the afternoon, followed by two conferences that Chuck had scheduled without providing names of the individuals involved. When he did that, he usually filled in details first thing in the morning.

  “Sorry. I’m fully booked Monday. Too many appointments to shuffle. Perhaps another time?”

  “Saturday morning?”

  “I’ve got Shabbat services. With Seth gone, I’m the only one left to bat at the plate.”

  “I think I can get the lawyers to meet on Sunday morning. Could you fly up Saturday evening? You probably have plans, but this is important to me. I’ll make a reservation for you at the Pierre. Can you make a Sunday meeting about nine o’clock?”

  Gabby silently mocked the myth about herself. People always assumed she had a million dates when the reality was quite different. “Yes, if it will help, Noah,” she said. “Sunday morning in New York might work.”

  “I’m grateful, Rabbi Lewyn. I know this is an inconvenience. Is the Pierre all right?”

  “More than just all right. Absolutely luxurious.”

  “I’ll book a room and leave a message about the exact time and place with the lawyers. My father and I are staying at our Manhattan apartment on 82nd Street.”

  “I look forward to seeing you again, Noah.”

  After saying goodbye, Gabby leaned hard against her desk chair. There were many reasons she should have declined Noah’s request, not the least of which was her conviction that indicting rapists was the only way to stop men from sexually abusing women. But for the moment there was something more important.

  She dialed a 212 number known by heart and waited while a phone rang in New York City. Eventually a phone machine answered. “You’ve reached Timothy Matternly. Leave a message and I’ll return your call just as soon as possible.”

  She declined to leave anything that might be heard by others at the Presbyterian Office of Community Affairs on West 18th Street.

  Two hours later, while driving home along Massachusetts Avenue, she connected by cell phone with Reverend Matternly. “Tim, it’s Gabby.”

  His tenor voice resonated with crisp clarity. The voice of an old and trusted friend, it comforted her uneasiness over Noah. “The nicest thing that’s happened today. All week, for that matter. Great to hear from you, Lovey.”

  “Any idea why I’m calling?”

  “You usually come up with great ideas. There are three things this uncircumcised Philistine cherishes: Jesus Christ, Gabrielle Lewyn, and linguine with white, not red, clam sauce. Yes, exactly in that order. So when it comes to calls from the thing I love second most, I’m all ears. Incidentally, I’ve got a secret for you. My first love never telephones. For that matter, He rarely bothers to answer my prayers. Don’t even know if He listens.”

  Gabby was accustomed to Tim’s banter, sometimes irreverent, sometimes caustic, but always witty. At times he could be downright offensive, though she had learned not to take his reportage too seriously. “Saturday night I’m planning to be in the Big Apple. Staying at the Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue. I’ll leave the hotel room number on your voice mail. Don’t ask at the reception desk. Just come up. Our usual knock.”

  “I’ve already got plans, Lovey. A dinner reservation at a Mongolian restaurant on Second Avenue. There’s someone special I’d love you to meet. Join us, please.”

  “I’d rather do something hormonal. Alone -- with you.”

  “Now that’s an invitation hard to decline. What if I can’t break my engagement?”

  “There’s nothing the great Timothy Matternly can’t do? Make it happen, Tim.”

  In the course of their stormy relationship, they had always made special time for each other. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in her mind that he could do it again. She punched the phone to stop transmitting. This gave her something to look forward to on the weekend.

  MEMORANDUM

  To: Ms. Sylvia Junqueira, Esq.

  Office of Prosecution: State of Maryland

  From: Tally Waller, CFO

  The Hawthorne Group, L.L.C.

  Re: Rape, Sunday, July 4

  In my testimony to the police at Easton, Maryland, I have already provided details about the rape aboard the chartered sailboat, Dame Cynthia, on the evening of July 4. Here are additional recollections to fill you in on what occurred leading up to the violation. Please be aware that the rape took place at night in unfamiliar waters. At the time it was pitch dark and we had virtually no light aboard. Because my party had been swimming, few passengers were wearing watches. During a normal business day we are accustomed to operating on a strict time schedule. Not so on this holiday Sunday evening when we were relaxing.

  THE INN AT PERRY CABIN, St. Michaels, Chesapeake Bay: Saturday, July 3rd

  As I told you in New York City, I came in contact with Noah Zentner at a political fundraiser and suggested that my company might be able to assist Pyramid in restructuring its heavy debt. On March 23rd, I met with Jonathan Zentner alone at his office on 19th Street in Washington. Along with his son, Noah, he met with me again at The Hawthorne Group, Ltd. (hereafter referred to as HGL) in our New York offices. I flew to Washington on two further occasions to confer with Noah Zentner over lunch at the Occidental Grill because he was concerned about the loss of control should Pyramid Development become a Real Estate Investment Trust. During the last conference, I suggested key individuals from our respective firms meet informally, perhaps on a weekend retreat near Washington, at HGL’s expense. The idea had appeal, so the Zentners sent us confidential financial data about their assets. For the retreat we booked the Inn at Perry Cabin, near St. Michaels, on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. The only date that worked for the senior officers of both firms was the holiday weekend of July 4.

  The following members of HGL went to St. Michaels: St. John Lutkins, Senior Analyst; Arlene Houston-Gephardt, Director of Finance; Douglas Wurtzel, Director of Debt Servicing; Gil Brillenbourg, Director of our Real Estate Appraisals; Charlene C. Murphy Esq., Attorney; Robert Crane, Financial Assistant and Records.

  On Saturday, July 3rd, Jonathan Zentner arrived in St Michaels four hours late, so our opening presentation got off to a slow start. We were warned in advance that his personal charms belied the toughness with which he conducted business. Because Pyramid had just emerged from two contentious lawsuits with major pension funds we approached this new business cautiously.

  After lunch on the first day, my analysts began asking hard questions. Gil Brillenbourg, our financial genius, ran a five-year cash flow of Pyramid’s real estate portfolio. Arlene Houston-Gephardt, from our marketing team, came armed with extensive knowledge about the competitive markets for similar projects. Discounting for a basket of assumptions based on statistical standard differentials, HGL estimated the total value of all Pyramid’s assets more accurately than shown in Pyramid’s books.

  On Saturday evening, we focused on the risks associated with placing Pyramid’s assets into a real estate investment trust. Strong disagreements arose. The session broke up at 11:30 p.m. on a sour note. Both teams drifted into the bar for a nightcap where, well into the wee hours of the morning, we agreed that our differences were reconcilable.

  HGL staff asked more questions on Sunday morning. To sum up our views, we presented the Zentners with a reference book filled with spreadsheets, diagrams, graphs, and timelines showing how and when the trust would take form. We projected that, as a publicly held REIT, Pyramid Development’s Return on Operations would be sixteen percent higher than if the debt remained financed by pension funds and insurance agencies.

  Those of us from HGL felt our negotiations had gone well and that Pyramid would award us the consignment to transform Pyramid into a REIT. To reward HGL and Pyramid personnel for giving up their Fourth of July weekend, HGL hosted a Sunday afternoon sail on an historic square-rigged ketch, the last large vessel of its class remaining from the Chesapeake’s maritime heritage. Thirteen employees from Pyramid joined the sail. They were: Noah Zentner, Hugh Simpson, Bill Pell, Karla West, Wendy St. Clair, Joan Bradford, Chin Wei, Tom Knapp, Zantovska Vin, Stephen MacNeille, Martha Low, Wedall Leake, and Dina Seiman. Jonathan Zentner excused himself to be with his wife at another engagement.

  EXCURSION ABOARD THE DAME CYNTHIA

  Summer heat on the bay was brutal. Fortunately, the crew handed out souvenir T-shirts and sandals. We sailed down the Miles River and headed for open water in a mild wind. Most passengers congregated in the cockpit, near the stern. Skipper Alexander Danberry pumped music through a loudspeaker, which made talking difficult. The sound quieted as we entered Eastern Bay, off Tilghman Island, when the power failed and the music stopped abruptly. A deck hand told us that Dame Cynthia had suffered a similar electrical problem the previous week. Captain Danberry scampered below to reroute the electrical circuitry. Many of us were unhappy when music resumed some twenty minutes later.