Lights Of Love: Dickens Holiday Romance, #14

CHAPTER ONE

"Jedna. Dve. Tri. Cytri. Pet. Sest. Sedm. Osm. Devet. Desert. Oy!"

Saul paused in the hallway between the Rabbi’s office and the kitchen, straining to hear the musical voice that drifted through the open door.

Polish? No, not Polish. After years of international travel, mediating trade disputes across Europe, and doing a little extra work on the side for Uncle Sam, Saul had become fluent in five languages, mediocre in three others, and could pick up a word or two in many. Czech?

As he moved closer to the soft voice, the scents of his childhood overwhelmed him. Sweet. Spicy. Fresh-baked, still warm from the oven, smells. Assailed by memories of his grandmother’s kitchen, his eyes drifted shut for a moment. It had been forever since Saul had traveled back through the years to the utter contentment he felt in that Brooklyn apartment. The sigh that escaped his lips was one of nostalgic pleasure. Until a sharp elbow and a soft shoulder knocked him off balance. His briefcase dropped to the floor as he reached out to steady himself, his hand groping along the slim arm to wet fingers.

Within his grasp was a slender hand, soapy and damp. Staring into impossibly dark, wide hazel eyes, his heart skipped a beat.

Oh, my, goodness! I’m so sorry! I was not paying attention. The woman held up her dripping hands. I ran out of paper towels in the kitchen. I’m heading for the ladies’ room to dry these off. Please excuse me. A slight accent lent an exotic flavor to her speech. She hurried a few steps down the hall and turned into the ladies’ lounge.

Saul stood stunned in the hallway, watching her trim form move away from him. Who was she? He had been a member of Congregation Etz Chaim for over three decades and he had never seen her before. Granted, he had only been a full-time resident of Dickens for the past two years, given his travels, but he had almost always celebrated the High Holidays, Passover and Hanukkah in the small New England town instead of his New York apartment.

Bending, he retrieved his briefcase from where he’d dropped it. It would not do for her to emerge from the restroom and find him still standing in the hallway, gaping at her. Filled with curiosity about the identity of the impossibly compelling woman, Saul turned back down the hall and sauntered into the synagogue manager’s office, pretending to look for a missing glove, safely tucked deep in the pocket of his coat.

Within fifteen minutes he knew as much about the mystery woman as he could garner through his gentle but persistent questioning of Carolyn Levin, the usually discreet, but information-laden woman who had run the business of Etz Chaim for twenty-five years. His years in the courtroom certainly came in handy. Saul discovered that Yehudit, who went by Judy, had joined the synagogue at the beginning of the year, having moved from Boston after her husband had passed away. Her two long-time friends were members of the synagogue and had encouraged Judy to come to Dickens to settle after she sold the townhouse she’d shared with her husband and now-grown daughter in Cambridge. She was active in Sisterhood, especially when the call-to-action involved baking.

Judy makes the most amazing pastry. You should try her Linzer tarts. She uses black currant jam. Really! Carolyn gushed as she entered data into her desktop computer. Today, she’s here making rugelach for the Hanukkah party next week. I think she’s going to be here all day because Sisterhood needs twenty-five dozen to cover the party and take-home bags. She looked up from her typing with a puzzled smile. I’m surprised you haven’t met before, Saul. Judy’s become a regular here in the synagogue. Everyone just loves her. Especially the Rabbi.

Really? He is particularly taken with her? She doesn’t look to be close to him in age. Saul attempted to keep annoyance out of his voice. After all, the Rabbi was just 40-years old. And single. Saul wondered if he’d mistaken the silver threaded through Judy’s chestnut brown hair as being a sign that she was closer to his own age and not just prematurely gray.

Carolyn chuckled, apparently amused by his question. You know the Rabbi is a bit lonely since his father and mother retired and moved to Israel to be closer to his older sister. The Rabbi says that Judy reminds him of Avigal, and he loves being able to keep his German and French fresh by chatting with her. And I think she’s teaching him a little Czech. He was quite the linguist when he was in the Army, and he’s trying not to lose what he learned. The old guys only want to talk to him in Yiddish. She must have noticed his raised eyebrow because she quickly added, Oh, Saul. I don’t include you with the old guys. I mean Sid and Milt and Irving and Howie. You’re still a kid compared to them. She winked and continued, But don’t tell them I said that. Please.

Saul smiled again and excused himself from Carolyn’s chatter, murmuring that he’d probably left his gloves in his car. Back in the hallway, he debated calling it a morning and leaving or hanging around to try to chat with Yehudit. She would never be just Judy to him with her intriguing accent, mysterious eyes, and almost regal bearing.

Judy leaned against the vanity in the ladies’ room, drying her hands with a too-large wad of paper towels. Her back was to the mirror above the ancient pink vanity that housed two sinks with tarnished brass fixtures. Her one glance in the mirror had revealed wide eyes, with two spots of red forming on her cheeks, and a smear of jam on her chin. And a dark green turtleneck splotched with flour. Oy. Even her pretty dangling jade earrings and matching bracelets, slim black jeans, and very stylish black boots couldn’t redeem her. She looked like a ragpicker compared to the handsome and aristocratic man in the black cashmere coat she had just nearly knocked over.

And why were her hands shaking? She couldn’t stop the slight tremor by rubbing or by tucking her fingers under her arms after she tossed the paper towels in the waste basket. She took three calming breaths, willing herself to turn back to the mirror. Get a grip, she muttered to herself as she swiped flour from her shirt and jam from her chin. The red cheeks she would attribute to the heat from the ovens she’d been filling with cookie sheets since eight o’clock that morning. That was just a nice-looking businessman, here to take care of something in the office—maybe make a donation to the shul. He’s not from around here or you would have seen him in the past year. This town is small. I tell you, Dickens is not Boston or Prague.

The mere mention of Prague brought a tear to her eye, but it also straightened her back and her resolve. She had faced down Communists, border guards, customs agents, and the streets of New York before she was sixteen. A sophisticated older gentleman was no match for her. Even if he did look like a member of the British royal family. With that final talking-to, Judy straightened her shirt and marched out of the ladies’ lounge with purpose. She still had over ten dozen rugelach to make before three o’clock and nothing was going to get in her way.

He was blocking the door to the kitchen. Ach du liebe! She’d almost run into him again. What was he doing in the kitchen, with his eyes half closed, and a sweet sad smile on his face?

Can I help you? His eyes flew open at the sound of her voice, and he straightened to a military pose.

Well, this is awkward. I’m not a stalker. I’m Saul Rosen and I’m a member of the congregation and I couldn’t resist one more whiff of your wonderful rugelach. It smells like my bubbe’s kitchen in here and that is something I never thought I’d experience again. He turned as if to leave. But I’m in your way and Carolyn tells me that you have more baking to do so I’ll just leave you to your work. Still, he stopped again, took another deep breath, smiled another sad smile.

It’s probably the cinnamon. Your bubbe probably used fresh-ground cinnamon because the already ground cinnamon was either not available or too expensive. I grind the cinnamon myself. I mean, I do it here, so it’s kosher, but I always grind my spices like cinnamon and nutmeg, coriander, and pepper, when I bake or cook. Judy moved to a rack of the soft, spicy cookies sitting on the far counter. Would you like one? These are my rejects. You know, some don’t stay rolled and a few get too brown on the edges. She held out the rack toward him, offering one of the cookies. He had a look on his face like a kid opening an unexpected and special present on his birthday.

Thank you. Are you sure? I don’t want to deplete your numbers. Saul took one of the rolled delicacies in his hand then popped it into his mouth.

Judy just stared at the play of emotions that ran across his handsome face: surprise, delight, awe, recognition and, again, sadness.

This is the best thing I’ve tasted in years—maybe decades. Thank you. It brings back a very happy time in my life. One I’d almost forgotten. Many thanks. The sadness was gone from his eyes.

If you wait a minute, I’ll bag up some more of these for you to take with you. I was going to leave them for the Rabbi… When he started to protest, she raised her hand. Stop. You take them. There will be more rejects in the next batches so there will be plenty to set aside for Rabbi Friedman.

He looked like he was pondering a very serious matter, his forehead furrowed, and his mouth set in a thin line. Here’s my offer, he said as he set down his briefcase and took off his coat, draping it over the briefcase on the stool at the end of the kitchen island. I’ll take these rejects if you let me help you make some more. I’m not a bad kitchen assistant.

She started to laugh at the notion of the impeccably dressed, refined gentleman, rolling dough and grinding spices and nuts in the shul’s kitchen. But she got the determined and hopeful look in his eye and her heart felt a pull from the need barely disguised by his aristocratic voice.

Well, it’s a foolish woman who says no to the offer of help in a kitchen, especially when she still has to make over a hundred cookies—especially rugelach which can be such a pain and such a mess. I’m Judy and I’m not foolish! She handed him an apron from the drawer in the island and told him to roll up his sleeves and wash his hands. He didn’t look like the type of man who took orders from anyone, especially a woman, but she would give him a chance and see what she would see.

Saul took off his suit jacket and his tie, folding them carefully on top of his coat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He knew his way around a rolling pin, so Judy set him to rolling out the balls of dough she removed one at a time from the large refrigerator. After he rolled a round of the chilled dough into a nine-inch circle, she gave him another while she began to cover the circle of dough with the spice and nut mixture she had prepared earlier. Then she cut the circle into eight pie-shaped pieces and rolled them up, wide end to narrow