Yahrzeit

March 20, 2015

Robert Winkler stands in the foyer, hesitating before entering the sanctuary. It has been a full year since he walked into Temple Beth Ami, the reason then being the same as it is tonight; to honor the passing of his wife, Linda. This is her yahrzeit. The furniture in the foyer is a bit shabbier than he remembers, but the smell is the same. No mistaking the smell. Strange how exact it can register, even after a year. He watches other people walking in, slowly and mostly in pairs. Apparently, this Friday service is to be fairly standard, one without a special event, unlike the previous year when a double bar-mitzvah dominated the evening. He remembers the large, well-heeled assemblage, seemingly more interested in each other's outfits than the young participants' reading.

Now he enters the sanctuary and takes a seat near the back, though there is plenty of room closer in. Smiling benevolently at the congregation, the rabbi sits on the bimah, waiting for the hour to strike seven. Robert thinks about how helpful the rabbi had been during the last stages of Linda's illness and afterwards, when the comfort he afforded aided in Robert's own need for healing. But that was two years ago and he had not had much contact with the rabbi since. He and Linda had joined the congregation six years earlier when they first came to Sarasota upon his retirement. Both had thought, and their grown kids agreed, that it was the right thing to do when entering a new community, but they never got to fully engage in congregational life. Instead, they found themselves drawn to the various cultural activities in town, including those in music and art.

As the organ begins to play Robert looks around, scanning the crowd for any familiar faces. Not really expecting to find any, his eyes fix on the back of a poised woman, whose straight silver hair, while suggesting a certain age, holds a sheen both youthful and striking. Then he remembers seeing that same head of hair the previous year. At the time, he figured she was one of the elegant bar mitzvah guests, yet wondered whether her face was as intriguing as her coif. Seeing her now makes him think she is probably a regular service attendee.

Shortly after delivering his sermon, the rabbi reads the Yahrzeit list, the names of those whose deaths' anniversaries occur that week. Robert listens carefully for Linda's name to be called. Then Kaddish. That's it. No more reason to be there. But he lingers at the conclusion of services and finds himself wandering into the Social Hall for the Oneg Shabbat. He has to admit to himself that he is curious about the woman with the silver hair but doesn't know what to do about it. He pauses at the snack table, picks up a piece of pastry and glances around.

Just as he spots the woman, the rabbi approaches him with a hearty Shabbat Shalom. They chat a bit, Robert informing him how he, as a widower, is getting along. All the while, he catches glimpses of the woman, herself engaged in an animated dialogue with an elderly gentleman. He sees her twinkling pale blue eyes sparkle as her graceful hands gesture in support of her end of the conversation. The rabbi soon moves on to another congregant, leaving Robert free to seek out the punch bowl. There, to his surprise, he finds her alone, also looking to quench her thirst. He smiles and softly murmurs, "Shabbat Shalom. Can I pour you a cup?"

"Shabbat Shalom to you," she replies. "And thanks. I'd love some punch."

He hands her a filled cup, observing the smoothness of her skin. Not knowing what else to say, he blurts, "Do you come to services regularly?"

"Not really. Rarely do I attend more than this..... It's my husband's yahrzeit," she adds, shrugging her shoulders slightly, showing a faint smile.

"Oh … I'm so sorry," Robert apologizes. "Actually, that's why I'm here, too. A yahrzeit — my wife's. "

Their eyes meet and linger until she breaks the silence and offers her hand. "My name is Luchia."

"And I'm Bob." Her hand feels very warm inside his.

"Well, Bob, it's nice to meet you." Her blue eyes are intense, yet friendly. "I really must get going." She puts down her empty cup and starts to back away. "Again, Shabbat Shalom." And then she is gone.

March 22, 2015

Bob does little other than think of her. Luchia. What a name. What a face. What else? They hardly had a conversation, yet he feels there was a connection. It was two years since he lost Linda and he hadn't thought of another woman - until now. What to do? Was his impression misguided? Hell, he doesn't even know her last name. What would Linda think? Walking the beaches of Longboat Key always felt good and, even now, helps clear his head. So, Bob trudges along the waterline, digging his bare feet in the cool sand. It is March, not yet too hot, the blustery days pretty much over.

Luchia, Luchia. Is he an aged teenager obsessed with this unknown silver-haired goddess with an exotic name? Or is it time to move on to the next chapter in his ever-maturing life? Sure, there is the brisket brigade, a series of widows and other otherwise single women parading mostly unburnt offerings with the hope of gaining companionship, if not something more. He wants no part of it, but does on occasion succumb to the temptation of a home cooked meal, only to regret it later when the true emptiness sinks in. No, he doesn't want to be whittled down and settle for companion status, void of emotion.

He wonders, as he picks up a perfect sand-dollar shell, whether he, himself, is a good catch. Probably, he thinks. Not bad looking, and in pretty good shape. But Bob doesn't want to be caught. He wants to be the one doing the catching. He looks out into the gulf and muses over whether the occasional pairs of dolphins sighted are lovers or just companions. He smiles, then skips the sand-dollar into the surf.

The next day, he goes to the temple office and requests a copy of the membership directory. Hoping to find Luchia without asking embarrassing questions, he peruses the list, but with no luck. Then, forced to ask the receptionist for assistance, he is told that there was a Luchia who was a member but resigned when her husband died. "No, Mr. Winkler, I can't give you more information. That would be a breach in confidentiality," the receptionist says, smiling. "But he was such a nice man."

"I'm sure he was," Bob answers, trying to hide his frustration. He leaves, empty-handed and without a clue where next to pursue this seeming mirage.

May 3, 2015

The proliferation of art fairs never seems to end in greater Sarasota. One is particularly busy this sunny Sunday on St. Armands Circle. Bob and his friends, Stuart and Marsha Klein, work their way from booth to booth, taking in the frenzied scene, ever-watchful for that unique piece to catch their eye. Just to give him a special focus, Bob is looking to add to his already impressive gallery of chess sets. He has several in wood as well as stone, glass and metal, but is now on the lookout for one in ceramic. While relatively fragile, it would surely make his collection complete.

The crowd is considerable and just staying together as a trio is not an easy task. Stuart and Marsha wander into a booth featuring fibre art. For quite some time they had been searching for just the right piece to grace their new living room wall. From outside, Bob hears Stuart excitedly yell for him to join them. Yet, when he enters it is not the art that mesmerizes him, but the artist. There, sitting on a stool, wearing a colorful smock, is Luchia.

"Bob, we found the perfect piece," Stuart exudes. "Meet the artist."

Thrilled, yet fearful that she might not remember him, Bob replies, "I think we've met. It's Luchia, right?"

"Of course. And you're Bob," she answers with a confident smile. "We shared a drink. How could I forget?"

"If you call punch a drink?" They both laugh.

Puzzled by this exchange, Stuart says, "You guys know each other?" Then, with great eagerness, he points at his find. "Hey, look at this wall hanging. Isn't it great?" Marsha answers, "For once, we agree on something."

Still looking at Luchia, Bob remarks, "Yes, it is precious." Then, turning to Marsha, adds, "It'll fit perfectly into your space." Eager to proceed, Stuart takes out his wallet and asks for the piece to be wrapped up. But Bob isn't so anxious to move on. He tries to delay their departure with small talk. "So, you're an artist. You do beautiful work."

"Thank you." Other people come into the booth. Bob hastily asks for her card and wishes her luck with sales. She is drawn away by other patrons and he, by his companions. Now he has her card, name and number. "LUCHIA STARK, Fibre Artist." He calls the following evening.

"This is Bob Winkler, from Temple Beth Ami."

"Oh, yes. Hi, Bob." She answers as if expecting his call. "Did your friends have second thoughts about the piece they bought?"

"Impossible." Glad that she broke the ice for him, he adds, "As far as I know they're staring at it on their wall at this very moment, congratulating themselves on their find."

She laughs. "That's very kind of you to say."

"Actually, I didn't call about your art." He swallows hard. "I have no idea what your situation is, but I was wondering if you were free to have coffee some time."

"Well, ... that's very nice of you to ask." There is a long pause. "I'm pretty exhausted from the show right now, but a good cup of coffee might be just what I need in a couple of days."

Not as enthusiastic a reaction as Bob would like, but something. How nice it would be, Bob thinks, to once again walk with toes in the sand with a woman one cares about. Could Luchia be the one? No talk necessary. Just to connect, perhaps holding hands, being hit by the same breeze and blinded by the same sun.

Two days later they meet at Cie La Vie. Luchia is wearing a bright, flower-printed blouse with a red bow hugging a ponytail, making her look younger than Bob remembered. "Inside or out?" he asks casually. "Outside, definitely. Let's watch the world go by." They find a small wrought iron and glass table on the sidewalk and sit, facing each other.

"So here we are," Bob begins awkwardly. "Are you a coffee connoisseur?"

"Not particularly. I just need a good brew to keep body and soul together. Let's order, then you'll tell me your life's story."

"It's really not that interesting. But if you'll let me have one of the great pastries they have here, maybe I can make up an exotic past." They laugh as an impatient waiter takes their order. "The real story, quite boring. I grew up in New York, studied art, then put my husband, Ben, through medical school. That's what girls did in those days."

"Yeah, I guess that was the M.O. at the time. Things were pretty lopsided then. It's embarrassing looking back. It was the Jewish princes who had to do well."

"I did give up my art for a time, decades actually, while raising three kids. But, obviously, I got back to it. And now that I'm alone, more intensely than ever … Enough about me. How about you?"

"That was a real brief sketch — pardon the pun." Bob pauses as the coffees arrive, along with two French pastries. "Me? I guess everyone's from New York, originally. I'm no different. Grew up in Washington Heights, was interested in architecture from the get-go and actually made a career of it. But I met my wife, Linda, after I got started, so couldn't take advantage of the support system you were subjected to." He smiles, waiting for a reaction.

"Sorry about that," she accommodates. "I can't be responsible for the other sisters of my generation."

"Fair enough." He reaches over and briefly touches her hand. "I retired about eight years ago. Too soon, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"I had a nice practice on the north shore of Long Island, not too big, doing mostly residential work. When my wife retired from teaching she wanted to spend more time in Florida. She just hated the northern winters. One thing led to another. I sold my practice and we moved down here. Occasionally, I give talks on architecture... But I always felt I had one more good project left in me." He shrugs.

"You sound regretful."

"Not really. In retrospect, I wouldn't have had the time with Linda that I had. As it turned out, it was too short. You never know."

Luchia nods and takes a deep breath. "No, you never know. Life has its twists and turns, and you have to go with the flow." Bob looks at her a long time, then says, "Your name enchants me. 'Luchia'. It's beautiful. Not so different from its owner. Is there a history behind it?"

"Actually, there is. My parents went to Italy on their honeymoon. They loved everything they saw, felt, ate, even touched there. So, when I was born nine months later, they decided to name me Luchia, I guess to remind them of their wonderful time in Italy. Strange, because that was just before the war broke out. What about you?"

"I'm just Bob. In my generation, every Tom, Dick and Harry was named Bob." Luchia burst out laughing. "You're a very funny man, Bob."

"I don't remember ever being accused of that."

They meet several times again. His male friends start to notice he's spending less time with them, even missing a few regular, "sacred" tennis games. He has yet to introduce her to his crowd, not wanting to jump the gun, should this budding relationship explode in his face. On a whim he suggests to Luchia that they drive down to Siesta Beach one Sunday afternoon and catch the Drum Circle before sunset. Bob had heard that this beach scene happening attracts people of all ages and from all walks of life. He isn't sure which niche he and Luchia fall into, if any, or if even the same one. Would either or both of them be viewed as fairly well-heeled seniors or as well-preserved Floridians with an artistic bent?

They drive south on Tamiami Trail, the top down on Bob's Volvo convertible. It is one of those rare summer days on the gulf coast when a breeze can actually be felt. Bob steals a sideways glimpse of Luchia and sees a soft smile cross her face. He asks what she's thinking. "Oh, we had a convertible once. Ben insisted that the top go down, even on cold days. It was part of his macho thing, proving his virility to the world. Why do men do that?"

"Busted! You caught me with my top down. At least my pants are still on."

She chuckles, "That's a good thing."

They arrive at the almost-full parking lot, then walk hand-in-hand in the direction of the distant drums. A crowd surrounds an odd assemblage of drummers, each seemingly lost in his or her own world of beats, yet somehow keeping in rhythm with the ad hoc group at large. Bob and Luchia find a spot on the periphery, and observe. Within the circle several scantily-clad aged hippies cavort to the sound of "their own drummers." Luchia turns to him and confides, "That could have been me."

"Really!" is all Bob can manage in response, the overall noise level too high to maintain any meaningful conversation. Later, as they sit in the car Bob asks what she meant.

"Well, ... I guess I might as well spill the beans. Before I met Ben, I was a hopeless flower child. Happy, but hopeless. I spent many summer evenings in the Sixties folk dancing with my friends on the Lower East Side. Now look at me, a staid matron."

"Hardly," Bob say, surprised. "But now I know where that sparkle comes from."

"And now that I've told you my deep, dark secret, you've got to do the same."

"I'd be happy to, if I could think of one. But then, as they say, I'd have to kill you. Or, as I'd prefer, I'd have to kiss you."

She smiles. "I'll take my chances."

When they are back on Longboat Key having dinner at a terraced restaurant overlooking the Bay, Bob raises his wine glass. "Here's to who knows what."

"Just what does that mean?" Luchia asks, confused yet amused.

"Oh, just to an unknown future, that's all."

"I'll drink to that." They clink their glasses. "Tell me, Luchia, if you will," Bob asks seriously, "Did Ben change you from what you were?"

"Change is a strong word. He definitely influenced me. Ben had a strong personality." She tries to lighten the conversation. "Let's say he made a lady out of me. After all, I was destined to become a doctor's wife."

"I can't imagine you ever being anything but the classiest of women." He didn't have to do a damn thing, Bob thinks. Ben shouldn't even have tried.

Hurricane season arrives and many coastal residents scramble to reclaim their northern roots, either visiting with friends and relatives or retreating to the homes they only partially abandoned in their quest for eternal sunshine. Bob has a standing arrangement to visit with his daughter's family in New York over the Jewish holidays. After much deliberation he decides to invite Luchia to join him, having given his daughter Lisa only a brief description of his "new friend." Luchia warily accepts, hoping not too much would be assumed, either by Bob or his family — or for that matter, even herself.

On the plane ride back, Bob turns to Luchia. "You haven't said much about my family. They really liked you."

"What would you like me to say? They're as nice as could be. But we're not exactly a young engaged couple without baggage. They're trying to tread lightly, and I do appreciate that. Even if sweet little Jeremy kept comparing me to his beloved grandma. I learned more about Linda from him than I ever did from you. She was a great woman."

"Yes, she was."

"But I also learned some things about you that I didn't know — sweet things. You never told me that you were a marshmallow when it came to sentimental movies. Or that you loved to dance."

"Live and learn," Bob says. "Some things are better leaked than stated." Luchia leans over and kisses him.

As winter approaches, the population in the Sarasota area increases, reaching traffic jam proportions by the end of January. Among those contributing to this annual phenomenon are friends of both Bob and Luchia who are part of the "snowbird" cadre escaping the wrath of the colder northern states. One blustery February morning while walking the beach, Luchia suggests a dinner outing, inviting her newly arrived friends from New York along with Stuart and Marsha. Sort of having a couple "from each side" to expand their social circle. Bob agrees, so a reservation is made at The Chart House for a party of six. Just as they arrive, the sun begins to set beyond the Gulf of Mexico, causing the group to pause in their conversation and gaze at the awesome sight. "It's as pretty as a picture," Marsha says.

"Hey, this is the real thing. Forget about a picture," Luchia responds, annoyed at the banality of Marsha's remark. "Sorry." Marsha rolls her eyes.

Michael, Luchia's New York friend, interjects, "You have to understand Luchia. She's an artist. She sees things from the point of view of their essence."

"You don't have to defend me, Michael. It's such a simple thing. The sun comes up and then it goes down. It happens every day and it's a beautiful thing every day. That's how I see it."

"And I love you for seeing things the way you do," Bob says, squeezing her hand. "Can I now order a bottle of wine?"

March 18, 2016

Hand in hand, Bob and Luchia walk into Temple Beth Ami. It has been one year since first they met. As they wait for services to begin, they see the rabbi smiling approvingly from the bimah. Luchia turns to Bob and whispers, "I feel like we're on a double date, waiting for Ben and Linda to join us."

Bob frowns, then nods. "That may be. We did come here to remember them. But don't forget who you came in with. I'm your date. I hope Ben and Linda approve and are up there somewhere, smiling down on us." Luchia squeezes his hand.