“Did she ever mention him?”
“Mention who?”
“My father. Zalman. He spoke of Jacob often, mostly about their days together during the war. But sometimes he would speak of her too.”
Florrie did not answer, but took in the girl, the whole of her now that they were both seated on the sofa. Then she heard her whisper.
“Do you think she loved him?”
Somehow, the question posed with such feeling, a mixture of earnestness and trepidation, didn’t surprise Florrie.
But her own answer did.
“I think . . . well, I think a part of her did. Whether it was the love one has for a friend or a brother or even a romantic love. Yes, yes, I do think she loved him.”
Deborah nodded slowly, eased back into the seat.
“My mother thought so. In fact, she really believed it. He didn’t talk about her that much, but especially after Jacob’s death, he spoke of their poor young boy, such a tragedy, and Esther. The way he spoke of Esther, I don’t know, maybe it’s how he smiled when he recalled their time together—Daddy didn’t normally smile much—or the way he would sigh, as if he wanted to go back in time. Anyway, call it woman’s intuition, my mother always thought there was something there. It was only recently that she confided in me that the day of the—” She stopped as a sob caught in her throat.
“The day he died in the car accident on the highway, that was the day he planned to come here. To see the house again, to see Esther. And maybe for something more. My mom never said a word of her belief to my father, only loved him, and loves him still. I guess she decided to see how the whole thing would have played out. But now we’ll never know.”
Florrie cleared her throat.
“My dear, he was here. But not for the reason you think. Oh, dear God, do you mean to say he lost his life on his way home?”
Deborah ignored her question.
“What are you saying? Wasn’t he on his way back to tell my mother that he was leaving? That he planned on leaving her and leaving me?” Her voice rose with each word.
Florrie looked at the girl directly. She was so young.
“No, he wasn’t leaving you at all. He was leaving Esther for the last time. I should know. I was sitting next to her on this very couch when he arrived because, you see, we were always together, the two of us. And when Zalman, your father, arrived unannounced, walking in without a word in that jaunty way, cap still tilted on his head, well, it was as if the years hadn’t passed at all, and we were on our way to another ball game! We were shocked by his arrival, of course, and it was quite a while before any of us said a word. And then, well, we talked, the three of us barely able to catch our breaths. Mostly about the memories and the places we would go, the meals we had, the walks. And even about Gary. We could share our memories without the tears now, for the pain had been so long ago. Oh, Zalman loved that child like his own!
“And then we talked about our lives since, and how much of it was sad with so much loss. But much of it, especially for your father, was happy too. And he told us all about his life then, of his wife, the girl he had met on the farm, and mostly of his young daughter. What was her name?”
“Debbie,” interrupted the girl.
Florrie smiled, her eyes crinkling. “I’m sorry. I’m getting old, I guess. Of course, Debbie. He cared only for you, you and your mother, the woman from the farm who had brought such joy, such calmness, such a sense of home to his life, he said. You two were his world, and he didn’t have to share you with anyone! I think that’s why he came here, to see Esther and recapture those memories one last time before going home to the woman, the child, he truly loved.”
Deborah leaned forward, her eyes glistening.
“Do you mean he wasn’t going to leave us?”
Florrie shook her head.
“Maybe once that would have been true. It was you and your mother he loved.” She hesitated.
“And one other. Of course, he had always loved Jacob. That’s why he wanted to build this house; both he and Jacob wanted it.”
The room grew silent as the two remained locked in their thoughts, and then the girl brightened as she remembered something. She walked over to her large black bag, which lay slumped on the floor at the entrance, where she had first placed it. And, bringing it to the couch, she removed a giant-size document. As she began unraveling the paper, Florrie recognized it as a blueprint, a blueprint for the house. The friends had consulted it each day during the building process; it was something both the girl’s father and Jacob had shown everyone proudly after the couple first moved in. Drawn in Zalman’s own hand.