“Isn’t it spectacular? He brought it with him when he came back to the farm, before he married my mother. I think he was so proud that he had drawn it and that he could do this for the man who saved his life. He used to call it King Solomon’s castle—that’s how he referred to Jacob, like wise King Solomon, a builder of castles. That’s how I knew of the home. Even my boys, though they are only seven and three, love to hear that story.”
Florrie stood, removed the vase with the one purple orchid from the surface of the coffee table, and, taking the blueprint from Deborah, flattened the paper across the glass as they both crouched close. Their examination of the document was almost childlike in its delight, each pointing out the width of a bedroom window, the slope of the roof, the depth of the closet in the hall, even each wide board of the front porch. All was considered, one reliving the home’s past, the other imagining its future.
After about twenty minutes, Florrie began to feel her knees lock and, bracing herself against the table, slowly got up as Deborah returned the blueprint to her bag. There was no need to offer a tour of the home, Florrie reasoned to herself, since the young woman already knew each nook and cranny without ever having lived there. Florrie understood, too, why owning a home, this home for her family, meant so much to her. So instead she offered her a glass (there were still a few in the cabinet) of cool water from the tap, and suggested they go outdoors. After all, it was a lovely spring day, almost a perfect day.
They stepped onto the front porch and stood next to each other, each quietly admiring the house. It stood now, its siding repainted three times, more of a sage green, with complementary peacock-blue shutters, the wooden porch with two Adirondack chairs, double-sealed windows, white roof, brick chimney. No moat or stately balconies, but a home, a little weatherworn, with the slightest scent of burning ashes still within its walls. It was a castle.
A full sun was emerging from between the clouds as each took a wicker seat in the backyard, placing their glasses on the small wooden table on the deck. They each sat back, instinctively tilting their chins toward the sky, which glimmered a peaceful blue. The grass, in a multitude of greens, stretched serenely before them, faded finally in a circle of grown trees that stood stalwartly in the distance. In the back stood the colossal, tired oak, but close by in the forefront was the apple tree, which in spite of the turbulent unfolding of the years, remained stoically rooted, its thick branches curving upward, which in a few months would bear the same tiny yellow apples on each twig. Like the house itself, a promise.
It was Deborah who finally broke the silence, turning back to Florrie, her blue eyes wistful as she spoke.
“If only this house were mine.”
Florrie looked out at the old apple tree and then at her young companion. She placed her wrinkled hand upon Deborah’s young, softer one, and smiled.
“Oh, I think it already is.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is the culmination of a long-awaited dream. From the time I was a young girl penning ambitious novels like The Mystery of the Three Red Gowns, through my college years and beyond as I wrote stories about my parents’ devastating experiences during the Holocaust, I have wanted to become not just an author but a published author. I am grateful that I can now finally say that I am.
My list of those responsible for this is long, but at the top is my agent, Eve Attermann at William Morris, who from the start believed in my work, then helped me shape it to be something others could believe in too. Her expertise and enthusiasm have helped me believe in myself. I must thank my son, Charlie, for putting me in touch with Eve and for his constant reminder to “just keep writing.” I will forever be grateful.
This book wouldn’t be what it is without Carmen Johnson, senior editorial director, along with the team at Little A. She saw potential in this manuscript and helped me fulfill that potential through her astute comments, meticulous editing, and encouraging words. I am so lucky to be working with her.
I would be remiss in forgetting my friend and mentor Ben Camardi, who has encouraged me for the past ten years of my writing career. He gave me faith in myself when I most needed it.
A writer is nothing without her readers, and I am grateful to have a group of friends and relatives who, without fail, eagerly read my works and provide honest and supportive advice.
Three friends stand out in this regard. My lifelong friend, Marcie Ruderman, a brilliant editor and excellent writer, has never hesitated to read my work and provide in-depth commentary regarding the novel and its characters. From kitchen table to beach blanket, she has spent countless hours schlepping and reviewing my manuscript, and I am grateful for it all. Donna Danzig, a dear longtime friend, always steps up to read from the perspective of “an average reader.” As a friend, though, there is nothing average about her, and I warmly thank her for her insightful comments and advice during our long discussions on the phone. My colleague and friend Dr. Helena Swanicke is the busiest person I know but has always been there for me with invaluable advice and encouragement.