But then she surprised me. “I’d love to read what you’ve written. If and when you’re ready.”
“I’d like that,” I said, despite a flutter of nerves in my stomach. She would be a tough audience, reading as much as she did. And the notes she left in margins of books that I read after her were frequently critical but always accurate. “It’s still rough though.”
She smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. “We’re not as different as you think. I dreamed of being an editor once.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t a world for women then.”
“You still could be.”
“No. But I do want to read your book.”
I handed her the stack of papers next to me. “I have some corrections in pencil. But I’m finishing the draft before I go back and make the changes.”
“Do you want me to make any notes if I find errors? Or just read?”
I felt tears springing to my eyes at the respectfulness of the question. Especially because she said if instead of when. “Whichever you want.”
She stood and leaned down, kissing my forehead, and then plucked a pencil from my desk before going to the door.
“You’re leaving?”
She turned, the stack of papers clutched to her chest. “I have a book to read.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
I refused to go to synagogue with my parents on Saturday. My father was visibly relieved, my mother, concerned.
“Wouldn’t it be better—？” she began.
“She said she doesn’t want to go,” Daddy said gruffly.
Amazing that you care what I want NOW bubbled up in my throat, but I forced myself to swallow the tart response. Egging him on would only result in my being dragged there against my will. I wanted to see Dan. But not with the whole congregation staring at every look that passed between us. My mother’s comment about not visiting Ada rang in my ears, and I could see her point.
“Stay out of trouble,” my father warned.
“Honestly, Daddy—” A sharp look from my mother stopped me.
Bide your time, a voice that sounded like Ada’s whispered in my head. I sighed. “I’ll be good.”
“No writing,” he said. “It’s Shabbat.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from exploding at his hypocrisy. Besides, writing wasn’t work; it was my escape. And there were plenty of Saturdays when he caught up on paperwork in his office. He also had no problem with my mother cooking or using electricity. But I exhaled through my nose. “I’ll read a little and maybe take a walk.”
“No walk. You’ll stay home. We’ll tell people you didn’t feel well.”
“Right.”
My mother kissed my cheek, then whispered in my ear, “I’m up to chapter twenty. I stayed up late reading. It’s wonderful, dearest.”
Thus buoyed, I waved goodbye, watched them leave, then retreated to my room to resume work. The book was nearly finished.
But I had only typed two lines when I heard a sound from downstairs. It came again, and I poked my head out of my bedroom door, listening. Someone was knocking at the front door.
Normally, Grace would take care of it, but Daddy felt it was wrong to pay someone on Shabbat, so she didn’t work Saturdays. Sighing, I went downstairs. I didn’t feel like dealing with anyone ill-bred enough to come selling something on Shabbat to a house with a mezuzah, but I wouldn’t be able to focus until the pounding stopped. Even with the radio on.
I flung open the door. “We’re not inter—oh!”
Dan stood on the step, a light rain plastering his hair to his head.
I looked around to make sure no stray neighbors were looking before pulling him inside, where he kissed me against the door.
“What are you doing here?” I asked breathlessly as he released me.
“My mother said you were home. I told the rabbi I had a headache and then came here. I was watching for your parents to leave.”
“You can’t stay. If they catch you here—”
“I won’t,” he said. “But I had to see you. I didn’t want to call.”
I wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face in his damp shoulder, inhaling his scent, already so familiar. Being with him felt like home.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “What happened?”
“I am now.” I gave him the short version of what had transpired, leading him into the living room to sit.
But he didn’t look happy that I was in the same city as him. “What about us?”
My shoulders sank. That was the problem, wasn’t it? My parents didn’t trust me to go anywhere. They had sent me to Ada thinking it would be even more of a prison than home. And if we told them we were seeing each other, they would trust me less unless it was clear an engagement was imminent. Our behavior at the shul was evidence enough we couldn’t be alone together. And they could never understand that everything had changed between then and now.
“I don’t know.”
“Marilyn, we have to tell them. There’s no other way.”
I shook my head. “Without an engagement, they wouldn’t allow it. Your parents wouldn’t either. The whole congregation would think we were just sleeping together. We’d never live it down.”
“Then we get ‘engaged.’” He made air quotes around the word. “We don’t get married until you’re ready, but we give them enough of what they want to be able to see each other.”
“It won’t work. They’ll start planning the wedding immediately.”
Dan thought for a moment. “We—I—tell them I want you to finish school first. That buys us two years.”
“The whole reason my father is sending me back to school is to meet a husband. He wouldn’t fall for that.”
He looked down at his lap, studying his hands for a long moment. When he lifted his head, something steely had resolved in his face. “Then I’ll go to rabbinical school, like my parents want. Your parents can’t argue against waiting until I can make money to support us.”
“No.”
“Marilyn—”
“I’m not letting you give up your dream just so I can keep mine.”
“You’re more important than photography. I can still take pictures.”
“No. I don’t want to be a rabbi’s wife any more than you want to be a rabbi.”
He reached over and took my hand in his. “I don’t have to finish. It just gives us time.”
I took my hand back. “What if I’m never ready to get married?”
The look in his eyes broke what was left of my heart.
But he pressed on anyway. “Then we break up when you decide. And I’ll take the blame with both families.”
“No.” He opened his mouth to argue, but I took his hand, silencing him. “If it comes to that, I’ll take the blame.”
His eyes widened. “Do you mean—？”
I nodded, defeated. I couldn’t see a scenario in which he changed so much that he asked me to forfeit my writing. And the idea of a long engagement, while difficult to manage with our families, allowed us the freedom to figure out what our lives would look like if we did follow through.