“Soon,” she whispered in his ear, her breath tickling and flirtatious, so very different from the one woman he had ever known. In that breath, in those words, he found the promise of a new life, a real life of intimacy and passion as yet unexplored, he realized. He was not old, not anymore. The old man he had seen in the mirror over the last two years since losing his wife had disappeared. Instead, here was this vigorous, expectant person; this young man heading out into uncharted wilderness, daring, almost giddy with the opportunity to slice another piece of life for himself, prepared from a different recipe. It was a gift, a replenishment, the dry wadis of his heart suddenly streaming with spring water, moist and blooming again. Hopeful, but also frightening. This was going to be very different from the first time around, he realized, finding that thought overwhelming in so many ways. There was the excitement and longing for new sensations, yet simultaneously the fear of the unknown, and the utter terror of falling short, of disappointing her.

For the first time, he allowed himself to acknowledge that this woman he had married, although younger in years, was far more experienced in passion. She had had several partners, he only the one. What if he didn’t … couldn’t … measure up? What if she was annoyed—disgusted, even—with his naivety? A cold shiver ran up his spine.

“Let them wait, Yaakov,” she answered gaily, uncovering the tray and setting out two plates for them on the small, decorated table.

He sat across from her, allowing her to fill his plate with food, which he dutifully chewed and swallowed, but of which—even if his life had depended upon on it—he would not have been able to recall even a single dish.

“But why aren’t you eating?” he questioned, suddenly noticing.

She smiled at him, shrugging. “How can I? I am so full, filled to the brim.”

He put down his fork, reaching across the table. “Leah, my Leah,” he whispered softly, almost to himself. “My reward and my gift. Please be patient with me if I make mistakes, if I…”

She stood up. Going around the table, she sank slowly into his lap, her arms around his shoulders, her head resting on his neck.

“Your beard tickles,” she told him, laughing.

“Does it?” he murmured into her soft neck, wishing he could skip the dancing, the well-wishers, the entire demanding world outside the door; wishing himself already in his own home, in his own bed, all the old, sad ghosts banished, all the tragedy and loss scrubbed away, leaving it glowing with vitality and renewal. But it was not to be, he realized reluctantly, the banging of the wedding guests growing too insistent to be ignored.