Frieda said, “And if he doesn’t want to see me, tell him I love him, I always have. And tell him I’m sorry…so very sorry.”

7

The next day, Rosh Hashanah services lasted from eight in the morning to two-thirty in the afternoon. Never much of a churchgoer in childhood, Decker wasn’t much of a synagogue goer either. But today he was grateful for every minute of delay. Less time to spend with people, specifically with her.

There was no purpose for flight now. His secret—so long buried, so seldom acknowledged even to himself—was violated. He knew and she knew. No one else knew of course, except Rina.

Rina, the go-between—a luckless role. She had played her part with aplomb and diplomacy.

She’ll do whatever you want, Peter.

What does she want to do?

She wants to talk to you.

I don’t want to talk to her.

That’s fine.

Then she doesn’t want to talk to me.

No, Peter, Rina had explained patiently. She does want to talk to you, but she doesn’t want to force you to do something you’re not ready to do.

I’m not ready? Decker had whispered incredulously. I’m not ready? I was the one who’d put my friggin name on the list. I was the one who was willing to be contacted. Now she’s saying I’m not ready?

Rina sighed, gave him a “please don’t kill the messenger” look. Maternally, she patted his hand and said, Think about it, Peter.

The upshot: He decided to eat lunch with her—and her family, knowing that the amount of contact she and he would have would be minimal.

Half of him wondered: Why am I doing this? His other half answered: Because you’re curious, jerk. That’s why you started this whole thing rolling twenty-three years ago.

He was curious. As they started back from shul, her sons at his side, he couldn’t help but sneak sidelong glances at them. The detective in him—trying to find any signs of physical commonality.

The oldest was Shimon, the one Rina had called good-looking. He was a handsome man—solid, strong features. Decker put his age at around thirty-eight: There was a gray coursing through his trimmed black beard. Decker’s own facial hair was full of rusty pigment, not a streak of white anywhere. For some reason that gave him an odd sense of superiority—as if his paternal genes were better. Although Shimon was dark, his pink cheeks—probably tinted from the cold—gave his face a splash of color. He stood about five eleven, had black hair and brown eyes, and was built with muscle—he and Decker had that much in common. In keeping with tradition, he was wearing his white holiday robe over his black suit. His kittel was a nice one—white embroidery on white silk.