“Sorry.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. Turned her back to him, began unpacking groceries. “You shouldn’t be here. I can’t be alone with you, you know that.”

“But it’s okay to be alone with me in a car?”

“I can’t believe you’re actually equating then to now! Also, a car’s a public place. My house isn’t. Besides, one aveyrah doesn’t make another one permissible.”

“Then let’s take a walk.”

She faced him, trying to control her hostility. “I don’t want to take a walk. I have work to do.”

Bram went over to the back door and opened it. “Okay?”

Rina bit back her waspish tongue, angry that he was snowing her with his knowledge of the Jewish laws. A man and a woman couldn’t be alone in a closed room for modesty reasons unless, of course, they were married. Opening an outside door, turning private quarters into a public domain, made it technically allowable for them to be together. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “What?”

“Can I sit down?”

“Do whatever you want.” She returned her attention to her groceries. Then stopped, counted to five. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Bram sat at the kitchen table, pulled out an envelope of photographs from his pocket. “Before I forget, I was going through my closets at the rectory. Thought you might like to have these.”

Rina took the pictures, scanned through them.

Old snapshots. Ancient history. Shmueli must have been around four. He was sitting on Yitzy’s lap. In front of them was a simple Hebrew storybook—a child’s version of Lech Le’cha, the third chapter of Genesis, the story of Abraham’s calling. Shmueli was pointing to a passuk, a line of text, his face bunched in concentration.

Yitzy’s narrow face appeared serene, a spiritual glow in his eyes, his complexion pale but not pasty. His generous mouth held a small approving smile, his hand wrapped tightly around his son’s waist. Amazing how sketchy he had become in her mind. How she had once been married to such a healthy, handsome man. There were three pictures of that same scene.

Then two more of another pose. A tiny Yaakov riding Yitzy’s shoulders, his little hands holding on to Yitzy’s sandy-colored beard. In the background was a young woman wearing a long skirt and a tichel.

Had she ever been that young? Had that ever been her life? She found her throat had tightened, couldn’t look at the remaining snapshots. She stuffed them all back into the envelope.

“Thank you, I’ll put them in the boys’ photo albums. They’ll appreciate them very much.”

“You’re welcome.”