Part of it was fever. He should have made time for the doctor yesterday. He was out of penicillin and infection was worming its way back into his system. But mostly it was Rina. She was sitting across from him and he had never seen such physical perfection. She always looked lovely on Shabbos, but not like this. He was in awe. Her hair was tied in a formal knot, outlining her magnificent bone structure. Two feathers of gold dangled from her earlobes and brushed against her creamy cheeks whenever she turned her head. Her cerulean eyes seemed deeper, more mysterious, her lips full and red. She was dressed modestly—long sleeves and a midcalf hemline, but the rounded neck of her chemise revealed the graceful arch of her throat and the fine architecture underneath. He didn’t dare let his eyes meet hers because if he did, the others at the table would know what he was thinking.

He picked up his knife and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, knowing it would be rude to leave so much food on his plate. Taking a forkful, he began to chew with effort.

Rabbi Marcus was giving a Dvar Torah. This time it was a discourse on the weekly biblical portion. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, black tie, and black Borsalino. From under his shirt hung tzitzis-fringes. The other married men at the table were dressed identically; all had full beards.

Smoothing his mustache, Decker rubbed his naked chin self-consciously. His lack of total facial hair wasn’t the only thing that set him apart from the others. His coloring was a sanguine splash amid a sea of brunettes and his navy suit looked more executive than rabbinical. Even his kipah, smaller and knitted, wasn’t like the large black velvet ones covering the heads of the three unmarried yeshiva students.

The women’s dress was more varied than that of the men, and although they wore no makeup, they sparkled with jewelry.

Marcus began to speak animately, his stern eyes ablaze with passion, as he brought home his point. Decker tried to listen intently, but the mixture of English and Hebrew confused him and his right arm ached. The pain increased when he noticed the cold stare of Marcus’s wife, Chana, drilling into him. She was the biggest busybody he’d ever known, and he disliked her intensely. Her stony eyes marched back and forth between him and Rina—a self-appointed watchdog making sure nothing unholy transpired.

He’d made it through half his roast beef. The meat was delicious, but it sat like a stone in his belly. He sneaked a furtive glance at Rina, who met his eyes questioningly. He knew what she was thinking. Are you okay, Peter?