Rina eyed the load once more. “Membership has its privileges, but I refuse to pull rank.” She smiled at the kids. “I hope you don’t mind being squashed for just a bit.”

The children were silent. Four of them—ages ranging from fifteen to five. Two boys with payis, dressed in black suits, white shirts, and big, black kippot that covered their scalp-shorn hair. The two girls had long plaits and wore long-sleeved, high-necked dresses over opaque tights. All of them were loaded down in heavy winter coats, sweating under their weight.

Guilt caused Rina’s eyes to linger on their dress.

Two years ago, Rina had made a radical decision. She had pulled her boys out of the black-hat yeshiva of Ohavei Torah and shipped them off to a modern Orthodox yeshiva in North Hollywood. There, secular education was an important part of the curriculum, and college wasn’t a dirty word. The boys were game, willing to give it a try since both were academically-minded. But during the transition, whenever Rina closed her eyes, she saw Yitzchak’s face. It was never a stern face—Yitzy was a gentleman and a gentle man. But it was a sad face.

She had changed since her first marriage, away from the insular black-hatted religious, toward the modern Orthodoxy she grew up with. Of course, she still covered her hair whenever she went out, but it was in a more modern way. Today, her head was topped with a knitted tam, her long black hair braided and tied into a knot. But the head covering didn’t obliterate all her natural hair. The tam was not as kosher as the shaytel she used to wear.

Her eyes drifted to Honey and her shaytel. The wig was a good one—thick and multicolored and slightly waffled. Very natural-looking. And it covered every inch of her hair.

Like the one Rina used to wear.

Both women were garbed in long-sleeved sweaters and over-the-knee skirts. Rina still refused to wear pants or go sleeveless. But she had changed. Her marrige to Peter had made her more modern, just as her marriage to Yitzchak had made her more Orthodox.

Honey took Rina’s confused expression as a chance to make contact. She scooped up Rina’s hands and swung them. It was an adolescent gesture and Rina was suddenly transported back to her teens. Honey still retained her girlish—almost boyish—figure. As thin and straight as a stick.

“Thanks for taking us in.”

“We’ll have fun,” Rina said.

Honey’s teal eyes beamed. “Fun. I like that word.” She turned to her kids, started to speak in Yiddish, then stopped herself with a giggle. “I’m not used to speaking English. Come on, kids. Let’s go.”

“They should probably take off their coats and lay them on their laps,” Rina suggested. “It’s going to be a tight fit as is.”

The children didn’t move.