Nick came back and reported that the owner of the shop was on her way with a supply of flowers to redo the bouquets. They waited inside the van with the air-conditioning on full blast. When Noa’s phone rang again, it was Leonard, and she let it ring through to voice mail. She imagined him where he was, standing on the tell at dusk. The hill beneath his feet had been man-made by slow accumulation: layers of life and its destruction, continuous from 7000 BC to biblical times. The jewel in the crown of biblical archaeology! as he never let anyone forget.
No other site in Israel possessed more Bronze or Iron Age monuments, he told the students at the start of every summer. As he looked south across the Jezreel Valley, his eyes would come to rest on the distant blue hills of Samaria, and the view produced a flicker of agitation: to think of the wealth of secrets buried there, off-limits, not be touched in his lifetime! From atop the tell, Leonard left her a message. She didn’t need to listen to it to know what it said. But she was not going to the Berkowitzes’.
Nick took out rolling papers and a tin box of weed. He pinched up a clump, worked it between his fingers, and sprinkled the fragrant grass into the fold of the paper. She didn’t usually like getting high, but she was bored and annoyed enough to take a few hits. The smoke burned her throat, but soon her chest relaxed and lightness filled her head.
When she had to go to the bathroom, she got out of the van and headed toward the house. The enormous front door was propped open, and the catering staff sailed hurriedly in and out. She stopped one with a box of Beaujolais on his shoulder and asked for directions to the bathroom. “Ask in the kitchen,” he said, gesturing toward the interior.
It was dark and cool there. Through the leaded-glass windows of the library, the garden was a blur of muted greens. She made her way down the oak-paneled corridor, everything at a greater remove than usual. Trying the first door she came to, she discovered a closet full of golf clubs. Soon she came to the kitchen, which was bustling with activity. Three chefs in white paper hats and checked pants were giving orders to the rest of the staff. No one even glanced at her; they were cooking for two hundred and fifty. Noa continued down the hall until she came to a wide-carpeted staircase. The need to pee was now urgent, and, emboldened by the weed, she went up.
An antique console with a rounded belly and claw feet guarded the landing. On its marble top, photos were displayed of a girl at nine, twelve, sixteen. A little farther on was a doorway, and through it Noa glimpsed the gleaming brass of a faucet. She hurried in, locked the door behind her, and sank with relief onto the toilet, kicking off her sandals. She sat there for a while, relaxing in peace. Through the wall she heard laughter, though it might have been crying. If she ever married, she would elope, she decided. Or have the wedding at a dive, someplace that didn’t suggest any expectation. It seemed only to be asking for trouble, a wedding like this.