A Candle for a Marine (Always a Marine) Read Free Page B

service. Your mother shares all of your accomplishments, and the kids always look for news of you—even if it is only the mention of a Marine in the paper, they always attribute it to you.” Somehow she managed a smile. “We have a whole wall in there covered with different articles and photos. They collect them, and it’s a matter of pride to add one to the wall. So, yes, I am inviting you to spend Hanukkah with these boys and girls. Some have no fathers, some have no mothers, and a few have neither. But here? Here they are all welcome. They are all siblings, and we are all a family.”
    A line appeared between his brows, and he took a step toward her. “Zehava, I shouldn’t have said that.” Contrition, not apology, scored under the deep-seated anger in his voice, lancing it like an infected wound.
    “Right or wrong, it has been said. You have a right to your anger.” Clasping her hands together kept her from fidgeting. She missed the way his hair used to curl over his forehead and the softness of his eyes. No matter how much she’d expected his reaction, it didn’t ease the laceration to her soul.
    “Maybe. I don’t have the right to be rude or to treat you badly.” He shut his eyes against the wintry sun shining down on them. “I imagined how this would go a hundred times.”
    Intrigued, she edged closer. They didn’t need to shout this conversation. Too many of their neighbors knew their history—the drawback of such a close-knit community. Secrets didn’t thrive. “How are we doing so far?”
    A chuckle rumbled out of him, hard and reluctant, but humorous nonetheless. “Pretty bad.”
    Biting the inside of her lip, she fought a smile. “It is good to see you, Isaac.”
    He said nothing for so long, she thought he might have to reach to find a similar sentiment. When he opened his eyes, the raw pain reflected in them tore her apart. “I missed you, Z. Thanks for the invitation, but I need to go. Be safe.” And he turned and walked away.
    Mute, she blinked back tears. Thankfully no one saw her lose the battle or the hasty swipes of her hand as she tried to keep the dampness from tracking down her cheeks. Nothing about Isaac had been easy. She should never have expected seeing him again to be anything but difficult.
    Unlocking the center doors, she focused on opening the blinds, and setting up the tables. When Shabbat services ended, many families would go to lunch. Many more would have to go to work, and their children would come to her.
    Activity books, crayons, markers, and blocks went in one room. Sports equipment, some dilapidated and some new, went in another. The center would be open until after sundown when the children would go home. She would teach her painting classes, tutor those who needed help with homework or projects. She would referee games and settle disputes when the hardheads got into it with each other.
    All of this she decided as the ritual of getting the community center ready to open helped calm her jangled nerves. She would not think about Isaac, or the choices they made, or the child she’d given up for adoption. Yet, the harder she tried not to think about it, the quicker the thoughts came to mind.
    Walking to the front doors and pushing them wide, she used wooden wedges to brace them open and waited for the children to arrive. When their chatter crashed over her, maybe it would drown out the bleak thoughts and too-loud questions banging around in her head.
    She couldn’t help but stare up the street toward the Jankos’ where Isaac had disappeared. He was right there—within reach, and harder to reach than when he’d been thousands of miles away.
    “Z!” The high-pitched yell of the five-year-old racing toward her drove the melancholy from her mind.
    She smiled. “ Shabbat shalom , Alicia.” Bidding the child the traditional greeting and a peaceful Sabbath steadied Zehava.
    “ Shabbat shalom !” The girl bounced and threw her arms around her. Zehava hugged her