Chapter 5 | A Wedding by the Sea #2
“Usually,” he said, eyes returning to the canopy. Then, almost idly, “But you—you hate it when someone tells you the truth.”
The words stung more than I wanted to admit. I fixed my gaze ahead as the blessings braided to their end and the crowd erupted in cheers.
Salome slipped to my side. “Come,” she said, voice warm as bread. “You’ll not wander the streets looking for an inn. Malka has an extra mat ready for you.”
“I couldn’t impose,” I began.
“Do you ever accept help?” James’s voice drifted from behind us.
“James,” Salome warned without turning. Then to me, softer, “It’s no bother, child.”
I hesitated, the old reflex to refuse anything not earned rising—and then, tired, I let it go—and nodded.
Salome lifted a hand and Malka swept over like a storm of laughter and sunshine. “You called?”
“Malka will see you looked after,” Salome said.
Malka nodded. “Extra mat’s upstairs, and the cart goes in the back lane.”
Malka winked at Salome as she wrapped her large arm around my shoulder. “Come, little vine. I’ll see you safely nested.”
We started across the courtyard, threading between guests and platters. Near the stone archway leading into the courtyard, I glimpsed the woman arranging blossoms again, her profile so like the bride’s that my mouth moved before my thought.
“Liora?”
She turned, and I saw my mistake—not Liora at all, but another woman with the same kind face and soft gaze.
Her mouth curved. “I’m Dinah,” she said, amusement softening the correction.
“My sister Liora is the beauty with the patient smile. I’m the one who always smells of my miracle soaps and keeps an extra loaf in her basket.
” She patted her stomach, unbothered and warm.
Heat rose to my face. “Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive,” she said easily. She reached to straighten the edge of my shawl, already tending to me as her own. “I heard you brought the wine alone. You must be tired.” She glanced over my shoulder. “Malka, you’ll ensure she rests?”
“Against her will, if necessary,” Malka called back, grinning.
We turned—and walked straight into the beautiful bride herself, her veil catching for a moment on the archway’s rough stone. Up close, she was lovelier than at a distance, though not for the reasons people name. There was a steadiness in her presence that quieted the noise around her.
“Your wine is perfect,” she said, reaching for my hands with a gratitude that surprised me. “My ima told me you brought it yourself.”
“It’s my work,” I said, awkward with the praise.
Why was it so surprising I came alone?
I’m a capable woman. Not a flower.
“It is kindness,” she answered. “May your house be watered in the dry months, and your hands never lack strength.” Her smile reached her eyes. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”
I opened my mouth, closed it again. “I—Salome has found me a place to sleep.”
“With Malka,” Malka supplied, bumping my shoulder affectionately. “Where the snores are musical and the figs are always close by.”
Mira laughed, the sound small and glad. “Then you’re well kept. Peace to you, Talia.”
“And to you,” I said. The warmth again surprised me.
Why did everyone insist on taking care of me?
They didn’t even know me.
We slipped into the lane. Capernaum hummed around us—salt and smoke and sweet spice drifting from open doorways. I looked down and saw a drift of fish scales along the stones, glinting bright where the moon touched them.
Malka talked as we walked, her voice untroubled by the press of people.
“Here,” she said at last, ducking beneath a low lintel. “Up these steps. Mind the second—she complains.”
We climbed to a small upper room overlooking the market lane. A fig basket sat like a proud queen in the corner; quilts were stacked neatly; a clay lamp waited with oil already poured.
“It’s simple,” Malka said, hands on hips, “but the roof doesn’t leak and the neighbors sing in key. Mostly.”
“It’s more than I expected,” I admitted.
She peered at me. “You think expecting little saves you from disappointment. Does it?”
I didn’t answer.
“Hm.” Malka rummaged, then thrust a cup into my hand. “Water with a kiss of pomegranate. Sit.” She waited until I did. “You carry yourself like a soldier. Even your silence is armored.”
“I work,” I said. “It keeps the vineyard alive.”
“It keeps you alive,” she corrected gently. “Different thing.” She leaned an elbow on the sill, watching lamps wink to life along the lane. “I like you, Talia. You’re bristly, but you don’t scratch. You remind me of a vine that thinks it must hold up its own trellis.”
“Someone has to,” I said before I could swallow it. “And why is that wrong? Me working so hard, me trying to hold everything together?”
Malka’s smile softened. “It isn’t wrong, dear. But who tends to you? When you shoulder everything, you rob others of the chance to help. Some of us like being useful.” She tipped her head. “You do, too—you take pride in your work, in doing it right. Why take that from others?”
“I suppose I had not thought of it in that way,” I said. “I only prefer things done the right way—my way. I do not see that as a bad thing.”
Malka nodded, not pressing the point.
After that, we fell into a companionable quiet. From the street below rose the scrape of a lyre, the clap of hands, the lilt of women’s laughter flowing out and back like the tide. Somewhere far off, a fisherman called to another, voice carrying across the dark water.
“Do you know them well?” I asked, surprising myself. “Zebedee’s family. Mira.”
“I know them enough,” Malka said. “They love loudly and forgive quickly. It offends some and heals others. You’ll decide which sort you are.”
After a moment she said, almost idly, “That one who lifted your jars like feathers—James. He’s a thunderhead. Storm on the outside, rain where it matters.”
“I didn’t ask about him,” I said.
“You didn’t have to.” She bumped my shoulder again. “Sleep, little vine. Tomorrow your road is long.”
When she rose to douse the lamp, I crossed to the window once more.
The sea lay beyond the roofs, breathing quietly.
From the courtyard we had left, a cheer rose and fell, and I pictured Mira’s veil catching lamplight, Liora’s hands steady on a platter, Dinah’s sharp eyes missing nothing, Salome’s laugh ringing like a bell.
In our house, love kept its voice low. Here, it reached for you without asking, and fragile hearts were fortified, not weakened. It felt like another world. Far away from the comfort of my vineyard tucked away from all these noisy, love-drunk people.
Malka blew out the lamp, and the room slipped into soft blue shadow. I lay down on the woven mat, the quilt smelling faintly of figs and sun, and for the first time in a long while, the ledger in my mind closed its pages without a fight.