A Candle for a Marine (Always a Marine) (5 page)

She tried not to examine her uneasiness and fear too closely. After all, she’d intended to invite Isaac to Hanukkah. She
had
invited him. He’d turned her down. Prepared to try once more to reach out and attempt the connection, she’d honestly never believed he would want anything to do with her.

Ever
.

The center doors stood wide open. It might be the middle of November, but the day had turned lovely with temperatures in the sixties and only a chilly breeze in the shade. Isaac stood in the courtyard, arms folded, having a tense discussion with a pair of high school boys—neither of whom would meet his eye.

Frowning, she scanned the side of the building and saw a splotch on the painted wall—a splotch that shouldn’t be there. Plastic bags in hand, she walked over to inspect it and nudged a can of spray paint with her foot. Another glance toward Isaac, and she found both boys scuffing their shoes against the ground and shifting uneasily. The mild censure on Isaac’s face told her everything.

One of the teens spotted her, and she recognized Alan, one of her volunteers. Hope of rescue filled his expression. She lifted her eyebrows as though considering the idea. “Isaac?”

“Yes, Z?”

Alan and his buddy both perked up as she circled toward them and paused at the open doors. “You have everything under control?”

“Absolutely. These two just volunteered to take care of repainting all of the siding—except for your wall of course—and doing regular maintenance work here. Haven’t you, gentlemen?”

If it wouldn’t have completely destroyed the lesson Isaac appeared to be doling out, Zehava might have laughed at the mutual crestfallen looks on the boys’ faces. “That’s wonderful.
Thank
you, boys. I’m so proud of you for truly embracing the spirit of
forgiveness
and
charity
.”

Alan reddened and ducked his head again. His friend shifted uncomfortably and the silence stretched out until he glanced uneasily at Isaac. “You’re w-welcome…ma’am…sir,” he stammered.

Shoulders drooping, Alan cleared his throat. “Would you like us to get started today?”

“Excellent idea.” Isaac pointed the two toward the center. “Go get your supplies.”

The teens shuffled in front of him obediently enough, and Isaac stopped when he reached her side. “Can you fix what they did to your mural?”

“Yes.” Fortunately, isolated to a very small area, the damage would only need to be cleaned and retextured. “Thank you.”

“I’m only sorry I didn’t get out here to stop them before they touched it.” Taking charge of the few groceries she’d purchased, he gave her a gentle nudge toward the mural when the boys appeared with buckets, sponges, and cleaning supplies. “Go take care of that. I’ll get these two to work. We’ll talk about any other chores you can find to keep me busy and out of your hair once I’ve gotten them started.” The wink he salted on the end of that delivery didn’t ease the guilt stabbing her.

Her face warmed, and it was her turn to stare at her shoes. She giggled, mirroring the teens’ earlier behavior, and bit her upper lip trying to contain the sound. Her gaze collided with Isaac’s. A fresh wave of heat rolled over her and had nothing to do with embarrassment.

“Guilty and I’m sorry.”

“Understandable and forgiven. But I still want my pizza.”

She laughed—maybe they could be friends again. “Deal. Give me fifteen minutes?”

“Done.”

The fifteen minutes turned out to be a very optimistic observation. Kids began arriving early, and soon she had a group of young artists working with paints, pencils, and crayons in one room, while a second group played video games in another. With sundown less than an hour away, Isaac pulled her aside and held out two small boxes with pizza slices in them.

They ate as quickly as they could around an array of interruptions, including two arguments that needed immediate remediation. The children and teens proved to be as fascinated by Isaac as she’d warned him, every single one finding an excuse to come in and talk to him. Standing in the tiny kitchen, scarfing down pizza while kids yelled, chatted, and laughed around them felt so utterly normal.

So why was she waiting for the other shoe to drop?

“
Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah
.” Her gift with Hebrew far exceeded his own, and he could listen to her all night. Thankfully, she also translated it into English. “Blessed are You, O Lord, our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has sanctified us with Your commandments and commanded us to kindle the lights of Hanukkah.”

Zehava sat in the center of the floor, surrounded by over a dozen children ranging in ages from five to seventeen, including the pair of troublemakers who’d worked all afternoon whitewashing the center. They’d done a decent job and when they asked permission to stay and light their menorahs, no one objected. Many of the children who’d been there earlier had already gone home so they could celebrate at sundown with their parents, but those with no other option stayed…more than Isaac cared to see. Their parents were working or on their way home.

She offered three more prayers before lighting her
Shamash
, the center candle from which all the other candles would be lit. Isaac knelt down and lit his
Shamash
from hers before carrying it around to light each of the children’s, and stopping nearest the youngest. While they were most certainly included, they didn’t need to have any accidents.

“Tonight we will light our first candle. We will relight them each evening until the end of Hanukkah. If you have an evening where you will be home with your families or can’t be here—we will light your candles for you.” Zehava offered the promise.

When everyone had a
Shamash
, she touched the flame to the wick of the only candle on her menorah, the one farthest to the right. The children repeated her gestures, and Isaac waited until they were done before he lit his. Excitement rippled through the kids, because this was only the first part of celebrating Hanukkah.

Zehava rose and carried her menorah over to the tables on the far side of the room they’d cleared earlier. One at a time, the children followed, setting theirs side by side. It was a beautiful effect in the low-lit room with darkness draping the sky—warm and homey.

She turned to the kids who’d fallen into a semicircle around her. Their expressions ranged from expectant to eager. Rather than just give the children what they wanted, she lifted her brows and Isaac had to swallow a laugh.

“Yes?”

Her question rippled over the kids and they shifted, uncertainty warring with expectation. Alice, a kindergartener, edged forward and held her hand out, palm up.

Zehava’s brows climbed higher, and she met the little girl’s gaze without blinking. The woman would make a hell of a poker player. The stare-off continued for another three heartbeats until Alice’s hand trembled.

Playfully, Zehava sighed and pulled out a very large, gold-foil wrapped coin. Alice let out a little squeal. Zehava dropped the chocolate
gelt
into her hand and the little girl danced in a circle. That was Isaac’s cue, and he joined her in the center of a throng of eager children. Zehava handed out the chocolate coins while he passed out real ones.

Once the children were satisfied they’d received all the
gelt
they were going to for the evening, the music came on, and they divided their time between games and art projects. Within the hour parents arrived to collect them. He stood next to Zehava while she waved the last child on her way and nudged her shoulder with his.

“Hmm?” She still smiled as she tilted her head up to him.

The urge to kiss her slammed into him with the force of a fifty-caliber recoil. He ignored it and asked, “Where’s my
gelt
?”

The simple joy in her sobered. “I do have something for you. Something I want to share…but I don’t want to piss you off again.”

Dropping his chin to his chest, he considered the hesitancy underscoring her tone. “Once upon a time, you could have told me anything.”

“Yes, that’s true. It’s been a long time, Isaac. I don’t want to make this any harder on us—on you—than it already has been.” A hint of sureness entered her tone and mingled with concern. Her deeply compassionate nature always brought out his more protective instincts and that evening proved to be no exception.

“You don’t have to protect me from pain, Z. If you want to talk to me about him, then I promise I will listen.” He couldn’t promise much more; his earlier aggravation and reaction would make any other assurance a lie. His gut clenched. A part of him really didn’t want to have the conversation. He wanted to forget it, yet how could he? The longer it festered, the worse it would be.

So man up, Marine, and listen
.

The silence stretched out between them, and he forced patience while she studied him. Whatever she sought must have satisfied her because she held out her hand. “I want to share something I do every Hanukkah. Normally I do it alone, but you’re here and I want—I
need
to do it with you this year.”

Mild alarm rang through him and he ignored that as well, in favor of taking her hand. Her fingers threaded through his and the palm to palm clasp soothed him like a warm embrace. “Okay,” he said, the only word he could push out past the emotion clogging his throat. She tugged and he followed her into the community center, curiosity and dread an uncomfortable cocktail in his system.

Once inside, she hit the light switch and he shut the doors. Since the center should be closed, he went ahead and turned the lock. He didn’t need any unpleasant surprises walking in on them. Zehava gave his hand a squeeze then, releasing him, headed to the table with all of the menorahs. Wary, but curious, he followed.

“He was born in summer.” The words crashed down on him, and he was grateful her back was to him so he had time to absorb the blow and mitigate his reaction. “Our son, I mean,” she explained as though he might need the clarification.

His jaw hurt from clamping it shut, but he kept it closed. He couldn’t guarantee what would come out because the old anger roused like a bad case of heartburn to claw at his insides.

Squatting, Zehava pulled another menorah from beneath the table and set it on top. She ducked down again and took out two fresh candles. “I held him for a couple of hours after his birth.” The words were so soft he had to strain to hear them. “It took that long for the adopting family to arrive at the hospital. Mama stayed with me. She never said a word about the decision, in favor or against.”

Muscles cramping, he folded his arms and forced himself to stay exactly in place. The urge to storm out warred with the urge to hold her—both intent on tearing him apart. Maintaining his position was the best he could manage.

“I held him and I made him a promise. Well, a promise and a wish, actually.” Her voice trembled. “The first was I wished for him to have the best life he could have, with a wealth of opportunity, and a family who loved him. Both the parents who adopted him, and of course, the parents who gave him life.”

Hell opened up beneath Isaac and bellowed its fire through his soul. He stayed firm and didn’t give in to the need to slam his fist into the wall until it broke, or his knuckles did. He didn’t want to hear her damn story.

Yet, he desperately hung on every word.

“The second promise was I would light the menorah for him every year and remember him and pray for him. The first Hanukkah after his birth was very hard, but I kept my promise. I think I cried every night I lit the candles for him.” She twisted finally and looked at Isaac. “Would you light it with me this year?”

She held her breath after asking the question that had danced around in her mind all evening. Never had she felt so connected and yet utterly divided from the same person in the same moment. He stared at her, his expression inscrutable save for the muscle flexing in his jaw.

“Yes.”

The one word answer, single, rough, and raw, let her exhale and she fought a wave of dizzying relief. She held a candle out to him with trembling fingers. Isaac remained rooted in place, posture rigid. With agonizing slowness, he walked forward, until his hand closed on hers, steadying the shaking candle. Gentle as a breeze, he spun her, and they put the candle in position.

He didn’t let go of her, caging her slender fingers in a surprisingly careful grip. The trembling rippled upward until all of her quaked. Eight years had shrunk and stripped away, leaving her vulnerable to the past.

“The
Shamash
, Z.”

The murmured reminder jolted her and she rolled the wax candle between her fingers and held it up. He didn’t release her, but caught the end with his free hand and they lit from one of the other
Shamash
candles. “Do you…say anything, or just light it?”

Some dark emotion thickened his voice and her throat clogged with unshed tears. She fought for control, because what she’d asked from him wasn’t about her. “I do whatever feels natural,” she whispered, unwilling to release the hiccupping sob pushing up from her heart.

He sucked in a noisy breath of air. “Then I pray he always walks in sunshine and when night falls, he has a brother at his back.”

The weight of his expectation pressed down on her. “I pray he knows the simple joys of friendship and community, and that he never feels lonely.” She’d murmured that prayer for many years. Thankfully Isaac’s hand proved far steadier than hers, and they lit the first candle together.

Tears filmed her vision, and the flames wavered dangerously. Isaac settled the
Shamash
in the center and a cloak of silence wrapped around them. She thought he would let her go after but, if anything, his grip tightened.

“Tell me.” The request was so low it approached inaudible.

Stomach tying in knots, she dared a glance up and met his steady gaze. “All of it?”