Rebekah (18 page)

But she did not voice the question. She somehow knew that saying even this much had cost him. Did he trust no one? How many in the camp knew what had happened to him? Was he keeping it secret from only her?

“I hope someday you will feel comfortable enough to tell it.” She lifted both hands to sift through his hair, pulled him toward her, and kissed him, surprising them both at her boldness. She laughed, and he joined her.

“Thank you, my love.” His smile took her breath. “Someday I will not only tell you, but I will take you to the place where it all began.” He kissed her again, and she responded in kind.

Rebekah smoothed the rumpled lines from her robe and tried to stifle a shudder as the beat of the wedding drum filled the camp. Flutes and lyres and the sounds of many voices took
up the song of blessing, the one that marked the end of their wedding week. She waited at the tent’s door behind Isaac’s taller frame. He turned and reached for her hand.

“Are you ready?” His look held all of the love he had expressed to her in the past seven days, and the mirth in his smile was one she had happily come to expect.

“I am ready.” Heat moved from her neck to her cheeks, and she almost wished for the veil of her maidenhood to hide behind.

He nodded once and touched her cheek. “You are beautiful, as always.” He rested his hand on her shoulder and offered her a reassuring squeeze.

Loud cheers erupted as he emerged from the tent, and Rebekah heard the familiar sounds of boisterous back slapping along with Haviv’s deep voice and Eliezer’s mellow laughter. She waited, her breath shallow, until she reminded herself to breathe deeply. The male banter continued, but the voices grew more distant, and still she waited.

At last the music changed to a higher pitch, and the chatter of women’s voices came close to the tent. She drew a calming breath, lifted the flap, and stepped into bright sunlight.

“There she is!” Selima’s squeal made her laugh, and she caught her maid in a quick embrace. Deborah’s arms came around her soon after, and Eliezer’s wife Lila, his daughters, and even Keturah hurried to her side.

“When this last feast is over, I want you to tell me everything,” Selima whispered after the women had ushered her to the central fire, set her on a cushioned seat beside Isaac, and brought trays of food for them to eat.

Rebekah glanced at Isaac, whose look held secrets shared and knowledge she knew she could tell no one. But she indulged Selima with a smile. “Perhaps not everything.” At the girl’s pout, Rebekah touched her arm. “But we will talk.” She accepted the tray from a servant, then turned to face Isaac.

Plucking a date from the tray, she touched it to her lips, then placed it in Isaac’s mouth. He accepted her offering, the symbol of a promise that she would do all in her power to keep him well fed. He chewed slowly as the music played around them. Women danced, twirling to the rhythm of timbrels and shaking of sistrums, but Isaac appeared not to notice. His mouth quirked in a knowing smile as he tossed the pit into the fire.

His hand closed over a thick piece of sheep cheese. He touched it to his lips, then held it to her mouth. She nibbled the end—his promise to provide for her from his flocks and herds. She took another bite but let him finish the large chunk, a joint promise to use each provision wisely.

Eliezer handed Isaac a golden chalice, and he took a long drink from the fruit of the vine. He touched his mouth with the back of his hand, then tipped the cup toward her. She drank as well, peeking over the rim to hold his steady, loving gaze.

“At last it is done!”

Eliezer’s shout was followed by the long blast of a ram’s horn. The singing and dancing and feasting would last until nightfall.

She felt Isaac’s arm come around her, and she relaxed against his shoulder, smiling. She looked up and straightened at Abraham’s approach. Isaac’s arm fell away, and he stood.

“Father.” Isaac offered Abraham the seat next to them, helping him settle before sitting beside her once more.

“Thank you, my son.” He leaned forward, holding his staff, and looked at her. “And you, my daughter.” He smiled at them both. “Now I can die in peace, knowing you have someone to watch over you.”

Isaac bristled at his father’s words, and Rebekah sensed that this was only part of the friction between the two men. “I hardly need someone to watch over me, Father.” Isaac’s
voice was low, barely heard between them with the heavy music and laughter of the crowd.

Abraham patted Isaac’s knee as though he were a small boy. “No, no, of course not, my son. I only meant that now I can rest, knowing that you have someone to share your life with, someone to continue the line of Adonai’s promise.” His smile was soft, but his face held a distant, pensive expression. “Your mother would have been pleased.” He faced Rebekah, and she wondered how she could help strengthen the peace between father and son.

Isaac stiffened, though Rebekah knew his father meant only good.

“I should have liked to have met Isaac’s mother,” she said, holding Abraham’s gaze. “You must have loved her very much.” She slipped a hand in Isaac’s and squeezed, hoping to breach whatever wall had so suddenly been erected.

“You would have loved my Sarah. She was a passionate, giving woman”—he glanced at Isaac—“albeit a protective one.” His look grew wistful, and he smiled at something unseen. He shifted to face Isaac, his knuckles whitening on the staff. “She loved me well, even through our differences. I hope you both know half the love I had with your mother. None other compared to her or could replace her.”

“I hope so too,” Rebekah said before Isaac could respond. “Isaac has told me enough about her to know that I hope to please him as much as she pleased you.” She smiled, hoping Isaac would not resent her interference. She was relieved when she caught the twinkle in his eye and felt the reassurance of his fingers encasing hers. “I trust that someday you can sit down and tell me about her as well, my father.”

The lines on Abraham’s face softened, and he released a deep sigh. He glanced beyond them, and Rebekah looked to where Keturah stood near her tent’s opening, holding her youngest son in her arms. The woman was beautiful but much
younger than Isaac’s father, young enough to be Isaac’s wife. Had Abraham’s marriage to this lesser concubine bothered Isaac? Had Isaac suffered jealousy that his father would marry while he was forced to wait?

She glanced at her husband, seeing the slight tensing of his jaw, then looked again at Abraham and wondered if her father-in-law had any real affection for Keturah or her sons.

“At week’s end, we will be leaving for Beer-lahai-roi, Father.”

Isaac’s words brought her gaze back to his, and she heard Abraham’s quick intake of breath.

“So soon, my son?” Yet his comment did not indicate surprise, and his look held silent resignation.

Isaac ran a hand over his jaw, and his expression filled with sudden weariness. “It would be better for your sons to have you to themselves, Father. You have much to teach them, and Rebekah does not need to share her place with your wife.”

“There is much you could do to help me,” Abraham said. “I do not have the strength to teach them as I taught you.”

The admission made Rebekah look to her husband.

“I am not their father,” he said.

How many times had father and son had this discussion? Though Isaac was old enough to be father to each one of Keturah’s sons, he obviously did not want the job of raising his brothers. Did he resent their entrance into his life?

“Of course not,” Abraham said with sudden vehemence. “I take full responsibility for that. I had only hoped you might teach the older ones to hunt—”

“You would be better off entreating Ishmael to do such a thing.”

Abraham gave his son a sharp look. “That comment is unjustified and you know it. You are as good a hunter as any of my men. And I have not seen Ishmael in years.”

“Perhaps it is time you sought him out.”

Abraham stared at his son, and Rebekah grew still at the
silent war going on between them. She searched her mind for something, anything, to say to help ease the tension, but could find nothing.

“I am old, Isaac. I ask for your help because I want to keep you near me. Is this such a hard thing to understand?”

Abraham’s words drew Rebekah’s sympathies.

“No, Father, of course not.” She heard the words come out of her mouth but could not believe she had been the one to utter them. Heat infused her cheeks, and she could not meet Isaac’s eyes, fearing she would see the disapproval she already felt from him. “That is, I do not see a reason why we could not stay for another week or so to help you.” Her cheeks burned at the lift of Abraham’s brow, and when she finally drew courage to glance at Isaac, she lowered her gaze, consumed by the fire in his dark eyes.

“I am sorry,” she said, wishing she could run to her tent and hide. “I spoke without thinking.”

The ensuing silence grew thick, churning her stomach. Indeed, she did not feel well and wished she could escape, yet feared that if she did so, she would add another insult to the offense she had already caused.

“I will spend some time with Zimran and Jokshan before we leave at week’s end.”

Isaac’s tone sounded conciliatory, but Rebekah still could not look up at either man, and Isaac did not move to touch her, to reassure her that all was forgiven.

“But I cannot stay longer. I have sheep shearing at Beer-lahai-roi in less than a month.”

The music momentarily stopped, and women hurried to spread the final wedding feast before them.

“Thank you, my son,” Abraham said as he pushed himself up with the help of his staff. “We will talk again.”

She watched her father-in-law walk away and turn toward his tent, though they had yet to eat of the feast.

“Will he be back to join us?” Rebekah looked at Isaac, praying she would see compassion in his eyes. But they were hard as flint and fixed on her with a look she had never seen.

“Do not speak for me again.”

His voice was low but firm, filling her with shame. She had only meant to appease his father. Was that so wrong? And yet she knew by Isaac’s reaction that she could not step into the role of peacemaker without offending one of them.

“I am sorry, my lord. Forgive me.” She studied her toes peeking out of her jeweled leather sandals. “I only meant to ease the tension between you.” Her words came out hoarse and strained, and she wished she could have this discussion in the privacy of their tent. Would he share her tent again this night? “Sometimes I speak too quickly.”

She risked a glance at him, caught the faint hint of a smile lift one corner of his mouth. His eyes held sudden understanding, kindness even.

“I have noticed.” His look held her captive, and she released a short sigh as his expression softened further. “But you do me harm when you make a decision without consulting me, especially when it contradicts what I have just said.”

She swallowed, and the sick feeling churned once more inside of her. “I did not realize. I would never seek your harm, my lord. Not ever.”

“My father does not like to see me leave. He would have me live in his camp until I take over all of his affairs. But he has already given me charge of his flocks and herds, and they require that I live where there is more space for them to roam and graze. All he has here are his wife and sons, and there is little I can do to help him in that respect. Nor do I want to.”

It was more than he had said to her regarding his duties or his feelings for his half brothers, and she felt chastened, chagrined that he would tell her only because she had goaded him by her brash words.

“I should have respected your decision,” she whispered. “I am used to my father indulging my opinion, and my brothers were no match for my wit.” Her smile was rueful, and she wondered how much harm her father and brothers had done her by not being men of greater character and strength.

Isaac did not immediately respond, and she realized that she would have to adjust to his pensive and quiet moments, to his pondering and his comfort with the silence she despised.

Did she despise it? If nothing else, she needed to fill it, but she held her tongue, waiting, watching him.

“You will find I am a man of great patience, Rebekah, but a man without respect, especially respect from his own wife and for himself, is a man easily swayed by the opinions of others. And easily discouraged.”

He paused, and she ached for him, wishing she had never opened her mouth to speak, had simply listened and learned. But it was too late to retract her words.

“I would earn your respect, Rebekah, but in the meantime, I would ask you to offer it freely until I can prove to you that I deserve it.” He smiled and reached for her hand. “Can you accept that?”

“Oh yes, my lord! I already respect you a great deal.”

What kind of man was this that he could be so gentle with her, even though she knew she had angered him?

“All is forgiven, my love.” He kissed her fingers, then released them as platters of food were set on a smooth rock. “Let me concern myself with my father and the tension you sense between us.” He motioned to the platter for her to take from its bounty. “Let us eat and drink and rejoice.” He lifted the golden chalice in her direction and smiled.