JANE WAITED IMPATIENTLY FOR THE GROUP OF TEENAGERS TO cross the street. Although it was true that pedestrians had the right of way despite the absence of a stop sign or light, this particular group seemed to be taking advantage of their position. They moved more slowly than Jane had thought possible, oblivious to everything but their own conversations and the screens of their cellphones. Worst of all, just as one group made it across the street and Jane started to inch forward, another gaggle would step directly in front of her without so much as looking—like wildebeest crossing a river.
Her stomach knotted up and she gripped the steering wheel tightly. As she did so she inadvertently took her foot off the brake and the car jumped forward. Startled, the group of teenagers jumped back, some of them shouting obscenities. One of them—a girl wearing a T-shirt that read NO HATE!—banged her fist on the hood of Jane’s car and gave Jane the finger.
Jane hit the gas, roaring through the now enraged group and sending them scattering. Watching their indignant faces in the rearview mirror, she felt a not-insignificant measure of satisfaction. Her joy was short-lived, however, as a moment later she saw, too late, that she was traveling past a stop sign at which she ought to have paused and was about to be hit on the passenger side by a silver Ford Eclipse.
The impact was not as bad as she would have thought, most likely because neither she nor the other driver was going terribly fast. Still, the sound was unsettling and the resulting crash pushed Jane’s car sideways and sent bits of window glass raining around her.
The driver of the Eclipse emerged from his car, paused for a moment to survey the damage, and then walked around to Jane’s window. In his forties, he was short, stout, and balding. His face, which Jane imagined was usually a pinkish color, was now red. One eye twitched as he stood staring down at Jane.
“Nice stop,” he said.
“I’m very sorry,” Jane said. “I’m afraid I—”
“Save it,” the man snapped. “I don’t have time to hear about how you’re late picking your kid up or how you have to get your husband’s suit to the dry cleaners, or whatever bullshit excuse you’re going to use.” He turned to look at his car. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I hope you’ve got good insurance.”
Jane, who was looking in the glove box for her insurance card, said, “If you’ll just calm down, we—”
“Calm down?” the man said, his voice rising. “You’re telling me to calm down? Lady, if anyone needs telling what to do around here, it’s you.”
“I really don’t think—” Jane replied.
“No, you don’t think,” said the man, interrupting. “That’s the problem. If you thought, you wouldn’t do something as stupid as running a stop sign.” He shook his head. “Forget your insurance,” he said, taking a cellphone out of his pocket. “I’ll just call the cops and let them figure it out.”
“I understand that you’re upset,” Jane said. “But there’s really no need—”
“Just shut up,” the man snapped. “I’ll deal with this.”
Anger rose in Jane’s chest, and she made a decision. “You will not call the police,” she heard herself say in a commanding tone.
The man glared at her, started to speak, and then stopped. Something in his expression changed, becoming almost childlike. He closed his cellphone. “I guess we don’t have to,” he said.
“Now get back in your car,” Jane said, focusing her glamoring abilities.
The man turned and walked back to his car, opening the door and sliding into the driver’s seat. A moment later Jane opened the passenger-side door of the Eclipse and got in beside him. So far no other vehicles had come through the intersection, but she knew it was just a matter of time. She had to act quickly.
As she leaned toward the man her fangs clicked into place, piercing his skin and causing the blood to flow. Jane didn’t take much, just enough to stave off the hunger pangs. It took only a minute. When she was done she turned the man’s head so that she was looking directly into his eyes. “You’re going to forget,” she told him. “In thirty seconds you will wake up and not remember what happened.”
The man’s eyes clouded over and he seemed to fall asleep. Quickly Jane got out of the car and went back to hers, looking around first to make certain that there were no witnesses. She turned the key in the ignition and was relieved when the engine came to life. There was a scraping sound as she pulled away, and the Eclipse’s bumper fell to the pavement with a clatter.
She wasn’t out of the woods. She would still have to explain the state of her car. But she would worry about that later. The important thing was that the immediate problem was taken care of and she had been able to feed. All things considered, she was actually rather proud of herself for handling it with such aplomb.
Besides, he was quite rude, she thought. Speaking to a lady that way was most uncalled for.
She did need to get another car, though. She didn’t want to show up for the tour of the Carlyle House in her damaged vehicle. Not only would it cause Walter to worry, it would probably give Miriam the impression that Jane was unreliable.
She elected to go to the bookstore. When she arrived she parked in the back, out of sight, and entered through the rear door that led into the storage room. Peering out, she made sure there was no one in the store she wished to avoid.
“Don’t worry,” she heard Lucy say. “They’re gone.”
Jane looked into the office off the hallway and saw Lucy sitting at the computer. “Who’s gone?” she asked.
“Ant and Shelby,” said Lucy. “They were here looking for you about twenty minutes ago.”
“How did you get rid of them?” Jane inquired.
Lucy’s fingers tapped on the keyboard. “I told them you were meeting with your parole officer,” she answered. “I thought it would add some color to their profile of you.”
“How very kind of you,” Jane said. “May I borrow your car?”
Lucy looked up. “My car? Why? What’s wrong with yours?”
“I had a small—very minor, nothing to even speak of—encounter with another vehicle,” Jane explained. “Also, they won’t be on the lookout for yours.”
Lucy opened the desk drawer and removed a set of keys. “I don’t even want to know,” she said. “Go. I haven’t seen you all day. I don’t know where you are or when you’ll be back.”
“Thank you,” said Jane, taking the keys. “I promise to bring it back in one piece.”
“Put gas in it,” Lucy called after Jane as she left. “And not the cheap stuff!”
Lucy’s car—actually a fire-engine-red 1963 Ford F-100 pickup truck—was parked near Jane’s old Volvo. As she got in, Jane wondered if perhaps she should also disguise herself, perhaps with a wig. Then she spied a baseball cap lying on the seat next to her. It bore the logo of the Boston Red Sox, the team to which Lucy was devoted. Jane picked it up and placed it on her head. Looking at herself in the truck’s side mirror, she adjusted the brim, pulling it lower over her eyes.
Imagine if we’d had these for cricket teams, she thought. I can just see Henry and the others wearing Steventon Sledgers hats. The image was amusing, but thinking of her brothers made her a little sad. She wondered what they would make of the world in which she now lived. She wished they were there to tell her.
She started the car and left the parking lot, keeping her eyes peeled (a loathsome expression, she thought) for Ant. Perhaps one of these days she could get Shelby alone and have a nice chat with her. Until then, however, Jane wanted to avoid running into the pair.
She drove without incident to the Carlyle House and parked in front of it. Walter’s car was already there, and before Jane was even halfway up the stairs to the front porch the door opened and Walter stepped outside.
“Right on time,” he said. “Are you ready for the grand tour?”
“Absolutely,” said Jane, taking his arm. “I’ve been dying of curiosity.”
Walter escorted her into a foyer paneled in mahogany.
A blown-glass chandelier in the shape of an open poppy hung from the ceiling. Seeing Jane looking at it, Walter said, “It’s meant to be a lamp. I turned it upside down. What do you think?”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Jane told him.
“Do you?” Miriam emerged from another room. Lilith followed alongside, using her single front leg much as a human might use a crutch.
Sensing an opportunity to win points with Miriam, Jane ignored the question and bent down so that she was closer to the dog. “Hi, Lilith,” she said, holding out her hand.
Lilith bared her teeth and lunged at Jane’s hand. Jane retracted her hand and stared at the dog, shaking, as Lilith continued to bark at her.
“She doesn’t care for strange people,” Miriam said. “Walter, I’d like to see the rest of the house.”
She turned and walked away, Lilith once again at her heels. Jane looked at Walter. “I seem to be a hit with both of them,” she said.
“You’re doing fine,” said Walter. He took Jane’s hand. “Come on. I think you’ll like this.”
For the next hour Jane admired the William Morris wallpapers and painstakingly restored wood floors. She appreciated the kitchen that was at once functional and of a period, and the bathroom with its claw-foot tub and black-and-white-tiled floor. When Walter brought them into one of the house’s five bedrooms and showed them a series of framed prints that Miriam attributed to Albert Joseph Moore, she refrained from pointing out that they were actually by John William Godward. Nor did she point out that the woman in the painting bore a remarkable resemblance to herself, or that they were wearing the same necklace. (She did, however, wonder if Walter saw the similarities, and if he had chosen the print with her in mind.)
Miriam, Jane was pleased to see, appeared to be impressed by her son’s handiwork. Despite the occasional comment about a color she did not care for or a piece of furniture she found not quite right, she was very complimentary. She particularly seemed to appreciate the sheer amount of work that had gone into the restoration, especially after Walter showed them a photo album containing before and after shots of each room.
“You’ve done a remarkable job,” Jane told him. “The house is extraordinary.”
“Do you really think so?” he asked.
“I do,” said Jane. “I think anyone would be happy living in such a beautiful place.”
“I’m pleased to hear you say that,” Walter said. “Because I’m going to be moving in.”
“Are you?” Jane exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”
Walter smiled. “I’m hoping you’ll live here as well,” he said. “You know, after we’re mar—” He stopped and blushed.
Jane and Miriam both looked at Walter with surprised expressions.
Walter, clearing his throat, said, “Oh, dear. That just slipped out.” He took Jane’s hand. “I didn’t plan on asking you this way,” he said. “But now that it’s out, I—”
“Walter,” Miriam said sharply.
Jane’s heart raced as she processed what was happening. Had Walter just asked her to marry him? That was impossible. Not impossible, she told herself. Unexpected.
“Walter,” Jane heard Miriam say again. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty?”
“I know you haven’t known Jane very long,” Walter said. “But I have, and I know that I love her.” He squeezed Jane’s hand. “And I believe she loves me.”
Miriam turned her gaze to Jane. “Is that true?” she asked, her voice cold.
Jane looked into Miriam’s dark eyes and was surprised by the hatred she saw there. Then she recalled Miriam’s words of the other night. I know what you are. She still didn’t know what Miriam had meant by that, but thinking about it angered her. No, she thought while staring back at Miriam. You don’t know what I am. You don’t know anything about me.
“Yes,” Jane said. “It’s true. I do love him.”
She dreaded what she had to say next. Steeling herself, she looked at Walter’s smiling face. “I do love you,” she said. “But I can’t marry you.”
“BUT I THOUGHT YOU WANTED TO MARRY HIM.”
Jane wiped her eyes and looked at Ben Cohen, into whose office she had been surprised to find herself walking ten minutes earlier. After the awkward moment with Walter she had quickly excused herself and fled the Carlyle House, leaving a smirking Miriam Ellenberg and a shocked Walter to watch her retreat. She had first driven to her own home, only to find it overrun by yet another of Beverly Shrop’s tour groups. Next she had gone to the bookstore, but the presence of Ant’s van had forced her to turn around.
That’s when she’d found herself driving in the direction of Sukkat Shalom. She hadn’t even realized she was going there until she pulled into the parking lot. She’d almost turned right around again. After all, she had met Rabbi Ben Cohen only once. She really knew nothing about him, or he about her. And yet she’d gotten out of Lucy’s truck and entered the synagogue as if some other force were controlling her actions.
Now she was seated once more in the chair across from the couch, staring at the Pollock hanging on the wall behind the rabbi. Ben Cohen, dressed in jeans and a shirt the color of cornflowers, waited patiently for her to speak.
“I do,” she said, sniffling. “That’s why I came here in the first place, right?”
“You tell me,” Ben said.
“It is,” said Jane. She hesitated. “Well, because of Miriam, anyway.”
The rabbi nodded. “You wouldn’t have come otherwise?”
“Why would I?” Jane replied.
Ben shrugged his wide shoulders. “I don’t know,” he told her. “Why would you?”
“Stop doing that!” said Jane.
“Doing what?”
“That!” Jane said. “Answering everything I say with another question.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” said Ben, one side of his mouth lifting slightly, as if he were trying very hard to remain composed.
Jane snorted. “Very funny.”
Ben laughed. “You obviously haven’t met many Jews,” he said. “Or therapists. But we’re getting off track. Walter asked you to marry him. You said no.”
“I said I can’t,” Jane clarified.
“Can’t,” said the rabbi. “However, you’ve known all along that it would come to this. Which, by the way, brings us back to why you came here in the first place.”
“Oh, I know,” Jane said, her frustration audible in her voice. “But that was before.”
“Before?” Ben said. “Before what?”
“Miriam,” Jane replied. “Before Miriam. When she was just his mother I could handle her. The idea of her. The reality, however, is not at all agreeable.”
“A lot of women clash with their potential mothers-in-law at first,” said Ben. “It seems to come with the territory.”
Jane shot him a look. “Are you married?” she asked.
Ben surprised her by looking away. “I was,” he said. “My wife died giving birth to our daughter.”
Jane felt terrible for having asked the question. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
Ben held up a hand. “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re not prying. You thought I had no experience with mothers-in-law.”
“No,” Jane objected. “I just … well, yes, that’s what I thought.”
The rabbi laughed. “As it happens, my mother-in-law is a wonderful person,” he said. “And my mother loved Naomi very much. But I’ve heard stories.”
It was Jane’s turn to laugh. “I imagine you have,” she said. She paused before asking her next question, afraid she might cause Ben pain by voicing it. “Your daughter,” she said. “Is she …” She fumbled for her next words.
“She’s six,” said Ben. “Her name is Sarah.”
Jane was suddenly overcome by sadness. She felt a tear slip from her eye. She wiped it away, but another soon followed. She couldn’t help but think about her own family, particularly Cassie. How she missed her sis
ter. How she longed to have her there to confide in and to laugh with, to say “Do you remember when?” to, and to just be quiet with.
“Would you like a tissue?”
The rabbi’s voice jarred Jane from her thoughts. She realized to her horror that she had been crying freely. Her cheeks were damp, and her nose was running. “Yes, please,” she said, sniffing.
Ben located a box of tissues and handed it to her. “There’s a Jewish proverb,” he said. “ ‘What soap is for the body, tears are for the soul.’ ”
Jane blew her nose. “In that case, I seem to be having quite a good scrubbing,” she remarked.
“My people specialize in grief,” Ben said. “If they awarded degrees in it, every Jew would hold a doctorate.”
Jane laughed as she dried her face. “My people are just the opposite,” she told Ben. “Our upper lips are so stiff they prevent us from smiling.”
“How did we get here?” asked Ben. “Oh, yes. Your potential mother-in-law and how the reality of her is far worse than what you’d imagined.”
Jane sighed deeply. “I expected her to be protective of Walter,” she said. “But honestly, she’s like something out of an old Norse legend—or Grendel’s mother. Oh, and you should see her little dog, Lilith. She’s adorable, what with having only three legs and all, but what a little monster.”
“Lilith?” Ben said. “That’s interesting.”
“Why?” asked Jane.
“In Jewish folklore Lilith is the name of Adam’s first wife,” Ben explained. “Supposedly she left him because she found him weak and stupid. Some stories say she was a demon with the feet of an owl, and that she came at night to suck the blood of children. Essentially, she was the world’s first vampire. If you believe in that kind of thing.”
Jane considered this information for a moment. “And do you believe in that kind of thing?” she asked the rabbi.
Ben shrugged. “Who’s to say what’s real and what isn’t?” he replied. “The world is a strange and wonderful place.”
Jane nodded in agreement. “So Judaism allows for the existence of vampires?”
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