Jephte's Daughter by Naomi Ragen

relief.
    She watched amused as the older man lifted his head in wonder at the white mansion’s tall Doric columns. He has a nice fatherly face, she decided. Next her father got out. Her stomach was tingling, almost sick with anticipation. She bit her lower lip so hard it began to bleed. There, one foot out…
    “Shevi darling…”
    Oh no, Ima! Of all the terrible timing. She let the curtain fall and hurried to sit down by her bed, taking up a magazine in her shaking hand. Her mother smiled at her and beckoned to the window and then they both laughed and hugged each other, their arms intertwined, their faces full of childish excitement.
    She could not see what he was, just what he was not. Not short, thank Hashem, not fat. Dark (like Vronsky!). His clothes fit well, though he looked like a typical Hassid.
    She hugged her mother. “When will I speak to him?”
    “He has had a terribly long flight. We must let him rest so that he will be fresh and ready for you, difficult child!”
    She threw herself petulantly on the bed. “I want to see him now! I won’t live until dinner. I shall die of curiosity!” But she saw that there was nothing to be done.
    The afternoon passed like an eternity. At four she took a long, luxurious bath full of expensive bubbled perfume and sweet oils and thought of the Book of Esther: “And they anointed themselves with sweet oil for six months…” Imagine! At five she patted herself dry and put on new silk undergarments, and finally, she pulled the silver silk over her head and let her hair fall free. No, she would not pin it up! He must see her like this, with only a silver ribbon to hold it back from her face. She pulled silver stockings over the long, smooth stretch of her calf and thigh and slipped into shoes that looked almost like lacy silver filigree. The mirror shone back at her. Never had she looked more ravishing, more innocent, or more desirable. At least, that was what she told herself. But she was not a man! How could she know, really, finally, how she would look to him?
    It took all her courage to descend the long staircase with slow dignity while her trembling hand clutched the banister and her heart pounded foolishly. There at the bottom stood her parents and two strange men. The short fatherly one and a tall dark one. As she reached the first landing, the tall one suddenly looked up, and their eyes met for the first time.
    She stopped and held her breath, lowering her eyes in confusion. His dark eyes, glimpsed for a fraction of a second, gave her a blank canvas on which to paint with all the colors of her imagination. Eyes full of hidden passion, she told herself. Adoring eyes, smitten eyes, so sharp and clear that they seemed to cut through her, reaching in after her hidden thoughts so that she felt almost physically violated. To her great mortification, she felt a hot blush spread from her forehead to her cheeks.
    There were introductions, and some laughter, and much awkwardness on all sides, and all the while her heart felt heavy with hidden secrets. She almost did not dare to look at him, so afraid was she of his scrutiny. Yet during dinner, seated across from him, she waited for his attention to be drawn to his rebbe or her father in answering the difficult questions of Talmudical interpretation they posed for him, and then, with his eyes busy elsewhere, she studied him, finishing the blank canvas she had begun earlier, filling in all details to her satisfaction.
    He had a handsome head, she thought, wondering how the thick curls would feel if you ran your fingers through them. Kinky or soft? And his beard, how would that feel on your face, brushing over your cheek? His long aristocratic face, half hidden by the dark curly beard, nevertheless seemed pale and fraught with seriousness. She felt humble thinking of the lofty thoughts, the immense scholarship, that must weigh upon him. To know so much was wonderful. She, who felt she knew so very little, admired that more than