The Jewish Bride

Even now, on the train, Daphne couldn’t stop thinking about the woman in the painting — her aureole of crimped, light-brown hair, the expanse of pale ochre forehead, the slightly pudgy chin. Her dignity, the golden light, her sadness. The train made a little lurch as it started, a hiccup. Seated, miraculously, after their breathless run through the station, Daphne touched her husband on the arm. It was a big train, not the premium Euro-City Express, but solid, clean, right on schedule. Now she could let go, give herself to the liminal moment of departure, that moment in a public conveyance when the mind races with knowing that a totality, a world, has been left behind. Amsterdam, receding ever faster as the train picked up speed, would soon be as absent as home:  Westmont, Laurel Avenue. No matter: Daphne had the woman.

The smoothness of the operation seemed a sign that she had done the right thing, in spite of the guilt she felt for putting Dan through that rush and making them forego the earlier train that would have given them the afternoon in Paris. The museum she’d wanted to visit hadn’t opened until ten. But thanks to the efficient hotel clerk, and a taxi that sped them through traffic, Daphne had run in to buy the print — the one she’d realized she could not bear to live without — and they’d still made the 10:50 with four minutes to spare. Dan was annoyed. He even snapped at her for changing their plan at the very last minute. Hadn’t he already — with his usual graciousness — conceded a morning of antique ship engines at the Museumwerf so they could leave early?