“Artie and... and Marjorie. Perele, I’m afraid. They’re two young people and they like each other and....” Her voice trailed off
The squeal of brakes, Artie’s feet pounding down the wooden stairs, Ruchele’s delighted shouts, even the gentle tap of Annie’s knitting needles falling, unheeded, onto the porch: After the tranquility of the morning, the sounds seemed exaggerated, overwhelming, even frightening.
Annie forced herself to stand up, willing her heart to stop pounding. She walked slowly toward the car.
Marjorie’s car.
Three figures poured out of the Mustang. Marjorie, of course, flew out from the driver’s side, but was that Perele Schwartz coming out more sedately through the passenger door? And — shock after shock — Annie saw Moey contorting his long legs out of the back seat.
Everyone spoke at once, a cacophony of laughter, handshakes, and explanations that seemed to press upon Annie’s spirit, dulling her reactions even as she forced a smile.
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