Could, would Artie even consider a relationship with a girl who, when you got down to it, was not religious at all?

April 1964

Both through personality and upbringing, Annie Levine was not a schemer. Raised by her Papa, the “ish ha’emes,” the man of integrity and unyielding honesty, she always took the straightforward path, saying what she meant, meaning what she said.

But... she’d also heard from so many of the boarders the old Eastern European epigram: “Fahr ah shidduch meikt min alles — you can do anything for a shidduch."

And this was about a shidduch. More than just a shidduch — this was about Artie’s whole future.

She wanted so badly to talk to him, the boy she’d helped raise, about so many things. His job? Yes, he was making some money. Yes, he wasn’t unemployed. But did he really want to spend his life as a glorified janitor and handyman?

And, of course, marriage. It was that day on the beach that first kindled her suspicions. Look how Artie had asked, practically begged, her to invite Marjorie to the Sedorim. (True, Mutty had joined him in the request, but his head was in medical school, and marriage was nowhere on his agenda.) When Marjorie had wanted to join the family baseball game and Annie had forbidden it, that look on Artie’s face — embarrassment, perhaps a little chagrin — told a sinister tale. And Abe had told Annie how the two of them — Artie and Marjorie — had together cheered Ruchele up at the second Seder. Now that Annie was off bed rest, Marjorie had returned to the hotel, while Artie and Mutty came back home. But Artie was spending most of his days working at the hotel, which meant that he could spend many dangerous hours chatting with her.

Suspicious. Very suspicious.