AFTER BEING MEASURED and told to make myself comfortable amid baskets of fabrics stacked nearly to the ceiling, I sat on the mattress—one of the only available surfaces—then stretched out to relax. I rolled onto my side and propped my head on my hand, intrigued by the woman who had entranced me with a single look. Glancing around the house, I saw proof of Delilah’s story everywhere—the rough toys on the floor, the tools of her trade on the porch, half-finished tunics hanging from pegs in the wall. And I had known the widow, a righteous woman who would not have tolerated an evil influence in her home.
I hadn’t remembered that a young woman was living with the widow. I was thinking of other things as I approached the well, frustrating thoughts about the Philistines and Adonai’s purposes. I looked up, expecting to see the old woman, and saw a vision instead—a young beauty, tall and slender, with skin the color of the river after a heavy rain. She wore a veil, like most modest women, but riotous dark curls escaped it, framing her face and emphasizing her dark eyes.
Of course, I suspected a trap. I looked around, certain I would see shadows on the ground or hear the nicker of hidden horses, but all remained silent.
The beauty had walked forward, looking directly at me, a smile softening her features. “Greetings, Samson,” she said in a voice filled with good humor. “Thirsty?”
I looked down and made some sort of reference to the well. In truth, I don’t know what I said; I only know that I was besotted from that moment.
“You live alone now?” I asked later, testing her.
She was folding fabrics near the door, and one of her lovely brows flickered as she turned to face me. “Yes—except for Yagil and the dog. The widow died after our return from Etam.” A weight of sadness overshadowed her face. “We still miss her.”
The mention of Etam triggered something in my brain, but it took a moment for the thought to surface. “Why were you at Etam?”
She smiled, her gaze as soft as a caress. “I had gone in search of you, Samson. Given my situation, I knew I needed a champion. The widow and I could think of no one better than you.”
She seemed honest, and not once had she hesitated when I asked about her past. Few women of my acquaintance were as open, and most had a hidden agenda of some sort. But if this woman had a secret, I had yet to discover it.
“Why do you live alone here?” I pressed. “A woman alone is in a precarious position, for danger lurks everywhere, especially in these times.”
“I didn’t choose to live alone.” She took a handsome blue tunic from the wall and ran her hand over it as if evaluating the garment’s texture. “But then the widow died, so what choice did I have? I am not an Israelite, so I would probably not be welcomed in one of their villages. I am not Philistine, so even if I could forget the past, I would not feel at home in one of their cities. So I stayed, begging the gods to send someone who might alleviate my loneliness.”
“What gods?” I asked.
Her brows flickered. “Any who would listen.”
“And whom did you beg the gods to send?”
“Someone”—a dimple appeared in her cheek—“who would want to stay.”
The answer, honest and pleasing, made me smile.
“So you belong nowhere . . . and to no tribe,” I said, summing up what I’d felt for years.
“Maybe I belong everywhere.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief, giving me hope. This woman, a blend of land and sea, north and south, Cushite and Cretan . . . maybe she was the solution to the riddle of my life. I also belonged to a tribe of one, but perhaps my tribe could be expanded. . . .
I exhaled a sigh, rolled onto my back, and laced my fingers across my chest. In the close quarters of the small house I could smell the perfumed oil in her hair, and my fingertips ached to dance over her soft skin. We had already spent hours talking and had shared a simple dinner of bread and goat cheese. When her young son came home, the boy had gaped in surprise to find me wearing one of his mother’s colorful robes.
“This tunic you want to make me,” I said, speaking to the ceiling, “how long would it take to weave?”
“Do you promise not to burst the threads by flexing your arms?” Her smiling face slid into my field of vision. “I will not make you anything if you intend to destroy it.”
“No sleeves,” I suggested, reaching out to catch her hand. I pulled her to my side. “So how long would it take?”
She propped her elbow on my chest. “A week,” she said, bending low. “Maybe a month. Or, if you want to stay longer, I could stretch the work to fill a year or more.”
I caught her head and gently kissed her, amazed to have found such a treasure on the side of the road.