Aven followed after Haakon to the far end of the hall. She wove around a pile of colorful banners, then past a table laden with lemons and polished punch cups. Beyond that stood another table that was covered with items for the raffle. Carved trinkets and tinware were stacked in baskets, and beside those rested a neat mound of quilted squares. Aven was tempted to lift a jar that held glass beads, but she simply tucked her hands behind her back and waited as Haakon nestled the crates of cider jelly against the wall.
She had wrapped each lid with a pretty round of dotted cloth. From Thor’s workbench—and to his chagrin—she’d unearthed a rubber stamp that read Norgaard Orchard. Though he’d indicated that it was for marking receipts, she gave the stamp another purpose in pressing dainty paper labels. Those were now tied around the lids with a strip of ribbon, and Thor had seemed a little more impressed then. Especially when she’d put the stamp back exactly where it belonged.
With the splendor of the decorated hall all around, Aven admired each end from the tall, sunny windows, to the colorful bunting that ran the length of the stage, to the plank floor that was so well polished it shone. It took little effort to imagine Thor dancing the waltz in this very room. He would be braw and dashing, of that she had no doubt. To say nothing of how shy and uneasy he would be.
She felt a fierce twinge at missing the evening. The tickets had all been sold, and even if she were to attend, she wished only to dance with the one whose steps had joined hers in the meadow.
When she and Haakon returned across the street, Jorgan shook hands with several men, then stepped to the wagon, thumbing over his shoulder as he did. “Got three families comin’ tomorrow for the pickin’.”
“Which apples?” Haakon unfastened a feed sack from one of the mares.
“The Foxwhelps.” Jorgan loosened the other sack of grain. “Where’s Thor?”
“Over there. With the reverend,” Haakon answered.
“The same one who saw what you did in church?” Jorgan asked dryly.
Haakon grimaced and rather looked like he regretted his actions.
Aven shielded her eyes. At the far end of the churchyard, small crosses leaned in the same timeworn fashion as the picket fence around them, and just beyond, the clergyman and Thor stood together. The reverend doffed his black hat and held it to his chest as Thor pulled out his notebook and pencil. When Thor handed both over, the reverend tucked his hat under his arm. The breeze stirred his fine, white hair.
The man hesitated before writing. After a few lines, he showed Thor, who nodded soberly and waited as more was written. Aven pinched her hands in her lap, a worry rising at how somber the exchange was. Haakon and Jorgan kicked at the dust while they feigned interest elsewhere.
After reading what the reverend had added, Thor wrote a response. Hesitantly, the reverend lifted a hand to shake. With that done, Thor walked across the churchyard. Though his broad shoulders were squared, a hint of defeat surrounded him. He tugged at his beard, stopping only to grip the sideboard of the wagon and climb in. The wagon lurched with his force.
When he sat, Jorgan tapped the reins. All was quiet until the wagon reached the road.
“Ask him if everything is alright, Haakon,” Jorgan said.
Nudging Thor’s boot with his own, Haakon signed the question.
Thor looked away and out over the distant hills.
“Guess he doesn’t wanna talk about it,” Haakon mumbled.
Fiddling with the ribbon in the center of the family Bible, Aven looked out along the road. Stubbs of grass grew up the center of the rutted lane, straight and sure. How she wished life could be as direct. The last of the wildflowers were dry, yet a buxom variety still displayed their golden heads toward a cloudless sky, all but beckoning for her not to despair. But with Thor downtrodden so, ’twas hard not to feel his silent pain.
When the wagon pulled into the yard and stopped, Aven climbed down, careful to tug her skirt clear of the wheel. She’d scarcely entered the kitchen doorway when she spotted a young woman with pale-blonde hair and a rather lost appearance. The stranger was struggling to fasten a petite trunk that rested atop the table. Her form was elegantly tall, slender as a reed, and her wide-set eyes held a sweet innocence in a pale face. Her dress was as modest as it was plain, and the wispy braid that draped her shoulder feathered all the way to her hip.
“Oh heavens, might you be Fay?” Aven laid the Bible on the table.
The woman quickly nodded. “And if you’re Aven, I owe you a finer greeting than this. I was to join Miss Ida upstairs, as she was going to show me where I’m to sleep, but this pesky latch came undone and I can’t get it closed.” She pressed on the snap again to no avail. The poor dear’s fingers were trembling, especially when she glanced to the window. “That’s Jorgan coming, isn’t it?”
Aven couldn’t fight a grin. “It is indeed.” She scarcely had time to recall that it had been nearly fifteen years since Jorgan and his betrothed had seen one another when heavy footsteps stomped up the porch.
Trailed by his brothers, Jorgan stepped into the kitchen. He tossed his hat aside, wondered aloud about what smelled so good, then halted. His brow lifted—shock dawning. Hands still atremble, Fay folded them in front of her skirt.
“Whoa!” Haakon slammed to a halt beside his brother. “It’s Fay,” he breathed. He hit Jorgan’s arm. Over and over. “Jorgan. It’s Fay. Jorgan, it’s—”
Thor grabbed Haakon by the upper arm and pressed him back out the door. Grinning, Aven followed. She cast a glance to Jorgan, who stood speechless, staring at his wife-to-be. ’Twas much unfolding between them. All from words on a page that their courtship had borne.
Fay’s rosy cheeks were the last thing Aven saw as she slipped away. Best to give them a few moments alone. Aven skittered onto the porch to find Haakon seated on the bottom step. Thor stood a few paces off, signing halfheartedly to him. Haakon responded with much more passion. When Aven drew near, they both stopped.
She settled on the step, and after casting a final glimpse toward the kitchen window, she noticed Thor striding off, his once-steady shoulders looking wilted.
“Is something the matter?” Aven asked softly.
Running his hands together, Haakon finished by sliding one down his face. He let out a sigh that matched Thor’s demeanor. “It’s just ’cause of his reputation. And I’m afraid I wasn’t much help earlier. Thor’s a little bruised, but I think he’s more relieved. Come the night of it, he’ll be happier.”
“Night of what?”
“The dance. The reverend said he won’t allow Thor to accompany his daughter.”
TWENTY-FOUR
She was pretty, Fay. Pretty like wheat. If Thor could compare a woman to wheat. She was tall and thin and golden. He watched as she and Jorgan carried armfuls of picking bags into the orchard where Thor was assembling the pickers. Jorgan’s gladness brought Thor the same. To see his brother this happy was something Thor had wanted for a long time. Jorgan deserved nothing less, and in the night and morning that Fay had been here, they’d all learned firsthand what Jorgan had declared—she was good and kind.
With a nod of thanks, Thor helped them hang the canvas bags on a rung of the ladder. He counted twelve thick sacks. With Jorgan having invited several families in from town, it was enough. At Thor’s request—and thanks to Aven’s idea—the families had come to harvest apples for their own use in exchange for a small fee. One of the families had nothing to pay with, so Jorgan had arranged for the father and his oldest boy to log an extra day of harvesting for the farm as barter for all they would haul away today.
Just past the families stood the pickers Thor had hired. The three boys from last year knew how the bags were to be worn so he handed several over. Abraham, a tall, reedy youth from Cora’s church, took one, sliding it on. Jacob, a quiet lad of sixteen, accepted another. Al took a bag, lifted the straps over his head, and settled them about his shoulders.