Never far from him, Grete lay smashed against Haakon’s leg. Georgie’s little hands stroked the dog’s glossy coat.
“A carpenter who was tall for his weight thought it should be named for the light that streamed in from the west. A fisherman who had a habit of talking too slow insisted the region be named for the waters that flowed through it. But it was a farmer who had come from the farthest land of all, a Norseman who had traveled by the mercy of the sea, who remembered the tales of his homeland—of a god named Odin, and the many ravens who accompanied him. And so this land was named not for the sun, nor for the water, but for the blackbirds that were a force to be reckoned with.”
The children all blinked soundlessly, no one speaking until wee Georgie scrunched up one side of her face. “Did you just make that up?”
“Of course not. Did it sound made-up?” Haakon winked as he sipped from his glass of sweet tea.
Georgie wrapped her thin arms around his own and whispered for another story.
“Yet another?”
“Oh, please!” Georgie cried.
“Alright. One more.” He shifted her onto his other knee, looking sore from the day’s work. “But you have to help me, missy.”
As if jealous by how close Georgie had gotten to Haakon, Grete let out a snort. Georgie resumed her petting, but the dog kept a watchful eye on the pair.
Thor dragged a heavy branch nearer to the pile he’d been fashioning. The pickers who’d been helping him each gripped a portion. With a heave they clattered it onto the pile. Thor hefted up a jug of kerosene, drizzled it over the wood, and set the canister aside. He pulled a box of matches from his pocket.
The young men drew back. Thor struck a match and dropped it forward. The pile erupted into flames. He stepped aside, squinting against the heat that Aven felt even from where she stood. It pushed back the growing dusk with a warm glow. The menfolk drew nearer and women bustled out of the kitchen, bearing iron pans of round, flat potato lefse. Aven had assured Haakon that she would make the Norwegian flatbread for him, and she saw his look of gratitude as the pans passed by.
Aven was heading inside to fill the tea pitcher when Thor let out a shrill whistle. He motioned everyone to hedge in. Even Ida and Cora came away from their bubbling pots.
When all were gathered, Aven realized that few neighbors had ever visited this farm—these three brothers with their bold occupation. And now . . . to have families standing near. Soon to break bread with the Norgaard men and those they called kin. ’Twas no wonder that Thor bowed his head and others followed suit. Several men tugged off hats. Cora looped her arm through young Tess’s. Georgie pinched her eyes closed tight, gripping both of her hands around one of Haakon’s own.
Clearing his throat, Jorgan stepped forward. “Lord, we’re awful glad to be here this evening and for Your provision. We thank You for what You’ve given us and in particular for all the folks standing around. We also give thanks that You’ve delivered Thor to fine health. For walking with him, and with us. Amen.”
Aven opened her eyes to see that Thor was watching his brother. His nod of thanks was humble. Haakon watched as well, but a cool shadow filled his expression. As if he wasn’t as pleased as the others for Thor’s recovery. Oh, that Haakon’s spirit might be eased. Whatever it was that ailed him . . . settled and soothed.
“Them cups ain’t gonna fill themselves, Ms. Norgaard.” Ida hustled back to the kitchen, and Aven trailed her. Even the women who had toiled in the orchard all day came to assist. Ida instructed several to dish out stew as Fay slid another pan of warm flatbreads from the oven. Aven accepted three filled bowls and wove her way through the crowded kitchen.
Earlier she’d diced carrots, celery, and sausage, but it was by Ida’s own hand that nearly a dozen herbs and spices had been sprinkled into the stew pot. Aven inhaled the fragrance of seasonings so warm they hailed of exotic lands. Tess followed at her side with a plate of butter, a jar of honey, and that sunny smile she always wore.
“Might you tell me one more time what this is called?” Aven whispered.
Tess leaned nearer. “Be jambalaya, Miss Aven. And in ten minutes it still be jambalaya.”
They laughed and together passed out their offerings, then fetched more helpings, not stopping until every set of hands had a hot meal and the large pot was ready to dish out seconds.
Keen on having a taste, Aven carried her own supper down the stairs. People were gathered all around on benches and spread-out blankets. On the outskirts of it all sat Thor. He’d found a spot on a bench alone. Aven went that way, and not wanting to disturb his peace, she perched on the opposite edge. He glanced at her, holding her gaze only moments before his own dropped, as it often did.
It felt strange, the length of an entire bench between them. She wished to move nearer. To find how his day had gone. If he was pleased with the start of the harvest and to know if he bore any worries or wants of mind. She wished to know them, to offer whatever help or insight that came. ’Twas a knitting together of hearts and lives that she wished with Thor. And in that moment, she could no more ignore how much she cared for him than she could deny that he’d been filling her heart and her prayers with a growing affection. There was love within her—both an offering and a need—and it was for him.
Suddenly overcome, Aven dropped her attention to her meal. Thor reached forward to heft a piece of wood into the fire. The moment he rose, the bench tipped toward her and she hit the ground hard.
Before she could make sense of what had just happened, Al stood and Thor stepped over and bent to circle an arm around her waist. When she was on her feet, he signed a thought, then glanced to Jorgan on the other side of the fire.
Jorgan lifted his glass of tea. “Said you’d do well to sit closer to him next time.”
Aye. “ ’Twould have been wiser.”
Thor picked up the tumbled bench and set it right-side up. He tried to smile at her, but she couldn’t bear such smiles just now. Nor the way his sturdy, familiar hand touched her arm as if to steady her. Both of their bowls had fallen, the food spoiled in the dirt. Aven gathered everything up as best she could, discarded the mess, and with her face hot and Thor seeming worried after her, she carried the dishes back to the house.
She meant to scrub everything anew and bring him a fresh helping, but when she entered, Fay was blessedly there.
“Is something amiss, Aven? You’re flushed.”
“Would you mind bringing Thorald another meal?” The use of his formal name might have sounded aloof, but it felt anything but.
“Not at all.” Fay was clearly the wiser of it.
Aven set the dishes on the table and sought refuge in the dark of the empty great room. The dirt she brushed from her skirt, then swiped a wrist over her forehead. Pain pulsed through the small of her back, and as much as the hurt of the fall already pestered, more startling was a different kind of blooming. One that had been growing from a seed so sweetly, so tenderly, that she’d tried to protect it as friendship in fear of more anguish.
She’d given her heart to a drinking man once. And yet, was Thor still such a man? His efforts were hard wrought and admirable, but his sobriety was yet in its infancy and the pull of the bottle an ardent one.
Was it wrong to long for Thor? To wish for the place right beside him?
She’d learned that to give oneself to a man meant the impending loss of him. Had that not been her own mother’s reality? And dear Ida . . . never reunited with the man she loved.