Cookies and doughnuts followed, both sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg. Last was the crowning glory. A pie made of pecans that Cora brought in. A hundred-year-old recipe, she declared, and it was a wonder to look at. Tess brought in freshly-baked rolls, Al two pitchers of creamy eggnog, and Georgie flounced in with her sunny smile. It faded some as they all sat, and the girl’s dark eyes seemed to take note that someone was still missing. Georgie didn’t say anything, though. She just looked up at her mother with a sorrowful appeal, and Cora squeezed her tiny hand.
Aven felt a twinge in her throat and was grateful when Jorgan blessed the meal, drawing Georgie’s focus off of those who were gone. He prayed a thanks for the days that had passed. Prayed in trust for the days that would come. Most of all, he gave thanks for this day, for those gathered ‘round, and for the gift they all had been given from the Sorrel women.
The deed to the farm.
’Twas a thanks that went beyond what words could say, so Aven and Fay had delivered a basket of doughnuts and another of cookies that morning. Jorgan had carried over the rest of their earnings that they’d saved to pay toward it. And Thor—well, Thor had given a gift of thanks that told the remaining Sorrels the trees were theirs for any need. To take all the apples they could possibly use, and for any need beyond that, to come calling. The arrangement was friendly, but there were Sorrels yet unaccounted for, and she knew it was the reason Thor watched the land with more care than ever. And why he slept with a rifle never farther than a reach away.
When Jorgan finished his prayer, Ida stood to slice into her roast turkey. She served up thick helpings, and Fay followed along with steaming baked potatoes. To Georgie, she gave the smallest of all and a kiss on the wee girl’s head. Georgie smiled again then—sorrows forgotten for a little while.
The meal was a merry affair and they took their time with it, letting the clock tick away its reminder that change would blow in with every passing season, while they feasted and celebrated what it meant to be family and for the freedoms of this land. The latter was not always easy to come by, but an effort they’d never give up on.
When dusk crept in, Jorgan stood. “If you’ll all follow Thor and me outside, we’ve got somethin’ to show you.”
Napkins were tossed aside, and Georgie hopped up to grab one more cookie before running out into the evening air. The breeze was crisp, so Aven pulled snug a shawl and clung even tighter to Ida’s arm that looped around hers. Tess kept sweet company with Grete as they strode up ahead. Al fetched a stick and gave a good fling. Grete bounded to reclaim it.
Cora and Fay walked side by side, and at the gentle manner that Cora was speaking—and Fay listening with shining eyes—Aven had a hunch that a secret was being unearthed by a faithful midwife.
Jorgan and Thor led them all the way down to the end of the lane. To the place where Aven had once stood, letter in hand, reading the sign.
Norgaard. Blackbird Mountain.
And yet she saw in that instant that the sign was gone. In its place was a new one. Thor touched her waist, gently drawing her around so she could read it.
Norgaard Family Orchard.
His other hand joined the first until his arms circled her from behind. Aven leaned her head back even as he bowed his own to kiss her shoulder. “ ’Tis a fine name for this place.” Pride and gratitude surged through her that she was a part of it.
She clasped her hands over his, holding tight. His fingers grazed the button bracelet around her wrist. No ring she wore yet, so this gentle circle that he’d fashioned was one she savored in its stead. Ida blew a bit of dust from the freshly carved letters, then smoothed the edge of her apron over it.
Aven smiled, but rising up was a different sensation. She had tried to ignore it all day. And really, for weeks now. She’d been handing all worry and all wonder to the Lord—as was right—but in this moment, He seemed to be handing it back.
For her to feel it.
Because there was a piece of her that wouldn’t die away. One that couldn’t imagine going through this life without ever seeing Haakon Norgaard again. The notion pinched at her heart, reminding her she had a reason to despise him. A right to wish him far away from here. But if there was one thing she knew of him that day, it was that a broken man had walked with her to that cabin. A broken man had closed the door.
And a broken man had thought she would be able to fix what wasn’t hers to repair.
It was God’s. Haakon needed a tending-to that only the Lord could complete.
Eyes growing wet all over again, Aven swiped at them, grateful for the dimming light. No one seemed to pay her damp cheeks any heed. The others stepped away, returning to the glow of the house. Thor took her hand in his while they walked. He held it safe and secure as though his spirit was wandering its own complicated path. One not much different from her own.
While he was often quiet, she’d come to know his thoughts in the hours they spent cuddled up, a candle burning beside them as Thor wrote his words to paper. Aven always read with care, answering with pencil in like fashion, and together, they carved away his silence.
She saved each slip of paper, for in them lay his desires. His hopes. Even his worries. His wishes for her, and how he meant to care for her in return. Though she’d once thought him a shy man, he wasn’t shy in that place. Nay, there was a boldness to Thor Norgaard, and it was a guiding light in the weeks that had passed and would continue to be one in the years to come.
She clutched tight to his hand as they walked the same road they had months ago. Except this time, instead of him trailing behind as a stranger, he was at her side as both husband and friend. Even those months back . . . on that hot summer day . . . he’d been there for her in the same tender way. His love had simply borne a different shape. One of quiet protection. Of patience.
How thankful she was for the man beside her. Tempests would still come and the waters would not always be calm, but she was beholden to this place—where body and heart knew the love of a husband so sure and so strong that even the coming winds of winter seemed to fall at bay.
Aven breathed the cold air in deep.
And as for Haakon . . .
If she ever stood before him again, she knew not what she would say, but there was the gift of time. God was giving it, that she knew. For how long or for how far, that she didn’t. Come tomorrow or come years from now, she would say to that man—the one who had once been her friend—that no, she didn’t hate him. Hate wasn’t hers to bear justly and if she tried, it would leave her wrecked upon the rocks she hoped to navigate safely around. So instead, she would seek to forgive Haakon. Perhaps in time she would come to even pray for him. While such notions felt steeper than this mountain had been to climb, she longed for both, and as they walked toward home, she trusted in the Lord, who would provide the way.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
It began the week I met the young Deaf man and his sister at summer camp. I knew very little Sign Language beyond the alphabet, and when I first observed this sibling pair communicating, I was fascinated. In an auditorium holding hundreds of teenagers, this quiet brother sat watching as his sister translated the worship music and preaching. Her hands shaped sweeping words, and I longed to know how to shape them too. More importantly, how to understand the people behind this language. During that week, both brother and sister showed me some of these words, and it became a comradery and a tradition that I looked forward to every summer.
Years after those camp adventures, after I had taken several semesters of Sign Language, I pulled up a blank document and wrote down a title for a new Appalachian romance—Sons of Blackbird Mountain.