He did and, again, his hand brushed mine. This time, I was ready for him, with the pear held in my softer left hand.
“Feel how it has just a bit of give?” I asked.
“Yes.” His eyes met mine as he touched it. “Lovely.”
I gazed at him. “Perfect.” He had such long lashes I almost gasped.
The greengrocer came upon us. “Can I help you? Miss?” His eyes held a question, for I never talked to anyone.
“Oh no, I am fine. I was just helping this gentleman.”
I placed the pear inside the basket he carried and looked at him. “Do you want more?”
“As many as you care to find me.”
I could have stood there all day, but I did not believe he wanted a bushel, so I helped him—slowly—to select five more. “I always choose one that is fully ripe,” I told him. “That is for the walk home.”
He smiled at me, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and said, “Splendid idea. But select two of those.”
I laughed. “You must be very hungry.”
He laughed in return. “Something like that.”
So I helped him select two pears that were a bit riper, that lightly caved in at my touch, and I tried not to notice how my heart caved in at his glance and at the thought of him leaving, going off in one direction while I traveled in another.
He stayed with me while I selected my own meager groceries. I had no money for treats like pears, but I bought beans and potatoes, boring things, and counted my coins to afford those. There would be no penny for my book fund today.
When we left the stall, again slowly, he pulled one pear, then another, from the bag. “For the walk home.” He held out the larger one to me.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
“Nonsense. It is only a pear. Think of it as payment for the help you have given me.”
I thought I had not helped him at all. Anyone could tell when a piece of fruit was ripe or rotten.
And that is when I realized, yes, anyone could. I looked up at his handsome, smiling face. Anyone could. He could. He had asked for help because he wanted to talk to me.
This was quite a turn of events.
“Of course.” I plucked the fruit from his hand. “I was rude. I would very much enjoy a pear.”
This was true. It had been a long time since I had had one, but the young man tempted me more. Where was he from? Why had I never seen him before? I knew all the young men around here. They were all dull. Someday, I would marry one of them and have dull babies who would grow to adulthood and have dull babies of their own. But I had not yet singled out the one—nor had one singled me out. I would have noticed this young man, had he been there. He was anything but dull.
“Thank you.” I sniffed the pear’s aroma. “For the pear.”
His teeth were straight and white like the fence posts in front of the church. “Thank you again for your kind guidance. Might I walk you home?”
I hesitated just long enough to appear demure.
“It is darkening,” he said, unnecessarily. “I have kept you too long. I would blame myself if you got lost or . . . worse.”
I knew I would not get lost on the path I had taken hundreds of times. Still, it was not an effort to lie. This was not an instance where I wished to appear competent. No, I needed to be fragile like a delicate wildflower, ill suited to walking alone at dusk.
“All right,” I said.
“Allow me to take your bags as well.”
I handed over my satchel, and again, his skin touched mine. The moon was visible, a crescent moon like a frog’s eye, peeking out of the murky water. At first, there were sounds of the closing market, merchants and boxes, children and chickens. Then they all faded into the distance and there were only our footsteps and the music of the twilight, a breeze, crickets, and nothing else save my own breath.
And his voice.
“I don’t . . . I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name.”
“Cornelia,” I said before I wondered if it was improper to introduce myself to a stranger. Probably no less proper than walking with one. I had waded into the river. I might as well swim.
“And you?”
It took him a second to answer, but finally, he said, “Karl,” and at that moment, the moonlight streamed through the trees, and I saw his smile. “Do you come to town often?”
“Only on Thursdays, to market, and Sundays, for church. Other days, I’m too busy. My father runs the mill, and since I am the only daughter left at home, all the housework falls to me, the cooking and cleaning and caring for the animals.”
I stopped. I was talking too much. I sounded like a drudge. Why did I think he would be interested in my work? What man would be? Certainly not a man as handsome as this one. Maybe someone seeking a good scullery maid.
Or a wife.
“I am sorry to be so dull.”
He laughed. “You’re not dull. I like to hear what other people do.”
“Other people?” A breeze riffled across my arms, and I shivered.
“People who aren’t me. What of your mother? Does she not help with the chores?”
“No. She died when I was little.”