Page 74 of The Frozen River

“I’m providing options. That’s all.”

He smiles at me, broad and teasing to show he’s not displeased. “I never said it was a bad idea.”

“It would solve two problems at once. She’d be safe and provided for. And Cyrus could finally settle down with a family of his own.”

“Does love not factor in?” Ephraim asks.

“I suspect he’s there already. And yes, she might take a bit longer. But love can grow between two people. I’ve seen it happen more than once. Besides, we were lucky,” I add. “For us it exploded.”

“As it did for Lucy,” he tells me, and I can see how the admission pains him. “As it is for Hannah now. And for Dolly too. They’re nearly blinded by love out there on the dance floor. It’s coming off them in waves, like steam from a pan. You’d want something less for Sarah?”

“It’s a better future than raising a child on her own. I only want her to be open to the idea.”

“And forcing it on her will do that?”

“I would never force anything. I just…”

“What?”

“I want to see what would happen between them if the idea was given a chance to grow.”

“It will never work if it’s your idea. It would have to be hers.”

I nod, understanding. “Because it’s a woman who does the choosing.”

“And you need to consider that perhaps she has already chosen.”

“A man who got her pregnant and left her with a child? Clearly she chose wrong.”

“Wrong or right doesn’t matter. Sarah isn’t here tonight. She’s made that choice at the very least.” Ephraim kisses me on the nose, then pats me on the bottom and goes off to join the other fathers in the loft.

Well, I think, maybe she just needs another opportunity.

The song ends and the dancers catch their breath, but then John Cowan begins his third song, “St. Anne’s Reel,” and a wave of laugh-ter rises above the music. Cyrus and Young Ephraim are shadow dancing in the middle of the circle, each with an invisible partner. By the end of the first verse they’re both clapping and stomping their feet, and by the end of the second, they’ve acquired real partners from the crowd.

I head over to the food table to see what I can do about my growling stomach. Abigail Pollard has brought an entire side of roasted beef for the occasion, and the other families have contributed as well, each bringing their specialties. There is chicken cooked in beer, venison loin stuffed with apples, and pork ribs to round out the meats. Any number of roasted vegetables including carrots, potatoes, turnips, and chard. A wheel of cheese—now deformed, with chunks pulled out of it by greedy fingers. Breads. Jams. Biscuits. Cakes. Pies—of both the fruit and meat variety. Roasted nuts and dried fruit and, of course, dozens of jugs of cider, ale, mead, and whiskey.

I’m debating among the assortment of sweets when Sam Dawin joins me at the table.

“What’s a married man such as yourself doing here tonight?” I ask.

He shrugs, studying a plate of apple tarts, deciding which looks best. Plucks one from the pile. Takes a large bite. “May likes the music,” he says, trying not to spit crumbs.

I saw them come in earlier. May has been in the loft most of the evening with a handful of other married women, watching the dance below. She looks tired—and a little green—but also happy. It doesn’t seem that anyone else is aware of her pregnancy.

“Is she feeling better?” I ask.

“Depends on the day.”

I nod at the table. “Bread will help. As will the cheese. Try the dried fruit as well. But I’d stay away from anything with lots of spice or salt. Give her mild foods over the next few weeks, and I’d wager she will feel better in a month.”

“Thank ye, Mistress Ballard. I will.”

I choose a rhubarb tart. These were made by Abigail as well, and the crust is made with butter, so flaky it crumbles onto my chin when I take the first bite. I expect Sam to load a plate for May, but instead he takes his own tart over to where Jonathan rests against the wall, taking a break from this new dance. Both men lean against a pile of stacked boards, a single foot propped up beneath them. Arms crossed. Heads bent. Talking. Both of their faces are clouded by some trouble that seems out of place this evening. Jonathan leans his head toward Sam’s ear. Mutters something. Sam spits. Jonathan balls his fist. They are clearly angry, but not with each other.

Jonathan says something with an expression of finality.

Then Sam nods.