Page 75 of The Frozen River

As though they’ve come to an agreement.

After a moment, their attention turns back to the dance, surveying the crowd.

Jonathan takes turns watching Moses and Hannah, then Barnabas and Dolly. He’s not said a word to me about these new suitors, but clearly, they haven’t escaped his attention. The gesture is protective and tender, and I am stunned to find that tears prick my eyes. For years I have vacillated between pride and worry when it comes to this boy of mine. I desperately want him to be a good man like his father. I am also painfully aware that you cannot make a child be anything he is not. But this—the watchful vigilance over his sisters—makes me feel as though all is not lost.

I turn away just as John Cowan launches into another thumping song. Someone taps my shoulder. And there is Cyrus. His dark, curly hair is mussed. Hazel eyes shining. He smiles, broad and handsome.

Then he bows.

And extends his hand.

You think it will break your heart to have a child who suffers in this way. One who is seen as damaged. You think, perhaps, that it is your fault somehow. That if only you’d done something different, taken better care of him, this would have never happened. And then he asks you to dance on a cold January evening, and you realize that perhaps you are a fool. And whatever his life may be now—different than you’d imagined all those years ago when he grew in your womb and curled into the hand you set upon your stomach—he is perfect.

I return the smile.

Curtsy.

Give him my hand.

Let my boy lead me onto the dance floor.

“I am sorry,” I tell him.

Cyrus lifts an eyebrow in question.

“That she didn’t come.”

He shrugs, as though to say it isn’t a big deal, as though he never thought she would. But there is a cloud of disappointment in his eyes. And just before we step into the song, I look up to find Ephraim standing at the rail of the loft. I can see it there, written on his face, plain as day: heartbreak. He wants for Cyrus exactly what he found for himself. Then the song swells, the beat rises through the floor-boards, and I am swept away.

MILL CREEK BRIDGE TUESDAY, JANUARY 26

I don’t see the lovers until I am right upon them, and even then, hidden as they are, it would have been easy to pass them by altogether. A man and a woman in a passionate embrace. Heads bent. Breathing hard. Hands roving.

It takes a moment to recognize the auburn hair of Sally Pierce.

It takes a few more after that to recognize Jonathan. The wagon is off the road, pulled beneath the shelter of three towering pine trees, and they are pressed against it, oblivious to my presence. Jonathan has one hand up Sally’s skirt and another in her hair.

I stare in disbelief. It isn’t so much what they are doing that has struck me dumb—I was young myself once, after all—but where. Anyone crossing the bridge could see them if they cared to look. Then again, perhaps that is why they chose the spot after all. They are two miles from the Hook. Secluded. Private. Out in the woods by themselves.

Except they aren’t. And now I must announce my presence or move on, pretending I didn’t see them. The latter is the better choice. The wiser. Both Jonathan and Sally are of age, after all. But I have not forgotten the accusations she brought against the Fosters, nor the shame and trouble it has caused my friends. So this seems the worst kind of hypocrisy, and I decide that I owe the girl no kindness today.

“Don’t mind me,” I say once I am certain that I can control the tone of my voice. And even then, it takes a few seconds for the words to register in their addled minds.

Jonathan and Sally jerk apart as if struck by lightning. The moment she recognizes me, her face floods, first with shock, then with fear. Those hazel eyes get wider and wider as her face crumples in dismay. She is about to cry. I only have to say a word to ensure it happens. Jonathan, sensing this, steps in front of Sally as she rearranges her clothing. He looks at me with an expression that can only be described as fury. Angry, not that he was caught, but by his mother.

This is how it has been between us for the last few years. I know why, but still, it hurts. The joy of having sons is that they worship their mothers. Until one day, suddenly, they don’t. I am not like you, he realizes. We are different. Then, that boy—once small and sweet—begins the long, hard process of separation, until at last he rips the seam. But the holes where mother and son were once knit together remain.

“Sally has been at the house helping Hannah with a quilt.” Jonathan clears his throat. “I was just escorting her home.”

“Is that what you were doing?”

He doesn’t bother explaining how they came to be parked beneath a tree, pressed up against the wagon. Silence stretches between us, long and awkward.

“Perhaps you’d best get her the rest of the way there.” I meet

Sally’s eyes purposefully, then. “Lest you upset her father.” Jonathan helps the girl into the wagon, then goes around to his side, flashing me a look of blatant hostility.

“Sally,” I say, and nod farewell.