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“To make me more slippery when I come down the slope.” She made a gesture with her hand to imitate her jumping-off point.
I looked around to make sure no one was looking at us. “Be careful. There are folks everywhere.”
“Right, yes,” she whispered. “I must be careful.”
“Absolutely no shaved head. It would be a shame to destroy your pretty curls, but a shaved head would be a sure giveaway that something was afoot. Even Cymbeline Barnes wouldn’t be excused from that.”
“Excused? What does that mean?” Her nose wrinkled as she leaned closer.
“I mean that people know you have your own mind. Your own way of doing things. Regardless, I believe a shaved head might be too much.”
She laughed. “All right, I suppose that’s true. But you know, once they learn what I’ve done, I might be run out of town.”
“You won’t be run out of town. You’re a Barnes.”
“Yes, but one can be ostracized and feel as if people will think you’re…” She trailed off and lifted her hands in the air as if to conjure the right word.
What was the word people would use? Disturbed? Insane? Or did others see her as I did? Brave, unconquerable, unconventionally brilliant? “You’ve never worried about what people think of you,” I said.
“I care a little.” She looked down at the table. A frown line appeared just above her eyebrows. “It doesn’t seem that way, but I do.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I feel bad that I embarrass my family,” Cym said.
“You don’t embarrass them. They’re proud of you.”
She tilted her head and smiled. “You look nice tonight too. I like your suit.”
I brushed a hand over the dark gray material. “My father does good work.”
She lifted her gaze. A softness in her eyes seemed to reach out as if she’d caressed me. “You wouldn’t mind, then? Being with someone like me?” Her voice had lowered, husky and slightly breathy.
“I think you know the answer to that,” I said.
The server came with bowls of pea soup. She picked up a spoon.
“Do we pray at a place like this?” I asked.
“Would you like to?”
“It would be best, wouldn’t it?”
She nodded and put down her spoon. “Would you care to say it, or shall I?”
“You, please.”
Cym tented her hands and closed her eyes. I did the same.
“Dear Lord, thank you for this meal we’re about to receive. And thank you for sending Viktor to me.”
The back of my throat ached. “Amen,” I said.
“Now can we eat?”
“Yes, now we can eat.”
“Does your family always pray before dinner?” Cym asked.
“Every night, yes.”
“Isn’t it funny that I’ve known you all these years and never knew the answer to that question?”
We ate for a few more minutes, chatting about various subjects, including my parents’ immigration from Norway and that until Isak and me, all Olofsson men had become tailors.
“Was he upset that neither of his sons wanted to follow in his footsteps?” Cym asked.
“No, he was glad. We’re in America, he always says. You can do whatever you wish. He was proud for me to attend college.”
“I’ve wondered what they thought about Isak and his bakery.”
“They knew that’s what he wanted. He’d been baking since he was small. When we were young, my parents worked long hours downstairs. Isak and I often made dinner for them.”
“Really?”
“Not everyone has a Lizzie,” I said.
“Do I seem spoiled to you?”
“Not spoiled. Rich, maybe.”
She laughed. “Papa’s rich, not me.”
