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The girl’s brown hair was a shade lighter than Bridget’s, but she had the same classic features and the same hazel eyes, the same slenderness. She was Bridget’s child, not necessarily a miniature of her mother, but the resemblance was obvious just the same.
“Oh, Molly. Don’t you have homework?”
“No. I finished it.”
“Well, then if you’re sure it’s okay with Vicki’s mother, it’s okay with me.” Bridget’s permission was met with gleeful giggles and hurried assurances from the second girl that her mother didn’t mind. “I’ll pick you up at Vicki’s house a little after five. You watch for me.”
“I will, Mom.” The promise was blithely made, the girl’s bubbling excitement centered on now and not later.
As the two girls turned to leave, they simultaneously noticed Jonas and paused. Molly’s bright hazel eyes studied him, not looking away. Jonas looked right back, searching for a resemblance to someone else … her father. Finally the girl glanced hesitantly at Bridget.
“Molly, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Jonas Concannon,” Reluctantly the introduction was made. “Jonas, this is my daughter, Molly, and her friend Vicki Smith.”
“Hello, Molly, Vicki.” He nodded curtly, for some reason not trusting himself to say more.
“Hello.” The breathless greeting from Molly was shyly echoed by the second girl.
“Run along, you two.” Bridget smiled, and the pair darted past Jonas and out of the door with the same exuberance that marked their entrance.
Jonas watched Molly disappear before slowly bringing his gaze back to Bridget. “She looks very much like you,” he commented stiffly.
“I’ll—” There was a breathless catch to her voice, which Bridget self-consciously laughed off. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I meant it as one,” he confirmed. “How old is she?”
“Eight. Of course, Molly would insist that she’s almost nine. It’s funny how when you’re young, you always want to be older.”
Bridget lifted a hand to flip her shoulder-length hair away from the rolled collar of her sweater, the first gesture of nervousness Jonas had seen her make. There was a measure of satisfaction in knowing she wasn’t as poised and nonchalant as she appeared.
He hoped he was making her uncomfortable. He knew what she was doing to him. God, how he knew! He thrust his hands deeper in his pockets.
“Do you have any more children?” The question was what he might be expected to say, but over and over his mind kept repeating that Molly could have been theirs.
“Only Molly. She’s happy and healthy, and I’m satisfied with that.” Bridget forced a smile, the corners of her mouth trembling with the effort.
Jonas wondered if she, too, was thinking that Molly could have been their child, but she wasn’t. Another man had fathered her, and Jonas felt the unmistakable sting of jealousy.
“How are your parents?” He changed the subject abruptly.
“They’re doing great.” Her hazel eyes didn’t quite meet his look as she answered. “It’s coming into the busy time for them with sap starting to run. You wouldn’t recognize the sugar bush. Dad has pipes running all over now. It’s much more efficient than bucketing it out in sleds the way they used to. But it took him a while to install a state-of-the-art system. Now he wonders why he waited so long.”
“Genuine Vermont maple syrup.” That was a safe enough subject. Jonas tipped his head back, remembering. “It’s been years since I’ve had any.”
Not in ten years. But it was eleven years ago that Jonas was recalling. He had volunteered to help Bridget and her father gather the sap one weekend. Once the sap started running it was a daily chore and he had taken part on that one occasion.
Jonas remembered tramping through the wet snow to the large grove of maple trees on the farm with Bridget at his side, her gloved hand clasped in his. Her father had walked behind the sled pulled by the Morgan mare, the bells on the harness jingling in the crisp air.
The sky was sharply blue, the sun brilliant and the barren branches of the maple trees had cast cobwebby shadows on the snow. It was all so fresh in his mind that it could have been yesterday.
“Let’s see if I remember right. The maple trees have to be about forty years old, then it takes four of them to make a barrel of sap.” Jonas began reciting the lecture Bridget’s father had given him back then, as if he’d been a city boy. “And it takes a barrel of sap to make one gallon of maple syrup. You don’t make it into syrup by snapping your fingers. No, sir, you have to boil it down to a thick consistency, testing until you get it to the exact density. Then it has to be filtered and graded, packed and labeled. It’s a science.”
“You sound just like my dad.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “Takes me back, though.” He gazed at Bridget, a gentle smile softening the hard line of his mouth. “Do you remember that day?”
“How could I forget?” The firelights were back in her eyes, dancing and laughing, caught in the magic spell of memory. “You bombarded me with snowballs.”
