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She put down the bucket but kept hold of the mop. “Papa has to wait until the train comes by to collect the outgoing mail and drop off the incoming, and then he needs to sort it. He won’t be able to leave until at least three. That means Mr. Willems should be home by suppertime. Or a little before.”
A plaintive meow came from the spot beside the stove. Ava leaned sideways a bit and peeked past Gil. A smile lit her face. She handed him the mop and hurried to the blanket. Kneeling, she scratched under the kitty’s chin. A purr rumbled. “Aren’t you a pretty girl? What’s your name?”
Gil propped the mop in the corner and crossed to her. “I don’t know if Mr. Willems has a name for her—or for any of his cats, for that matter. There are nine more of them out in his barn.” With the chickens and ducks, which never should have been in the house in the first place, in his opinion. “But I’ve been calling her Patches.”
Ava sent him a quick grin. “A perfect name for her. And unless you’ve been feeding her really well, I think she’s going to add a few more kittens to Mr. Willems’s feline family.” She stood, and her eyes flitted to the table. Dismay flooded her face. “Oh. You’re composing. Is this the ‘something’ you wanted to finish?”
Gil moved behind the table and stared at the single note on the page. “Yes. I just started it this morning.” The music tugged at him, inviting him to sit and record the melody.
She waved her hands at him. “You write. I don’t want to keep you from it. I’ll take the cleaning items to the far side ofthe house. Maybe by the time I’m finished with the other rooms, you’ll be done with the song and you can play it for me on your violin.”
Instantly she drew back, her eyes widening and her mouth forming anO.Gil didn’t need to ask what had brought the reaction. He was sure she was remembering a former time and another song. Heat filled his face, and he ducked his head. “Thank you, Ava. I would like to get it written while it’s fresh in my mind.”
“Then I’ll”—she edged sideways and snatched up the bucket—“fetch some water from the well and…and…” She darted out the back door.
True to her word, she left him alone and let him work. How he was able to accomplish anything, though, knowing she was in the house, must have been a sort of miracle. When he lived at Onkel Hosea’s and at his apartment in the big city, if anyone else was nearby—even in another room—he struggled to focus. Knowing they might come in and interrupt prevented him from submerging himself into the song’s pool. So he’d written in his uncle’s barn loft by candlelight after everyone else had gone to sleep or in a study room at the New York Public Library, with a Do Not Disturb sign taped outside the door. Yet on this Friday morning, while Ava worked elsewhere under the same roof, the song appeared on the pages.
He blew on the ink until it lost its sheen, then he collected his violin and opened the case. He’d played it regularly enough in New York, sometimes at a park where people would drop coins at his feet, that the strings were still taut and in tune. He nestled the instrument against his shoulder and secured it with his chin, positioned his fingers, and lay the bow’s hair on the strings. Pinching the frog, he drew the bow along the strings, and the first pure note reverberated.
He played straight through, listening to each transition, silently editing in his mind. When he finished, he snatched up the pen, made a few changes to the score, then played it again. Tears sprang into his eyes as he extended the final note, gently pulling the bow back and forth in a smooth motion. He whispered, “Perfect,” as the note faded.
“It really is.”
He whirled toward Ava, who stood in the doorway between the sitting room and kitchen. He’d gotten so caught up in the music, he forgot she was there.
“I’m sorry if I startled you.” She came into the kitchen, a soft smile on her face. “I heard the song, and I couldn’t stay away. It’s lovely, Gil. It reminded me of the wind whispering through the tips of wheat as harvest nears.”
He lowered the violin, shaking his head. “You only said that because you saw what I wrote on the page.”
Her puzzled expression invited explanation.
“The title I gave it—‘Prairie Song.’ You saw it here on the table.”
She took a forward step, her gaze drifting to the sheet of music. She held a feather duster in her hands the way a bride carried a bouquet. The sight was so fetching that he had a hard time looking away. “ ‘Prairie Song,’ ” she said in a singsong voice, matching a few of the notes from the opening bars of the tune. “I hadn’t seen it before—I only noticed the staff lines—but it fits well. You captured the mournful yet sweet way the prairie grasses sing.”
It seemed as if his heart doubled in size while she spoke the praise. He’d pined for approval from the musical elite of New York, but in that moment, he cared nothing about impressing those strangers no matter how influential they might be. It was enough—nä, it was more than enough—that Ava liked his song.
She angled her head, her brows pinching in a contemplative expression. “It’s lovely as a solo piece. Will you leave it as such, or will you add other parts for an orchestra?”
Gil stared at Ava. Solo piece…or full orchestra score? This song would stay a solo piece. The simplicity of it was best served by a single instrument. But in that moment another idea bloomed in his head. And in his heart. There was a piece that should be rewritten with parts. A dozen stringed instruments. Flutes and oboes and a French horn. The full score came alive in his mind, almost dizzying in its intensity.
“Gil?”
He closed his eyes, sneaking into the private place in his head where music resided.
“Gil, are you all right?” She sounded worried.
He gave himself a little shake. “Yes, I’m sorry. I was thinking. I…” He waved the violin bow. “This will remain as is, written for the violin. But—” He clamped his lips closed. What was he doing, sharing his thoughts with her? Would he make another commitment he couldn’t keep? Yes, the music was coming alive inside him, but he knew how much time it took to write it all out. Mr. Willems was returning this afternoon and would need Gil’s care. He had mail routes to run and a band—maybe two bands—to direct. When would he find the time to write the glorious harmonies flowing through his mind? He couldn’t tell her his plans for revising the song he’d written for her four years ago. Not until he knew for sure he’d be able to finish it. Ava deserved a promise, not a mere want-to.
With regret, he laid the violin and bow aside. “I’m done for today. Thank you for giving me the time to work.” He straightened and forced a nonchalant smile. “Now, what can I do help with the housecleaning?”
Chapter Twelve
Joseph
For the second Sunday ina row, Joseph witnessed people surrounding his cousin. Last week they welcomed him. This week they signed up their sons to join the boys’ band. To his surprise, Pa put Earl on the list.
“His arms are too short for the trombone yet. He can’t reach all the notes.” Pa’s booming voice carried over the excited chatter of other parents and children. “But he can play the old trumpet you left in the attic, Gil.” Earl stood beside Pa, beaming at Gil and wriggling like an excited puppy.
