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Papa scowled and clicked his tongue on his teeth. “What else would you have me do? His aunt wasn’t prepared for his arrival, and you know how high-strung she is. An extra person at her table when she already feeds that whole brood of children would equal a catastrophe to her.” He picked up the latest issue of theBundesbote-Kalender,the Mennonite newspaper printed in Newton, from the corner of the dry sink and headed for the parlor. “And why aren’t you pleased? Think how long it’s been since we enjoyed the pleasure of Gil’s company at our table. Why, time was when you begged to invite him over for an evening meal.”
That time ended the day Gil boarded the train for New York, choosing the big city over a life in little Falke with her. Ava hurried after her father.
Papa settled into the wing chair closest to the front window, propped one ankle on the opposite knee, and snapped the paper open. “And you don’t need to worry.” His voice emerged from behind the shielding sheets of newsprint. “I assured him you had become a very good cook.”
Ava clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, Papa!”
The paper dropped to Papa’s lap. His expression changed from chagrined to puzzled. “ ‘Oh, Papa,’ what? It’s the truth, isn’t it? As I recall, the first time he ate with us, you turned the catfish he and I had caught that morning into chunks of charcoal.”
As she recalled, she’d been barely thirteen and already fully smitten with Gil Baty.
Papa chuckled. “Gil ate it anyway, and I’m sure he suffered a bellyache afterward. But there’s no concern about him getting a bellyache tonight, because you haven’t burned a supper for at least three years.”
Ava’s arms drooped limply at her sides. “Oh, Papa…” She shook her head.
Papa laid the paper aside and frowned again. “Can you say nothing besides ‘Oh, Papa’? What has gotten into you? I thought you would be happy to see Gil, considering how friendly the two of you were before he moved away.”
Ava sank into the second wing chair, the one she always thought of as Mama’s even though Mama spent more evenings in her bedroom than in the parlor. “You’re right. Wewerefriendly. Do you rememberhowfriendly?”
A blush filled Papa’s full cheeks, the color visible even behind his thick graying beard.
“Can you not understand how awkward it will be for me to sit at the table with Gil after…after he…”
Papa harrumphed and lifted the newspaper again. “Wota unjane Brigj.”
Ava pinched the top edge of the newspaper and bent it downward to peer into her father’s faded blue eyes. “It isn’t water under the bridge for me, Papa. I still…” She gulped.
Papa’s left eyebrow rose high. “You still like him?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady.
A grin instantly brightened his countenance. “Good. Then it will be like old times with the two of you chatting and teasing. We haven’t enjoyed such a lively meal since his last visit to our table.” He returned his attention to the newspaper.
Ava huffed. How could Papa be so obtuse? Despite the passage of time, she hadn’t forgotten how much she’d adored Gil. Nor had she forgotten how much he’d seemed to adore her. When he’d asked for her hand in marriage, she had given a joyful yes and leaped into his arms. But immediately after sealing their commitment with a kiss, he’d spoken of taking her far away. Distraught, she told him she couldn’t leave Falke—not with Mama so weak. Gil had pleaded, then reasoned, and finally proclaimed he understood. Assuming it meant he’d stay in Falke, she’d nestled against his chest, already envisioning the wonderful life they would have together. But then, to her shock and heartbreak, he’d said he wouldn’t expect her to go with him.
Her chest ached anew, proving she hadn’t healed from his choosing New York over her. She bolted upright and charged for her bedroom, intending to bury her face in her pillow and allow herself a rare outburst of tears. But she came to a stop in the hallway. If Gil was coming for supper, should she reconsider the menu? The planned boiled butter beans with onion and ham were fine for a family meal. A guest at the table demanded something more elegant. Even if the guest was the former beau who’d jilted her and run off to enjoy a glamorous life in the big city?
She balled her hands into fists and plunked them on her hips, her chin held high. Nä. He could eat beans. And she just might burn them on purpose.
—
“Ava?” papa heldout his plate, his smile bright. “Another serving, please. The beans are exceptional this evening. You must have added a secret ingredient. Or maybe they taste better served on Mutta’s wedding china, hmm?” He winked.
Ava’s cheeks burned hotter than the remaining chunks of coal in the cookstove. Did he have to mention the use of their special-occasion dishes? Or comment that she’d gone to extra lengths to make the beans more company-worthy? She’d only added a jar of home-canned stewed tomatoes and doubled the amounts of chopped ham and vinegar—nothing so notable. Gil didn’t need to know this meal was different from any other supper in the Flaming home. She poured a dipperful of beans from the soup tureen onto Papa’s plate, wishing she could empty it over his head instead.
Papa set the dish in front of him and picked up his fork. “Thank you, my Leefste.”
Leefste,hmm? He wouldn’t call her his dearest if he knew what she was thinking. She laid the serving dipper aside. “You’re welcome, Papa.” She gave him a look she hoped communicated a warning. “And I’m sure it is Mama’s dishes that make the difference.”
Papa laughed and jabbed his fork into the steaming beans.
Gil swished his napkin over his lips and returned the square of linen to his lap. He glanced in her direction but didn’t meet her eyes. The same way he’d avoided eye contact since he’d knocked on their door almost an hour ago. “Your Foda is right. The food is delicious, A-Ava.”
He’d finally spoken her name, but did he have to stutter? Was it painful for him to say it? Or maybe the stutter was only in her ears, because hearing her name spoken in his deep, baritone voice stabbed like a knife.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”
She hadn’t offered the invitation, but since he’d seemingly given her the thank-you, courtesy dictated a reply. “You’re welcome. Have you had enough?” She sneaked a look at his plate and realized it still held nearly the entire portion she’d served him. Almost as much as remained on her plate. She hadn’t been able to swallow, so wrapped in unease at his presence after their long separation. Why wasn’t he eating? Maybe the beans weren’t as flavorful as Papa claimed.
