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A sigh heaved from Gil’s lungs. “To tell you the truth, Onkel Bernard, I’m battling a dry spell. I hope being in Falke will help me recover my love of music. New York…” He swallowed hard. “Well, the big city can rob a man of his dreams.”
Bernard gave Gil’s shoulder a fatherly squeeze. “You’re wise to recognize when you need a change of scenery. I will pray that coming back here to your friends and family will open a wellspring of songs.”
Gil had been praying for a wellspring for years, and God had withheld the flow. Would God listen better to Bernard’s prayers? Gil could only hope so.
“And”—Bernard snapped his fingers, winking—“I might know a way to fill yourself again with music.”
The man appeared so impish, Gil couldn’t help grinning. “What is it?”
He pointed at Gil. “You could take my place as director of our local band.”
For as long as Gil could remember, men from the community had come together and played in a band. Mostly, they played for the joy of making music together. Music offered a pleasant diversion from hard work. But they also performed at community gatherings, to celebrate national holidays or the end of a successful harvest, and sometimes they played in church as a special feature. But to his knowledge, Bernard had never participated in the band. “Why isn’t Mr. Goertz directing the band?”
“He passed away a little over a year ago now.”
Gil’s jaw dropped. A pain stabbed through the center of his chest. “He…he’s dead?”
Bernard’s eyes widened. “You didn’t know?”
Gil shook his head.
“I’m sorry, boy. I thought your Onkel and Taunte would have told you.”
He wished they had. Sorrow smote him. Mr. Goertz had been the first to acknowledge Gil’s special interest in music. He’d given him private lessons free of charge on the violin, always encouraging him to utilize the gift God had bestowed on him. No one had believed in Gil’s ability as much as Ephraim Goertz had. Remorse rose above sorrow. He’d never truly thanked the man for his influence on Gil’s life. But—a hint ofrelief crept in—at least Mr. Goertz would never know how badly Gil had failed.
“After he died, the band was quiet for a while. Then the men came to me. I don’t play an instrument, but I do sing and read music well, so they asked me to take his place.” Bernard puckered his lips. “I’m not a very good leader, though. The band would never be so unkind as to send me away, but they probably would rather have someone who knows what he’s doing. Someone like you.”
Step into Mr. Goertz’s shoes? Gil laughed softly and shook his head. “I don’t know, Onkel Bernard. Those men probably still see me as a little boy. They might not want me taking charge.”
“What?” Bernard sent Gil an astounded look. “You saw how they welcomed you today. They’re all proud of you, Gil. They would be honored to have our New York City musician lead them.”
Gil scratched his cheek. He needed to find at least a part-time job to pay for food and save up for a return train ticket to New York City. “I don’t suppose the band pays its director a salary…”
Ava entered the room. She balanced a tray holding a pot of coffee, mugs, and saucers of flaky-looking tarts. The scent of cinnamon came in with her, and Gil’s mouth watered. He’d declined dessert, but now he hoped one of those tarts was for him.
Bernard gestured to Ava as she set the tray on the table. “Ava has been making treats for the men to enjoy during our mid-practice break. So if you take the position, you’ll get to enjoy a bit of her company and the delight of her baked goods twice a week. It’s the only payment we can offer. Will it be enough?”
Chapter Three
Gil
Gil looked at Ava asshe gawked at Bernard. Gil gave a gentle, “Ahem,” and she abruptly faced him. A smile tugged at his lips. Why had he so steadfastly avoided her tawny brown eyes? Maybe because he’d feared the effect. Gazing at her had always stirred a melody to life inside him, as if she possessed the notes to the song of his soul. Four years away hadn’t changed it. She still mesmerized him. Spending time with her might do him much good, but would it cause her harm? He couldn’t knowingly cause her distress.
He said, “Would—”
“Ava?” The thready call carried from the hallway.
Ava glanced over her shoulder. “Coming, Mama.” She gave Gil a look that seemed to reflect both remorse and relief—an odd combination. “Mama was sleeping while we had our supper. I’m sure she’s ready to eat a little something now. Excuse me, please.”
Bernard pushed upright. “No, daughter, you stay and visit with Gil. I’ll see to Maria.” He splashed coffee into a mug, hooked it on his finger, and grabbed one of the dessert plates. He grinned at Gil. “This is for her. I’ll have one myself later.” He disappeared around the corner, leaving Gil and Ava alone.
For several seconds they stared at each other, Gil seated and Ava standing beside the table. Then she gave a little jerk, as if someone pinched her, and she snatched up a saucer that held one of the tarts. She rounded the table and placed the dessert in front of him. “These are better when they’re fresh, but at least the hob in the stove kept them warm. You said you didn’t want coffee, but have you changed your mind?” She reached for the pot.
Gil shook his head. “No coffee, thank you. I never learned to like it.”
A teasing glint brightened her eyes. “Some German you are, refusing good stout coffee.”
The comment reminded him so much of the girl he’d known, he laughed. “In New York they drink tea, and I don’t like it any better.”
