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All thoughts of Joseph disappeared. A single line played through Gil’s head, floating on a delicate melody both familiar and brand new. He bolted upright, grabbed Ava’s hands, and pulled her from the rocker. He smiled at her, battling the urge to wrap her in his arms and kiss her breathless. “Thank you, Ava.”
She tilted her head. “Thank you for what?”
So many things. But he couldn’t speak of all of them. Not yet. He needed more than words to encapsulate the emotion swelling in his heart. “Thank you for being willing to embroider the uniforms. Thank you for telling me you’re no longer afraid.”
As if his arms developed a will of their own, he drew her into an embrace. But only for a moment. Then he loosened his hold, resting his hands lightly on her waist. “I am going to deliver an edict, and I don’t want a word of argument.”
Her palms against his lapels, she laughed. “What is it?”
“Since you’re taking the responsibility of stitching the trims onto the uniforms, you are hereby relieved of cookie duty.”
Her fists shifted to her hips, dislodging his hands, and her mouth opened in a little huff.
He quickly closed it with a gentle push under her chin, shaking his head. “No. I mean it. Getting the uniforms done will take up enough of your time. I’ll ask the mothers of the players to take turns providing a treat. I think it’s only fair.”
She affected a mild pout but didn’t argue.
He thanked her with a smile. “I’ll have the boys tell their mothers to bring the jackets to you as they finish them. I know they’ll be beautiful when you’ve applied your handiwork.” He winked and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “But not nearly as beautiful as you.”
Her cheeks flooded with pink. She took a backward step and lowered her head. “Gil…”
“Good day, Ava. Thank you for…” He gulped. “For everything.” He leaped off the porch and raced for Roald’s house, the image of her blushing face lingering in his memory.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gil
Gil awoke on July Fourthwith a stomachache. Today the entire town would gather to celebrate the nation’s birthday. This morning the boys’ band would play their marching song, providing a good practice for the competition in McPherson. He was undeniably excited. And admittedly terrified.
He headed for the kitchen, careful not to step on the kittens who leaped at his nightshirt’s hem as he went. The month-old creatures could no longer be contained and, in Gil’s opinion, should be relegated to the barn. But they weren’t his pets, so it wasn’t his decision. One tiger-striped kitten hooked its claws and hung from the shirt.
Gil plucked it loose, grunting when its claws snagged the fabric. He held it up by its nape and shook his finger at its striped, whiskered face. “You’re a menace.” The kitten batted at his fingertip, and Gil couldn’t hold back a laugh. “And you’re also pretty cute.” He put the kitten on the floor, and it darted after its siblings, its little tail puffed up.
He stoked the stove, then went through the process of making a pot of coffee. While he performed the mindless task, his thoughts drifted to the day’s activities. He’d let Roald talk him into signing up for the arm-wrestling and horseshoe-throwingcontests. He didn’t expect to do well at either, and the way his stomach felt, he might not make it to the celebration at all. He glared at the speckled pot, willing the water to boil. Surely coffee would help. According to Roald, coffee cured whatever ailed a man.
The thump of Roald’s crutches signaled his approach. He rounded the corner, and his gaze went to the pot. He huffed. “I’m too late. I should’ve reminded you last night not to bother with brewing any beans. Or fixing breakfast, either. Ladies always have coffee and sweets set up outside the post office for folks.”
Of course. Why hadn’t Gil remembered the tradition from previous Fourth of July gatherings?
“Everyone comes early,” Roald went on, “so they can choose a good spot to watch the parade.”
Gil’s stomach flipped again.
Roald plopped into one of the chairs. One white kitten and the mama-cat look-alike scampered past. He scooped the little calico into his lap. “I bet the boys are excited about leading the parade. Usually the men’s band does that.”
Gil peeked into the pot. Not boiling yet. “The boys feel honored.” So did he. He’d expected the parade marshal to put the boys at the end. “And a little nervous.”
“You, too, I imagine.”
Gil gulped. “Jo.”
The kitten wriggled, and Roald set it on the floor. “Will the boys get to wear their uniforms today? Lots of folks are eager to see how they look.”
“Not all the coats are ready yet.” Maybe it was true a watched pot never boiled. Gil sat across from Roald and toyed with an empty coffee cup. “But if folks are curious what they look like,they can go to the booth for quilts, samplers, and other stitched crafts. Ava provided one for display.”
As always, thoughts of Ava sent a flood of warmth through his center. The weeks since their talk on the porch had been wonderful, better than when Gil was growing up and they saw each other every day. Maybe because they were a little older and wiser. Maybe because, as the poet waxed, absence had made their hearts grow fonder. Maybe because they’d both been listening more intently to the Father’s voice. Probably all three. He treasured every meal at her family’s table, every talk on the porch, every captured moment when their paths crossed on the street or in the churchyard.
A phrase sang sweetly through the back of his mind.Whither thou goest, I make you this promise…He’d finished his rewrite of Ava’s song. The boys would play the new version at the competition in McPherson for the judges and listening audience. But the most important revising—the lyrics he’d penned to express his deepest feelings—were for her only. When he knew whether the boys would compete against the other winning bands, which would give him God’s response to the fleece he’d laid out, he would play his violin and sing it to her. Just for her.
